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Chapter Text

The sands of the Dornish desert were unforgiving once the wind rose up. It had not occurred to Eddard that sand could cut the skin to the point of drawing blood, and he was not prepared in the slightest for that newfound knowledge. It suddenly made more sense to him that the armour employed by the Dornishmen covered them with loads of fabric, allowing only for their eyes to remain visible.  

Ned cut an old shirt in rags and attempted to fashion a typical Dornish headdress. He felt somewhat ridiculous, fancying himself a legendary Dornish warrior, but it worked, sheltering his face from the sand needles. He felt like a vulture for doing so, but, thinking of Howland and the wet nurse, he ripped the shirts off his companions’ dead bodies and fashioned the same protection for the living.  

Howland’s face was going crimson, the skin roasting under the cruellest sun Ned had ever encountered. His companion’s lips were practically peeling off his face, so dry he could peel chunks of dried skin off his flesh. Ned was affected as well – his sights had gone completely black for a moment and he felt his head spinning, the earth swaying under his feet, when his knees gave out and he fell to the ground. Howland and the wet nurse Wylla had aided him, to little effect. He was not built for this weather. He quickly decided that he would rather have his balls freeze in the coldest of winters than stand beneath that sun for another moment more. 

He did not actually expect his balls to freeze from the cold on the same day of his nearly melting from the heat. Alas, it was the first time in several years that the gods had granted him a wish. When the sun set on the desert, it went very cold, as – Wylla had explained – there was no land, no trees, no plants, no anything, that the heat could cling onto. There was only sand, as far as the eye could see. Sand, and that damned tower, still standing defiantly up against the sky. 

The sudden and large difference in heat brought distress to the babe. He cried, and cried, and cried. The wet nurse fed him and sang him a lullaby, for him to sleep. It was an unremarkable nursery rhyme, something about a goose.  

Ned reasoned that the babe had reason to cry. So young, and already an orphan. 

Ned had wrapped Lyanna in her bloodied sheets, and Wylla had helped him, fetching other mantles that were thicker than linen. He had been careful in the handling of Lyanna’s body, so as not to hurt her. A preposterous effort, perhaps. Wherever she was, Lyanna was not in that shell anymore. Where had she gone off to? Was the spirit like the light of the sun, that sunk in the earth and rose again in its due time? If so, was her spirit doomed to wander the desert?  

Ned said a silent prayer that it wouldn’t be so. Lyanna’s bones would rest with her ancestors’, and her spirit would find solace in a heart tree. She would reunite with those she had loved and lost, and those whom she would continue to love and never lose again. 

There was no time for grieving. They were in the middle of the Dornish desert, a desolate land where few Northmen had ever set foot before. The food was already scarce, they would have to hunt or reach the nearest town as soon as possible. Their small band of four was composed of two men, a woman and a babe. The two men would have to be quick and nimble in their tasks, so all four of them could proceed on their journey. Ned knew that they couldn’t slow down, it was too dangerous, and Lyanna’s body had already started to stink under the scorching sun. Ned had no wish of knowing what the advanced stages of rotting smelt like. They would have to reach the nearest town, where the Silent Sisters would take care of Lyanna. There was no time for grieving. Still, he grieved. 

The cries of her son were just the same as her cries, when she had been a babe. How could their voices be the very same? Ned’s knees gave out on the foot of the bed. He embraced his sister’s body, while there was still body to be embraced, and cried. 

Howland eventually found him there. He had to drag Ned away from the bedside. There was no time for grieving. 

There would be nine graves. Lyanna would be spared of that burial, as Ned and Howland had decided to take her body to be prepared by the Silent Sisters of Starfall. Starfall would be their next stop. Ned didn’t dare yet think of what that meant. Not yet. 

They buried their dead and took that tower down, rock by rock. If not for the wet nurse, occasionally bringing them water from the well, it would be impossible to work under the blazing light. By the end of the ordeal, they were starved.  

Ned especially, was having a hard time. He sat down on the wasteland for a moment, observing the graveyard they had built. He truly had become a bringer of bad news. 

Around him, Wylla and Howland were speaking, very cordially, about their lunch. 

Howland had dutifully picked up mushrooms that he'd found on an old tree log, and was advocating for the boiling of the pickings. 

"Mushrooms are good for filling our bellies", he said. "Not very tasty, but they're stout. Good replacements for meat." 

"My aunt used to say the same thing", Wylla responded, examining the mushrooms, holding the babe on a sling around her form. "But these ones are no good." 

"What?" Howland seemed to be personally wounded. "They grow by the hundreds on Greywater's Watch. We eat them all the time." 

"I know the one you're talking about", argued Wylla, and because the babe was held in the sling, her hands were free to hold the mushroom in question and point out its particular features. "The mushroom that grows on logs and is found north of here has the colouring of the sun. The middle of the cap is white, and the outward rings get more and more hot as they go. There's a light-yellow ring, a dark yellow, a light orange, a blood orange, a red and a crimson ring. They are all encircling the pale centre. That's how you know they're safe to eat, because the sun is the keeper of all lives. You have to count the rings to be sure. There are seven rings for the Seven Gods. This one you picked up is different. The cap is fully red. Red to warn you it's not safe. Red, the colour of men fallen in battle, the colour of a failed childbirth. Red, the colour of loneliness in the desert. The colour of death." 

"I see. Thank you for that, Wylla. Who knows, maybe you've just saved my life." 

"Sure, I saved your life", she smiled mockingly. She was arrogant in a most charming way. 

"But what shall we eat, then?" Howland turned to ask again, and there was a slight desperation in his voice. "The sun will be low in the sky soon, and it will be too dark to hunt."  

"Worry not, m'lord. Go back to the log where you found these deathly mushrooms. Turn the log back around, if it's not too heavy. You'll see other mushrooms growing there, closer to the ground. These ones are white like a wedding dress. Big. Bring them here."  

Howland did not have to be told twice, steadfastly mounting on his horse. 

"And do you promise that they're safer to eat?"  

"Sort of. They will kill us once if we eat them raw, kill us twice if we only boil them once. But if we boil them twice, they're safe."  

"Will you do the boiling, please?"  

"Of course, m'lord." 

Ned felt a rush of gratitude for these people. It was nice to be able to count on people, to not always have to enforce their duties for them, even if those were as simple as caring for a baby and hunting after mushrooms. There was relief to be found in the company of capable, honest, mature people. Much as he loved his siblings, he had not always trusted them - not Brandon, not Lyanna. Benjen had aided Lyanna in her deceit, but the regret would teach him. Perhaps he would come to earn Ned's trust in the years to come. Brandon and Lyanna would not have the same opportunity. They would not know what it is to make amends. Wylla said it well, red is the colour of death, not of life. What good had come from having their blood run hot? And now they had the nerve to leave him behind! Ned half wished he could resurrect them for a moment, just to yell at them. Why is it always the troublemakers that cause the greatest sorrows, why do they devastate so much, why do we love them better for it? Ned pondered. That was it. His father was gone. Brandon was gone. Lya was gone. Her baby was alive. Wylla had to carry him on a sling. Howland had to hunt mushrooms to feed him. Ned had to lie to the Seven Kingdoms in order to keep him alive.  The dead had left a chaos for the living to sort out.  

Wylla boiled the mushrooms as she breastfed the babe. Howland set up a tent. The adults feasted on the tasteless desert pickings, then fell asleep in the tent. When Wylla closed her eyes, Ned took the babe from her sling and held him to his chest. The babe’s little hands grazed his beard. Ned realized that the babe was not only Lya’s son, he was also his family. 

Ned held on to the youngest Stark, held on to him with all that he had left, knowing that the next day would take them to Starfall. Night had fallen in the desert, and under the moonlight the sands were white as snow. Ned closed his eyes and almost stepped into the white desert. What if the gathering sandstorm could take him away, would he fade with the wind? 

Chapter Text

It was high noon by the time Eddard Stark arrived at Starfall. Howland Reed was riding close behind him, whistling quietly to fill the silence. Somehow, it only served to heighten it. It had not been a week since his other Northern companions had loudly sung thunderous chants of war and dirty songs about whorehouses, boasting about their conquests and detailing their depths. Now, they all lay dead beneath the ground of a faraway land. Never to return to the land that knew them, never to hold their women in their arms again, they were buried as strangers in strange lands. Howland's whistling sounded eerie to Ned's ears at a time like that, but he could not find it in himself to ask the crannogman to stop. It seemed appropriate.  

The babe was sleeping soundly, wrapped safely in the sling, covered by the mantle around Wylla's shoulders. He seemed serene enough that Ned could trust his well-being to the nurse.  

Just as they approached some hundred yards to the imposing castle, Wylla's voice sounded from the back of Howland's mare. 

"'Tis better to take the high road, m'lord. The rains must 'ave made the lowlands so muddy it will be hard for the horsies to tread by." 

Horsies. The woman must have been nearing thirty years old, and she was speaking in childish tones. It was a result of the time spent caring for children, he figured. She had that warm congeniality, the kind of woman to speak in a tone so soft it soothed one's every worry. Just a " my dear ", " my darling ", " my love " could convince one that the world was not such a bad place after all, and that there was no such thing as wars, sparring or death. She reminded him of the servant women in Winterfell, the nurses, maids and kitchen wenches who cared for him after his lady mother passed away. Old Nan with her stories and her stony kindness. Eddard imagined an old Wylla, more wrinkled, caring after the man that the babe would grow up to become, and he dearly wished that he could keep her as the babe's maid. The little one would need this kind of care in his life, as Ned did not expect his wife to forgive the slight he would bestow upon her.  

They took the horses to the path pointed out by Wylla. She was right about the mud, the horses stalled when their hooves sank deep in the dirt. Revolving the earth with their heavy steps caused the smell of wet grass to carry over the air, and with it the undisguisable fragrance of mint, mingled with chamomile and jasmine. It reminded Ned of home. That was a dangerous thought for one to have. He was not even sure he was welcome at Starfall. They could very well be welcomed with arrows shot to their heads. The sword of Arthur Dayne weighed more heavily on his back upon that thought. 

"Where's that smell coming from?" Asked Howland, referring to the homely fragrances usually not found in open air.  

Wylla held on to the babe as the horses trudged through the mud with more difficulty. 

"The late Lady Dayne 'ad a little garden on the outskirts of the castle. She planted all kinds of herbs there. Smart woman, she was. She realized that it was no good to plant edible plants too close to the castle, because the soil there gets dirtied by the latrines, which causes many to fall sick. She tended to her garden a little farther away. Then she died. The garden was left unattended, and the native grasses took over almost completely. A strong storm destroyed the pillars and the glass of the ceiling and window panes, and that was the end of her doings." 

"But the smell of her plants still carries over", argued Howland. "Some must have survived."  

"'Tis her spirit, refusing to leave", Wylla said with the surety of someone stating the colour of the sky.  

Spirit or not, Ned thought it moving that the home this woman had created could persevere. Her works and her love remained on the broken earth.  

Starfall was the most beautiful castle Eddard had ever seen. Winterfell was home and the Eyrie was grand, but Starfall was meant to please the eye. The silvery Torrentine River seemed to sparkle and shine under the blazing light of the sun, and Eddard just knew that the water would be cold and refreshing. The sun was still hard, but the large body of water freshened the air, and there were plants and wild animals in abundance, marking a refuge from the despair of the red desert. The Palestone Tower, one of the highest of the Seven Kingdoms, cast a large shadow over the land. The castle walls were all made of marble, and the stunning architecture caused Eddard to stand in admiration.  

Howland whistled in awe.

“Impressive view”, the crannogman said.  

Ned’s heart ached. He had no business being there.  

They approached the front gate, at which there was a single sentinel on duty. The others were surely bound to be gawking at them from the Palestone Tower. 

"Halt!", yelled the sentinel of the castle. "Who comes through?" 

