Chapter Text
Ashara
“We will make King’s Landing within the hour, my lady,”
Ashara turned away from the rail and looked at Lord Baelish. He was standing there on the stern, looking at her with a mocking smile. “Are you sure that your man was right?” For some reason the prospect of facing her son again felt daunting.
The Master of Coin favored her with a half bow. Or rather she should address him as the old master of coin now who served the previous King. Rhaegar Targaryen was dead, they told her when Baelish had woken her up from her sleep in the cottage he had given her. “You wound me, sweet lady. And you worry me when you look at me with distrust in those lovely purple eyes. Have I given you any reason to doubt me so far?”
Many and more, Ashara thought. But she kept it to herself.
When she stayed silent, Baelish smiled. “None as you would clearly know.” His words were laced with poison, however with the heavy hint of honey coated over it. She could see that in the way he liked to smile at her, as if he was always holding a secret from her and almost as if he was mocking her. He’d been playing her ever since he had helped her break out of Rhaegar's dungeons and she could see that clearly. But she still had to admit that he helped her, in ways no one else had. Or rather no one else could help her. It took a different level of courage to stand up against Rhaegar Targaryen. And Petyr Baelish, despite his seemingly powerless nature was braver than she had initially thought.
She had come to know from where he had gotten the strength and the courage. Ashara had not been oblivious to miss the gold that flowed through the hands of Baelish and all the way down to his servants who attended her in his cottage where she spent her days of freedom. There was too much gold to be spared on the likes of maids and cooks and it flowed too consistently that Ashara knew that it wasn't coming from anywhere else. The cottage which housed her was too open and exposed for a hidden treasure. But the large cove on the other side of the isle where Giselle seemingly kept her sheep in a hovel would have been safe and large enough to hide mounds of gold and it's mines. Ashara had spied it when she was taken on a tour around the isle on her fifth day in the cottage. Ser Osney had been so eager to escort her that it was easy for her to get him open the door and let her out into the open air, where Ser Lothor had been more disinterested with Lord Baelish away. But he had accompanied them anyway more concerned about her safety than about showing off his lands.
Ashara had no doubts that Petyr's gold extended well into King's Landing as well for it is from there he had his reports carried across the sea. When he returned he brought her the news of the fall of King's Landing.
The king is dead, he told her hugging her tightly and pressing a moist kiss on her cheeks, never saying that if he was referring to her son or to his sovereign.
“Your son cut his heart out with his icy blade of vengeance,” he declared afterwards taking her hand softly in his. “His direwolf prowls the halls of the Red Keep now and the towers of the castle fly the icy banners of House Stark.”
Ashara had sat silent through it all, letting the words wash over her, her hand forgotten and nestled amidst his own. Andrew. My child. My son. My only child. Tears ran down her cheeks as she thought about him. Ashara tried to bring the his sweet face to mind, but his features kept turning into Ned's. It's been so long since she had seen him and the last time she saw him he was just a baby looking lost and forlorn, not understanding what was happening. He ought to have thought that she had deserted him as well, like everyone else. She would never forget the way her baby had clutched at her desperately even as she was putting him on the boat, afraid. He never cried though even as she sent him away, her sweet stubborn boy.
Ashara bunched a hand in the smooth silken skirts of her robes, wishing, wishing . . . If truth be told, she did not know what to wish for, any more than she knew what awaited her in the city of King's Landing. Ashara never seemed to do the things she set out to do. She had tried to deliver peace to Winterfell and King's Landing alike, only she had ended up putting her Ned in his grave and thousands along with him. When she escaped from Starfall with Andrew, Viserys took her captive and dragged her to the the black cells instead. Then Petyr Baelish had stolen her and dragged her to his cottage. And now he swore that he was taking her to her son, hoping to take some gift and gratitude from her son . . . only she didn't know if Andrew would believe him or accept her, not after what she had done and what she had put him through.
“You should get ready, my lady,” Lord Baelish said, breaking her from her thoughts once again.
