TWELVE : ARON (I)

The wheelhouse clapped against the limestone ground, as one with the horses that drew it.

The sound might have been music to Aron's ears, had his heart not been so heavy with grief and loss. The Gods had taken his sister. His sweet Ashara, so lively and honest... She had died alone. He could still see her as he had found her; empty eyes, pale hands bloody and clawing at her sheets, lips as white as the rest of her skin...

Aron blinked, holding back tears. He forced a smile to his face as he watched the wheelhouse come to a halt. It was a beautiful thing; carved of weirwood and elm, painted with the colours of houses Dayne and Tyrell.

The first one out was Allyria.

She had grown into a comely young woman; her hair was as Ashara and their Mother's had been, back when they had been living and lovely. Her eyes, so bright and purple, fell upon his form and widened. She rushed across the courtyard, pulling her skirts up so that she would not trip, and threw herself into his arms.

Aron stumbled back, but still he caught her and held her fast. His sweet sister. The only one he had left and she did not even share his name any longer.

"You got taller," he whispered in her ear.

Allyria pulled back, smiling. It was then that he saw how worried she was, likely for the sister she was unaware had passed. He spotted the paleness to her, and the frown that came as quick as her smile left.

Aron pushed her hair back from her shoulders. It had been tied in some Tyrell fashion, which brought a feeling of resentment to him. He muffled it down though and kissed her cheeks. "It is wonderful to have you home."

"Yes," she said. "It is just as wondrous to be back."

As she studied the castle and greeted Melina, whom had always had a soft spot for her, Aron watched as the wheelhouse dipped with the weight of another exiting body.

Alysanne was a vision; she looked just like her mother, if not for those grey eyes and that grim frown. It softened when she saw him, but she did not embrace Aron as he wished she would; she did not remember him as he did, her.

She was not tame, he could tell immediately; she wore riding leathers, and her boots were splattered with dirt. She had a bow and quiver slung across her back as well as a longsword strapped to her side, tied to a belt of silver.

Behind her stood two guards. One was tall and lean, with brown hair on the longer and darker side, and bright green eyes. He was smirking with leisure. Then there was Jon Fossoway, whom Aron recognised from Alysanne's last visit two years before. The man looked as genial as ever, with a freshly trimmed dark beard to rival the one on his companion's face, and cropped black hair.

The wheelhouse was led away. Aron stepped forward and kissed his niece's cheeks. "How is my mother?" Was the first question that slipped past her lips, as pink as Ashara's had been.

Aron was not sure what to tell her. He did not want to catch her or Allyria unawares, but thankfully the arrival of two more little girls spared him. Allyria's daughters; Maeryla and Jystine. They looked little like their mother, with brown curly hair and blue eyes — though the hue was a shade of Dayne, for which he was thankful.

"Girls," Allyria stepped forward, cradling the head of the younger one, whom Aron knew to be only two years of age. "This is your uncle, Aron. He is Lord of Starfall and a friend to us."

Something had changed in her voice, as with Alysanne's. It was softer, more calm, like water rushing over a river. They did not bear the accent of Dorne any longer. Aron suddenly felt completely alone; Ashara was dead, and his only living family had converted to the ways of the south.

"Come," he said, with a heavy heart. "I... we should be away from prying eyes."

They knew, then; he could see the changes in their faces. Both turned to stone. Aron wondered if their hearts were as broken as his own.

Her body was covered in a purple shroud, embroidered with white stars.

Melina had done the work herself, ridden with guilt for the way she had treated Ashara. None of them had thought she would die; sickness was sickness, and sickness passed. But something at the back of Aron's mind had nagged him ever since. Some urgent thing that could not make its way through the clouds of grief.

She bled, whispered something that could not quite reach, like ghost hands clawing from the depths of the forgotten. She slit her own wrists. Unhappiness... but why?

Allyria fell to her knees beside him, covering her mouth with a pale hand as tears streamed down her cheeks. Aron made to console her, and would have if she had not pulled herself away. He watched as she sobbed; the broken sounds filling the air and deepening the cracks in his heart.