"Eddard Stark of Winterfell", he said, whilst under his cloak he blindly touched the sheath of his ancient greatsword, Ice. "Summon your master. We have words to speak." 

The sentinel frowned. He was a tall, bulky man, dressed in simple linen clothes made to bear the heat of the hard Dornish sun. Eddard figured he had the advantage over that man and could take him down in combat in case it was needed. The only advantage the sentinel had over him was that he seemed to be a content man, nourished and well-rested, whereas Ned had been unhappy, starved and exhausted for years now. 

"Stark, you say?" That man seemed to be astonished. "The warrior?" 

"Aye".  

Eddard Stark, the warrior.  

"Show me proof, please." 

Without a moment's hesitation, Ned unsheathed Ice and held it down so that the sentinel could take a look and be convinced of his identity. 

"Very well, m'lord, I will call my master if only you agree to wait here." 

Ned nodded and the sentinel turned away. But before he could turn away completely, he caught a glimpse of Wylla sitting behind Howland on his mare. 

"Wylla, is that you?" A look of incredulity crossed the man's face. "'Tis me, Bel." 

Bel quickly moved to help Wylla get off the horse. Wylla had to hand the babe over to Howland for a moment, and so Bel saw the bundle in her arms. The babe was fast asleep, unconscious of the blood that had been spilled for him. Eddard could see the sentinel, Bel, putting two and two together; he held on to Ice like a Septon held on to his gods.  

"Is it yer baby, Wylla? I did not know ye were with child again”, spoke Bel.  

Wylla took the babe back from Howland's arms. 

"'Tis not my babe, Bel, I am only his wet nurse", she answered. 

"Why are you back already? I thought you'd return with Ser Arthur in tow." 

Wylla did not answer that. Bel looked in between Wylla, Stark and the other greatsword that hung on the latter's back.  

Ned watched as understanding settled upon Bel's face, the colour draining away as he breathed so startled it almost sounded like a gasp.  

"I will call my master if only you agree to wait here", he said once more, so shocked he went pale.  

Bel took his hand to his head as if to steady himself after a blow as he left. Meanwhile, a pit formed deep in Ned's gut. He felt nauseated, and, as he so often did, wished that things could have been different. But he had written his story on stone, and no amount of wishing could erase what had been done. 

It was not long before Bel returned with other men who guided them past the gates of Starfall and women who welcomed in Wylla and the babe. Even the Silent Sisters were already on their duty, and whisked Lyanna’s body off for the preparations. They were all flurrying with agitation, seemingly distressed with what Eddard's arrival implied, but they were never once hostile, or even rude, which was so much more than what Ned deserved. 

What Ned dreaded the most ended up happening. The sister to the Lord of Starfall beat her brother to the chase, and was the first to encounter Ned.  

She sprang to the hall with a spring in her step, tumbled down back into Ned’s life as if she had never left at all.  

How many times had he not wandered the halls of the Eyrie at night, expecting her to walk through some door. Her face had started to vanish from his memories, as he was unable to commit the image with all of its details to mind. How dreadful that had been, to forget the face of the woman he loved. But one thing had never vanished, had followed him from the Eyrie to White Harbour, from Winterfell to Storm’s End, from King’s Landing to the Tower of Joy, and from the desert to at last Starfall: the haunting purple of her eyes. 

She was wearing a white dress. 

Ned knew not how to address her, anymore. She had been many things to him, and he had given her many different titles. Lady Ashara. My lady. My dearest. 

He had been stripped of those privileges long ago, and yet he felt that if he did not resort to those terms, he would betray her once more.  

Ned settled for not saying anything. When words could kill, he chose whatever silence life entailed.  

Ashara did not say anything, either. She only watched, breathless, as he handed the horses off to one of Starfall's men and made his way to her. 

A silent, terrible understanding settled between them.  

Ashara’s face had been joyous for a moment, happy, even, before it lost all its mirth as the horrible realization settled in. It was too much for Ned. He had to look away. A coward, through and through. 

Ashara motioned to show him the way into the castle. Ned saw her bare feet under the white dress, and something wild in him wanted to break out at the sight. She was probably naked when the news of his arrival broke out in the castle, judging by her lack of shoes and the cascading hair around her back, free of coiffures, and also the dress that did not seem to require a bodice and an abundance of knots and buttoning up to be worn. He could picture it vividly, her hurrying to get dressed and get down the hall... to see him. Ned had to bury these thoughts; it was deeply wrong. He had murdered her brother and was already leering after her. Not only that, he was married to another. Ned had always thought himself above such disgusting behaviour.  

As they stood speechless in the main hall, staring at each other after years of estrangement, the Lord of Starfall joined them. 

The man looked frightened, as well. 

"Lord Stark", he addressed him, solemn. 

Eddard nodded his head down. 

"Lord Dayne."  

His voice was coarse, his throat was dry. Speaking was difficult after such penances under the dryness of the desert. After a long pause, Ned started to speak... but it turned out that words really could kill. 

"My lord, my lady. I have slain your brother, Ser Arthur, the Sword of the Morning, at the Tower of Joy, roughly a week ago. It was a horrible quarrel, to which I and Howland Reed are the only survivors. We gave him a proper burial, befitting of a great man who valiantly and bravely served in the Kingsguard. I have brought you his sword", he retrieved the legendary Dawn, "...and I wrapped it in his colours, to honour him. I also managed to bring back his horse, and those of his companions. Your master of horses has taken them to your stables, I believe."  

Eddard watched as brother and sister became ashen-faced, completely grief-stricken.  

Ned knelt down on the ground and held Dawn out for Lord Dayne to take it.  

As he waited for the other man to take the sword in his hands, he held his head low. If Lord Dayne wanted to take the sword and swiftly put an end to his shame, Ned decided that he would not hold his head high again or get up to resist in any way. He had not a single fighting bone left in his body. All the fight left him when he knelt down on the floor of the house of a good man whom he had slaughtered. 

Ned felt rather than saw Lord Dayne taking Dawn from his hands.  

He waited expectantly for the bite of the steel, but it did not come, much to his chagrin. He still waited for a beat, giving Lord Dayne the chance, but when it still did not happen, he got up from the floor. 

Lord Dayne had taken Eddard's fate on his hands for a moment and chosen not to punish him. That disappointed Ned, who longed to surrender. But surrender was for the good men who died young. To die, it only took being alive. It took so much more to live. That was the fate that Lord Dayne had chosen for him: to repent, to have remorse eat him alive, like a crow feasting on an ever-growing liver, for the rest of his days. A fate arguably harder than a swift swing of sword. 

"I shall not further impose on your household", spoke Ned. "The journey is long, and I must go my way along with my companions. Farewell."  

"Lord Stark, wait", Lord Dayne beseeched him.  

Eddard waited for an admonishment. A word of anger. A curse. Anything. 

Lord Dayne was exasperated, he kept fumbling with Dawn, as if it was not really his to hold. The man was reaching for words, which was hard to do when one received such news. Ned knew the feeling well. It was as if he was watching a mirror of himself displayed in Dayne’s face. Only he was the root of that man’s sorrow. The bringer of bad news. 

"You have done our House a great honour", Lord Dayne said to Eddard's utter bewilderment. Ned felt his heart in his throat, practically ringing in his ear. "Thank you, for coming here yourself to tell us, for returning Dawn to its rightful place, and for bringing back my brother's horse. We are earnestly grateful."  

Ned could not speak for the life of him. 

"I insist that you stay here for however long you need. The journey North is long and dangerous. You and your companions must eat, bathe and sleep. The horses must feed and rest, too. You must gather enough supply and coin that you may reach your destiny in safety and comfort."  

Ned was not one to cry, some said that his coldness had the power to drive people away. When Lord Dayne dared to be so gentle, in spite of all the terrible tragedies that Ned had inflicted upon his family, Ned felt some part of him, some last string of resistance, snap.  

All the weariness from the last few years rushed over his body, and he heard himself gasping when he started to cry bitterly.  

Brother and sister came to his side. The brother held him still and patted his back. The sister held his dirty hands in her own delicate ones. She stroked his knuckles, as the blood of her deceased brother still lingered under his nails. Being comforted by the siblings of the man whom he had viciously killed was too much for him.  

"My lord, my lady, please, I do not deserve your forgiveness, or your hospitality", Ned pleaded, feeling as if the earth should swallow him whole right then and there.  

His throat was tight, as he tried to hold back the tears, but it was becoming too heavy a burden, and they were stinging his eyes as they rolled down. 

"Arthur lived by his duty, and you live by yours. It is not our place to hold grudges!" Lord Dayne declared. 

“You have every right to hold grudges.” Ned had always strived to behave honourably, but, as often happens when one is grown, the wheel of fortune turned and made his path contrary to his intention. He craved some kind of punishment, for maybe a reckoning could exact the justice he felt he deserved. He felt like a summer boy again, and a boy he had not been for years. It was the feeling of crying, after one finds oneself completely lost in this vast world. 

“Forget what we’re entitled to”, Ashara never let go of Ned’s hand. She widened her eyes at him, and he distantly wondered if she still thought him a wildling, some beastly creature hell-bent on his foreign ways. She had cause to.“Our choice is to harbour no ill will towards you. Why should we?” 

Ned expected Ashara to hate him, but she did not. It was he who hated himself in her eyes. 

“My sister speaks wisely”, Lord Dayne amended, the tone of his voice impossibly serene when facing his brother’s killer. Eddard could only feel hot tears streaming down his face, completely undone by the unexpected absolution. "You fought fairly, and now you get to walk away." 

Never in his lifetime would Ned expect people to behave as such. He was too accustomed to the evils of this world, too used to violence and deep-seated regret. Forgiveness was something stranger, had no place in Aerys Targaryen’s kingdoms, had no place in his heart. 

"How can you hold so dearly the hand that slew your brother?" He asked Ashara, looking deep into her eyes.  

As if to defy him, she raised his dirty hand up to her lips and kissed it. Ned was horrified. 

"The hand that slew my brother holds a sceptre in King's Landing", Ashara said. 

"I have dishonoured you, too", he recalled, more quietly. 

"How could you have dishonoured me?"  

Not even the mentions of their illicit affair could stall Lord Dayne from holding Ned's shoulders with more tenderness than Ned could have ever mustered. 

"I promised to marry you", argued Ned, still expecting the reckoning to come. "And then I wedded another." 

"You stepped in your brother's place so you could gain Tully's army and see your sister again", Ashara insisted. "I was wounded, but time made me see reason. You put your family first." 

"You were my family. Wylla told me about the child you were carrying in your womb when I left you." 

Ashara's hold on his hands did not waver, not even when he mentioned his worst crimes. To leave a woman pregnant with his bastard child to her own fate. To indirectly cause the death of his child, with his reckless abandonment.  

"How could I ever hate you for giving me the greatest gift I have ever received? Our daughter spent twelve wonderful days with us. Tell him, Allen, how beautiful she was." 

"It's true", Allen Dayne nodded, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "She was the most precious little thing. All pink from head to toe."  

"And she was very much loved", Ashara stated, her voice torn with emotion. "I spent every joyful hour of her days cradling her. I only wish you had been blessed with this gift, too. You should have met her. I even named her after your mother, Lyarra." 

Ned wept as he had seldom wept before.  

Allen Dayne muttered, “You are a good man, Lord Stark.” 

They had denied him punishment, had denied him a reckoning. He had been raised by soldiers, who always exacted due punishments when necessary. To be denied that was strange – he felt as if he had cheated on a test. But Ashara’s hands in his were a reminder – he had not cheated, and in front of him lay the choice of walking away with a clear conscience. It was a harder choice, one that would take much more from him than just mindless violence.  

Ned cried bitterly, and the good people of Starfall held him all through the while.  

“What I did was unforgivable”, he protested for the last time, come undone in the floor.  

