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CHAPTER EIGHT. ━━━━━━━━━ Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
DYLAN THOMAS, IN COUNTRY SLEEP ━━━━━━━━━
IT IS A MILD SUMMER day in the gardens. Birds are chirping. They are high enough above the stagnant stuffiness of the city, fanned by a fresh offshore wind. Beyond the city is Blackwater Bay, the harbour dotted with colourful sails, and beyond that is the sea; grey-green, sparkling in the morning sun, flecked here and there with the white dots of sails.
Today, the princess of Dorne is composed. She sits primly on the marble bench, very still, with her hands folded in her lap, as if she is sitting for a portrait. If Ashara tries to sit like that, she would fidget, or yawn, or try to catch the eye of anyone she could see, or she would go too far and make faces, and it would look assumed and artificial, like she is contriving to appear something she is not. But Elia settles into it naturally — she is a real princess, as naturally royal as her husband. Two years ago they had praised her, called her a beautiful woman and it had not just been hollow flattery. But she had fallen pregnant twice since then, and it had taken it's toll. Her features have preserved their beauty, but have lost their vitality and health. Her nose is sharper, her eyes more sunken, the dimples, which a year ago had shown in the corners of her dusky cheeks, have become little wrinkles.
Now they say Elia is sickly, that she is weak, that she is frail, that she is unhealthy. Those who say that do not know her. What is strength? It means fixity of purpose in the face of everything. It means enduring what could not be changed. It means having the strength to live with what limits you.
People call Elia frail because of her struggles to bear children, the weeks and moons she has spent abed before or after their birth, with thinned blood and ashen skin, her heart racing, she heard a maester once say, as fast as a runaway horse. People are fools, Ashara thinks, for Elia has the fires of Dorne in her belly, she hides her steeliness behind her courtesies and kindnesses just as Oberyn hides his behind a wicked laughter.
Ashara and Astoria sit around her, skirts spread like pressed flowers on the swept marble floor. Astoria breathes deeply, appreciating the fragrant smells of the rows of flowers that the gardeners have managed against all odds to cultivate all through winter.
It is quiet, save the distant sound of many voices from the the Keep where an impromptu itinerant Council is being held.
"There you are." The voice is deep and husky, very much the voice of a musician, and it cuts Elia off from dictating a letter before she can even begin. For a moment, as Astoria turns, the prince meets her eyes. They are old eyes in a fine-featured, youthful face.
The ladies rise gracefully and curtsy as he comes closer.
"I thought I heard your voices. Seele of the day, my love," Rhaegar tells Elia, taking her hand and bringing it gently to brush with his lips, then pulls her against him as if they are newly wed, smiling down into her face and kissing her nose.
Arthur trails behind him and Astoria sends him a secret smile. They are in the same place in the gardens where they had talked for the very first time, with Elia by their side. To Astoria, it seems like a lifetime ago.
Now, she can't look at him without thinking of their nights together or how she can map every scar on his body, or the sound of her name on his lips as he finishes.
THE SEA IS GREY AND GRIM, the waves assaulting the shore as if they are trying to break it. Splashes of water fly against cloaks and hoods making them cling to chilled frames. The pale sun is hidden behind the clouds of low-hanging sky.
Not for a first time this day, Ashara's thoughts drift away to the morning she had arrived to King's Landing a moon ago. It had been a lovely day then, with a smiling sun and gentle breeze caressing them.
Sorrow whistles in the wind and suddenly there are tears in her eyes.
Astoria brings her hands to Ashara's hips and kisses her lightly on the cheek. "My heart goes with you. I cannot wait to meet the babe. And Eddard Stark."
Ashara's heart pounds loudly in her ears at the thought of Ned. It has been so long since they have seen each other.
"I will miss you more than I can say," Elia whispers. They embrace and Ashara feels Elia's curious fingers stroking the slightly bulging contours of her belly that is already causing rumors, but Ashara will disappear to Starfall before they can spread too far.
"And I you."
They smile, and Ashara pushes the memory away to lighten her heart on the journey south, for there is still goodwill and kindness in a world that tries so hard to destroy it.
Ashara wishes that she could stay. But she is disgraced now, soiled in the eyes of the court. Even if she were to get rid of the child, everyone would still know. A soiled woman is no fit attendant for a Princess, after all.
"Ash," Elia's voice is sweet, like a melody, but her smile is sad and fleeting. She places a delicate hand on her shoulder. "Don't look back."
Mother, Maiden, Crone, Ashara prays silently as she moves away, bidding them goodbye, Father, Smith, Warrior, Stranger. Give me strength.
Ashara's eyes are damp with tears as she steps upon the ship that will take her home. And as hard as she tries to remember that she is a Dayne, that she is a woman of Dorne, she cannot forget that, ultimately, she is also human, and that to be human is to break.
