CHAPTER FOUR.
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She wears strenght and darkness equally well,
the girl has always been half goddess, half hell.
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               SHE REMEMBERS OBERYN MARTELL SAYING that tourneys are free of sin, that what occurs there need never leave the grounds, and so she tells herself that mayhaps she should've done it.

But then again, should she not know better? Astoria wishes for things to be as easy as they had once been, but that is a children's dream and she is older now. That dream had died when her eldest brother hadn't returned from his travels, ship sunk, having died somewhere in the sea, never to be seen again.

     Before that, Astoria had believed the world to be good. She had thought herself to be blessed. Highborn and graced with a striking beauty and a clever wit simply has to mean that the Lord of Light looks upon her with kindness, she had been so sure of it.

She learnt her lesson with the death of a brother and the reminder of her mother that life is neither just nor fair. But still, the days had seemed easier back then. When they were naught but children, naive and innocent. Not being heavily burdened with marriage and a coming war yet, Elia and her had met as mere girls in the Water Gardens of Sunspear.

     She remembers Sunspear, filled to the very sky with life. The old men playing cyvasse on the streets, the women arguing with the merchants peddling their wares, Myrish salesmen with thick accents and meters upon meters of gauzy lace, Lyseni women with flaxen hair and lips shaped like flowers.

     She remembers the Dornish trees heavy with blood oranges shading the pools of the Martell palace, which are full of children of all ages. There is laughter and shouts, and Astoria immediately smiles at the memory, the merriment so different from somber King's Landing. Even before Elia had fallen ill a fortnight ago, there was little time for fun in the capitol.

She remembers looking around with curious eyes, trying to find the princess she is supposed to entertain, but there are so many girls, all splashing about in nothing but their skin, and there is no way to tell who is a noble and who is common.

It is because of their father's friendship that Astoria visits Westeros at ten, not even having flowered yet and already discovering a foreign continent. Elia and her would soon turn from strangers to friends to sisters in all but blood.

     She remembers Oberyn being her first love as clear as day. At the sweet age of ten-and-five, she had thought that if she couldn't have him she wouldn't want anyone else to share her bed. Elia had prayed for them to marry so Astoria would finally be her sister in name as well, but fate and their parents had decided otherwise.

She remembers Elia under the Dornish sun, fresh air thick with the smell of spice and flowers. She remembers Elia, healthy and strong and head held high.

     These days of innocence are far gone, but Astoria remembers.

NOW, THREE YEARS LATER, EVERYTHING has changed but it still brings her naught but joy seeing her friend happy and carefree for once. These moments however, are rare and as the days go by the chances to witness it become smaller.

Astoria has spent two moons and a fortnight in King's Landing and if she could, she'd leave within seconds. But she cannot leave Elia or her children behind. Not now that Ashara plans on taking her leave.

Their Dornish friend has taken on a common sickness, one that would make her belly swell and give her a mother's stomache in short notice. Seemingly, her hasty affair with the Quiet Wolf of Winterfell has blossomed into something else and his seed had quickened in her womb.

Her father has not yet been informed but her mother has written for her to come home to Dorne as not to let the lords and ladies of the court see the small bump that would soon be present. Starfall is awaiting their Lady Ashara and so, she must obey. For Astoria it means one person less that brings Elia joy, between the madness of the king and the melancholy of the crownprince.

She cannot imagine the homesickness Elia, who has spent so many years here already, must feel. It is altogether too different from Dorne as to see any similarities. The food is bland, tasteless, with no seasoning apart from salt and a little pepper. The women are quiet, silent except when spoken to — even the Queen Rhaella — yet when Astoria looks them in the eye, she feels the hair on the back of her neck rise. They are wolves, and lions, and foxes; beasts, all of them. They smile, bright and blooming when it suits them, but behind it there is the promise of blood.

               A SMALL HAND IS TUGGING at her skirts and Rhaenys is calling "Tora, Tora!" as she cannot say Astoria yet, and the Pentoshi is scooping her up into her arms, hair sticky with sweat from running up and down her chambers and a smile lighting her face.

She had been named Rhaenys, a woman who might be remembered romantically here, but in Dorne it is a name remembered only with fear and with hate. Rhaegar had named her that, while Elia had lain in her own blood, insensible and feverish, having lost more blood than the maesters at her bedside had insisted she could survive. Perhaps he'd meant it as a grand gesture, a way of burying the past, of reconciling what had separated them — for what's the point of breeding children, if each generation does not improve on what went before? But Astoria can only speculate.

Elia has not been feeling well for a couple of days and so it is Astoria who cares for the two children as if they are her own. Sometimes she gives them to one of the wetnurses, needing some hours of silence and sleep, but otherwise she plays at being a mother, while their real one must stay in bed in order to live.

     It is Arthur who accompanies her wherever she and the royal children go, helping her with entertaining them so they don't miss Elia as much. They break their fast together in the morning and wander through the gardens at noon, when the sky is cloudless and the sun at its highest. Astoria feels the stares of the court on her bronze skin, wondering, judging. She hears the whispers of highborn and lowborn alike. They ask themselves what it is that makes their princess so bedridden and whether this time, the sickness would finally take her away. Some of them seem almost gleeful, despising both Dorne and the Dornish people.

     Only at night does she step inside the warm chambers of her dear friend, head feverishly hot, eyes glossed over with sickness. The measter had said that Death wouldn't claim her, but seeing her like this makes Astoria wonder.

     Her whispers are drowning in the chaos and trouble of the city beneath the Red Keep but she believes Elia to hear them. "Unbowed, unbent, unbroken," she recites the Martell words through quiet tears. "You are the sun and you will live. You must."

Arthur recognises the troubled look in her eyes as she leaves the chambers after some time and tries to ease her worries. "The princess Elia has survived worse, trust me."

Astoria knows that he means well but her friend is walking the thin line between life and death, so she cannot acknowledge any kindness. "Like the dishonour from the prince you so happily call your friend?" Her voice is filled with venom to the brim and though she knows her words to be unfair, she doesn't cower away at his frown.

     "What he did to her was unjust. But it is not my place to judge the royal family," he quietly answers, eyes begging for her not to continue. Something in his fearful look makes her next words stuck in her throat. The Sword of the Morning is never afraid but somehow, she can sense his hidden concern. "I shall see you to your chambers, my lady," he rushes her forward, into the darkness of the long halls. The fire from the torches lining the walls is bright and lights the way.

     Nothing can be heard except for their own shallow breathing and she wonders whether Arthur can hear her heart beating loudly. It takes them only a few turns until they reach the doors to her chambers. Suddenly, Astoria thinks back to the night of the tourney, where they had ended up here as well. "I bid you a good night," she quickly bows, wanting to dissappear into the safe haven of her room.

     "Astoria —"

"Yes, good Ser?" Her tone is almost mocking although she can sense his begging eyes on her.

     "Astoria," he whispers once more, feeling fire within her name. But there is someting else. Something sweet. Something sad. Arthur cannot and dares not name it.