Ashara’s eyes were filled with goodness, and even when the world was collapsing around them, even when their choices caused great sorrow, even then she clutched his hands and made him feel that that was enough.  

“Oh, Ned. Few things are unforgivable.” 

It was Ashara who bathed him. He still felt a lingering sense of shame in letting himself be taken care of when these people should be caring after themselves, after what he put them through. But he could not recall a day in his life when he had been more exhausted than that one.  

He surrendered, after all. Eddard was completely left to Ashara’s mercy.  

The woman he had betrayed in more ways than one prepared him a bath. She poured boiling teas in the hot water, with coarse salt, rue and rose petals. She scrubbed his skin until every last piece of dirt drifted away in the waters. She washed his hair with the delicacy that only someone who had been a mother could provide, until the hairs were clean and light again. The feeling of her long fingers massaging his scalp and the crown of his head made all the hairs on his arms stand up on end. She scraped the dirt off his fingernails, cleaning him of her brother’s blood, releasing him from captivity. Bearing scissors, she cut off some of his hair and beard, until Ned could recognize his own face again when in front of a looking glass. 

And then, with a towel, she dried him off. He had not bathed like that in years. His foul scent was gone, and now he smelled only of her teas. Being clean again brought him relief. 

She dressed him again with a cotton tunic and breeches, meant for sleep.  

Ashara took Eddard to her room, and without saying a word, laid him in her bed, wrapping him in freshly cleaned sheets and warm blankets. The thought of impropriety never once crossed Ned’s head. Ashara cradled his head in her bosom and treaded her long fingers on the hair she had cleaned herself, giving him pleasant goosebumps. Ned, still face swollen from crying, dozed off to sleep the most profound slumber he had had since the start of the rebellion. Whilst he did not long for death as he had earlier in the main hall, he felt that if death wanted to snatch him away at that very moment, then he would welcome it, for he was surprisingly, undeservedly and finally at peace.  

Chapter Text

Ned slept for a whole day afterwards. The servants were told not to disturb him in his sleep, but the maid had to clean the room of her lady, and so Ned woke up the following afternoon at the light sound of a broom sweeping the floor.  

“Ashara”, he called, still half-asleep. That was ever the name on his lips.  

The maid quirked up at the sound of his calling. 

“Good evening, m’lord. M'lady Ashara is not here.”  

The sound of a stranger’s voice caused Ned to wake up in full, on guard.  

“Where is your mistress?” 

The maid was unperturbed by his stance, and continued to sweep the floor, barely sparing him a glance. 

“She's gone off to the service in memory of her deceased brother. The whole castle is in mourning. I’m surprised the bells have not shaken you out of your sleep, m’lord.”  

As if on cue, the bells rang, a loud and doleful sound. They rang seven times, then went silent again, but the sound was so mighty that it seemed to reverberate on the walls even after it was over. The walls seemed to tremble.  

“The Septon here calls them the bells of freedom, m’lord. D’you know why?”  

“I wouldn’t know why.”  

“Because they were rung every time the Targaryens failed to conquer Dorne and rung again when Baelor the Blessed returned the Dornish hostages from captivity.” 

The maid told him of their lore as if sharing gossip, then unceremoniously opened the curtains. The light of dusk spilled in the room, and Ned glanced at the vastness behind the solar. The bells of freedom were ancient, and the dark bronze of their structure clashed with the pale stones of the castle. A stern sight to behold, to match a stern sound to hear. 

“Her ladyship thought that you might be hungry when you woke up. She has sent for food. A lavish banquet, if you ask me. There”, she pointed at the table in the parlour. “I trust you’ll be comfortable, m’lord?”  

“Quite. Thank you...?”  

The maid gave him a funny look.  

“The name’s Olall.”  

“Thank you, Olall.”  

She continued to look at him, smirking.  

He chuckled, unsure of what she found to be so funny.  

“I’m sorry, m’lord. You’re not as good-looking as she is, is all.”  

Ned snickered before he could help himself. Olall’s petulance was amusing. She seemed to be satisfied as she left the room.  

There was a big silver tray, full of dishes, where Olall had pointed. Ashara had sent for the finest Dornish food, the kind one would not find anywhere else in Westeros. Ned had never seen some of the fruits laid out in front of him. He had not realized just how hungry he was until he felt the strong scents of the food, and by then the hunger cut deep through his belly. Every inch of his flesh begged him to feed. He could not wait another moment more. 

Olall had left and he was alone in the room. He grabbed the mutton meat with his bare hands and bit, tearing off a whole chunk of it with his teeth. He chewed loudly, but the urge to swallow it was so strong that he did it without having chewed on it enough. The feel of the raw meat going down his throat was unpleasant, but no matter. He did it again and again, until the feral hunger was abated, and tears of relief sprung to his eyes. 

Ned breathed for a moment, allowing for the food to settle. He had swallowed so much of the mutton at once that his throat felt dry. He grabbed the goblet of wine and half downed it in one gulp. The wine was sour, but after the mutton it provided the most delightful sensation.  

Ned decided that the worst was past, and now he would eat mindful of his manners. He used the fork and knife to cut the mutton, and noticed the brown sauce that embedded the meat. He smelled it, curious, but the smell was so queer and quick to water his eyes, that he dropped the fork in shock. It took him a few moments to overcome his caution and give it another try.  

Ashara found him like that: struggling to trust a spice.  

She returned to her room, dressed in black, her hair tied up so tight it made her face seem rigid. But she giggled upon his sight, and her whole face lighted up.  

“Too spicy for your liking?”  

He must look like a wildling, with his face and hands smudged with sauce and bits of meat. He felt himself recoiling in shame.  

Ashara took a water basin that she kept on her nightstand, and allowed him to clean himself before proceeding to eat.  

“I’m sorry, my lady. I forgot my manners for a moment.”  

“Hunger does that to the noblest of men. Go on, my lord.” 

She sat in front of him to keep him company, her eyes serene and full of affection.  

This woman could drive him to ruin. Ned hoped that his face wasn’t as transparent as hers, that he could guard his wanting.  

“What is that?” He asked, pointing at the brown sauce, wanting to forget the previous thought.  

“It’s mutton sauce. Garlic, onion, black pepper, red pepper, bell pepper, dragon pepper...”  

“How many kinds of peppers there are?”   

“ Why, several. Wait until you hear about pink peppercorn.”  

“Did you use that as well?” 

“No, it’s much too sweet. But I did use a drop of snake sauce.”  

“Snake sauce?”  

“A drip of viper venom, to season the food.”  

Ned stopped for a moment. 

“Are you trying to kill me?” He asked, surprisingly earnest.  

Ashara laughed, a hearty, joyful laugh.  

“No, silly”, she said, so careless with her heart, looking at him as if she was going to kiss him any moment now. “If I wanted to, you would be dead already.”  

That could very well be true, but still Ned feared that this woman would be the death of him.  

He took one more piece of the mutton with its venomous sauce, and swallowed it, to show his appreciation. The taste was unlike anything he had ever had, it was hot and queer and fiery.  

“I told you, our food is unique”, said Ashara with no small amount of pride.  

He tried for the salad next. There were leaves of lettuce, wet with olive oil, seasoned with salt, parsley, mustard seeds and something sweeter. Delicious.  

“What is this sweet tang?”  

Ashara pointed to the red, bell-shaped fruit. It looked like an apple, only squarer, and frilly at the top. 

“Pomegranate seeds. We put them in salads.”  

“Pomegranate?”  

“Yes”, Ashara showed him the fruit, cutting it in halves and revealing the insides.  

There were hundreds of glistening seeds, aglow in rouge. Ned marvelled at the abundance of seeds inside the white walls, there were so many of them! 

“Gods be good”, his mouth went agape, in wonder. “How do so many of them fit inside such a tiny fruit?”  

Ned was in wonder of the pomegranate, Ashara was in wonder of him.  

“Oh, Ned”, she smiled fondly.  

There were still plenty of fruits, creams, breads and juices on the tray. There was a star-shaped yellow fruit with five pointy ends, though when Ned bit it he found that it was more water than fruit or star. A soft peach with a taste of liquid gold. Fat blood oranges, with rinds richly textured and perfumed. Loaves of freshly-baked bread. A honeyed rose juice, so sweet Ned felt his chest thrumming with the pleasure of it. A lavender cream, thick, icy and syrupy.  

“My lady”, Ned exclaimed when he was sated. “I must thank you for this feast. I shall never forget it, and your generosity.” 

“You mistake me for a better woman. I didn’t do it out of generosity, I did it out of spite.” 

“Spite?” 

“You had doubted me when I boasted about the food of my country being the very best”, she grinned, as acidic as the lemons in the sauces. 

“Never will I doubt you again”, Ned said in jest, though his words were true.  

She chuckled, getting up to remove the tray.  

“How could you?”  

Ashara left the tray in the hallway, for Olall to pick later. Closing the door, she returned more sombrely.  

It was then that Ned came to his senses. Ashara had just returned from her brother’s funeral rites. She must have desired her room for herself, to grieve in private.  

“Forgive me, my lady. I shall leave you be.”  

“Do not go yet, please”, she asked, with a hint of vulnerability. “I do not mind the company. It is the silence that troubles me.”  

Ned could not deny her that. He sat back down on his seat, watched her face in quiet contemplation.  

She seemed to have aged a decade in a moment. The tight bun of her hair stiffened her face, and Ned noticed the dark circles under her eyes, the way her shoulders seemed to shrug in despondence.  

“Arthur’s funeral was today”, Ashara started to confide in Ned, as if a day had not passed since she had last done it, as if their intimacy had not waned after years apart. “The Septon spoke a great many deal about his legendary deeds. Of how our whole country took pride in his valorous service, in his unwavering loyalty. And I suppose that’s fair. That’s why his name will be remembered in posterity.”  

Ned in turn would remember the simmering blood in the sand.  

“Your brother was the best sword in the Seven Kingdoms”, said Ned.  

But Ashara glared at him.  

“My brother was not a sword. The sword was Dawn. The man was Arthur.” 

Ned shut up, afraid he had said the wrong thing.  

Ashara softened again.  

“You have a point, though. Arthur loved Dawn more than anything. Loved his white cloak, loved his vows. If he’s going to be remembered for having done his duty, it must be a consolation that he did the duty out of love.”  

“There is no greater consolation, my lady. It is the work we endeavour to build on this earth that remains, after our names crumble to dust.”  

“I only wish he had shared some of that love with me. We spent so little time together, and whenever we did, his mind was always elsewhere. Consumed by dreams of glory.”  

Ashara’s words were that of a little sister, upset that her big brother would pay her no mind. It reminded him so much of Lyanna, how she had tried to tie Brandon’s feet on the earth so he would not take flight, when Brandon had started to yearn after the world.  

“And glory he did achieve.”  

“Glory forevermore, yes. But these days I have been thinking that there would be no greater glory than to live a quiet life. To love the people around oneself, not in death but in life.” 

Ned looked down, reminded of Arthur’s confidence when saying “ And now it begins.”   

“You see, Ned. You only gave Arthur one bad day. Arthur had died a thousand times prior, and had he lived he would have died a thousand more. Every time he went off with his sword, smiling like a fool, looking like he was headed to a ball rather than a battle. I knew he would eventually have one bad day and wind-up dead, but glorious.”  

Ashara sipped her wine. 

“Your maid Olall told me about the bells. I thought it beautiful that they would honour Ser Arthur like that”, offered Ned. 

The woman nodded. 

“The bells of freedom. They tolled I don’t know how many times today. You can measure a life in those bells, you know.”  

“How come?”  

Ashara stared off into the distance as she spoke, her tongue loosened by the beverage. 