Ashara simply nodded, leaning over the rail and looking down at the oars parting the blue waters of the Narrow Sea. The captain of the Merling King had shown his worth of knowing the narrow sea for thirty years once again. The trading galley had made it's way back to King's Landing much quicker than it had taken during it's journey out of the city.
She had certainly been a fast ship, trading her speed for secrecy when Rhaegar ruled from the Red Keep. Now that he was gone the captain was making a swift course across the Narrow Sea. Even with the winds against them much of the voyage, the galley’s oars had been swift and strong, and they were already skimming toward King’s Landing and journey’s end.
So close, she thought. Her right hand was still gripping the skirts of her gown. It was something that she kept doing as a child, Ashara thought, whenever she was unnerved. And her left was shaking already.
The galley skimmed the water like a dragonfly, her oars rising and falling in perfect time. Ashara held her skirts as they billowed around her legs in the swirling wind and looked out over the passing shore.
Lord Baelish placed a hand close to hers on the rail. “I know I have not been the most valiant of protectors or the most honest of friends,” he said, “but I only hope that her grace will remember me and what I have done to her in my most wanted hours.”
He is scared too she could see that. Doubtless as well, as he stood to lose everything that he had built under the reign of Rhaegar Targaryen. He would be most fortunate if his head was not taken off by the headsmen of the new rulers. That was the most he could hope for. Yet Ashara felt some softness in her heart for him. He still saved her from Rhaegar's clutches regardless of his reasons for it. And no one else even dared to do so.
Ashara touched his arm with her free hand. “Worry not, my lord. You brought me here, Lord Baelish, and safely. That is all that truly matters. I will forever be in your debt for it.” Her right hand bunched the fabric tightly. “Now we must reach my son, and you will have my gratitude for it will never be forgotten.”
Petyr Baelish may be a man of secrecy, but she could see his relief palpable of his face. His hand went to his face to stroke his pointed beard again “My lady, the moment we go ashore we are at risk. I hope you understand that. There are those in the city who will know you on sight. And we can't trust anyone at this moment, no one except your son.”
Ashara's mouth grew tight. She did not like playing this mummer's farce but he had a point. Rhaegar might have fallen but there were still people who were loyal to him who might do her harm. “Yes, of course,” she murmured.
Lord Baelish cleared his throat. “I presume you have the septa's robes with you...” His thought trailed off uncertainly prodding her to finish it.
Ashara had not forgotten. “I do. And I do remember my part to play. I am a septa from Riverrun come to pray and serve the High Septon and the poor people of King's Landing. I will keep myself reserved within your place until you find a safe time to go and meet my son.”
“Good,” Baelish's fingers twisted his beard once again. “You are a sharp woman, your grace. Real sharp”
High overhead, the far-eyes sang out from the rigging. The Captain came scrambling across the deck, giving orders, and all around them the Merling King burst into frenetic activity as King’s Landing slid into view atop its three high hills.
Three hundred years ago, Ashara knew, those heights had been covered with forest, and only a handful of fisherfolk had lived on the north shore of the Blackwater Rush where that deep, swift river flowed into the sea. Then Aegon the Conqueror had sailed from Dragonstone. It was here that his army had put ashore, and there on the highest hill that he built his first crude redoubt of wood and earth.
Now the city covered the shore as far as Ashara could see; manses and arbors and granaries, brick storehouses and timbered inns and merchant’s stalls, taverns and graveyards and brothels, all piled one on another. She could hear the clamor of the fish market even at this distance. Between the buildings were broad roads lined with trees, wandering crookback streets, and alleys so narrow that two men could not walk abreast. Visenya’s hill was crowned by the Great Sept of Baelor with its seven crystal towers. Across the city on the hill of Rhaenys stood the blackened walls of the Dragonpit, its huge dome collapsing into ruin, its bronze doors closed now for a century. The Street of the Sisters ran between them, straight as an arrow. The city walls rose in the distance, high and strong.
