CHAPTER FOURTEEN.
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When love is in excess, it brings a man no honour, nor worthiness.

EURIPIDES
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               IT IS A STORY FROM A SONG — a fair maid stolen in the dead of night, and her brothers and betrothed riding to her rescue. They will tear a kingdom apart, pull a king from his throne and crown another in his place, all in the name of the fair, stolen maid.

This is what they do not write of in songs — Lyanna Stark is no stolen maid. Lyanna Stark is not a weakling, the pretty face about to bring the seven kingdoms crashing down, about to stain the realm in Targaryen, Lannister red. Lyanna is a dreamer before she is anything else. She does not dream of jewels or of dresses, of ponies or handsome knights. She dreams of a red castle, a distant Prince, but most of all she dreams of freedom.

     Away from Winterfell, she has dreamed on more than one occasion, away from the gray waste and the summer snow and away from it all.

Arthur tells her that much.

Astoria stands on the balcony of her chambers as the cool sea breeze rustles her skirts, bells clanging in the distance.

"He told her pretty lies, Prince Rhaegar," Arthur begins, "of prophecies and dreams and visions, of grand futures, of love that might conquer all obstacles. He told her lies and he stole her, a girl-child promised to another, he took what he wished and damned us all. He left her there with no maester to tend to her and no family. Are we, the Kingsguard, there to keep her safe or to keep her locked away, to stop her from escaping?"

Tears are rolling down his cheeks as she takes his hand and squeezes it gently, wishing she could take his burdens, his sorrow, and hold them for him.

"You are sworn to serve your prince. Even if you refused stealing her away, he would have simply ordered one of your brother's to do so," she says, voice firm. "And you would've lost your head."

She feels him slip up behind her, and so it's no surprise when his arms come around her waist. He doesn't say anything, just lets them linger in silence to watch the sun rise.

     The world hums around them and Arthur thinks, an eternity, an eternity with Astoria.

     She looks so beautiful in the moonlight, but it isn't only the way she looks, it is what was inside her, everything from her intelligence and courage to her wit, and the special smile she gives only to him. He would slay a dragon, if there were such a thing, just to see that smile. Arthur knows that he will never want anyone else for as long as he lives. He would rather spend the rest of his life alone than with someone else. Fatalism comes in many shades. For Arthur Dayne that shade is love.

     I am yours first and then the king's and then the kingdom's. He thinks, Astoria, Astoria, Astoria. He thinks, out of the strange East. You, you, you. Always, always, you.

     "I choose you," he says, leading her to the bed. "There can be no one else."

"Astoria," he says.

"Astoria," he repeats.

To her surprise, he lays his head down in her lap, his face turned toward her. It is so sudden, frightening almost, that Astoria freezes. Arthur is the Sword of the Morning in public and in private as well and she had never truly felt him to be her lover, for they could only be it in secret. In that moment though, he is not a Kingsguard. He is only a man. Tentatively, Astoria reaches out to put a hand in his dark hair, smoothing it down, the repetitiveness of the motion calming her some, as well as his proximity to her.

"I will leave early tomorrow," he murmurs, and Astoria feels her heart lurch out of her chest. "I do not know how long I will remain."

"I wish we had more time."

His warm hands find her waist. "As do I."

Astoria wishes she had the strength to push him away but instead makes do with what she could. "Robert Baratheon will win the war," she replies and from the way his eyes close shut, she knows that he is aware of that, as well. "The lords think Rhaegar just as mad as his father."

"No more talk of war," Arthur murmurs, warm hands splaying across her hips, rucking up her skirts and drawing her close to him. His nose nudges hers, and his breath fans her lips.

Astoria digs her nails into his shirt, slides her legs between his. Her hands are soft and everywhere she touches him his skin seems to burn and bristle.

     His lips buried in her hair and his eyes closed, Arthur traces soft circles on her naked shoulder with the mere movement of his index, inhaling her scent at his every breath. He is sated, satisfied — and not without a shiver he realises something else: he is feeling happy, for the first time in years.

"Thank you," he whispers, quite confident that she is sleeping.

She isn't, though.

"What for?" she mumbles against his chest, adjusting the arm she has draped around his middle.

"Nothing," Arthur retreats. She pokes him with a finger. "And everything," he yields. In the dim light of the dying fire, Astoria props herself up on her free elbow and looks at him, seriously, her other hand warm and possessive on the skin just above his heart. She had planned to talk love, truth to be told. She had planned to be reassuring and kind and affectionate — he is so handsome, though, so magnificent in the slightly lightened shadows of their bedroom, she almost cannot suppress a moan. Her fingers travel higher, to his newly bearded jaw.

There is no playful coquettishness in her eyes, no challenge, no haughty leniency. His heart is beating faster, his mouth going dry in agitation.

"With this kiss I seal my love," he says quietly and her eyes shine with unshed tears. The kiss is sweeter than before, perhaps because it would be one of their last. "So long as the world still turns, I will love you."

"Will you find me in the next life?" she asks him, as she thinks of the days to come.

"Always," he swears. "I will always find you."

He kisses her, desperate.

Her breathing slows and soon, she is asleep.

     Holding Astoria, he marvels at the feeling of being a man, just for tonight. Because in the morning, he'd become what he is, what he'd die as — a kingsguard.

     She looks peaceful and quiet. Arthur lets her sleep, for war would come soon enough. He sets his letter of farewell atop her vanity desk, the paper unfolded.

Dearest Astoria, the light of my life, my companion, my lover, my friend,

I do not deserve your forgiveness, nor do I beg for it. It brings me nothing in death. And as you and I both know, death will come for me.

I am lucky to have spent a fraction of my life with you, however little. I pray for your safe return to Pentos. There you will find joy once more, I am certain of it. Allow yourself to be happy, however you may achieve that. I will begrudge you nothing, of that I make you a promise. And while I have not kept many vows in my liftime, this, I swear; there is love waiting for you. Seek it out. I shall try and keep my jealousy at bay in death, although I never could in life.

A piece of you is with me even when we are apart, there is no time or distance that could pull you from my heart. I promised to find you in the next life and there is no valley low enough, no mountain high enough and no river wide enough to keep me from doing so. I have lived all my life in darkness and only now do see the light.

This is the way it ends. Westeros shall have its peace, no matter my desires. Do not let the memory of me be tainted by blood, and do lot let it swallow you whole. The wheels of the world shall go on spinning and the sun will rise again.

If the gods are willing, I will see you again.

Arthur

THE LAST TIME HE SEES HER, it is from afar. Their eyes find each other in the distance and hers are dark and bright, passionate and sad, beautiful and warm like the deserts of Dorne.

     "To us," he whispers. "May whatever Gods there are, favour us."

     As the world breaks apart, so does his heart.