“If you spare a glance at the bells, you’ll see how dusty they are. Much of their time is spent in silence, rather than in chimes and peals. What does it take then, for the echoes of someone’s life to reverberate on the bells’ bronze? How many years would we spend listening to their mighty sound if we were to ring them for every lowborn soldier lost in war? For every peasant starved to death on enclosed land? For every woman raped and murdered? How many chimes, how many peals? I know that we are bound to remember bouts of greatness. There is a need for heroes, and I do not resent my brother for being one. History is made of people, and he, a man like any other, found his place in its pages. But I should remember the man who was my brother and loved me not as countrywoman but as sister, who toyed with my hair and was capable of doing epic deeds but incapable of having an honest conversation with me. And someone should remember those sadly wasted lives.”  

 If Ned truly was to keep the promise, he would have to remember very well indeed.  

On the following morning, the Septon rung the bells again, at Ashara’s request, this time, to mark the end of the war. A war that had taken the lives of Starfall men, and sickened Starfall women with the many diseases that wars usually brought. It was the end of the war, and may the merry chiming free them from the grief of the past and welcome forth a better, more mindful tomorrow.  

Chapter Text

Howland Reed was in a poor state when Eddard next found him. His face was sickly pale, and there was a dangerous purple hue etching his features, drenching him in sweat.  

“What have you, man?” Ned held his bannerman’s shoulders to better assess his condition. Howland’s eyes were lolling back in their orbits, and Ned feared.  

When Howland kept quiet, Ned frowned. Then, he felt the most putrid, rotten stench he’d ever smelt in his life. He immediately let go of Howland’s shoulders and tried to cover his nose.   

The other soldiers at the courtyard started to laugh at the nauseous crannogman.  

“The king wants his throne”, one of them cackled and pointed in the direction of the latrines.  

“I’m sorry, Ned”, Howland said sheepishly. “I was thirsty last night and too embarrassed to ask for more wine. I drank water then, but it did me no good.”  

“Too embarrassed? What are you, a little girl? You fool, did you not hear Wylla’s advice? You must have drunk waste water!” 

Ned was more worried than enraged. His friend was ill for a very preventable motive, and it was alarming to see him like that. Eddard had seen bull-sized soldiers drop dead like little flies because they had wrongly trusted dubious water.  

“Forgive me. I must go... for the throne. Do not wait for me here, it will take me a while. And if this is the end of me... shit”, Howland hurried away, undoubtedly ushered by the urgency in his soiled pants.  

“Seven hells”, muttered Ned.  

“He could very well die today”, said one of the soldiers, very casually. “The water is draining from his body.”  

Ned side-eyed the soldier.  

“What? There is nothing more trivial and mundane than your dying day”, replied the soldier.  

“Lord Dayne, good day”, greeted Ned, speaking to the brother for fear of speaking to the sister. “My bannerman is not well, I fear he has taken ill.” 

Ned was gracious to save Howland from the embarrassment of more prosaic terms, but Lord Dayne would not have it. 

“What ill has he?”  

“Well, he’s... He’s got a bad stomach.”  

“He’s shat his pants?” 

“Aye.”  

“Oh, dear”, uttered Allen Dayne, and Ned just knew that the man wanted to laugh, but his lordly position prevented him from doing so. Ned tried very hard to keep serious, in turn. 

“I was wondering if there is an herb, a fruit, something that could ease his pain.”  

“I wouldn’t know about such medicines. Perhaps you could talk to Maester Aznaro about your companion’s afflictions. Take him to the infirmary”, guided the lord of the manor. 

Maester Aznaro was strangely excited to take in Howland. He had googly eyes and the hair of a scarecrow. A young boy had to guide his hand, for the old maester was nearly blind.  

“This is a most auspicious opportunity!” The maester exclaimed as Howland battled his demons in the corner of the room.  

“Auspicious?” Ned frowned. There were other women in the infirmary, one of them looked like the mother of the boy who helped the maester.  

“The good sir is happy to put what we told him to test”, one of the women explained. “Many ills have we cured with the goods of the earth.”  

“Ills like his?” Ned asked, hopeful in spite of mistrusting these people.  

“For ills like his, we chew blackberries and drink chamomile tea.”  

“That is precisely what I shall put to test today!” The maester proclaimed, so incensed he dropped the befuddled little boy’s hand and nearly stumbled against a wall. “Books about herbal medicines are scarce and rare to find for a good price, even in the Citadel. And half of them is useless, filled with rubbish. The maesters can be entitled buffoons who would rather sit on their arses and ignore the work that needs to be done.”  

“Is that what you are doing? Writing a book about herbal medicines?”  

“Gilo and these good women are helping me”, Maester Aznaro confessed, and he was then less driven, taken by humbleness.  

Ned took a good look at Gilo and the women. The boy was shy, observant, he never let go of the maester’s hand. The women were cleaning the floor, dusting off the maester’s books, tending to the sick. One of them was on the lookout for Howland. A small circle of four women was sitting down, listening in on their conversation. 

“We are not good women”, one of them said, resignedly. “We are prostitutes. Our mothers and grandmothers were prostitutes also. We must be descended from the first bitch of all, and all of us have been bitches ever since.”  

Maester Aznaro’s answer was kind.  

“My dear, you are the best of women. Mothers to half the human race, daughters of the good earth, keepers of its knowledge.”  

Gilo’s mother smiled tenderly at those words. Ned stared at her, at the maester and at the boy, then realized that the boy was not fatherless.  

“’Tis a sad war the maesters are waging against these good women”, the maester lamented. “They would rather banish them from infirmaries and childbirth labours, out of wounded pride, because the good women have the knowledge that they have not. They would rather recommend garlic to the treatment of all maladies, instead of listening to what women know. Is there anything more trifling than that?” 

Maester Aznaro sat down on his study, and Gilo took the quill and the paper. They started to put in paper what had happened to Howland, as well as the prescribed blackberries and chamomiles. 

“Does he treat you well?” Ned asked the four women, quietly.  

“Why yes, sir”, Gilo’s mother replied. “I feel heard.”  

“Not all of us were born in Starfall”, the woman who had spoken earlier turned to Ned again. “We come from all over Dorne. I for one am from the marches.”  

“Then why have you come all this way?”  

“Life is good around here. The late Lady Dayne sheltered us working women, and we even had a garden where we could tend to our plants, with her ladyship. The maester listens to us, asks questions. His lordship punishes any man who raises a hand against one of us. Even the Septon, who should scorn us and condemn us of the most profane sins, tolerates us and invites us to worship.”  

Ned glanced at Howland, who was already lying down, drinking the chamomile tea.  

“I have heard of your bannerman’s illness”, said Ashara to him later. “Is he any better now?”  

“Maester Aznaro and his helpers are looking after him”, Ned replied, briskly.  

He regretted it, when he saw her wide eyes. 

“I’m sorry”, he expressed. “I am only worried.” 

Ashara took his apology in stride.  

“You need not worry. He is in competent hands”, Ashara reassured him.  

“It’s more than that. We should not linger here for long.”  

It was an unsavoury job, the one ahead of him. Nevertheless, it needed to be done. And if years of war had not sufficiently hardened his heart, then this would do it, this would be his final day of summer.  

“I have a duty to return North”, spoke Ned. “I vowed to be a faithful husband to the Lady Catelyn. And I vowed to protect the child.” 

Ashara shrank away from him, her face stone.  

“Of course,” she said, masking herself with poise and distance. “The Father forbid honourable Ned Stark from skirting his duty.” 

Ned cringed. Every single one of his duties was a weapon to maim Ashara with.  

He never wanted to hurt this woman. He only ever wanted to love her.  

Willed by some sense of honour, he took her hands in his, and stared at her stony face as he spoke, without averting his gaze. 

“I am remorseful for all that I have wronged you”, he started, and cursed himself for the lump already forming on his throat. “For wronged I have you. I broke faith with every word of endearment that ever I said to you. Betrayed every night we spent together and every day we spent in longing of each other. For every wound you carry, I carry a blade.” 

Ashara’s face was still impassive, her eyes blank.  

He tightened his hold in her hands, bringing her closer to him, wanting to touch the wounds he had caused her. 

“Nothing would have made me happier than to marry you”, Ned spoke in truth. “It would have been my greatest joy.”  

Ashara’s face started to crack, as she tried to hold back. 

Ned barely managed to speak, his voice wrought with emotion. 

“But I simply cannot do that.”  

Ashara still did not speak.  

“I must return North, to Lady Catelyn and her babe.”  

At that, Ashara’s face snapped up to meet his, come alive with surprise.  

She had not known about his new-born son, whom he still had not met.  

“The Lady Catelyn bore you a son?” She asked, shocked.  

“Aye. I cannot abandon her.” 

Ashara spun on her heels and left him there.  

She paused in her walk for a moment, and spoke to him with her voice gelid, cold as he had never heard.  

“Remember that I too bore you a child, Lord Stark, even if you would rather forget her.”  

Ashara could not walk fast enough. She suddenly wanted to put leagues of distance between herself and Ned Stark, wanted him to walk off the edge of the world in the North.  

Ashara needed to get to her room before she could hold back no longer. There were years of grief that had not been properly mourned yet. She had thought to run away forever, but the years were quick to grab on her heels and it seemed like that was the rearmost day. They would at last catch up to her. 

Ashara had not wept for her father, for her brother, for Princess Elia, who was as good as a sister to her, for the Princess’s children, for her own child. And yet she would cry for a man who would not marry her.  

On the way to her room, Ashara heard wailings. She quickly entered the nursery. Wylla must have gone to relieve herself, and had left the babe alone.  

Before she could think it out, Ashara picked the little one up in her arms.  

The babe looked so much like her little girl, long-faced and grey-eyed, that Ashara could no longer hold it together. Tears streamed down her face, as she started to cry profusely.  

The babe seemed to be confused at her weeping, as if only he was entitled to crying. It was so sweet and so funny that Ashara broke down in heaves and ugly sobs. She gripped the babe against her chest with a primal feeling of kinship, and gently fondled his hair as she unravelled the depths of her agony. 

The sad truth was that Ashara had waited for Eddard.   

In the past, she had known the company of many men and women alike, and the pleasures of the flesh she had tasted and enjoyed. She had once thought herself insensible to the effects of the Florian and Jonquil kind of love, for as much as she had fun with her trysts, she had not surrendered much of herself over to them, nor had she received much from others. And falling in love, she decided, was giving yourself over to another, body and soul.   

She had only known true love in the embrace of Eddard Stark. That had surprised her, and many others as well. Out of all the dashing knights, powerful lords and wealthy merchants, the man whom she would cherish above all others had been a quiet, unassuming Northern second son.   

And cherished him she had. The times spent with him had been more than blissful, sacred. Ashara had reached for a new religion, believing her body to be made for loving his.  

As the realm bled and her life came apart over and over, she had harboured the innocent, foolish hope that Eddard would come for her. If not to marry her, at least to love her. She wanted to be loved.   

Ashara had seen his father and brother die horrific deaths in front of her very eyes, had heard their screeches of pain. Ashara had listened to the Mad King demand that Jon Arryn sent his fostered sons’ severed heads, all the while pregnant with Eddard’s child. The fear of being discovered cut deep, and King’s Landing was more terrifying than ever before. It was a miracle that the pregnancy had taken hold on such dire circumstances. The nights spent on the Red Keep, attempting to hide the swell of her belly had made her afraid of her own shadow. The only prayer that could make her fall asleep was a prayer to no particular god, but to kindness itself, that Eddard would find his way back to her. Even after all her losses in such a short span of time, the loss of a father, brother, sister and daughter, she had imagined Eddard on his horse, and that image never failed to warm her heart. She believed that someday he would come and right every wrong of the past. It was a hope that surpassed Eddard himself. It was simply the hope in Ashara, the hope she needed to nurture in order to endure dark times, hope desperate to take root in her.   

Instead, Eddard had come to her a weary traveller with her brother’s sword in hands, out of a sense of obligation more than anything else. He was regretful, sorrowful, long deprived of his youth. He was not the man she had once known, anymore.  

