The evening sun cast long shadows through the windows of the Palestone Sword, and Ashara could not tear her eyes from the approaching rider. His grey cloak billowed in the wind that swept up from the Summer Sea, and even from this distance, she knew him. Eddard Stark. The quiet wolf. The one who lived while others died.
Her fingers traced the smooth pale stone of the windowsill, the same stone that had supported her through countless nights of grief. First Brandon, then Arthur, then nearly herself - if not for the babe at her breast. Edric stirred now, his grey eyes - Brandon's eyes - blinking sleepily as he suckled. Four moons had passed since she had brought him into the world, screaming and red-faced. Four moons of secret smiles and quiet tears, of watching his dark hair already beginning to lighten to the sandy brown of the Daynes.
"My lady." Wylla's soft voice came from the doorway. The wet nurse had been one of her few confidants these past months. "Lord Stark awaits in the great hall. He brings... he brings Dawn."
Dawn. The name alone made her throat tighten. Arthur's sword. The last piece of her brother that remained in this world. She had thought herself empty of tears when the raven came, but fresh ones threatened now.
Ashara adjusted her gown, ensuring it fell properly for receiving visitors. A lady of Starfall must maintain appearances, even when her world had crumbled around her. Even when receiving the brother of the man she had loved. Even when that brother had killed her own.
The great hall was cool and dim, shadows dancing across the pale stone walls. Eddard Stark stood beside the high table, still dusty from the road. The sword lay before him, wrapped in grey cloth, but she could feel its presence - a phantom pain, like a missing limb.
"Lady Ashara." His voice was heavy with unspoken grief.
"Lord Stark." The words felt like glass in her throat. Against her chest, Edric stirred, and she saw Ned's eyes fix upon him. The recognition there was immediate - those Stark grey eyes were unmistakable.
"Gods be good," he whispered. "Those are Brandon's eyes."
"Yes." She lifted her chin, pride warring with pain. "Your brother's son. Though he'll bear the name Sand, not Snow." Let him understand the steel beneath her words. The North would not claim this child as it had claimed his father.
She saw the conflict cross Ned's face, so like yet unlike his brother's. "He would have a place at Winterfell-"
"No." The word cut through the air like Arthur's blade once had. "The North has taken enough from me, Lord Stark. My brother, my love... you will not take my son as well."
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the eternal crash of waves against Starfall's foundations. Her son - Brandon's son - slept peacefully, unaware of the weight of history pressing down upon this moment.
"As you wish, my lady." Ned's hand rested on the wrapped sword. "Arthur died with honor."
The words reopened wounds barely healed. Did he? She wanted to scream. Did any of them? But she swallowed the bitter words. Instead, she spoke of arrangements already made. "My brother Allem has agreed to foster him. The tale will be that Allyria bore him to a traveling knight."
She watched Ned digest this, saw him weigh honor against necessity. Finally, he nodded. "A kind solution. But know that he has kin in the North, should he ever wish to know them."
Edric stirred again, one tiny hand reaching toward the wrapped sword. Even covered, Dawn seemed to pulse faintly, recognizing the blood of the First Men and Dayne that flowed through the babe's veins. Ashara felt the weight of it all - past and future, truth and lies, wolf and star.
After Ned departed, she stood at her window once more, watching his grey cloak disappear into the gathering dusk. Above, the evening star emerged - bright and cold as memory. Below, her son slept in her arms, unknowing of the lies that would shield him or the truths that would one day be his burden.
"Sleep sweetly, my wolf pup," she whispered, pressing her lips to his brow. "For now, you are simply mine."
The moons turned to years, marked by the steady growth of her son. Ashara watched each moment from her vigil in the Palestone Sword, cataloging every change, every echo of his father that emerged.
His first word had been "star," spoken while pointing at the evening sky from her arms. She had wept that night, remembering how Brandon had once traced the constellations above Harrenhal. His second word was "sword," and that had made her weep too, for it reminded her so much of Arthur.
By his second nameday, Edric toddled through Starfall's halls with the sure-footedness of both wolf and star. "Aunt Sha!" he would call, arms raised for her to lift him. The title had been carefully taught by Allyria, though it pained Ashara each time she heard it.
"He favors the Dayne look," Allem would say when bannermen visited, a careful lie repeated so often it almost rang true. But Ashara saw Brandon in every wild laugh, every fearless climb, every defiant tilt of his chin.
His third year brought the questions, as she knew it would.
"Why's your hair so dark, Aunt Sha?" he would ask, tugging at her black locks. "Mother's is lighter, like mine."
"The Daynes come in many colors, sweetling," she would answer, the half-truth bitter on her tongue. She had learned to swallow such bitterness, to wear her mask of aunt and caretaker with practiced ease.
By four, he was a terror with his wooden sword, swinging it with a natural grace that made the master-at-arms raise his eyebrows. "Blood will tell," the old knight muttered, and Ashara had to turn away, lest her face betray which blood he meant.
His speech grew clearer, his questions sharper. "Tell me about my father again," he would beg Allyria, who would spin the same tale of the handsome hedge knight who had won her heart. Ashara would listen from the shadows, adding her own silent amendments. Your father was wild and wonderful, she thought. He laughed like summer storms and loved like winter winds.