He turned to Alys.

The young maiden was staring at the shroud, at the mass that was her mother. Her face was blank. He did not know if she was in shock, or even upset. She had barely known Ashara in these last years, after all... But the woman had been her mother, still.

"Alys?"

"Do not, please," she whispered. He saw the first traces of a tear, but quickly it was gone. "I must take my leave."

She slipped from the room at a run, hair flying behind her. Aron felt weakened. He hesitantly knelt down bedside Allyria and wrapped his arms around her. "You are all I have left, now," he said. "You are my sister. I am going to protect you."

"You could not protect her," Allyria retorted harshly, with eyes of steel.

"She was sick," Aron retorted. He shoved down his offence for he knew that she was grieving. "She might have died anyway. I was giving her the best care I could under the sudden circumstances. You know I would not have—"

"But I do not know," Allyria interrupted, wiping her red cheeks and nose. "I do not know you, Aron."

With that she stood and swept from the room, leaving him with a shrouded corpse which he prayed to every god he knew of to give life once more.

Alys entered his solar some time later, clutching a necklace of some sorts. She was saddened of eye and pale of face, though not flushed or pink as he had expected her to be from crying.

Had she not, yet?

Concerned, Aron bid her to sit across from him. He poured them both a chalice of wine into polished golden cups, which had been his fathers and grandfather's, and so on and so forth — Aron had been led to believe that they were a gift from Aegon the Conquerer himself, which had been given to his son, and that son's mistress, until they had ended up in the hands of Aenor Dayne of Starfall.

"How are you?" Aron asked her, furrowing his brow as he passed the wine.

Alys sniffed, though not haughtily. "I... Had expected to find her alive. I wanted to have a last conversation with her... To tell her how much I missed her. I suppose it is hard for me to grasp that I will not be able to." Alys swallowed thickly. "But my greatest worry is Jon."

Aron had not expected that. How could she think of him at this time? But then, he supposed, it was to be expected; the boy was her brother; her closest living relative — at least to her own knowledge. That brought a sick feeling of apprehension; the realisation that he would be the one to tell her the truth. Who else could? Ned Stark was in the north, leagues away, which left Aron the sole bearer of the secret which may have killed Ashara. "Jon?"

Alys nodded. "Yes," she frowned delicately, as she had likely been taught in the Reach. "He is all the way in the North, with no one to comfort him in the news of our mother's passing."

"I am sure if he takes it as well as you have, he will fair just fine." Aron told her. He tried to be gentle with his words, but still her sharp gaze locked onto his with a reverence he would have previously thought impossible.

"I am not taking it well," she replied shakily, eyes misting. "I am heartbroken. I wanted to see my mother, I wanted to kiss her one last time and tell her that all would be well! Instead I must write to my brother to inform him of her death! Do you think that is something I want to do? Do you think I enjoy the concept?"

Aron opened his mouth to speak, but she only slammed her hand down on the desk. "I am your niece, I was her daughter — I lost her too. Do not think for one moment that I am fine, uncle!"

"I never would have..." Aron shook his head in absolute despair, not wanting to see her cry. Perhaps he was too much of a craven. "I am sorry. Forgive me?"

She nodded, leaning back and wiping her tears with a practised hand. "Tell me about her last days," she ordered.

Aron bit his lip. What was there to say? "She was weak, Alys," he said slowly, "not weak enough for death, but I suppose she must have... Worsened some time in the night. Her skin was like paper, and... The gods took her out of mercy, sweet niece." He would not tell her what she had done to herself. He would not tell her of the gaping slits across her wrists from which her life's blood had spilt. How could he do such a thing to her? He could barely comprehend it himself.

Alys chewed her lip. She seemed to be contemplating something, and so Aron waited in silence for her to speak. "Did she have anyone that could have done this to her? Anyone that wished her to die? I only ask because it... Is not common for someone to die so suddenly. Not from what I know, at the least."

