Starfall, 283 AC - One Year Later
The raven arrived at dawn, its black wings cutting through the morning mist like a harbinger of doom. Ashara watched from the nursery window as it spiraled down to the rookery, her one-year-old son balanced on her hip with the easy confidence of a mother who'd learned to do everything one-handed.
Cregan had grown into a remarkably alert child, with thick dark curls that caught the light and those unsettling violet eyes that seemed to catalog everything around him with unnatural intensity. He rarely cried, spoke his first words months early, and had an uncanny ability to understand conversations that should have been far beyond his comprehension.
This child sees too much* Ashara often thought, though she could never quite articulate what she meant by that.
"Mama," Cregan said now, pointing toward the rookery with one chubby finger. "Bird."
"Yes, sweet one, a raven," Ashara murmured, her voice carrying that distinctive mix of warmth and steel that made men reconsider their life choices. Though something cold had settled in her stomach. Ravens at dawn rarely brought good news, and these days, no news was preferable to the alternative.
Please don't let it be about Uncle Ned* she prayed silently. *My family has been through enough without...*
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of rapid footsteps in the corridor outside—the particular rhythm of someone trying to appear calm while actually being completely frantic. Aurelius burst through the nursery door without ceremony, his usually pristine appearance disheveled and his violet eyes wild with an emotion she couldn't quite identify.
"Sister," he said, his voice rough with barely contained panic. "We need to talk. Now."
Ashara raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow in that way that had once made Prince Rhaegar forget his own name. "By all means, brother dear. Do come charging into the nursery like a bull at market. I'm sure Cregan finds it educational."
Oh, brilliant* thought baby Cregan with infinite sass. *Because nothing says 'everything is fine' like uncle dearest looking like he's seen a ghost. Or possibly several ghosts. Having a rather heated discussion about property values.*
Instead of rising to her bait as he usually would, Aurelius closed the door firmly behind him and activated the privacy wards with a gesture that made the air shimmer briefly around them. It was an old Dayne family skill, passed down through generations—useful for keeping certain conversations from reaching the wrong ears.
"The war is over," he said without preamble, his voice carrying the kind of weight that suggested everything was about to change. "Robert Baratheon has won. Rhaegar Targaryen is dead, killed at the Trident."
Ashara sank into the nearby chair, her usual grace deserting her as she clutched Cregan closer. For a moment, the mask slipped, and all the vulnerability she usually kept hidden flickered across her face like candlelight. "Dead? Rhaegar is... but he was the finest knight in the realm. How could—"
"Robert's war hammer," Aurelius said grimly, running a hand through his hair in a gesture that made him look remarkably like their father. "They say it caved in his chest armor like parchment. The rubies from his breastplate scattered into the river like drops of blood."
"Poor Elia," Ashara said with a sharp pang of sympathy. "And those poor children. What will become of them now?"
Probably nothing good* mused baby Cregan darkly. *Robert Baratheon isn't exactly known for his restraint when it comes to Targaryens. This is about to get spectacularly messy.*
"There's more," Aurelius continued, and his expression grew even more troubled—the look of a man who'd just realized he was standing in quicksand. "A raven came this morning. From Arthur."
Ashara blinked in confusion, her sharp mind immediately catching the inconsistency. "Arthur? But... why wasn't he with Rhaegar? The Kingsguard are supposed to protect—"
"That's exactly what I thought," Aurelius interrupted, beginning to pace like a caged wolf. "Arthur should have been at the Trident, fighting and dying beside his prince like some bloody tragic ballad. Instead, he's... elsewhere. And he's asking for help."
He handed her the small scroll, the parchment bearing their brother's familiar seal. Ashara read it quickly, her confusion deepening with every line, her expression shifting from bewilderment to concern to something that might have been dawning horror.
"Aurelius and Ashara - By the time you receive this, you will have heard of Prince Rhaegar's death at the Trident. I cannot explain in writing why I was not there to die beside him, but I pray you will understand when we meet again. I am at the Tower of Joy with urgent business that cannot wait. I have great need of a skilled maester and a reliable midwife. Send them immediately, along with whatever supplies they might require for a difficult birthing. Time is of the essence. Your brother, Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning."*
"A midwife?" Ashara said aloud, staring at the letter as if it might spontaneously explain itself. "Arthur needs a midwife? What in seven hells—"
"I've been trying to puzzle it out all morning," Aurelius admitted, throwing himself into a chair with the dramatic flair that ran in their bloodline. "Why is Arthur at the Tower of Joy instead of dying gloriously in battle? Why does he need a midwife? And most importantly, why all the bloody secrecy?"
Because someone is giving birth, you beautiful idiots* thought baby Cregan with the patience of someone who'd spent too many years dealing with well-meaning but oblivious adults. *Someone important enough to keep the Sword of the Morning away from his prince's final battle. Someone whose child might be significant enough to— Oh. OH. Lyanna bloody Stark.*
His infant thoughts stopped abruptly as pieces clicked into place with horrifying precision. The Tower of Joy. A secret birthing. Arthur Dayne's mysterious absence from the Trident. The timing of Rhaegar's death.
Well, shit. This is either about to become the most important birth in Westerosi history, or the most spectacular cover-up. Possibly both.*
"I'm going," Ashara said suddenly, rising from her chair with that decisive grace that had once made hardened knights step aside without thinking.