TEN : ASHARA (III)
Her doors were thrown wide open.
Melina entered, scowl in place. She laid the tray of broth and honeyed milk on Ashara's beside table and sat down, prepared to feed her, for Ashara's own arms were far too weak. Begrudgingly, she allowed her brother's wife to spoon the hot soup into her mouth.
As she ate, she thought. About her life, about her children, about her brothers and mother and father...
Jon had not written for three moons, Alysannoe for a week. She was glad for her daughter's upcoming visit; it had been so long since she had seen her. Alys was a woman grown, now. Flowered, practised and poised, Lady Alerie had told her.
She envied the woman, to tell true; Alys had been living with Alerie since she was seven. Did she remember Ashara, or had she replaced her with Lady Tyrell? Did Alysanne remember her mother's face? Did she remember her smile?
Would she live to see her again?
"No more," Ashara told her good-sister, pulling back. The dark woman sighed and set down the broth, none-too-firmly, on the table and went for the milk — which was no doubt warm by now. "No thank you, Melina."
Raising her eyebrows, Melina sighed. "As you wish," she said sternly, "but your bones will grow weak if you neglect your milk, Ashara."
"Then I will suck my teat," Ashara snapped, finally breaking. She was tired of the entitled woman, tired of her nagging and orders and scowls. "Go, sweet sister."
Startled and affronted, Melina swept out, slamming the doors behind her.
Ashara leaned back against the soft pillows, breathing deeply. The air smelt of perfume and wine, and stale air. Ashara felt so tired, and yet she held what little strength she had left close to her heart. If she was going to die, she wanted it to happen while there still remained parts of her — of Ashara Dayne, sister to the Sword of the Morning, mother of dragons and wolves, Lady of Starfall, lover of Eddard Stark of Winterfell.
And yet Ned loved her no more, she had seen that upon his last visit. After she had struck him, which she still regretted to this day, she had seen the warmth and light and love leave his eyes forever. Gone like his words.
Ashara stared at her hand. It was thin and bony — frail like that of an old woman's. She had aged before ageing. She was going to die before she had lived. Was this truly the same hand that had slapped the great and honourable Lord Stark? It could not be. It was so weak. So small.
Her gaze turned to the open window, where the winds of the Sunset Sea blew the pale orange curtains. Outside, she could see the gardens, where her little children had played so long ago. They were not little, any longer, nor where they her children. They were Ned's, and Lady Alerie's, and all of those others who had kept her babies away from her.
Was it that which had made her fall ill? Or was it something worse? Something evil?
Ashara sighed. She so wanted to leave this bed. She wanted to find her son and daughter. She wanted to hold them tight in her arms and never let them go — never again.
With that she closed her eyes and fell asleep.
The seas were raging. Thick dark walls of water slapped against the slippery rocks, over and over, until pieces broke away. Then they were gone. The winds of winter blew the flags; dark as night with a three-headed dragon emblazoned on the centre. Red like blood.
Her screams echoed through the night. There was naught they could do to stop her pain, and yet Rhaella felt strong. This was the land of her ancestors, after the Doom of Valyria. This was where they had conquered, where the last dragons breathed the salty air.
Her babe was pushing out of her, tearing through her loins like they were paper. She hated the feeling; she always had. But she had grown used to it after seven before. Of those seven, only two had lived. Her precious Rhaegar; so sweet and good and kind. Her Viserys, whom she loved for all his faults.
Please, she prayed to the Mother, to the Father, to the Crone; please let this child live. My last child, I know it will be. Please. I ask for nothing more. Let this child live to see silver turn to white. Let this child live to see dragons rise from the ashes...
There was another searing, tearing pain. She screamed. None had ever been this bad. Not that she could recall. Her fierce little dragon.
"Mother?" It was Viserys at her side, she knew, but in this light — so dim and unkind — he looked just like Rhaegar. Her first born. Her strongest. "Mother, why is the baby hurting you?"
He did not understand. How could he? Such a young thing... There was still time for him to change...
Rhaella reached out and gently stroked her son's cheek. "My sweet boy," she said, "it must bring mamma pain to have life. It is a sacrifice I willingly make. Dragons are strong, my sweet. Dragons breathe fire. This child is waking."
Viserys absorbed every word that slipped past her feverish lips. She wanted to tell him how much she loved him, then. She wanted to tell him how sorry she was for the grief she was about to bestow upon him. She wanted so badly to see him smile once more, as he had so often when he was a babe. Her little smiling boy...