Aron nodded with measured understanding. "No one that I can think of," he said quietly, swirling his wine. "My wife holds a grudge for the — disgrace — my sister brought upon House Dayne." Aron paused, trying to convey how these words were not his own. He laced his fingers together. "She regrets this, I know; these past nights she has done naught but weep."

Alys considered that; she bit down so hard on her lip that Aron saw beads of blood surface. She sucked it away. Slowly, tentatively, he reached out a hand. She took it, holding on firmly. It felt like a promise.

"We will solve this, Alysanne," he told her, making good on his word. "But first..."

"But first, what?" Alys frowned.

Aron cleared his throat. "Your mother asked a service of me which involves convincing you not to journey to Kings Landing, should your Father truly travel south to become the King's Hand. She worries for your safety in such a place."

"I can take care of myself," Alys said impatiently, rising from her chair and pacing across the tiled floor. Her feet made no sound. "I have been training, Uncle; with swords, with a bow—"

"Weapons will be of no use against a cunning mind, Alysanne," he interrupted swiftly, downing the last of his wine. It made his head spin.

"Are you... Where do you think I have been these last years?" His niece scoffed. "Do you believe I have learned nothing during my time amongst the ambitious flowers of the south? Do you imagine I merely sat around with a servant fanning me, not bothering to know? To observe?"

"No," Aron stood sharply. He clasped his hands behind his back. "But as of now, you have yet to prove to me any skills of which you have acquired in Highgarden. And since you have not, you will stay here. And, even if you ever do, you will remain with me."

Alysanne took a step back. "You mean... I am not going back to Highgarden?"

Aron had made the decision the night before. Ashara wanted her daughter safe, and Alys would be safe with him. He could not guarantee her wellbeing in some far off place like King's Landing or the Reach. The only other place he imagined he might not worry was the North, with her brother Jon. But then again, Aron had not heard from his nephew in months.

"You will not," he said firmly.

To his immense surprise, Alysanne rushed across the room and threw herself into his arms. Aron caught her, though he did not understand. "Alys—"

"I do not want to be Margaery Tyrell's handmaiden anymore," she whispered. "I love her dearly, do not mistake me, and Highgarden has become a home... But I cannot go back. I cannot spend any more time away from my true family. I realised today what I was missing, Uncle."

She pulled back, and Aron saw that her eyes were filled with silver tears. He squeezed her hand. "I promise I will keep you safe with me."

Alys nodded. She slowly detangled herself from his grasp and wiped her cheeks dry. "Thank you, Uncle," she said softy.

"Alys..." He drew in a sharp breath, staring down at their still intertwined fingers, "you are more like your mother than you could ever realise. It is more than your looks, sweet niece, it is your very nature."

"Thank you for your kind words," she smiled. "I want to rest, now."

She sounded like a child then; for a moment humility and sadness had re-grasped her and turned her into the little girl she had once been. She looked so small and weak. Aron wanted nothing more than to help her through her pain but he did not know how.

Edric was perched on the sill of his window, chin drawn up to his knee as he observed the river rushing below.

Aron cleared his throat, not wanting to be imposing. But Edric smiled slightly. It was a tainted smile; ruined with grief and pain and loss, not unlike Aron's own. "You can sit," said his son, patting the spot beside him.

Aron did. They settled into a comfortable silence, before Edric spoke again. "You mean to send me to Lord Dondarrion, to squire for him," his son proclaimed.

"I do."

Edric nodded. He looked away very quickly, for there were tears in his eyes which he obviously wanted to hide. But Aron would not have that; he was not a man to have feelings hidden for the sake of false strength.

"Edric, speak to me." Aron gripped his son under the chin so that their eyes would meet. "I am your Father, I only want to help."

His son was chewing his cheek again, he just knew it. Edric glanced down at his visible foot with a blush. "You have kept me at a distance for many years," he said quietly. "Sending me to Sunspear with Mother and other such places... And now you send me to the Stormlands, away from my home and my family, though I am your heir. Would it not be wise to keep me at your side? To teach me?"