Even then, she had tried to love him again. When the gods send you a blessing, you don't ask why it was sent. But the fate that had once befallen Elia would come upon her as well. It was the treatment visited on Dornish women by men from every other kingdom. Ashara would be put to the side, dismissed now that they could follow journey. 

Elia, dismissed in both life and death. Publicly humiliated. Scorned for not giving the prince the child he so desired, as if she was only fit to be a brooding mare and nothing more. Raped, forced to see her children butchered, then butchered herself. Body presented as trophy. Her tormentors walked about the city as if nothing untoward had happened, after all, it was just another day, and these terrible things do happen when a city gets sacked... 

Even their little daughter, who had not lived long enough to become a grown woman, was dismissed now that he had a child of his own, a living son.  

Ashara held on to the grey-eyed babe and cried, howled in the most acute suffering.  

But the babe twitched his little hands up to meet her face. She drew him closer, stupefied, and he touched her wet cheeks, a touch lighter than the flight of a bumblebee. The babe was staring right back at her, grey eyes strangely watchful for a babe so young. Then he smiled bright in his toothless glory, as if to tell her there was no need to cry. She still cried for a long time afterwards, tired of hiding her pains far from her chest, but the babe’s smile made her feel safe and embraced. As if the world itself was gifting her with one more kindness. 

“Have you sent for me, my lord?” Eddard called as he stepped into Lord Dayne’s study, at the top of the Palestone Sword.  

There was a mahogany wood table, full of parchments, books and quills. Intricately woven tapestries adorned the walls, and if Ned would have looked closer, he would have seen the whole history of House Dayne, former kings of the Torrentine, depicted on them. In the far corner of the room, stood an altar of shining amethysts and irised nacres, encrusted with other gemstones. On the altar, stood the mythical greatsword Dawn, propped up by a support of clear crystals.  

A most majestic vision, more regal than anything kept in King’s Landing or Dragonstone.  

“Lord Stark, thank you for coming”, Lord Dayne greeted him affably, as usual. “I wish to discuss some issues with you. Do come in, sit down.”  

Eddard obeyed, and sat down on one of the oaken chairs that surrounded Dayne’s table.  

Ned noticed some similarities between Lord Dayne and his siblings. They all had the same piercing purple eyes, though Ashara’s were the most striking. Allen’s face was the roundest, his baby fat cheeks made him homely, and his hair was lighter than his siblings’, almost blond. Ashara was famed for her beauty, Arthur for his prowess in the wielding of a sword, but the eldest Dayne had never ventured beyond Dorne and made his name known.  

“To what do these issues pertain?” Ned inquired. 

Allen looked down.  

“These are issues of a private nature, so you must forgive me if I speak out of place.”  

Ned had a feeling that he was about to get scolded.  

Allen’s tone of voice was confessional. 

“I am worried about my sister Ashara. She has suffered too many losses, all at once. My fear is that she will waste away in grief, perhaps commit a foolishness to spare herself further suffering.” 

Eddard felt all his breath leave his body at once. Surely not!  

“Why would you suggest something unthinkable like that?” Ned hollered, aghast.  

Surely not his Ash! His Ash was a creature of joy. Had he not fallen in love with her effervescent laughter and spirited comebacks? Ashara had lived in one life what others would not have lived in ten. She truly was making her time worthwhile, more than anyone he knew. Surely, someone like that, who lived with such vigour, would live forever.  

Allen remained calm, poured Lord Stark a glass of spring water. Ned took it with trembling hands.  

“Apologies. I had no wish to frighten you. It is only...”  

Allen scratched his hair, unsure as to how far he wished to confide. He eventually made up his mind and disclosed the truth. 

“Acts like that are not unprecedented, in this family.”  

Ned was rendered speechless.  

Allen got up off his chair, walked to the body-sized window that faced the Summer Sea. He opened the window, stared off into the endlessly blue sea and the white seagulls that flew by, at times falling from the sky, into the sea, to prey on fish.  

“My mother threw herself from this window, many years ago”, said the lord, his voice distant. “They found her sandals on the ledge.”  

Ned stared at the rocky ledge, and in a collected breath he glimpsed into whatever tragedy had transpired there.  

What insurmountable torment could drive someone to such a choice, so extreme and so wretched?  

“I never knew what was troubling her so. Whatever sadness was afflicting her, she hid it well. All I knew is that one day my mother was alive, tending to her garden, and on the next one she was dead.”  

Allen pursed his lips.  

“This is a family secret. My father only told me because I was his heir. To everyone else, he said that she’d had a sudden stroke. I’m not even sure if Ashara and Arthur knew the truth. My father could not bear to look at them, so similar to her, the woman who had chosen a gruesome death over his company. He sent them away, to be fostered at Sunspear. It took my father many years to overcome that situation, many years until he remarried and had another child, my half-sister Allyria. She was his favourite, the apple of his eye, and whatever guilt he felt in the conflict with his other children, he more than made up for it with Allyria. He was a good father to her, and I do not begrudge them for their closeness.”  

Eddard had seen Allyria, in passing. She was a young girl, quick to smile, obviously spoiled by her family.  

“But this family has never learned how to grieve”, continued Allen. “Arthur grieved by throwing himself against his enemies, his body itself a sword to pierce others with. He naturally followed my mother to an early grave. And now I fear that my sister will do the same. Like my mother, she hides her afflictions, keeps them far from everyone’s sights. Which is dignified, but dangerous. A heart is not bigger than the world. It needs to spill. How could a single heart withstand so many losses on its own, without giving out?”  

Ned looked down, reminded of the coldness with which Ashara had shut him out, earlier that day. He started to make sense of Allen’s words, and a new wave of regret hit him. He could have gone about it differently... although nothing could have ever prepared him for facing impossible situations like those. He had struggled, and had not found another way of handling that. And now he was starting to realize that his own shortcomings had wounded Ashara.  

“Never do I want to wake up to find her sandals on this ledge”, Allen said, in all sombreness. “What I ask you, I ask for love of a sister. I am certain that you, more than anyone else, will understand the value of that. I am asking that you stand by her. Grieve the daughter you lost. Help her overcome these trying times.”  

“I fear that my mere presence here wounds her. As it should. Is it not better that we put some distance between us? This way, we can move on from the pains of the past.”  

Allen’s eyes flickered for a moment, and Ned saw that man’s ire.  

“So that you can move on from the pains of the past, you mean.”  

Ned kept silent, allowed Allen to have a go at him.  

“I understand the situation. You are married to a Tully; her father has given you the soldiers you needed to wage the rebellion and she has given you the heir you needed to secure your House. But as I said earlier, I wished to discuss issues of a private nature. And privately-”

Ned was suddenly enraged. 

“I have a duty to the Lady Catelyn!” He yelled, got up from his seat and towered over Dayne.

Allen Dayne would not have it. He punched the mahogany table with a loud thud, and yelled even louder:

“You have a duty to the Lady Ashara, too!” 

Ned knew that, knew it deeply, but he was getting more and more exasperated. He cried out in an outburst. 

“I swore vows to that woman, and even lingering here at Starfall is disrespectful to her. As much as I want- never mind what I want! If this war has taught me anything, is that the feelings of people do not matter in the grand scheme of things.”  

“The feelings of people matter in any scheme of things”, Allen said, regaining his calm at the sight of Ned’s nerves. "But I pose the question, Lord Stark: why would you strive so high to honour the promise you made to a woman who nothing means to you, and at the same time forsake the one who loves you?" 

It was a cruel blow to strike, but precise.  

Ned’s legs gave out and he sat back down on the chair, abated.  

“You are barely one and twenty, are you not?” Allen asked, sympathetic.  

Ned nodded, exhaustion creeping in his bones.  

The difference in their ages was made more noticeable, then.  

“The past is still there, Eddard”, Allen spoke, more at ease, offered Ned some words of wisdom. “If you truly want to move on, you need to face it, first, even if it would be cleaner to ignore it or to forget about it. Did you not cross a desert to come here? Imagine what would have happened if you had run away every time you came across a piece of desert. The desert is there. Cross it.”  

Ned looked up to meet Allen’s face. His words sounded a lot like the words of a friend, or a brother. Ned had wanted Allen to be his good brother, once.  

“Have you forgotten Harrenhal?” Allen continued, unrelenting. “Have you forgotten what it is to have a beating heart? Have you forgotten what it is to feel pleasure? You are young, but where is your youth?”  

Allen and Ned were silent for a long moment, allowing what was said to linger in the air.  

Allen patted Ned’s back, as if to encourage him.  

“Take a look at the tapestry”, Allen pointed at a piece, on the wall. “Ashara sewed it.”  

He left, then.  

Ned took a few moments to collect himself. He kept staring back and forth between the ledge of the window, the greatsword Dawn and the tapestry on the wall. Caught in between three terrible tales, each one with the power to wound him. The room seemed to swell, and Eddard only got up when it became unbearable to remain sit, for fear of being swallowed by those objects.

At last, he walked to the tapestry like a condemned man walks the scaffold. Every step he gave embroiled him further in that web.  

And he was right to fear it. On the moment he set eyes on the tapestry, he felt his heart be ripped to shreds in front of him. The heart he had fought so hard to keep stitched together and the heart that had gone cold and hard.  

The tapestry showed the Dayne family tree. At the bottom, binded and connected by a single red heart, were the images of Ashara, Eddard and Lyarra. The three of them, a family.  

Chapter Text

Ashara was sitting on the rocks at the banks of the Torrentine River, studiously examining the moss that grew on the boulders. She cupped her hands in the waters of the river, and spilled a handful on top of the moss.  

The moss seemed to open up to that, as if breathing, and quickly soaked up the water. It was alive.  

It would fit her purposes. Before she took her dagger and harvested the small tuft of moss from the boulder, she looked at the vivid green and just let it be for a moment more.  

The sun was warming, but not burning. There was a pleasant breeze bringing her the smell of the sea. As if the air itself was sprinkled with salt. The air was hot but there were hints of cold winds rushing out of the sea, and Ashara knew by those signs that a storm was gathering. 

Her bare feet on the river were pecked by little fishes, their biting kisses providing a tingling sensation. Dragonflies glided on the river, preying on unsuspecting tadpoles. Everywhere she looked, there were clovers, grasses, mayflowers, dandelions and daffodils in abundance. If she narrowed her eyes past the banks, she could spot seaweeds blooming on the far edge of the river, so beautiful and so expansive. The sparrows were flying from branch to branch in the birches and sycamore trees. Sparrows were darting by, falling from the sky in the corner of Ashara’s eye. 

There was a single sparrow, singing as if he knew old and holy canticles. No other sparrow would mate with him, no other bird would join him and chorus his lonely melody. The more Ashara listened to the songbird, the more she felt at ease.  

Ashara closed her eyes for a second and let herself be, for a moment, as well.  

“Sister?” Allyria’s voice sounded, and Ashara turned around to see her half-sister timidly asking after her.  

“Yes, darling?”  

“What are you doing?”  

“Gathering moss, for the babe.”  

“What is he using it for?”  

“Come here, my darling”, said Ashara, holding out a hand for Allyria to join her on top of the sandstones, in safety.  

Allyria was curious, always asking questions.  

When Ashara, fostered in Sunspear, had learned of Allyria’s birth and the feast their father had thrown in celebration of the youngest child, Ashara had suffered with jealousy, and because she could not resent the father she so missed, she resented the little girl he adored. But a long time had passed, and in the interlude, Ashara had known so many things more disappointing than the idea of Allyria. In the flesh, Allyria was a charming girl, excited about the idea of finally getting closer to the big sister she had heard so much about. It had surprised Ashara that Allyria had been so taken with her, completely oblivious to whatever tension Ashara had feared Allyria would feel. 