A hundred quays lined the waterfront, and the harbor was crowded with ships as the war had come to an end. Deep water fishing boats and river runners came and went, ferrymen poled back and forth across the Blackwater Rush, some trading galleys were loading goods finally free to leave the harbor. They must have been holed up here for a long time. Ashara spied a few fat-bellied whalers and merchant cogs their crews finally unfurling their sails, while upriver a dozen warships still lined along the banks. Ashara looked for any banners or sigils but she couldn't find anything.
Above it all, frowning down from Aegon’s high hill, was the Red Keep; seven huge drum-towers crowned with iron ramparts, an immense grim barbican, vaulted halls and covered bridges, barracks and dungeons and granaries, massive curtain walls studded with archers’ nests, all fashioned of pale red stone. Aegon the Conqueror had commanded it built. His son Maegor the Cruel had seen it completed. Afterward he had taken the heads of every stonemason, woodworker, and builder who had labored on it. Only the blood of the dragon would ever know the secrets of the fortress the Dragonlords had built, he vowed. Little did he know some men with no more than common blood would come to know it's secrets in the future. Her thoughts went to Quenn and wondered if he was alive or not. She hoped that he was and that was all she could do these days.
Ashara thought about the last time she had seen the castle as she fled from it in the dark, the three headed dragon flying from the towers as gloomy and menacing as the Lord of the castle itself. Yet now the banners that flew from its battlements were white, not black, and where the three-headed dragon had oncebreathed fire, now raced the direwolf of House Stark.
A high-masted swan ship from the Summer Isles was beating out from port, its white sails huge with wind. The Merling King moved past it, pulling steadily for shore.
“My lady,” Lord Baelish said, “It is best to proceed as we have already decided about. These ships belonged to Rhaegar only a few days ago and some still do belong to him even today. You could not enter the castle straight away. I will go in your stead and bring you to your son in some safe place.”
She studied the warships as the galley moved past them and drew near to a pier. There were crude shouting all around the harbor in several different languages. “You would be as much at risk as I would,” Ashara said, turning around to look at him.
Baelish smiled. “I think not. I have my ways and my people to do my job for me. I believe I am safe enough, my lady. To do not have to worry about me.” If she wasn't sure that he still had many of whom who were deep in his pockets here in King's Landing, she sure was now.
The captain of the ship bellowed a command. As one, sixty oars lifted from the river, then reversed and backed water. The galley slowed. Another shout. The oars slid back inside the hull. As they thumped against the dock, Braavosi seamen leapt down to tie up. As Baelish left to go and talk with the captain, Ashara slid into her cabin and changed out of her burgundy silken garb befitting the wife or daughter of a prosperous merchant and into the septa's robes. The gown was snug and warm, all white wool soft and simple.
By the time she was done and came out of the cabin their things were being carried down from the ship. She found Petyr Baelish speaking with the captain on the dock. “Good morrow,” Ashara greeted them as she emerged in her white robes, cinched at the waist with a woven belt of seven colors. Her long raven hair had been pulled back and tied in a heavy knot, hidden beneath a cotton coif and delicate veil of white and silver above it.
The captain took note of her change of garb at once. And Ser Osney glanced at the septa's crystal nestled on her bosom wistfully as he was holding loaded chests in his hands. It was Petyr Baelish who severed their attention on her. “That will be all,” he told the captain and paid him with a hefty pouch of coins. He whispered something to Kettleblack and the young knight went off obediently.
“King’s Landing, my lady,” he told her when they were alone. “White suits you. You look so pure and fair and innocent.”
Ashara ignored it. “Where am I staying until you bring me to my son?”