At five, he began climbing everything in sight. The Kitchen Tower, the walls, even attempting the Palestone Sword itself. Each time she caught him, her heart would stop, remembering tales of another child who loved to climb.
"Like a little monkey," Wylla would say, but Ashara thought, Like a wolf cub testing its limits.
His voice grew stronger, his sentences more complex. The childish "Aunt Sha" became "Aunt Ashara," each syllable a reminder of their necessary deception. He learned his letters, tracing out 'Edric Sand' with careful determination, unaware of how close he had come to writing 'Stark' instead.
Now, watching him chase seabirds along the battlements, Ashara could see six namedays of memories layered over each other like the sediment in the Torrentine. The babe at her breast, the toddler reaching for stars, the boy with his wooden sword - all of them her son, all of them a secret she must keep.
"Be careful, Edric!" Allyria called from below, playing her role of mother perfectly. The boy waved, his laugh carrying on the wind, pure and free and painfully familiar.
"He grows more like Brandon every day," Ashara whispered to herself, touching the smooth stone of her window ledge. "Gods help us all when he's old enough to see it himself."
The sun began to set over the Summer Sea, painting the sky in shades of purple and gold. Soon it would be time for stories and bed, for kisses she could only give as an aunt, for watching another woman soothe her child to sleep. But for now, she allowed herself to remember: Brandon's laugh in their son's voice, Arthur's grace in his movements, and the weight of secrets heavy as Dawn itself upon her shoulders.
"Tell me about the Sword of the Morning again," Edric demanded, his grey eyes bright in the candlelight. Six namedays had passed, and each night brought new questions, each one a potential misstep in their careful dance of secrets.
Ashara sat at the edge of his bed, running her fingers through his sandy-brown hair. "Your uncle Arthur was the finest knight in all the Seven Kingdoms," she began, the familiar tale both comfort and torment.
"Better than Ser Barristan?" Edric interrupted, as he always did.
"Some said so." She smiled despite the ache in her heart. "Dawn chose him, you see. The sword has been in House Dayne for thousands of years, but only the most worthy can wield it."
"Could I be the Sword of the Morning someday?" There was Brandon's boldness in that question, that unflinching ambition.
Before she could answer, Allyria appeared in the doorway. "Only if you sleep well and train hard, my sweet," she said, playing her part as mother. "Now, it's time for bed."
Ashara rose, surrendering her place to Allyria who would give the goodnight kiss she longed to give herself. At the door, she paused, watching her sister embrace her son. The moonlight streaming through the window caught Edric's profile, and for a moment, he looked so much like Brandon that her breath caught in her throat.
Later that night, unable to sleep, she found herself in the practice yard. The dummy still bore marks from Edric's afternoon training - wild, powerful strikes that the master-at-arms said showed unusual promise for his age.
"He has the wolf's blood," she whispered to the stars. Brandon had been the same, all passion and power, while Arthur had been precision and grace. Somehow, their son had inherited both.
"My lady?" Wylla's voice startled her. The wet nurse had aged these past years, but her eyes remained sharp. "He asked about his father again today."
Ashara's hands clenched. "What did he ask?"
"Why there are no songs about this mysterious hedge knight who won Lady Allyria's heart." Wylla's voice was gentle. "He's beginning to notice the gaps in the story, my lady."
"He's too young for the truth."
"Perhaps. But children see more than we think." Wylla stepped closer. "Today he asked why his eyes are different from Lady Allyria's. Why they're the same shade as yours."
Fear gripped Ashara's heart. "What did you tell him?"
"That the gods play strange games with features sometimes. But my lady... he's sharp, like his uncle was. Like his father must have been."
Like Brandon, Ashara thought. Too sharp for his own good.
The next morning brought more questions. Edric was watching the master-at-arms demonstrate sword forms when he turned to her suddenly.
"Aunt Ashara, why do you watch me train every day?"
Because I am your mother, she wanted to scream. Because every moment I'm not watching you feels like drowning. Instead, she said, "Because you remind me of someone I once knew."
"Uncle Arthur?"
"Yes," she lied, though in truth, he reminded her more of Brandon in that moment, the way he stood with his practice sword, fearless and proud.
"Ser Daemon says I fight like a northman sometimes," Edric continued, innocent of how the words pierced her. "But Mother says our family has always been of Dorne."
Ashara forced herself to smile. "The Daynes are one of the oldest houses in Dorne, it's true. But all warriors find their own style."
That evening, she watched him play at knights with the servants' children in the courtyard. He led them in mock battles, already showing the natural leadership that both Brandon and Arthur had possessed. His laughter echoed off the pale stone walls, free and wild as the North itself.
"My lady," Allem approached, his voice low. "There's word from Winterfell. Lord Stark's wife has borne him another son."
Another wolf cub, Ashara thought, while mine runs wild in the sands of Dorne, not knowing his own pack.
"Let them have their wolves," she said aloud. "We have our own star to guard."
But watching Edric swing his wooden sword, grey eyes flashing in the dying light, she wondered how long any star could contain a wolf's spirit. Sooner or later, the North that ran in his veins would call to him, as it had called to his father before him.