But that had been Jaehaerys, hadn't it? Her bundle of sunlight? Silver gold hair shining against a summer sky.
Rhaella leaned back against the headboard. "My son," she whispered, "Jae..."
With the loss of her many children, Rhaella conjured her strength and love and want, and pushed... Wails filled the air. The Maester pulled the child from her and swaddled it with the blanket she had made; black and red and silver and gold...
"A girl, Your Grace," the Maester announced. "Healthy as all else."
Rhaella nodded weakly and closed her eyes. "Daenerys," she breathed. After that, she did not breathe again.
Ashara shot awake, shaking.
It was night, now, as it had been in the dream. Ashara sat up, feeling all of the sudden strong. Strong enough even to leave her bed.
And so she did, wandering the cool halls of her home. She wanted a last glimpse at her life, as it had been and as it was now. The thought of death terrified her, and so she refused to give it life. She focused on the little things; the sound of her nephew's soft snoring, and even louder was Melina's.
She found her brother leaning over an iron-rail terrace. She joined him, wrapping her shawl tighter around her body to block out the night air.
Aron frowned when he saw her. He looked so much older than he truly was; stubble lined his jaw and there were bags beneath his eyes. "You should not be up," he told her, none-too-kindly.
"Neither should you," she retorted. Lightheaded, she leaned on his shoulder and closed her eyes. "I cannot sleep; I dreamt of a woman dying."
"Was she you?"
"No," Ashara said, "but she was brave."
Aron stroked her hair back, sighing. "I wish... I wish things had been different, Ash. I wish Arthur had never joined the Kingsguard... I wish he had never died."
"As do I," Ashara said. "Every day." Every day I wish for something new; Jon, Alys, Ned, Arthur... Ashara bit her lip to hold in a sob. She met her brother's eyes. "Tell me what's been going on with you and all the rest. Tell me about Dorne, brother."
He had just returned from a visit to Sunspear, having treated with Doran Martell and his younger brother, Oberyn. Ashara had been left with Melina and Edric; a grievous three weeks which would permanently stain her memory.
"Doran Martell contemplates an alliance with Viserys Targaryen," Aron informed her. "He and his brother want vengeance for their sister, niece, and nephew. I am inclined to agree with them, and yet I asked them to hold off; in Essos they call Viserys the Beggar King; the Mad King Come Again. I would not wish for my home to fall into the hands of madness."
"Jon is not mad," she told him. "He will give them vengeance."
"And yet we cannot tell them," Aron said firmly; sadly. It had been three years since she had let him in on the secret of Jon's true mother and father. He had been a protector ever since. A trusted advisor. "They will only use Jon in their games. A pawn is all he'll become."
Ashara nodded. "He is so much more than that," she said quietly. "He is a dragon, a wolf, a star..."
Aron kissed her brow. "Rest, my sister."
The next morning, the Maester came by to assist her.
He filled her bath, and had a handmaiden come to wash her hair and body. While the young Myrish girl worked, another stripped Ashara's bed and laid out clean linens. Justyn, meanwhile, worked with his medicines; stirring and mixing and grinding things down with his mortar and pestle.
He spilled the blue powder into her milk and stirred it with the firm instruction to drink. Ashara did. It made her feel woozy, but more calm and less weak.
"My Lady," said her handmaiden, Jedia, when the Maester had left, "they say your daughter is days away from arriving."
Excitement filled Ashara, then. She felt both fearful and ecstatic at once; her daughter, her sweet Alys; who sang and danced and sniffed the flowers all day long; who wielded weapons like they were a part of her arm and rode horses like she was born on one.
"Thank you," she said to the young maiden. "If you would help me from the tub?"
Jedia did her duty; pulling Ashara from the now tepid waters and drying her off. Ashara stared at her bare body with something akin to disgust. She was frail and thin, now, her skin like paper and her hair like straw, when before it had been black silk, and her body had been full — supple skin, soft breasts, narrow hips and a glowing complexion. Was it ageing or this sickness which took her beauty from her?
Daena helped Ashara step into a slip. It covered her ill body. Together they walked Ashara to the bed.
Her head was pounding by the time the covers were pulled up. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply. Soon, she thought. Soon my daughter will come back to me. Soon I will be free.
Aron came to see her later, rousing her from her dreams.
"Sister," he said calmly. "Talk to me."
"What can I say?" Ashara asked him. "I lay here, growing weaker by the second. It is you who should be telling me tales. What business with Starfall? With Westeros? I feel so secluded, Aron."