“I own several establishments here in the city, my lady,” Baelish said. “Rhaegar Targaryen confiscated and destroyed most of them when he realised that I had abandoned him. But there are others even his red priest doesn't know about, run by people who are dear to me. Perhaps you can have a pick of your choice, an inn, a brothel, some clean tavern by the river. Anything”
She chose an inn situated close to the Great Sept of Baelor finally. A septa so close to the Sept would be a common enough sight that wouldn't draw too much attention to herself. She was not new to the city and there were many those who knew her well during her time here as a maid in Aerys Targaryen's court. Ser Lothor Brune and Osney Kettleblack accompanied her with their chests while the rest of the Kettleblacks accompanied Lord Baelish. It was a rambling old place on Eel Alley. The woman who owned it was a sour crone with a wandering eye who looked them over suspiciously and bit the coin that Ashara offered her to make sure it was real. Her rooms were large and airy, though, and the window provided a beautiful view of Baelor's Sept.
“I think it best if you stay away from the common room,” Ser Lothor said, after she had settled in. “Even in a place like this, one never knows who may be watching.”
He had worn ringmail, dagger, and longsword under a dark cloak with a hood he could pull up over his head. That's bound to attract more unwelcome eyes onto her than her purple eyes. A septa with her own private guards, such a tale would draw unwanted questions. “You should keep your weapons hidden well,” Ashara said to him. “I might just as well be the most protected septa in the realm and septas don't have knights protecting them, not since Maegor destroyed the Faith Militant.”
The knight smiled and tugged his cloak tightly about his body. “I will be mindful about it,” he promised. “Rest now, my lady.”
Ashara was tired. The voyage had been long and fatiguing, and she was no longer as young and healthy as she had been. Her windows opened on the alley and rooftops, with a view of the Great Sept of Baelor beyond. She watched the people crossing the busy streets for some time, taking in the war torn city. She watched them for some time but then she felt dizzy and sleepy. The bedding was stuffed with straw instead of feathers, but she had no trouble falling asleep, feeling more comfortable here in the inn than she had been on the ship or the cottage.
She woke to a pounding on her door.
Ashara sat up sharply. Outside the window, the rooftops of King’s Landing were red in the light of the setting sun. She had slept longer than she intended. A fist hammered at her door again, and Petyr Baelish called out, “My lady, it's me.”
“A moment,” she called out. Ashara wrapped the belt around her slender waist and covered her hair with the coif and veil. She unlatched the heavy wooden door and let the men enter into the room.
“I have found a way to get you into the castle safely,” Baelish said when the door closed behind him. “There is a sudden plague of holy men in the city from all around the realm. There are all manners of holy people; septons, preachers, septas and silent sisters alike it would seem to pay their respects to the remains of a certain Septon Reynard. They call him Reynard the Revered now and it's said that even his bones are most holy than it can heal anyone who is wounded.”
“His remains are in the castle now?” Ashara asked.
“Right in the yard of the Red Keep being prepared for a proper funeral,” Baelish said. “Though it's hardly needed if you asked me. Nothing much remains of him except for cracked bones, charred and burnt from wildfire.”
“Wildfire?” Ashara asked shocked.
“Rhaegar burnt him and his ragged band right outside the city walls and made a spectacle out of it,” Baelish said. “You would see many people in the city still in mourning because of that. If you asked me, they brought it upon themselves. It is never wise to poke a dragon and that too within its own den.”
Ashara gave him a reproachful look. Her thoughts went to the time when she had been a girl in the court of Aerys the Mad. They were uncomfortable thoughts, the way the mad man had murdered the Starks and all those who accompanied them. She still had nightmares of that day and often times Ned had comforted her through it. There were no warm hands or soothing kisses to comfort her now.