"You are young, yet, Ed," Aron said, cupping the back of his son's pale head. "You have much to learn, and I want you to be strong, though it may not be your strength. I want you to be brave though you may not have the courage, and cunning though you may not have the intelligence. Do you understand?"

Ed considered. "You want these things for me... For my well-being... But you will not be disappointed if I fail?"

"Precisely," Aron nodded, "though I would not call it failure, nor a lack of heart or wit. Merely... Edric, you must understand that every person is born with limitations; things that bind them and keep them human. No man or woman can be perfect. Everyone must be flawed so that we may live in humility and simple-minded admiration."

His son absorbed that. "Father..." He chewed his cheek. "The existence of concern for a well-being implies some form of care, does it not?"

Was he truly asking this? Did he truly not know? "Oh, Gods, Ed..."

Abruptly, Ed rose, slipping out of Aron's grasp with ease. He straightened his jerkin and nodded. "I'm sorry for having caused you any discomfort," he said, crossing the sunroom. "I will continue packing and—"

"No, Ed, come back." His voice sounded pathetic and broken even to his own ears, but for the first time in many years Aron did not try to mask it. He had just lost his sister, and now he was going to lose his son as well. Such a thing would not happen in terms of bitterness and misunderstanding.

His son paused with his hand on the knob of the door. In this light he looked almost angelic; a symbol of pure goodness. A deity of innocence.

Ed turned. He was crying.

Aron pushed away from the sill and grasped his son by the shoulders, pulling him into a bone-breaking embrace. Edric sobbed, burying his little face in the crook of Aron's neck and clinging to his tunic with a reverence for the gods to uphold. "Oh, my sweet boy," Aron whispered. "How could you not know? How could you not know how precious you are to me?"

He felt ashamed. Had he not shown it well enough? Had he not been there enough? No, he supposed not, for there was a reason for every little belief in a person's mind and Edric was believing this now.

Aron drew his son down and held him like he had done when he was a newborn babe, and a child after that. "I do not want to part from you," he said. "I want you with me for always, you must understand that... But it cannot be."

Edric still held on, as though he could change it with the action of never letting go. "What if I miss you?"

"Write to me."

"And what if you miss me?"

"I will write as well," Aron assured him, wiping away those tears of yearning. One day, they might be crying of happiness; a shared joy of seeing one another again. Not the heaviness of parting ways but the lightness of a renewed bond.

"Sweet Edric," Aron kissed his brow. "You will be with me forever. In my heart and in my mind. I would do anything for you, and though you may not understand it now... I am doing just that as we speak."

Edric nodded, wise little thing he was. "I love you, Father," he said tremulously, as though afraid to speak the words.

"And I you," Aron said. Of course he did. He always would, no matter the mistake or the change, for he knew that even then they would barely exist; Edric was a good boy, despite being raised by such a traditional mother and an absent father. Strong already. Gods, he would thrive.

But that was for him to discover on his own.

AN: Writing that scene made me cry. Edric is a Spock/Neville hybrid. Fite me.

But in all seriousness, I wanted to expand upon Edric's character - what he might have been like before the war; young, vulnerable, and perhaps a bit neglected by his both parents. Normally, in such a universe, that's a pretty common thing and I think most kids would kind of expect it a bit (busy parents, duties, possible nepotism among siblings and whatnot), with the exception of the Starks - but lil Ed has seen how Ashara treats and adores Alys, and so he knows that it's possible to love someone and also be attentive toward them.

As far as Alys's behaviour here goes, it's all part of the grieving process. I'm trying to be as realistic as possible, here, so obviously she's not just going to have a cry and get over it. (Also, if you haven't picked up on it, she's got bipolar disorder) I think it's very important to represent how diverse grieving can be. It doesn't always happen the same. In her case, she's gone a bit mad.

Reviews give me life! Much love xx