"Jon Arryn is dead, this you know," Aron said, "but the King means to appoint Eddard Stark his Hand." He allowed her to digest that. She felt only sick. "The Queen and all the rest have journeyed north. There is only one explanation for such an act."
"Two, Aron," Ashara shifted, "and one of them being a betrothal."
"Perhaps both will be done," Aron shrugged. "It means naught to us."
"Nonetheless I worry for the safety of my son," Ashara confessed. She took her brother's hand. "Jon is in a pit of stags and lions, all prideful where he is but alone — were it not for Ned. What if the King finds out? He would have Jon executed on the spot."
Aron sighed. "Lord Stark would never allow that to happen," he said. "He is an honourable man, but he keeps the secret with us. I am sure he would rather die than tell a single soul."
"He will keep his promise," Ashara nodded, a little more sure.
"I want to send Edric to Blackhaven, to squire for Lord Dondarrion," Aron told her. "I feel I have slighted Beric, needless he feels no anger; he has assured me of that many times. A good man. He understood the necessity of peace between Dorne and the Reach — what little we made. It would have been better for Willas to marry Arianne."
"Mace is a fool, but he knows Doran Martell would never consent to have his daughter married off to a Tyrell," Ashara said. "Likely he is saving his daughter for Viserys Targaryen."
Aron smiled ruefully. "It would seem that, though your body is weak, your mind was spared of this sickness, sweet sister."
Ashara tried to laugh, but her lungs felt far too tight. "Yes," she sighed. "Aron... Should Ned accept the position as Hand, I know my daughter will want to see him. I will not have the strength to refuse her. You must promise me she will not enter the pit of snakes and traitors that is King's Landing."
"Consider it done," Aron said. He pushed back her dry hair with his hand, worried, she could tell. "You remind me of mother, sometimes."
Ashara looked away. "How so?"
"Your confidence, I suppose," Aron studied her. "The way she held herself... So strong and yet graceful all at once. She did not need beauty nor a husband; only her dignity — and yet she had what she had all the same."
"And if her dignity had been stripped away from her?" Ashara asked tearfully. "If she lay dying in a bed, a shadow of what she was before? Would you have loved her still? Would you have forgiven her for letting sickness take her? Would you have... Have stayed with her in her last moments?"
Aron's look turned from surprise to sympathy. "Oh, Ash," he cupped her cheek. "They love you. You must know that. Alys writes to me often concerning you; your happiness, your welfare... Seven hells, she is coming here, now! And Jon... Jon is so far away, but do you not hear him calling for you in your heart? Sometimes I hear him calling for me; howling like a wolf — missing his home. They will not resent you, sister."
She curled up on her side and sobbed into the silky white sheets. Her little babes, so sweet and good and strong, how she needed them, then.
Aron departed with a kiss on her cheek.
In the night, the ghost grass swayed with southron winds.
Dany watched it, tucked under a horsehair blanket with Drogo at her back. She was still sore and bloody from their lovemaking, if you could call it that, but by now it has lessened considerably. She felt a little better. A little stronger.
Dany rolled onto her back, to avoid the hardness of her new husband's groin. The sky above her was full of the brightest stars. It looked so peaceful, up there. She wondered, suddenly, if her mother was watching her. Was she ashamed of Dany for marrying a savage horse lord? Did she resent her for having wanted him, in that moment? Did she hate Dany for not putting the Iron Throne before all else, as Viserys did?
In that moment she felt so alone; so without guidance. Not that her father would have been, or Viserys or even her long dead mother... She had no one. No one but this foreign Dothraki who had no use for her but sons. Would she give him sons, or only daughters? If she did not, would he slay her as she slept?
Dany wiped away her tears, silver and hot. She wished that one of her older brothers had survived past infancy, so that they might have taken this burden from her and her brother. If one of them had, would Viserys still be as mad? Would there even be a dragon to avoid waking?
And yet... When a Targaryen is born the Gods flip a coin, they say; madness or sanity. Would Dany succumb to madness eventually, as her father had? Many recounted him as kind and strong in his youth, and yet in the end he had burned the usurper's dogs, or some of them at least, and had been stabbed in the back by one of his own guard.
She hated Ser Jaime Lannsiter. She hated Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark and Tywin Lannister. She hated them all. She wanted them all dead. She wanted to watch them burn; watch their skin blacken and peel away from their bones for what they had done to her.