Ashara had still avoided Allyria, for a moon’s turn. She had no real need of a sister. Her real sister had perished at the Red Keep.  

But Ashara had the heart of a songbird, and for her it was inevitable to love. 

“You’ll do well to remember this”, started Ashara, adopting a scholarly tone. “See how the moss soaks up the water?”  

Again, she spilled water from the banks on the small tuft. It took a little longer to soak it up in full, as it was still recovering from the first spill, but it did so efficiently.  

Allyria nodded, already eyeing the humble moss as if it were a wondrous thing. Which perhaps it was, Ashara conceded.  

“It’s perfect if you are a baby and know not how to hold in your piss”, Ashara explained. “So, we fasten a cloth around it and poof! The babe has new small clothing.”  

Allyria giggled freely, entertained by the thought that the plain moss could live a secret life, hidden in plain sight.  

“It’s also useful for dealing with your moon blood. But I suppose you’re still a bit young for dealing with that.”  

Allyria winced, in both anticipation and trepidation at the thought of having her flowering. 

“Is it as painful as they say it is?” 

“It can be. There are teas you can drink, to ease the pain.”  

“I want to be a woman soon”, declared little Allyria, portentously. Ashara snickered, but she felt a little jab of sadness and envy of Allyria’s youth. Ashara had once been in a hurry to grow up and be a woman, too, and look at what that had done her. She should have better treasured the innocence of her girlhood, but one only treasures innocence when innocence is lost. 

Ashara tapped her fingers on the cold blade of her dagger. A dagger could be wielded to inflict injury, but it could also be used to harvest plants and prepare meals. 

“Word has it that girls whose flowering is too early remain short for the rest of their lives. You want to be tall, don’t you?” Ashara joked, with smiling eyes. 

“I want to be tall, like you and my mother”, Allyria nodded gravely, as if committing to the task of being tall.  

Ashara smiled, and taught Allyria how to harvest the moss with the dagger.  

“Sister”, Allyria started again, unsure. “I had the strangest dream last night.”  

Ashara looked at Allyria sideways.  

“Do tell me.”  

Allyria stared at the river that ran deep and wide, losing her gaze in it. The river ran to the sea, and the fresh waters, once thin threads of a pale blue running away from the Red Mountains, joined the salty waters in blusterous encounter. Allyria’s face was momentous, as if she could see every drop of water deep in the river, as if she could see tales of lives long lost in her mind’s eye. 

When Allyria opened her mouth and spoke, her voice seemed not her own. 

“There is a man with a flaming sword, swinging it around against the dark. He is a mighty warrior with his sword in hands. But once he drops the sword, his face goes blue and I see he is not a man to be feared or loved... only pitied. He is a man who forgets.”  

Ashara wondered if like some of the smallfolk from the desert, this strange child had magical gifts of peeking at the future in her dreams.  

Ashara pursed her lips. Her mind was telling her: Allyria has just lost a brother, albeit a brother whom she had never gotten to properly know and esteem. A brother famous for his swordsmanship, but still a man, not a myth. Perhaps this dream was a manifest of her guilt at not loving the skilled swordsman?   

“What else did you see, child?”   

“Snow falling in the desert. A man saved by the sword of his foe.” 

It was perhaps a folly, a child’s imagination, a way of coping, but Ashara felt a chilling in her spine.  

“Who was the man? Who was the foe?”  

But Allyria would not answer. She blinked, shaken out of her reverie. Her voice turned sweet again, losing the previous frostiness. Ashara knew that whatever spell had come upon her sister, it was now dissolved.  

Allyria started to sing nursery rhymes as they went back to the castle, to care for the babe. She held on to Ashara’s hand as they strolled past the ever-watchful guards. 

Ashara was still taken aback by Allyria’s retelling of her dream when they went into the nursery.  

She was arrested in her steps when she saw the hefty figure of Eddard, cradling the babe in his arms.  

Eddard stared back at her, with something wolfish in his gaze, his countenance completely changed from the day before. But the babe was awake in his arms, opening and closing his little mouth like a baby fish. 

Ashara had not expected to see Eddard taking an interest in the babe. Even in her wildest dreams of sharing a life with him, she had pictured herself the nurturing mother to their children, and he the absent father. Were not all fathers absent?  

But no, he too was holding the child. Would he have held Lyarra with the same devotion?  

Ashara suddenly knew he would have, and could not fathom if that realization made her feel better or worse.  

She lowered her eyes, clenched Allyria’s hand in a tight fist and made to leave the nursery. But for once, Eddard stopped her in her tracks.  

“Ashara”, said he, appealing to her given name, the most personal of titles. 

Slowly, carefully, so as not to light a fire already sparking, just begging to be ignited, she raised her head and met his stare. 

Wylla, picking up the thick tension in the room, grabbed Allyria by her shoulders and ushered the little girl away.  

Ashara bravely held the mosses in her hands, and moved to wrap them in cloths. She spoke not a word; silence was her weapon of choice.  

As she inched a step closer to Ned, he suddenly held out a hand and grasped her forearm in his grip.  

“Ashara”, Ned called again, his voice husky, his grip firm.  

Ashara despised herself for it, but all air rushed out of her chest. His demeanour reminded her of his younger self, the quiet wolf, whose ferocity seethed under the thick fur. She was trying to teach herself that that man was long gone, but that lesson was belied by his hand in her. 

Eddard held the babe in one hand and her arm in the other. He then loosened his grip, breathed audibly, and made the softest of caresses in her back. Barely a brush of his thumb. 

Her skin tingled and burned under his touch; the fever spread from her back to her whole body. She disentangled herself from his touch, it posed too great a menace.  

In the distant past, many men had bestowed her gold and favours in the hopes of gaining some power over her. But a simple brush of his fingers was all it took for Ashara to be deeply aware of the power Eddard had over her. 

“I gathered moss for him”, she said, her voice trembling, trying to restore some semblance of normalcy in the room. Her hands were not steady as she grabbed the cotton cloths and folded them around the soft mosses. As she tied knots to make small-clothes, she heard weight settling on the cradle, as Eddard put the babe down in his featherbed and slowly made his way to her.  

“Ashara”, he called, once more, gently.  

Ashara tried with all her might to focus only on the babe’s small-clothes, but the body was a treacherous thing. Her hands were shaking, even her breath failed her, and the heart was the most traitorous of all, for it still raced at the calling of that fickle man.  

She could hear his laboured breaths in the air, and she knew he was working up the nerve to do something. As he had once failed to work up the nerve to ask for a dance. There were heavy tides of time distancing them from that day, but it still lived in her memory, as holy as it had always been to her.  

The decision had already been made, and what was left to be done was but a pantomime. With his arms, Eddard hugged Ashara from behind, holding her in a gentle embrace, bringing her against his chest.  

She closed her eyes and felt her head lean back to rest against his forehead.  

This was the man who had irrevocably changed her life. The man she had loved and lost, awaited and forgiven. For that was the happy truth: despite her own grievances, and the sense that she had been somehow wronged, she could not refrain from forgiving him.  

He breathed softly in her ear, and her flesh weakened at such intimacy. She felt her thighs harden, and herself go wet. 

Ashara felt his heartbeat close to hers. She remembered lying naked in his embrace, her head against his chest, lulled to a tender sleep by the sound of his heart. She could hear it again, quickening in his chest as her own was quickening in hers. In the course of war, she had found she could not trust his words or his honour, for even someone as good as him could harm others in the name of honour. But his heart beat beyond any words and sworn falsehoods, it was the truest expression of himself, and in that she could trust. His heart was beating, and that meant he was alive. That was all Ashara ever wished for him: she wanted for him to live, and live well, even if a world away from her. 

Had it been another life, the words “ I love you” would have been on her lips, and she would have meant them like her brother pledged his oaths. The mind told her, yet again: that man is dead. He has sold his youth and cannot have it back. He is but a creature of duty.  

But then Ashara figured: it had not happened in another life; it had happened in this one. A person only dies once. Until that final day, before a person’s bones are turned to dust in the wind, a person loves infinite times.  

She was about to mouth the words, but he said them first.  

Ashara closed her eyes, smiled breathily, as blinding joy overtook her.  

Eddard wanted for Ashara to live, and live well. If the price for ensuring that was confessing what had never ceased to be true, then he would pay it gladly. He never could marry her or be with her in ways he wished, but this he could do.  

Ned knew not what force guided his hand, but it was reaching out to her, turning her around to face him.  

Ashara was breathing heavily, her chest heaving as she stared, stunned, back at him.  

Ned held Ashara’s face in his hands, tilting her head up. He was as stunned by his actions as she was, his eyes were still flicking to take her in, as they both wondered how far he would go. How much would he sacrifice for this moment? 

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and brushed his thumb against her cheek, as his other fingers grazed her lips. He had no right to touch her soft, radiant skin with his rough and calloused hands. She was a tall woman, but still she felt so small in his embrace, so delicate, trembling like a little bird. 

Ned drew Ashara closer in, and with his thick lips he kissed her temple, her cheeks, her closed eyelids, her forehead. He tangled his hands in her glossy black hair and fondled her head. Her smell struck him defenceless, as he lost himself in her.  

It had always been her. 

He dared not kiss her lips, but he held her hand as she guided him through the nursery.  

They never let go of each other’s hands, as that would be the closest embrace they could share.  

Eddard trusted Ashara, trusted her judgment. That was why he did not excuse himself when she opened a cedarwood trunk, close to the babe’s crib.  

He was sitting down on a chaise longue, and when Ashara brought the small bundle to him, he did not hesitate to hold it in his hands.  

She opened the bundle, showed him Lyarra’s few possessions.  

“I knitted these for her”, Ashara said, grinning, pointing at wool bonnets. “She looked so pretty in these. I know the weather here is warm, but they say babes must have their heads protected, because they are not fully closed. And she took to them well. I guess she must have felt cold... like her father.” Ashara said it amiably, knocking her shoulder against his.  

“What about this?” Ned pointed at a small silvery toy.  

Ashara shook it and it made a giddy sound. A rattle.  

“Allen’s gift for his niece”, Ashara said, rolling her eyes, but smiling affectionately. “I told him not to buy silver for a babe, as they ignore the expensive toys and are enraptured by the most banal ones. Allen ignored my counsel, as usual, saying that his niece would have the finest toys money could buy. But it is a beautiful toy, is it not?”  

“It is”, Ned agreed, in wonder of the fine workmanship. He was holding the rattle in his hands, imagining little rosy hands around it. He felt close to his daughter, and his eyes started to water.  

Meeting his firstborn child would have been the happiest day of his life, and he had not lived it. 

He held the rattle in his hands, fought back tears.  

“May I please keep this?” He asked in a low voice, feeling his throat closing in. 

Ashara smiled kindly, stroked his knuckles where he held on to the silver rattle.  

“Of course. You are her father.”  

Eddard thanked her, breathed deeply so as not to make a mess of himself. He knew he would take that little toy with him to his grave. 

“Her smell, Ned. Her smell was so good. I liked to stroke her legs and squeeze her feet against my nose. She was a smiling babe, she smiled when I did that.”  

Ned took the mantles that had been used for cradling his daughter, and smelled them.  

They still had her faint smell impregnated on them, after the more fragrant notes of cedar subdued. 

Ned looked at Ashara’s face, and she was smiling.  

Had he not found courage, he would have never gotten to cherish the memory of his child. And now he understood acutely, that although he was now married to another, he would forever be tied to Ashara, for she was the mother of his daughter. It did not matter that the child was gone. She was still the mother, and he the father.  

How could he ever have thought of taking the cowardly choice?  

His nephew started to cry in the crib, and Ned moved to get up and see to him.  

Ashara was faster, though, and grabbed the babe first. She held him against her bosom, and the babe made to bite it. 

“You are hungry, are you not?” She cooed over him.  

“I will fetch Wylla”, beckoned Ned.  

