CHAPTER ELEVEN.
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These violent delights have violent ends.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, ROMEO AND JULIET
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WHEN BRANDON STARK COMES TO King's Landing and stands at the base of the Red Keep, roaring, Astoria is in Elia's chambers, teaching Rhaenys to sew. The last day of life as Astoria knows it dawns like any other.

     She knows the boy by name and reputation, of course. Handsome, in that cold Northern style of the Starks, brash and good with a sword but not much with his brains. Rhaenys purses her lips, brow furrowing together.

     "Who is that loud man?" she asks her, pushing her thicker, blunter needle valiantly through her own piece of cloth. "What is he saying?"

     "Shhh, love," Astoria says to Rhaenys, pushing back a strand of the girl's dark, Dornish hair. "Elia, who is that?"

     Her friend does not speak, but the goblet of Dornish wine in her hand drops, clatters to the ground. Astoria stands up, but does not drop her sewing. "Who in the Seven hells —"

     "Rhaegar!" he howls up at the Keep, "Rhaegar Targaryen!"

     "He is calling for father!" Rhaenys jumps up, delighted. "Will they joust, mother?"

      Astoria feels the blood run from her face, and unbidden, her needle presses into the ball of her thumb. A drop of blood, bright and alive, beads against her skin.

     "Rhaegar!" he roars once more. "Come out to die!"

     "Gods," Astoria whispers, and clutches at Elia's arm, "Gods, what has he done?"

The truth of whatever drove Brandon Stark here, in this manner, would surely cause her more grief than good. She almost trembles at the possibilities.

Later, Aerys imprisons the young wolf indefinitely, on charges of treason. The impetuous Stark hollers at the announcement, demanding justice for his sister, and understanding not a whit of what is happening. Astoria watches, quiet in her place next to Elia, and listens to Brandon Stark outlining the crimes of her husband's folly. And as he is led away, she can feel the eyes of every lord and lady upon the woman standing beside her.

"What happens now?" Astoria asks in the blessed privacy of Elia's chambers.

"Now, we wait," Elia sits herself by the window and looks out to the torch-lit courtyard below. "Either Lord Rickard will come to claim his son, or Rhaegar will come home to settle the chaos of his actions."

Astoria goes still, back tight with tension.

She thinks she has swallowed the Tears of Lys for how badly her heart burns.

BRANDON STARK IS CURLED UP on himself in his dark cell. His shaggy beard has grown during his captivity and his eyes have the gaunt look of a person who seems to know that he is facing death almost imminently. He is almost skeleton thin, his bones protruding most horribly through the shell of his shirt. Astoria can still recognise his handsomeness, the strong jaw and full lips and slim nose — however, most of it has faded away.

      "Lord Stark," she greets crisply, holding the torch slightly away from the cell so he can fully see who it is that speaks to him.

"Who are you?" she hears the Stark heir rasp, through parched and chapped lips.

"Astoria Lhazar, though it is of no importance. I have not come for myself," she tells him, " Nor have I come for you, Lord Brandon."

His eyes hold only annoyance when she gives him no further information. He has all the time in the world, she thinks. There is no need for impatience.

"Speak plainly, then," he says.

"I am certain that you remember the lovely Ashara Dayne. While the Seven Kingdoms are on the crisp of war, she is awaiting the birth of her first child. That would be of no concern to you if it weren't for the simple fact that the babe is your brother's." She pauses and watches the different emotions on his face, surprise the most prominent. Brandon Stark stays silent. "We both know that House Dayne could never strike an alliance with the heir to the North. Should you die, your brother will take your place, leaving my friend alone and your brother's child a bastard."

His eyes are sad, yet he says nothing.

"That is the selfish cause for wishing to speak to you. Aside from that, your death would have plenty of unpleasant consequences. War would certainly be one of them, my lord."

     "I only want my sister back," he answers finally.

     Brandon Stark is a veteran of nothing, is untested in the ways of war and politics. He is a green boy — green for the fallow fields of the summertime, green like the sprouting of fresh flowers. In time, he would have learnt, yet Astoria doubts that Aerys will let him live long enough to do so.

Experience is a cruel teacher, she thinks, but you learn. Oh, how you learn.