They climbed down Visenya's hill to the great central square that had been carved out by King Jaehaerys. The last time Ashara had seen it the central square had been full of trees with markets and arcades beneath. She had rode out with her brother and princess Elia and her friends then. Now she rode past burnt and blackened trees, and broken buildings and markets that had been reduced to ruins from the recent battle. She could not say how fresh the battle was but the denizens of King's Landing were already moving on with their lives. Two dozen wayns were lined up along the roadside, loaded with casks of cider, barrels of apples, bales of hay, and some of the biggest pumpkins Ashara had ever seen. Some wagon had their own guards; some pink-cheeked farmer’s son clutching a homemade spear with a fire-hardened point or an old man holding a pitchfork. Sometimes they saw patrols and riding parties of men-at-arms wearing the badges of a dozen lordlings, and knights in plate and mail carrying the banners of their lords. Ashara kept her face down as she trotted past them. She knew that she did not have a reason to fear them. These were her son's allies who controlled the city now. But she wanted to meet her son first before anything.
The gates to the Red Keep were open, but a dozen heavily armoured guards armed with pikes and halberds barred the way at the cobbled square in front of the barbican. They wore crimson cloaks with the roaring golden lion of Lannister on their backs. Their captain looked at them suspiciously as they came trotting up. “Who are you lot?”
“Good men here with a septa come to see Septon Reynard.”
The captain glanced at Ashara for a moment. “Come to see the bones, you mean. You’re not the first. Go inside if you must, but you should leave your horses behind. And see you make no trouble.” He waved them through and turned back to the block the road behind them.
It seemed a thousand years ago that Ashara Dayne had fled out of the Red Keep, crossing the Blackwater in a ship to bring the news of the murders of Rickard and Brandon Stark to her Ned in the safety of the Eyrie. It was a long journey indeed which took her to places she had only dreamt of and brought her a crown. And it was back at the Red Keep that her journey was coming to an end now, to see the son who had conquered the castle of the dragonlords.
Inside the castle gates the yard was a chaos of mud and horseflesh and shouting men. The crowd was larger than she had thought it would be. Half a hundred cookfires were put across the outer yard which filled the air with a pale smoky haze. Ashara saw men around each fires, holding tall staffs that held half a hundred banners of different lords. The siege engines that had been used to conquer the castle lined the walls leading upto the inner yard and the Throne Room, mangonels and trebuchets and siege towers and rolling rams mounted on wheels. Pavilions of the lords, high and low sprouted from the ground. She saw knights with the standards of their lords, men with spears and men with swords, men in steel caps and mail shirts, archers, pages and squires running messages and in between them moved a long line of septons and septas who had come to find blessings from the Septon Reynard.
Near all the realm had come to King's Landing it seemed. She saw banners everywhere: banners of the Northmen, Knights of the Vale, the Stormlords, the Rivermen, Westermen and even some Dornishmen. Chief amongst them she saw the moon and falcon of the Arryns, the crowned stag of the Baratheons, the silver trout and golden lion sewn on the doublets and cloaks of armsmen and, flapping and fluttering from the silk banners that adorned the lances and pikes. It was surprising to see all of them together, each very much different from one another yet they stood or seated around the fires together, sharing meat and enjoying horns of ale and regaling each other with accounts of the slaughter during the battle.
It was then Ashara spied the Stark banner flying alone towering over everyone else at the foot of the great steps leading to the Throne room. All along the steps she saw northmen, Winterfell men in their silvery mail and long grey cloaks. Men sworn to her son, men sworn to her.
Ashara recognized the man who commanded them. It was not that easy to miss him even in a crowd. She split away from the line and walked towards the throne room. “Lord Umber,” she addressed him, as deft and delicate as the countless times she addressed him before.
The Greatjon looked up at her from the stair, his greatsword thrust point first in front of him. He squinted his eyes at her for a moment and stared at her in silence, confused.
Ashara ripped her veil and coif apart and let her thick cascades of hair flow loose about her shoulders. The Greatjon's hardy eyes went wide. And the smiles of his men withered away like roses kissed by frost. Lord Umber stood up straight, placed his sword at her feet and bent his knee. “Your grace,” he rumbed. The rest of the northmen followed him.
All the men in the yard fell silent one by one and everyone was watching her. It had been a long time since Ashara had seen him that it brought a smile to her face. She had forgotten how well she liked it, how well she liked them, her husband's bannermen.