“There’s no need”, Ashara assured him.  

She measuredly lowered the strap of her dress, laying bare her teats.  

Eddard strongly averted his gaze. Much as he knew that that was what teats were for , it still felt indecent to pry.  

Ashara had been the first woman whom he had seen in nude. The memory of her naked body was deeply erotic, and it felt wrong to associate that with such an innocent act as feeding a child. 

The babe latched onto Ashara’s breast and started to suck the milk. Eddard tried very hard not to look. 

“What is it?” Asked his Ash, amused at his discomfort. “Why are you bothered?”  

“It’s nothing”, he retorted, praying that she would leave the matter be.  

Ashara’s laughter was practically a cackle. That made it ten times worse. He could never resist her laughter.  

“You do know that babes come from sex?” She asked him, teasing; and he felt like a country boy, uncouth, naïve and desirous, dealing with a sophisticated lady, sensuous and confident.  

“Of course”, he replied, wanting to secure her of his bearings.  

“You’d be surprised at how little men know of such things. And then they expect mothers to be maidens, and maidens to be sluts.”  

“I am not like that”, Ned protested.  

“No, you are not”, she conceded. “But men’s desires are capricious. Bound to fits of fancy.”  

Ned sensed Ashara wanted to address some of her grievances, rather than hear his stance on the matter. He kept quiet, and allowed her to speak.  

Sure as rain, she started to ramble as she fed the babe.  

“Mothers are cast aside once they become mothers. They ruin their bodies to bear children, and then men leave their beds in favour of young maidens. But once a maiden lies with a man, she loses that which attracted him in the first place: her maidenhead. So she becomes a mother, gets the motherly gloom...” 

Ned heard anger in Ashara’s voice, an anger that would never vanish.  

“Rhaegar could not take his hands off Elia when they first married. He was a dutiful husband, and I truly thought that two people could not be more in love than they were. He would not leave a room without kissing her. It was as if they could hear each other’s thoughts, at times. But then Elia almost killed herself in the birthing bed, twice. After she gave birth to Princess Rhaenys, the fire of Rhaegar’s passion dampened, and he started to look for it elsewhere. He pretended not to see Elia when she was in a room. It was very embarrassing. And still they went for the second child, Prince Aegon. After the trials of the second birth, to which Elia nearly succumbed, Rhaegar ruined everything that had once been good for them. He withheld himself from her almost completely. Profaned the songs he had only sang for her, in private, by singing them for all the court to hear. Treated her as if she were a burden, a nuisance. Resented her, because he had obligations and ties to her. He felt as if she was depriving him of his freedom. And then all the kingdoms bled for his folly. And much as I try... I cannot look past at what happened to my sister and her children. I guess ‘what happened’ is too mild a term.” 

The irony was not lost on Ned that Ashara was feeding the son of the man she hated with her own milk.  

Motherhood had changed Ashara’s body, and it remained that way after her daughter had passed. Her breasts were still larger, at times sore, for there was no babe to feed. The silks of her dress were at times wet with undrunk milk. Her hips had widened, her legs and feet had gained fat.  

Ned watched her as she held the babe in her arms, entranced by the view.  

“You have not told me his name, yet”, Ashara remarked.  

Eddard realized to his surprise he had not yet named the babe. 

The frenzy of the past days had left little time or strength to think of the immeasurable future that awaited them. And perhaps he had avoided it, a little bit, too. Naming the boy would mean admitting that Lyanna would never do it herself. Eddard was sound of mind, but still it cost to admit that the vivacious Lyanna was gone, never to return.  

“I never knew what name Lyanna meant to give him.”  

Ashara looked up from where she held the babe, regarding him with – humour?  

She suddenly laughed out loud.  

“You do not mean to tell me you’ve been carrying a nameless child around?”  

Ned was taken aback, for it was morbid to joke about a state of grief so deep he could not think properly. But then – was that not just a teeny bit funny?  

He smiled tentatively, until he got to a modest laughter.  

He had not laughed in a while.  

And he felt some of the heaviness on his shoulders, just some of it, lighten up. 

Ned realized that he would have to do it now. Even if the boy would live as a bastard, and inherit nothing, he had the right to a name, so he could inherit humanity.  

“What about Rickard, for your father?” Suggested Ashara, excited to help.  

“It would be of poor taste. My father was Lord of Winterfell, and that the babe will never be. We need not rub it in his face.”  

“Brandon, for your brother?”  

But Ned still did not want to name the child after the recently dead Starks.  

He would die before he named the boy after some inconsequential Targaryen.  

As much as he wanted to honour Ser Arthur, he feared he had no right to do it.  

Ned stared at Ashara’s face, restful and already besotted by the babe. She was rocking her chair back and forth as she doted on him. Perhaps a family could be tied with things other than blood. Perhaps a family could be tied with choices, and caring after others whom you are not contractually obliged to. Perhaps the bond of a family could rise above duty.  

“Jon”, Ned decided. “His name is Jon.”  

Chapter Text

It had cost three gold dragons and three bottles of the finest Dornish red wine for the Lysene captain to turn back around the Westerlands and take the Starfall entourage to Sunspear. Lord Dayne had insisted on paying the fare, for they had been summoned by his liege lord. Lord Stark only agreed to it upon the condition that he should pay at least two of the gold dragons. They shook hands to strike the deal and each paid his due to the Lysene, but when Lord Dayne turned his back and went to his cabin, Lord Stark took one more coin out of his pouch and offered it to the captain.  

“I’ll pay his due.”  

The captain had a glint in his eye, a conceited smile.  

“I thought you had settled the deal.” 

“It was not a fair deal”, Ned said impatiently, his hand still stretched out, the coin hanging in the air.  

“Then why did you agree to it?”  

Ned hesitated to answer. He knew that Allen would put up an argument over it. The man was generous to a fault. Still, Ned could have stood his ground more firmly.  

The Lysene captain took his coin and returned Allen’s.  

“You have a sly way of doing good”, he said, and nothing else he could have said could have been worse than that. 

Eddard held Allen’s coin in his hand, and in it, he saw all of his guilt. How could a second son inherit the eldest’s birthright, how could an honest man become astute, how could so many lies slip so easily from his lips? 

Suddenly anxious to get rid of his sin, he rushed to Ashara, rushed to her warmth and understanding, and slipped the coin in her hand.  

“Please give this back to your brother when you both return to Starfall”, he bid. 

She beamed up at him, stashed the coin away, and held a hand to his face.  

“You need not feel like that. Allen is happy to serve you. He is happy to serve most anyone.” 

Ashara spoke with such candour, Ned felt tempted to just trust her and settle the deal with himself. 

“I would not take further advantage of you”, he said earnestly. He still thought much of the succour they had received and felt indebted to House Dayne in ways impossible to repay. 

“You do not take advantage of us. You are our guest. Our family.” 

Ned listened to Ashara, allowed her to speak, and to hold his hands in her own. 

“The world is not divided between debtors and creditors. What would become of the sick if they were indebted to the healers, if the children were indebted to the parents, if the sinners were indebted to the saints?” 

Ned could no longer feel the cold of the metal on his hand. He would trade a thousand of those coins for a few moments more with her. 

“You advocate for a better world”, he remarked, fondly, stroking her hair.  

“I do”, she confirmed, timid for being so blunt yet firm in her conviction. “Everyone has a right to be sick, to be a child, to be a sinner.” 

Ned tightened his hold on her hand.  

If she knew about his deepest sins, would she still profess her love of him? If she knew about his guilt, about the things he had refused to acknowledge even to himself?  

Ned wanted to confess it all to her, wanted to lay bare his soul, but something prevented him from doing so. The fear of not being loved, of being abandoned.  

Ned had not been much loved in his life. He had been fed, educated, and provided for. Some even followed him now. But not many had taken the time to get to know him, not many had been interested enough. His father, his mother, and his brothers had never shown him particular attention. It was more of a cold politeness than it was love. Which was fine, he supposed. He was a quiet, plain boy, without the need for constant displays of affection.  

Lya had loved him, though. There was a time when she was a child when she used to follow him anywhere he went, demanding to play with him. She used to gather what modest flowers managed to grow under the blankets of snow and put them in his bed. She invaded his riding lessons so as not to make him feel alone. And when he had gone to live in the Vale, she was the only one who wrote. When he visited, she was the only one who asked to hear his stories. 

It was all too easy for Ned’s throat to get a lump when he thought of Lyanna. It hurt to think that that little girl was dead, too. Her brown hair was dead, her wild grins were dead, and her hugs and her kisses were dead. The flowers were dead, the riding lessons were dead, the letters were dead, the stories were dead.  

“What is it, my dear?” Ashara saw his face crease, like a shadow descending on him.  

“It’s nothing”, he assured her.  

Ashara had loved him, too. He knew it. He knew she still did.  

Ned knew he was being selfish, but he found out he did not want to lose the only one who still took the time off the day to care about his well-being.  

He embraced Ashara in the tightest of hugs, wishing for the time to freeze and stand still as the waves carried them wherever they pleased. He never wanted to leave her. 

They knelt before the Lord of Sunspear and his court and were wise not to rise.  

“Lord Dayne, Lady Ashara”, Doran Martell’s stance was all austerity. “Lord Stark.”  

Ashara could feel hundreds of eyes seething her skin. Prince Oberyn’s burned the brightest.  

“I see you have brought your child”, Prince Doran told her. “You had neglected to inform us of his fatherhood.” 

“Forgive me, my lord. It was my shame to bear”, Ashara recited the words that would free her. But she had never felt any shame.  

“Did my sister know of this?” Oberyn asked, daring a step closer to her, already furious.  

“She did. It was why she sent me away.” 

“To punish you”, Oberyn took another step, the viper ready to strike.  

“To protect me”, Ashara countered, unyielding.  

It was ridiculous of Oberyn to think that Elia would have resented Ashara for being pregnant. On the contrary, Elia had been elated. She had spoken of baby names and tried to guess the babe’s appearance based on the parents. She had even dreamed of making Ashara’s child a squire or lady-in-waiting to her children in the due time.  

Ashara knew what Oberyn’s fury truly was. She knew he could not stand the idea that she had been more of a sister to Elia in the last few years than he had been her brother. She knew he could not stand the loss of his sister. It was truly the only reason why they were there. And in that regard, Ashara could even sympathize with him.  

“Be that as it may, I cannot conceive how you allow your brother’s killer to sleep under your roof and break bread with you”, Doran spoke again, this time more directed at Allen than at her. “It is one thing to show him mercy, another one entirely to welcome him back into the bosom of your family.”  

“We meant no offense to House Martell and Dorne when we welcomed him in our home”, Allen pledged, staring at the tiles of the ground.  

“I know you did not”, Doran agreed. Ashara knew that it was why they were received at Sunspear on civil terms.  

Even the air was tense. The whole of Dorne thought them traitors to the memory of Ser Arthur. 

Doran pinched the bridge of his nose.  

“Rise, my lords. We do not wish to quarrel with you. We merely wish to be convinced of the safety of House Dayne’s legacy.”  

“My Prince”, Allen started. “If you wish to be convinced of the safety of our House’s legacy, look no further than to Eddard Stark. He returned the greatsword Dawn, our family heirloom, even after it was wielded against him, even after it lay his countrymen on the ground.”  

“Is that so, Lord Stark?” Prince Doran asked, speaking directly to Ned for the first time.  

Ashara looked at Ned, alone in a room full of armed Dornishmen, full of men older and more experienced than him, full of men who had fought on the opposite side of the war.

“It is, my lord”, Ned drawled in that thick accent of his.  

“A commendable act”, Doran admitted slowly. “It is a shame your allies do not behave so honourably as yourself.”  

“The Lannisters are not my allies”, Ned said defensively. Ashara knew with fear that Doran had struck a chord in him. “I would see Jamie Lannister stripped of his white cloak and sent to the Wall, and Tywin Lannister brought to justice to answer for the sack of King's Landing.” 