"I know," she sighs. "But Rhaegar is a prince. He may do as he like." The words burn on her tongue but are the truth, nonetheless. The crown does not abide by the laws of the commoner.

"Shame on you for defending that silver fool," he spits, "He has taken my sister!"

"Believe me, Lord Stark," she tells him patiently, "I hold no love for the prince in my heart, no more than you do. But should you wish for the survival of your house then you must treat carefully. My lord." Astoria does not beg. She does not fall to her knees. "Please."

TIME PASSES BUT ASTORIA DOES not visit Brandon Stark again. Lord Rickard arrives in King's Landing within the moon.

Aerys grins down at the Stark men from atop his throne, looking all the world like a gargoyle. "I assume you know why I've brought you here, yes?" Aerys' voice echoes through the throne room.

Neither man spoke, merely staring at the king with eyes filled with venom.

"You are here to answer for the treason of your son, Stark. He threatened the crown prince, my heir. He deserves death for the insults he has said of my house," the king hisses through his tangled beard.

The hall is quiet as a tomb for long moments before Lord Rickard speaks.

"You are a good king, Your Grace, a merciful king," Lord Rickard begins, and the words catch in his throat. Lies, all of them. He would rather see him burn. "Your reign has brought peace and stability to this realm, a peace that has never existed since before Aegon's Landing. I implore you, Your Grace, my son is a fool. An arrogant, foolish boy. Do not let him start a war."

Aerys stumbles forward from his throne, lunges. "You mean to teach me how to rule? Have you no shame, no honor, you Northern bastard?" he snarls. "One cannot be permitted to insult the dragon! I am your king!"

There is a heavy pause, filled with tension. Then — "You are no king of mine."

"You are as wild as the animals of your sigil," Aerys seethes, and yet humour is wrapping around his sharp teeth as the words come out. "I shall greet you with fire and blood, I shall —"

"Do not be reckless, my love," the queen tries, in her high and whispery tone. "Rhaegar will come back, and put this matter to rest. No one need come to any —"

     But Aerys rips away from her bruised hands, pacing in front of his court with splitting laughter.

     "I will teach you all!" he shrieks, pointing a claw-like finger at Lord Rickard. "You shall feel the dragon's flame! Burn him!"

The guards around the two men move fast, as if they know what the king wants before he had even said it. Brandon fights so hard as his father is forced to his feet that half a dozen guard have to hold him down. Lord Rickard does not struggle as he is forced into a suite of armor, but his cold eyes never leave the king.

"I'll kill you myself! Give me a sword and I'll open you from balls to brains!" Brandon Stark bellows from between guards.

"You shall have your sword." Aerys leans forward on the throne, leering. "It is a death sentence to threaten the king, but I will not touch you, no. I'll let you kill yourself."

As wood for a fire is being placed around where Lord Rickard has been bound in his armour and hung a foot from the ground by a rope looped around a beam in the ceiling, his heir is tied to a wall with a length of wet leather strung around his neck. A long sword is being placed just out of his reach.

"If you can grasp the sword, you can save your father. If not, he will roast alive," the king cackles like a madman. "Bring the wildfire." The pyromancer scuttles past the king, returning quickly with a rough clay jar the size of an apple.

The lords and ladies are too well bred to stare as the green flames flare up, averting their eyes to the floor instead, but the lower born gape openly, expressions of horror and terror playing in equal parts across their faces. The laughter of the king, Lord Rickard's screams, and Brandon's curses are the only sounds that can be heard.

     For a second, Astoria sees red. Her breath comes in heavy pants, and her breasts rise and fall beneath her gown.

     Oh, Arthur, what are you doing? Where are you?

     The court is silent. The court is still.

     Three hundred men stand there and watch.

     Three hundred men, and the room is as silent as a crypt.

"SER", ASTORIA HEARS HERSELF SAY, her own voice sounding distant. Like a dream — but the air smells of ashes and burnt flesh, and she knows there will be no waking up this time. "Let me pass."

"This is not a sight for a lady's eyes," Ser Barristan tells her, and Astoria wants to laugh. She has seen her mother's birthing chambers and the aftermaths of her brother's duels, nursed wounds with her father's septas; and here comes this white knight to shield her delicate eyes from the ugliness of life. Ser Barristan speaks in polite lies and practiced sentences, like the rest of Aerys's court, and she wonders if he truly believes them.

