"Ashara, no." Aurelius leaped to his feet, hands raised in what he probably thought was a placating gesture but actually looked more like he was trying to calm a particularly dangerous wildcat. "It's too dangerous. The realm is in chaos, there are soldiers and sellswords everywhere looking for easy targets, and we don't even know what we'd be walking into—"
"Arthur is our brother," Ashara said firmly, her voice carrying that particular tone that meant the discussion was over whether he realized it or not. "He wouldn't ask for help unless he desperately needed it. And more than that, he specifically asked for a midwife. Someone is giving birth, Aurelius, and they're in trouble."
She bounced Cregan gently, her mind already racing ahead to logistics with the ruthless efficiency that had once made her the most sought-after lady-in-waiting at court. "Maester Harwyn can handle the medical side, but I've assisted in more difficult births than anyone else in Dorne. If someone needs help bringing a child safely into this world, then by the Seven, that's exactly what I'm going to do."
That's my mother* thought baby Cregan with fierce pride. *Brilliant, brave, and absolutely terrifying when she's made up her mind about something. Rather like a very pretty hurricane with excellent taste in jewelry.*
"Then I'm coming with you," Aurelius said immediately, his jaw set in that stubborn line that had gotten him into trouble since childhood.
"No." Ashara's voice carried that steel-over-silk quality that had once made princes reconsider their strategies. "Starfall needs its lord, especially now. If Robert's rebels are sweeping through the realm like locusts, our people need someone here to protect them."
"I won't let you ride into the middle of bloody nowhere with just a grumpy maester for protection," Aurelius protested, his accent growing thicker with emotion as it always did when he was genuinely worried.
"You won't be *letting* me do anything," Ashara replied with the kind of cool precision that could cut glass. "I'll be *choosing* to do it. There's a difference. A rather important one, actually."
Oooh, she's using the voice* observed baby Cregan with professional interest. *Uncle's about to fold like a house of cards in a windstorm.*
"Besides," Ashara continued, adjusting her hair with the kind of casual gesture that somehow made it look even more perfectly arranged, "I won't be defenseless. Dawn may belong to Arthur, but I wasn't exactly helpless with a blade before I became a mother. And Harwyn knows enough about poisons to drop a destrier. We'll manage."
Aurelius looked like he wanted to argue further, but one glance at his sister's expression—that particular combination of determination and barely contained exasperation that meant she was about two seconds away from doing something dramatically final—told him it would be pointless. When Ashara Dayne set her mind to something, arguing with her was about as effective as trying to hold back the tide with a dinner fork.
"At least take a proper escort," he said finally, his voice carrying the defeated tone of a man who'd just realized he was fighting a losing battle. "A dozen good men, armed and armored and ugly enough to scare off bandits."
"Six," Ashara countered smoothly. "Enough to handle opportunistic thieves, not so many as to look like an invasion force. If this situation is as delicate as Arthur's letter suggests, showing up with a small army might make things considerably worse."
"Fine. Six men, but I choose them personally. And they're all going to be absolute bastards who'd cut their own mothers' throats if you asked them nicely."
"Agreed. Though perhaps phrase it more diplomatically when you brief them."
This is either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid* mused baby Cregan. *Possibly both. Though given that I'm apparently about to meet my aunt Lyanna and my newborn cousin, I suppose I should be grateful for the chance to expand the family circle. Assuming we all survive the experience.*
An hour later, the courtyard of Starfall was bustling with controlled chaos as preparations for departure got underway. Maester Harwyn stumped about muttering under his breath about "fool errands" and "bloody dramatic knights," while simultaneously packing enough medical supplies to stock a small hospital.
"Mark my words," he grumbled to anyone within earshot, his voice carrying that particular brand of pessimistic authority that came from forty years of dealing with noble idiots and their spectacular ideas, "this is going to end badly. Mysterious summons to remote towers never end well in the stories. Usually there's cursed princesses or imprisoned wizards involved. Sometimes both, if you're particularly unlucky."
"Harwyn," Ashara called from across the courtyard, where she was checking the straps on Cregan's travel basket with the methodical precision of someone who'd learned that small details could mean the difference between life and death. "Are you quite finished with your predictions of doom?"
"Not even close, my lady," Harwyn replied with the cheerful nihilism of a man who'd seen enough noble adventures to know how they usually ended. "I've got at least another hour's worth of pessimistic observations. Would you like to hear my thoughts on the likelihood of encountering bandits, harsh weather, mysterious locked doors, or possibly all three at once in some sort of catastrophic convergence of inconvenience?"
Perhaps save them for the journey," Ashara suggested dryly, her lips quirking in what might have been a smile. "We'll need something to discuss during the long ride."
I like him even more now* thought baby Cregan as Harwyn continued his litany of complaints while efficiently organizing medical supplies. *He's like a medieval version of a pessimistic comedy writer—practical, sarcastic, and absolutely unshakeable in a crisis. The kind of person who'd complain about the weather while calmly setting broken bones.*