darling, dearest, dead, 𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐑 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

epilogue, THE FLOWER WILTS.

EPILOGUE.
━━━━━━━━━
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

ROBERT FROST
━━━━━━━━━━

               SHE RETURNS TO HER HOME a fortnight after Ashara has fallen into the sea. There is nothing left for Astoria in the foreign lands of Westeros, which have cost her so much. She craves for her father's kind eyes and her mother's warm smiles and her brother's sweet words of comfort.

The day a letter arrives at Sunspear to inform them that Tywin Lannister presented the bodies of Elia's children to Robert Baratheon as a gift is the day Astoria vows she will never take the knee to the drunken fool responsible for such depravity. Two days later she steps upon the ship to take her East, Aegon clutched to her breast. The Martells argue against it for a little, for of course they wish for this last part of Elia, this child, to stay with them. But in the end, they see reason. The future is uncertain, even now that peace has been declared, and it will be far safer in Pentos.

     Oberyn will kill them all: Tywin Lannister, Amory Lorch, Gregor Clegane, Robert Baratheon. Astoria does not doubt it, does not hesitate to believe he will burn the kingdoms down to avenge Elia and Rhaenys. She yearns for justice as he does but now is not the time. Unbearable patience will be asked of them, waiting for the right moment for vengeance. One day Robert's dinasty will fall. But one day isn't enough, hasn't ever been enough, will never be enough. Astoria is sick of waiting. By the gods, she is sick, sick and tired and exhausted and spent.

     Their ghosts still linger. Even after many moons,  Astoria can still recall Elia's smile, the sound of her laughter. She has only to close her eyes to see her, with her long dark hair tumbling about her shoulders.

Sometimes she finds herself wondering whether it is better to have loved and lost or not have loved at all. She has not been granted an answer yet.

Astoria often thinks of Elia, her dearest friend, and Rhaenys, who had been so full of life. She thinks of Ashara, the sweet woman, whose heart was too big for her own good. She thinks of Arthur, whom she had loved. The grim satisfaction of knowing that Aegon is safe is no replacement for Elia's company or Arthur's attention or Ashara's smile. Even her family can't replace the warmth of a body beside her under the covers. There is little comfort to be had in the age after Robert's Rebellion.

The days tick by slowly, like sand passing a grain at a time in an hourglass. Every moment is a torment to Astoria. The thing in her head that is still alive drives her on, living for Aegon because the alternative is even less bearable. All she is is anger. All of this — the thousands of innocents dead, the pilfered supplies, the throats cut and bellies stabbed — is only a suicide note drawn out over the months.

     Guilt is a curious thing. No matter how much evidence to the contrary, guilt would always point a finger back at her. No matter that she saved Aegon from certain death, she still left Elia and Rhaenys behind to get slaughtered. She does not wish to burden her family with her grief, instead, she writes letters. From dusk until dawn, she sits at her writing desk, her head free of thoughts. She is only writing, writing, writing. Her fingers cramp, her back is sore and her lips dry and her letters get ever longer. It is freeing. To finally open the gates of her feelings and put them into words, no matter that she has no talent for it.

She puts them away in a small pile on the bottom of a trunk, where they will stay for many years.

     There is no one she can send them to.

THE THOUGHT OF ELIA'S BLOOD, of having lost her, of never seeing her again, cuts her to the bone.

It hits her at odd times, the injustice done to the Martells, and her legs bow and she staggers as if from a blow. When she is alone, she screams silently into her hands, screwing her face into a rictus of pain. She wants to slash at her arms or face with her nails. The past beats inside her like a second heart.

At night, tears leak silently down, a never-ending flood around her neck and the base of her head, making her shiver, her teeth chatter. She dreams of bones and death and their faces carved by blood-red waves into the sea.

     Other times, though they are scarce, Astoria is graced with another kind of dream.

     It happens like this: Ser Jaime understands his lord father's plan and arrives at Elia's chambers before the Mountain does.

It happens like this: They crown him Aegon the Sixth of His Name, and Elia the Queen Regent, and for the first time in a long time she has reason to smile.

     It happens like this: Lys is exactly what Astoria thought it would be, crisp and new and free. Arthur has never looked happier.

When she wakes up from her slumber, she feels as though her heart has turned to stone. Sometimes she still wishes for the unending sleep, infinite darkness to take her. For in her dreams, her children look just like the friends she has lost and beside her stands the knight she had loved. The ghosts of Robert's Rebellion, as they now call it.

     They all look at her.

     So many sad eyes, staring.

T H E E N D.

DARLING, DEAREST, DEAD.

maybe, juuust maybe, there's another chapter in the works ;))) and maybe that will be the actual end?!