     "Let me pass," she repeats, moving him closer, turning her head slightly so that the light shines through her hairs, hits her eyes at just the right angle. She knows how she looks; warriors have their weapons, and Astoria Lhazar has hers.

     "His Grace —" the man continues, but she knows she has him.

     "The king hasn't said a thing about Brandon Stark's body."

     Otherwise it would not be here, forgotten in some corner. I will have to call for the Silent Sisters, Astoria thinks to herself, as if it is just another one of her duties. It all feels so unreal, and she feels like she might burst in mad laughter like she has seen Aerys do. Brandon Stark is dead, she tells herself, over and over again; waiting for reality to sink into her. And Ashara will pay the price for his folly.

     Jaime Lannister is standing by the Iron Throne when Astoria walks in, her steps echoing in the empty room.

     He is staring into nothingness, same as he's been doing for hours; or so she has heard. Searching. For what? Astoria wonders.

     With his youthful face and white armour, he looks like a boy playing at being a knight. The boy is still delicate, for all the man he has become today.

     Lord Rickard's burnt remains were carried out, though Astoria doesn't know where to, but the king had lost interest by then and walked away, his retinue with him. The court followed, all still shocked Aerys had dared kill one of his Great Lords, and no one seemed to waste a thought about his heir. And so Brandon Stark had been left behind, forgotten in death as he had never been in life. Dead and broken and forgotten.

     "Lady Astoria?"

     She winces and turns, heart beating in her chest; but it's only Ser Jaime, shaken away from his stupor at last.

     "Ser," Astoria greets. "Are you feeling well?" She offers the tender smile that he so cruelly denies himself.

     His skin looks almost grey under the light of the torches; but she can see him blushing as she speaks, ashamed at having his weaknesses noticed by a woman. Or angry, perhaps, she thinks, hoping with all her heart that he will not go telling the king of their encounter. Aerys's hasn't forbidden to move Brandon's body, but it is better for her if he never takes notice of her. Especially now.

WHEN NEWS OF BRANDON and Rickard Stark's fate arrive at the Tower of Joy, Rhaegar goes quiet.

     As silence engulfs the men, Arthur heads for the top of the tower from where he can see the Red Mountains in their entire glory. He stares at their shape, turning golden and crimson under the halo of fire that is the setting sun and breathes the fresh breeze stroking his face, breathes Dorne in. How had he lived for so long without its swelter, without the cooling caress of the evening wind, without the whinnying of the sand steeds in their mountain pastures?

     The days bleed into one another. Lady Lyanna's belly grows larger, and soon enough she will be so heavy with child that she is forced to stay in the tower Rhaegar has aptly named the Tower of Joy. Ser Oswell had secretly rolled his eyes at that, much to the Lord Commander's consternation.

     His eyes are inevitably drawn to the far end of the mountain tops, to something he cannot see, only feel. Starfall is there, so close and so out of reach. He longs to go there, to see his youngest sister whom he probably wouldn't recognise, to embrace Ashara, to talk to his brother about small things of no importance.

     How he had longed to escape once! How he had obsessed over the glory he had been sure awaited him! How he had wanted to make something of himself out of the isolation of Dorne, to be a part of something bigger, greater! And now he is trapped here on Rhaegar's whim when his mind, his conscience, his body even screams that it is not right, that he shouldn't be here, that none of this should have happened, ever, in any place but this one least of all. It was when he had achieved his dream of becoming a Kingsguard that he realised that in some recess of his mind, he is Dornish through and through. Just a recess but it spread like the pain from a battle wound, like the blood flowing in his veins. He is Dornish and he is restrained. The Tower of Joy, the Prince's love nest, has turned into Arthur's prison. His guard is his shame, his torment the memory of better, merrier days, Starfall, Sunspear, the Water Gardens —

     Astoria.

     If every day he weighs the costs of ripping up the white cloak that has brought him little more than misery and spiriting her away somewhere the no one can find them — well. No one has to know.

     He loves Astoria most when he's a thousand miles away atop a derelict tower while war rages on, when he sees her beauty in the desert daisies and her elegance in the Red Mountains and her warmth under the scorching Dornish sun. Arthur does love her, he is certain of that now.

In his dreams, she smiles and they dance.