By then a great whisper had taken hold of the yard and everyone started gathering around her. Ashara felt a lightness in her chest after a long time. Her hand trembled as she raised it. Perhaps she smiled. She must have. The Greatjon shouted again, “Our benevolent queen is alive and she's come back,” and others took up the cry. “Queen Ashara” they called. They stepped down to pay their respects, kneeling before her and pressing their brows to her hand. “My queen!” They were all smiling at her, reaching for her, kneeling before her.
The chant grew, spread, swelled. It swelled so loud that it brought in others from the outside to see what was happening. More people were streaming from the gates every moment, soldiers and commonfolk alike and as they came they started rushing towards her. Ashara didn't know whether they knew her or not. They were running toward her now, pushing, stumbling, wanting to gaze upon her or touch her hand and for a moment the bones of the holy septon was forgotten even by the men and women of the faith.
“But how?” the Greatjon asked finally. “We heard that-”
Ashara cut him off. “It's a tale for another time,” she told him. Ashara clutched his hands tightly. “My son. Where is he? Where is Andrew?”
“In the Godswood,” the Greatjon said. “Come I will lead you.” He glanced at Lord Baelish and his men behind her and stopped. “These men-”
“They are with me,” Ashara assured him.
The Greatjon nodded. Ashara followed him, a trail of swordsmen and men-at-arms following behind her. Her thoughts flew back to the day she had left Andrew. His innocent face swam up before her; a boy’s face, afraid and confused. Her baby had Ned's face, she remembered. Ashara wondered what the years might have done to him. Did he grow up to look like Ned still? Maybe like her brother Arthur? He was not a baby any longer. He was a King now and he would know why I had done it. And if he didn't she would throw herself at his feet and beg him for his forgiveness.
The doors to the godswood was open without any guards. They passed beneath the arch into the quiet of the godswood. It was peaceful here. The thick walls shut out the clamor of the castle, and she could hear birds singing, the murmur of crickets, leaves rustling in a gentle wind. The heart tree in the center was an oak, brown and faceless, and beneath it she saw him. She found Andrew sitting on a bare rock beneath the green canopy of leaves, surrounded by tall elms and lush green grass, feeding a wolf. For a moment it was almost as if she was taken back to her years in Winterfell and she was looking at the ghost of Ned sitting beside the green pool beneath the heart tree of Winterfell, cleaning his sword. Oh, Ned.
Her dreams hadn't lied to her. Andrew is Ned come again. He was handsome as Ned had been handsome; the same grey eyes, the same melacholic face that made her heart ache. His crown, the spiked circlet was beside him on the grass instead of on his brow. That was Ned's crown as well. There were tears in her eyes. Ashara wiped them away angrily.
At first he did not notice her … but his wolf did. The great white beast was lying in front of the rock, munching on the treats Andrew was throwing at him. But when Ashara took a step towards them he lifted his head, and his red eyes met hers. Andrew followed his wolf and saw her. For a moment he stared at her, not saying anything. “Mother?” he said, his voice thick with emotion.
The tears were running down her cheeks now. Ashara didn't wait for him. She ran to him, wrapping her arms around him and held him tightly in her arms. She kissed him on his brow and his sweet face and his cheeks until she couldn't anymore.
“You look so much like your father,” she said to Andrew looking at him at arms length, while Ghost sniffed her hand.
Andrew never said a word and just embraced her. “Momma,” he murmured hoarsely against her shoulder, burying his face into her gown. He looked so worn and tired, battered by battle and haggard from strain. His neck and hand was bandaged where he had taken a wound. Ashara hugged him fiercely, safe in her arms shielding him away from any harm.
“Shh, it's okay,” Ashara murmured into his ear, stroking the dark hair that she had given to him. “It's okay. I'm here now. Mama's here.” And she was here indeed, back with her son once again near after ten long years and she was not going to leave him ever again.