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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. ━━━━━━━━━ Without memory, there can be no revenge, Lest we forget to remember me.
MARGARET ATWOOD,THE BLIND ASSASSIN ━━━━━━━━━
HE DIES.
HE'D BE LYING if he says that he doesn't feel the blade — it's all Arthur feels, the kiss cold and he can taste the iron of his own blood in his mouth, and he can't breathe, he can't breathe, he can't —
Blood drips on the sand like precious rubies.
He studies Dawn, his familiar, steadfast sword all but weightless in his grip. Its ancient blade is more red than white now, stained with the blood of northmen whose names he doesn't know, and he wonders to whom it would go next.
Arthur falls.
In a different time, they would have won. The knights of the Kingsguard move as one lethal unit, each compensating for the other's weaknesses. Ser Oswell is all brute force and sheer strength, Arthur is the fastest, and Ser Gerold, whose greatest strength lies in defense, is the glue that holds them together. When Ser Gerold falls, the remaining knights begin to unravel.
Valar morghulis is how they say it in Valyria of Old. All men must die.
The sky had been awash with the pale grey of first light when Eddard Stark and his companions finally made it through the red mountaintops of Dorne. When they had reached the base of the tower where Lady Lyanna lays cold and dying, Arthur and his sworn brothers had been ready. They made an imposing sight standing there, their white-plated armor shining like light upon water, blades naked and at the ready.
Eddard Stark had unsheathed his sword and his companions followed suit.
So it is to be war then. Arthur had shifted and rolled back his shoulders. He did not want to do this — did not want to kill needlessly. And yet, if Robert Baratheon would find Rhaegar's son, he would kill him. And Arthur had sworn an oath to keep him safe, no matter the cost.
"Would that we all had your honour, Lord Stark. I pray you never lose it." He didn't understand, this boy who had once been so nervous that he couldn't ask Ashara to dance without his brother's help, but he would soon. Dawn had felt light in his hands. "And now it begins," he said.
Eddard Stark had lifted his sword in the air with a glum solemnness. "No. Now it ends."
Arthur has always imagined a more glamorous death for himself. It is foolish — a child's dream, really, and he is a man grown — but he has always imagined falling in a blaze of glory, sometime long from now, when he is old and tired and does not want to fight anymore, anyway. He would greet Death with open arms then, and they would sing songs of him, Arthur the Bold, Arthur the Brave.
Instead, he will die a craven.
It's over now, Arthur knows. It's over, and he hasn't done everything he wanted to, hasn't held his sister's child in his arms, hasn't run a sword through Aerys' throat, hasn't returned the life to the Queen's sad eyes, hasn't chopped Rhaegar's head off for what he did to Elia, hasn't given Dorne justice. He hasn't seen Astoria again.
That, in the end, is what makes him saddest.
Because as the world disappears, he does see her. His lover, with dark curls hanging over her face, green eyes alive in a way that is so otherworldly that Arthur feels like it stops his heart.
His head is a mess of blood and dark halls, cackles and screams and dying words, of rotten breath and tightening hands, it is cold, it is cold, it is cold and dark and wet and dry, it is cramped and empty and dark, cold, it is so very cold, he hears his mother screaming his name, his mother, his father, his lover, his sister, his brother, his lover, his lover, it is dark —
"All stories must end," he hears a voice say from somewhere far away. "Even ours."
NEWS OF ARTHUR'S DEATH COME to Dorne on the wings of a raven, writ small and sealed with a blob of hard red wax. The hand writing the words on the parchment is a stranger's, and the seal belongs to House Arryn.
Doran sends for Astoria at dawn. His eyes hold sadness. "I am sorry, my lady, for the tidings I must bring you. So very sorry."
The letter flutters out of Astoria's fingers and the first thing she thinks is, God, but that's not right — because R'hollor is not at fault. He is not to blame. The hands of men did this, not the hands of god.
God, she thinks, and gazes skywards.
Then, Astoria screams. She screams until not even Oberyn can silence her, until she can scream no more, until there is nothing left.
She falls to her knees, an ugly, wracked sob torn from her throat. Her fingers dig at her skin, leaving bright red marks behind and Oberyn kneels beside her, pulls her head into his chest, whispers promises and vows and threats towards the world in Astoria's ear. She hacks out dry sobs, her throat numb and burning beneath her hand.
"For our newest guest," she remembers him declaring, voice ringing out across the lists at Prince Rhaegar's tourney. "Your beauty and grace put the very sun to shame." His words echo in her head. That is the way she wants to remember him; smiling. He had smiled so litte, his duty preventing him from doing so, yet it was when he smiled that he was the most beautiful. Lilac eyes, bright with anticipation and joy — oh, his eyes. Prince Rhaegar had equally haunting eyes but Arthur's had never been flecked with melancholy.
The more she tries to forget, the more she remembers. Is it Elia and her children she weeps for? Or Arthur? She does not know, but what does it matter, her heart is broken anyways. The floor is cold beneath her knees and she feels her bones hurting with exhaustion and grief. Her eyes trace the orange pattern of the marble tiles, realising that once upon a time, Elia must've stood here. After what feels like a thousand years, Astoria stands. She stands and her eyes are dry again. She kisses Oberyn's cheeks, says, "I know your hearts yearn for the same things as mine," and thinks —
They will burn for this.
Astoria closes her eyes, and breathes deep. She does not cry. She is quite wrung dry of tears. When she opens her eyes again, she is still whole. She is still living. She is still here.
"There is nothing we can do now," Doran replies after thinking for a moment, "The war has bled Dorne dry, and our allies —"
"Well, then His Grace is fortunate. For now." Suddenly a somber smile appears on Astoria's face. "But by the look in your eyes I can tell that he will not be fortunate forever."
Doran nods thoughtfully. "He will not."
Their deaths do not define their lives, but they must be avenged nonetheless. The spilling of their blood must have consequences befitting murder. Robert Baratheon and Tywin Lannister may think themselves victorious for years but Dorne would never forget their princess.
The conversation does not make Astoria get out of bed the very same day, or even the very same week, but the seed is planted.