“Then why did you not kill Jamie Lannister when you had the chance?” Oberyn continued to take steps towards them, seeming to serpentine around the room.  

“It would not have been right”, Ned retorted. “Although I do sometimes regret that decision”, he confessed.  

A few of the Dornishmen chuckled. Ashara closed her eyes, cringing. Her Ned was not cut out for this.  

“Tywin Lannister would have us believe that the Mountain and Ser Amory Lorch acted on their own accord when they climbed the tower of the Red Keep”, said Doran. “Do you believe his word?”  

Ned grimaced and faced the ground. Ashara could see rivulets of sweat running down his forehead, pooling on the wad of hair above his earlobe. 

“No.” 

“How would you explain such actions, then?” Oberyn asked.  

Ashara was no stranger to their games. Doran and Oberyn seemed at odds at times, but beneath their duplicity was a common understanding of brotherhood. They played together, both of them formidable.

“Tywin Lannister hid in Casterly Rock for most of the rebellion, until the winning side was obvious. When it was advantageous for him, he joined King Robert’s cause and ordered the sack of King’s Landing. To secure King Robert’s claim, he ordered the killings of Prince Rhaegar’s children.” 

“What of your king, your brother in arms? Did he not call our nephews ‘dragonspawn’ when their maimed bodies were laid beneath the Iron Throne?” Doran spoke, further luring Ned into his trap.  

“He did”, Ned admitted sombrely, more quietly, not attempting to deny Robert’s sin. Ashara could see how much that weighed on him.  

“What do you make of that, Lord Stark?” Prince Doran asked.  

“I cannot answer for Robert.” 

“He is to be wed to Cersei Lannister. House Lannister will enjoy immense power and prestige in his court. House Lannister’s bannermen will be rewarded for living off prey and House Lannister’s soldiers will not face any trial. House Lannister’s money will be safely kept in King Robert’s pocket. And the prices for these transactions were wrapped in crimson banners, to hide the bloodshed and disguise the unpleasant view.”  

“My Prince”, Allen intervened, placating. “Lord Stark had no part in the horrible massacre of King’s Landing.”  

“Did you see the bodies?” Oberyn taunted, getting awfully close to Ned. “Did it not bother you? That the price Robert paid for the Iron Throne was the murders of two little children and a... Dornish woman?” 

Oberyn pointedly nodded in Ashara’s direction, and when Ned followed his gaze and met hers, Ashara saw his tempestuous eyes deep in contemplation.  

Doran and Oberyn had succeeded.  

Ned was in doubt. 

“My Prince!” Allen all but shouted to the Lord of Sunspear.  

Doran waved Allen off.  

“House Stark is not our enemy”, Doran Martell conceded.  

“But you plan to do something against your enemies”, Ned realized. “That is why you have summoned all of your bannermen.”  

The room was quiet for a long moment.  

It was quiet until a figure stepped out of the shadows.  

An old man, whom Ashara had never seen before. But he had grey vests and a jewelled hand embroidered in his tunic.  

“Come, Ned. We have much to discuss.”  

Ashara knew with terror that it was Jon Arryn. And when all women apart from House chiefs exited the room, Ashara realized that the hall of Sunspear was now a war council.  

Jon Arryn had learned to play his part, Ned saw. He had been successful in appeasing Prince Doran and convincing him not to take up arms against the new king. It had been a bloody war and Dorne was not exempt from its scourges. Doran could understand that it was not a propitious time to initiate another rebellion.  

Jon, however, had been less successful in appeasing Prince Oberyn. It was easy to see that the man would end up exiled, damned to rage in wastelands far from the Seven Kingdoms.  

The sting between them was still there. Prince Doran would not allow Starfall to be passed on to Ned Stark’s bastard, and by the end of the meeting, Allen Dayne had been doomed to marry Drusilla Jordayne, one of the maidens of the Tor, and to produce an heir to replace Ashara’s. 

Jon Arryn had come to settle peace with Dorne, but also to fetch Ned Stark.  

“You have overstayed your welcome at Dorne, my boy”, he argued, not unlike how he had ordered Ned to do a number of different chores over the years. “You have a wife and a son now. Your responsibility is to them.”  

“Has our father-in-law urged you to say so?” Ned asked wryly.  

“He has, most vocally”, Jon disclosed. “Although the advice is mine own. You do not want to start off your marriage like this. Do not follow in Robert’s footsteps.”  

“I should think you have other concerns regarding Robert.” 

“Make peace with your king, Eddard.”  

“I will not make peace with he who condones the atrocities carried out in his name”, Ned was adamant.  

“Nothing is so black and white, my boy. Robert may be a fool in that he will die by his mouth, but he is a good man. Your brother.”  

“I am not so sure anymore”, Ned said, darkly. “We have fought over this.”  

“I am aware. But he is alone in so many ways, and he must start his reign on the right footing. He needs you. I need you”, Jon proclaimed, and for the first time, Ned saw his foster father in a different light. A greyer light.  

“I shall return to Winterfell”, Ned vouched, anger flaring in his chest. “But never will I set foot on your court.” 

Ashara paced in the gardens of her childhood. The gardens seemed smaller; the trees shorter. The floors looked different. The people who walked there now were strangers. Even the people whom she knew were strangers. Even the people whom she had loved were strangers. Especially the people whom she had loved.  

Ashara clutched baby Jon in her arms and walked to stand beneath the thin shade of an almond tree. The base of the trunk was thick, but it got thinner as the tree grew. It had no leaves at this time of spring. It was in full bloom.  

Hundreds of flowers grew in the branches, startling Ashara with their prosperous flurrying of white and pink. It was a beauty to fill one’s eyes, a beauty that was not rare but abundant, beauty overflowing.  

The wind danced the flowers in their branches, and Ashara touched the trunk with her hand, picked a flower, and showed it to the boy.  

“My sister Elia planted this tree when she was six years old", Ashara told Jon, who touched the flower’s soft petals in curious grasps of his little fingers. It was strange. Ashara had never thought that the withered tree would live to flower like that. Ashara had never thought that the tree would survive Elia. 

Jon Arryn had brought the ashes of Prince Lewyn, Princess Elia, Princess Rhaenys, and Prince Aegon as a gesture of goodwill. The steward had shown Ashara the urns upon her request. 

Ashara had sat on the cold ground and held Elia’s urn in her arms, surprised by how little it was. So little was left of her.  

She had then held the children’s urns, surprising herself when she started to rock them back and forth in her arms as if she were cradling babies. She remembered all the times in which she had changed their small clothes while Elia was bed sick, all the times she had lulled them to sleep. She remembered playing with Rhaenys, and all the laughter the little girl had brought. 

Ashara had learned to be a mother by watching Elia, and by following in her wise example. Ashara was, in some ways, a bit of a mother to Elia’s children too. And she had once hoped that Elia would be a bit of a mother to her children, as well.  

“Elia, I am lost without you”, Ashara whispered to the silence of the garden.  

She had chosen life, and now there was a wild and steep path that she would have to walk on her own.   

Jon took the flower from her hands and held it in his own. He was learning fast.  

Ashara and Jon remained by the almond tree, watching the gusts of white and pink against the ferociously blue sky.  

The wind rose again and brought forth the citric smell of blood oranges.  

Ashara remembered the oranges, the clear pools of the Water Gardens, the long days of summer, the cool nights, and the books of Rhoynish poetry with verses that would never go unread or forgotten. So many things had unjustly survived Elia. And somehow, she was everywhere.  

Ashara held on to the tree.  

“I was wrong, sister. So much is left of you.” 

Ned did not take long to find Ashara and Jon sitting beneath the almond tree. Ashara was reclining against the trunk, making faces at the boy. Ned felt his steps steadier as he settled his resolve. 

“What became of the meeting?” Ashara asked as he joined her, sitting next to her on the grass.  

“Dorne will not rebel against the Iron Throne. Prince Oberyn is not satisfied.”  

Ashara bit her lip.  

“It is a wound that will never heal.” 

“I do not blame him”, Ned said to his surprise. “I went to war for less.” 

They stood in mournful silence for a bit. It was hard to think of such cruelty, let alone speak of it. But they would have to speak of it. They could never afford to forget it.  

“Your brother is to marry one of the maidens of the Tor. Doran would not let Starfall be passed on to our son.”  

It was one thing to play pretend and let the realm think she was the mother of the boy. Another thing was to refer to the boy as their son in private. As if it were true.  

Ashara looked back and forth between Jon and Ned, cautious.  

“Our son?” 

“Ashara”, Ned started. “I trust you.”  

Ned held on to one of Ashara’s hands as he made his plea.  

He looked at their joined hands, finally perceiving her as maiden, mother, sister. As if all of those things had been woven together and brought to light.  

“Would you be happy if Jon were to remain at Starfall? Would you be happy to raise him?”  

Ashara’s face was guarded, careful not to rejoice in the uncertain, but Ned saw her want in her eyes. He knew she had already started to think of Jon as her son.  

“But what of the promise you made to your sister?” 

“I would break my word”, Ned was grave. “I still feel guilty over that. I do not know how much honour there would be in going against Lya’s dying wish. But life in the North is a valley of tears.” 

It took Ned courage to admit it. It took him courage to acknowledge that the North felt like home in ways no other place would ever feel, and yet, at the same time, that Lyanna’s child deserved better than that, deserved better than he could give him. Just as Lya had deserved better than she had been given. Just as he had deserved better than he had been given.  

“In some ways, I think there is no greater gesture than to give your child a better hand than you were dealt”, Ned stared at the grass. “And the better hand for Jon would be to stay at Starfall.” 

Ashara squeezed Ned’s hand.  

“Why do you think so?” 

“I’ve seen how bastards are treated here, which is no different than any other child. You told me how you played with lowborn children in the pools. That is what I wish for Jon... not to be held in contempt, mistreated and abused.”  

Ashara nodded. She had lived away from Dorne. She knew that in most kingdoms, a bastard is distrusted, believed to be greedy and vile, a child of juridic illegitimacy and moral perversion. And the woman who bears a bastard child is treated as a disgrace to her parents, as well as a bad example for the other maidens.  

“And you do not know your wife.” 

“Aye. She could be a perfect lady wife, but she is still a stranger to me. I do not know how she wishes to raise her son. I do not know how she would feel about Jon living with us. I do not know her well enough to trust her.” 

“Do you think that she could resent the boy being there?”  

“I have no way of knowing either way, but I would rather not take a gamble when the boy already has a mother who cares for him. And the boy needs a mother.” 

Ned had never known a mother's love and had so desperately needed it.

He scratched his hair, becoming emotional. But he trusted Ashara enough to reveal what he had never discussed with anyone. What he had struggled to acknowledge even to himself. 

“I feel a lot of guilt, Ashara. When I was a child, I used to covet what Brandon had. I may have grown out of it in time, and I learned to be loyal and I followed his lead. But there was still a lingering guilt for desiring what was not mine... when I learned of his passing, I felt that it was somehow my fault. I inherited his title, his lands, I married his bride, I led his men to battle and now I am to live his life.” 

Ashara rested Jon against her knees in her lap and held Ned’s face. 

“It was not your fault”, she said seriously. “You were a child.” 

“I know that now”, a single tear slipped from his grey eyes, not cold at all. “You said that everyone has the right of being sick, of being a child, and of being a sinner. That is what I want you to give to Jon. Promise me that you will. Promise me, Ashara.” 

All those times Ned had turned away from the toddler Lyanna, left her crying in the hallways, asking for his company. All those times he had thrown away the flowers that she gave him. All those times he had banned her from invading his riding lessons. All those letters unanswered. All those times he had told her his stories, and failed to listen to hers.  

All those times in which he had not loved Lya enough. 

“I promise.” 

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