For now, though, he was still her secret to keep, her wolf pup playing beneath the falling star of Starfall.
But the gods were cruel in their jests, for not three days after Edric's questions about Dawn, he took to his bed with a fever. It started innocently enough - a chill after swimming in the Torrentine with the servants' children. By nightfall, though, his skin burned hotter than the Dornish sun.
"Just a child's fever," Maester Arron had said initially, mixing honey and herbs. But days passed, and instead of breaking, the fever grew stronger.
Now, a moon's turn later, Ashara pressed another cool cloth to his burning forehead, watching her vibrant wolf pup waste away before her eyes. The same boy who had begged for stories of the Sword of the Morning now lay still as death, his sandy-brown hair dark with sweat, those Stark grey eyes opening only to stare unseeing at phantoms.
"Like fire in his blood," Maester Arron said, his chain links clinking as he mixed another potion. "I've not seen its like before."
In his fever dreams, Edric would mumble things that made Ashara's heart stop - of wolves and snow, of weirwoods and winter winds. Things a boy raised in Dorne should know nothing of, yet somehow his blood remembered.
"Mother," he called now, his voice cracked and weak. "Mother, the wolves are calling."
Ashara gripped his hand tighter, not caring who might hear. The careful lies of six years meant nothing before the prospect of losing him. "I'm here, my wolf pup," she whispered. "Stay with me."
His eyes opened slightly, grey as the winter storms she'd never seen. "I see them... in the snow... calling..."
"The wolf's blood fights the star's fate," Wylla whispered from the corner, her old eyes knowing. The wet nurse who had helped maintain their mummer's farce now watched it unravel in the heat of fever dreams.
Outside the window, the same stars Edric had pointed to as a babe wheeled overhead, cold and distant as the gods themselves. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled - an impossible sound in Dorne, yet she heard it clear as day.
How quickly joy turned to terror, Ashara thought, remembering how just days ago he had stood proud in the practice yard, asking her why she watched him train. Now she watched him for different reasons, counting each labored breath, praying to any god who would listen that this wouldn't be the last time she heard Brandon's laugh echo in their son's voice.
"Fight it, my son," she murmured, pressing her lips to his burning forehead. "Fight and come back to me."
The night deepened, and still she kept her vigil, watching the war between wolf and star play out in her son's burning flesh.
Ashara had never been particularly devout, but desperation drove her to every god she knew. She lit candles in the sept of Starfall - one for each of the Seven. To the Mother, she prayed for mercy; to the Warrior, for strength; to the Crone, for guidance. When these prayers went unanswered, she found herself whispering to the old gods of the North, the nameless gods Brandon had kept.
"If you can hear me," she would murmur in the darkest hours of night, "if any part of his father's blood calls to you... save him. Save our son."
A moon and a half had passed, marking time only by the rise and fall of Edric's chest, each breath a battle won against the burning in his blood. The household moved in hushed whispers, and even Allyria's practiced composure cracked, her tears falling freely when she thought none could see.
Then, on a morning when the dawn painted Starfall's pale stones pink and gold, Edric's fever finally broke. Ashara had dozed in her chair, her hand still clasping his, when she felt his fingers twitch. His skin, when she touched it, was cool for the first time in weeks.
"Water," he croaked, his voice rough from disuse, but blessedly lucid.
The days that followed were a slow crawl back to life. He could manage only spoonfuls of soup at first, then slowly progressed to mashed fruits and soft bread soaked in broth. His once-sturdy frame had grown thin, the wolf pup reduced to a shadow of himself. Yet each small victory - a few more spoonfuls eaten, a longer moment of wakefulness - made Ashara's heart soar.
"The worst has passed," Maester Arron declared, though his eyes remained troubled. "But my lady... such fevers often leave their mark."
Ashara understood his meaning. Edric had not spoken beyond asking for water or food, had not mentioned the strange dreams that had made him cry out in his fever. His grey eyes, once so quick and bright, now held a distant look, as though part of him still wandered in whatever realm the fever had taken him to.
"He will need time," Wylla counseled, helping to change his sweat-soaked sheets. "The blood of the First Men runs strong in him, my lady. Stronger perhaps than we knew."
Ashara watched her son drift in and out of sleep, noting how his hair had darkened again during his illness, how his cheekbones seemed sharper, more Northern. The fever had burned away some of his childish softness, leaving behind features that reminded her painfully of Brandon.
"Rest now, my wolf pup," she whispered, daring to stroke his hair while he slept. "Come back to us in your own time."
The maesters were hopeful now, speaking of recovery rather than survival. Yet Ashara couldn't shake the feeling that whatever battle had raged in Edric's blood had changed him fundamentally. The boy who woke might not be the same one who had begged for stories of the Sword of the Morning, who had played at knights in the courtyard.
But he lived. For now, that was enough.
Outside his window, the evening star appeared, bright against the darkening sky. A cool wind blew in from the Summer Sea, carrying away the last of the sickroom's heat. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled one final time - or perhaps it was just the wind, singing its own prayer of thanksgiving to gods both old and new.