Drogo woke, then. He made to turn Dany over, to take her from behind. She had seen dogs do it that way. The idea frightened her. "No," she said quietly, grabbing his hand. She tried to be gentle. "No, please."
"No?"
"No," Dany nodded. She looked up at him, his long dark hair and eyes to match. She cupped his cheek, stroking back some of his hair. The action seemed to shock him, but it was not unusual to her; she had done the same thing to Viserys a thousand times. He always smiled.
"I could tell you a story," she said. "I know you don't understand me, and that stories are meant for children... But you hardly know me. I could tell you..."
He relaxed, and sat back, waiting.
Dany took a deep breath. "Once, long ago, a man named Aegon was borne on a stone named for dragons. It was there that he grew up and became a wishful King. He was only a young boy — barely a man grown — when he mounted his dragon; Balerion the Black Dread, and soared over the skies of Westeros with his sister-wives, Visenya and Rhaenys. Together they conquered the Seven Kingdoms and united them as one.
"Generations later, Rhaella and Aerys were born to King Jaehaerys Targaryen. Together they had eight children, but only three survived." Dany blinked, realising that she was crying.
"Rhaegar was a gallant young man. He married Elia Martell of Dorne and, though she was but sickly, brought two children into this world; Aegon and Rhaenys, named for their ancestors. But then, one fateful day there was held a tourney at a castle called Harrenhal. On that day, Rhaegar named not his own wife Elia as Queen of Love and Beauty, but instead Lyanna Stark, daughter of Rickard and Lyarra Stark.
"Rhaegar had fallen in love with this woman, you see, and since his wife could no longer bear him any children, he took Lyanna away and married her in secret. Her family demanded they get their winter rose back, and so Aerys, mad with rage, had Brandon Stark — brother to Lyanna — strangled before his own father. He then burned Rickard alive." She drew in a sharp breath. As she spoke, she felt how unjust it was, how Ned Stark might have felt to be so alone, to lose so many so quickly, and so he had held onto the only person that might get his sister back. She hated him a little less, then.
"Rhaegar was slain in battle by Robert Baratheon," Dany told her husband, tracing patterns on his painted chest. "He defended his princess to his last days, but Robert still lusted for the northern beauty. His allies killed King Aerys, and he took the Throne for himself. The Usurper."
She watched a tear trickle down Drogo's copper skin. Oddly, he did not mind. She was not crying because of him, now, but because of the home and family she had lost and never known. "Meanwhile, Rhaella stayed on Dragonstone, away from battle and death with her son Viserys. She died birthing a daughter; Daenerys. Me."
Dany looked up at Drogo once again, and she saw that his eyes were sad. Though he could not understand her words, he understood her tears and loss. "The two children were left alone," she told him. "To find peace in a world that wished them dead. Dany was married off to a man named Khal Drogo, who took her as his wife and listened to her tale with patience and love."
With that, Dany leaned up and pressed a kiss to his lips. They had not kissed at their wedding, as was Westerosi fashion, nor had they kissed at their bedding, which was odd to Dany.
She had only kissed Viserys, before, the day she had flowered. That day he had taken her in his arms and aggressively pushed his lips to her own, leaving bruises on her skin. She had let it happen; let his tongue snake between her lips, for fear of waking the dragon.
This kiss was different; warm and true. It was full of something akin to love. And sadness, as well. Her tears brushed his cheeks and her tongue played with his own in a gentle, soft fashion.
When she pulled away, Drogo's cheeks had darkened. Had he ever been kissed before, she wondered?
Ashara awoke quickly, cheeks wet though her eyes were dry.
It was not yet dawn. Ashara lay there, shivering, as the last memory of warmth left her. It was not cold, she knew, and yet she was freezing. There was something about the air which was settling; it was almost tangible; hanging like a net waiting to catch her. But she was not ready. She knew, for whatever reason, that there was something to hold onto. Something to wait for... but she could not quite place what it was.
Above her, something flashed against the low hanging moonbeams. Dark fabric obscured her vision momentarily. Something cool trickled down her threat, put there by an unclear hand. She had no words or energy to protest.
Then they were gone. Hours passed. Slowly, Ashara no longer felt any pain. She no longer felt weak. She no longer felt anything but an aching sharpness in her heart. She knew that she had to hold on... but could she?
No. Rhaella had not been able to. Lyanna had not been able to. They had been brave; she had felt that through their hearts.
She shuddered, lips parting for a last breath, purple eyes wide as she stared at the canopy above her.
She could almost see Ned... She could almost see his smile...
AN: I... I'm sorry.