Thank you to my reviewers: Xenolov and Clove25. I really appreciate it, so thank you! Hope you enjoy the final part.

When the Stars Fall (Part Two)

Voices sounded in the far distance, barely penetrating the silence that surrounded him. Reaching him only in waves, Ser Barristan couldn't discern what they were saying. When he tried to open his eyes, all he could make out were the cold stone walls badly illuminated by a distant brazier. All he could feel was the cold and the pain from his injuries. The last thing he remembered was pulling the quarrel from his thigh, but now he questioned whether there weren't more that he hadn't noticed at the time, such was the pain he was in. Even breathing was hard and every rib ached in protest whenever he inhaled.

Testing the limits of his consciousness, he tried moving a hand. It brushed against damp rushes and rough, cold stone. He had been dumped on the floor like a sack of turnips. Giving up on moving, he lay back and let his eyes close, focusing his attention on the voices instead.

"I think he's waking up. Inform King Robert"

The voice belonged to a Northerner, but Ser Barristan could not readily identify him. Older than Eddard Stark, he ruled out the new Lord of Winterfell. Roose Bolton? It seemed likely. Hearing Robert titled 'King' made his stomach churn.

"Aye, my lord," a younger man replied.

The older man sighed mightily. "I've already counselled the King to slit his throat and be done with it. But Robert is prevaricating."

"B-but, my lord, that's Barristan Selmy!"

Ser Barristan tried to stir. But his limbs now felt as though they were made of lead. All he succeeded in doing was shoving aside some rushes and grazing his elbow on the stone floor. Another cut to throw in with the rest of his injuries. It wasn't fear of death that moved him; just a desperate urge to move, to do something other than lie there helplessly. When he settled again, he did so in time to catch the Lord's clipped reply to the gaoler.

"Selmy was a great man, once. Now, he is a traitor to the Crown. I dare say the new King is sending for a headsman as we speak."

If he had had the strength, Ser Barristan would have laughed. He had served the crown with nothing but utmost loyalty for as long as he could remember. Once more, his years of bitter experience kicked in: he knew you only had to pick the wrong side once and everything you ever did counted for nothing. He had served the King loyally, but Aerys turned out to be the wrong King.

Hurried footsteps crossed the stone floor, echoing loudly as though they were in a dungeon. Only one of the men had left and he couldn't guess which. But the second wasn't far behind the first and finally he felt safe enough to open his eyes again. Flat on his back, he was staring up at a stone, vaulted roof. The black bat of Harrenhal was engraved on the flagstones lining the passageway outside his cell. He could see it clearly through the bars on his door. A thick chain was laced through the steel, securing him in place and ruling out any escape.

To the side, a stone bench was fixed to the wall. His captors hadn't even bothered to carry him to it, instead just dropping him on the floor. Not only had he been called a traitor, he was being treated like one too. It was that which made him feel sick to the stomach and brought the bile to the back of his throat.

Harrenhal, of all places. Now that he was alone, he managed to sit up and half-crawl, half-drag himself over to the back wall, farthest from the brazier's flame. As soon as he made it, he propped himself up against the wall despite the cold dampness of the stone surface. That small exertion alone left him breathless again. He turned his eyes to the vaulted ceiling.

He let himself see past the stones, allowing his mind's eye to climb up through the layers of brick and mortar. The Hall of a Hundred Hearths was directly overhead. A place where, scarce two years before, the whole realm had danced together. Every infinitesimal detail of that dance awoke in his memory; the colours and the sounds. The music that filled the halls and the singer's voices. Rhaegar played the harp and reduced Lady Stark to tears. The thought of them now was like an iron fist squeezing his heart.

Then Ashara danced. He played it again in his head; every step and every pirouette. The way she turned her head and her dark hair slid over her narrow shoulder. He could only watch from the side lines as she swayed and twirled in the arms of Eddard Stark. That same triumphant rebel leader had been so shy, back then, that it was his older brother who had arranged the dance. Barristan could see Brandon still, leaning down and whispering in Ashara's ear. His lips so close they almost brushed against her skin as he spoke. Later, he was unable to do anything but watch as she walked away with him-

"Ser Barristan!"

Jolted out of his reverie, he glared through the bars of his cell door. Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, appeared with lantern in hand. He had been right, earlier on. It gave Ser Barristan some small triumph to have guessed the identity of the man pushing for his death.

"King Robert has granted you an audience. You're to come with me."

Barristan didn't realise he had even requested an audience, but he decided against quibbling the matter. He raised his head, meeting the Lord's gaze and noting his pale eyes and sunken face. Bolton's was a visage that haunted the nightmares of maidens. He did not move as the door was unchained with a grating whine of the lock. So two burly gaolers appeared from the darkness and lifted him under the arms.

They began to carry him, not caring that his feet hit the flagstones, sending shockwaves of pain coursing through his body. Then it was a matter of pride alone that got him back on his own two feet.

"I can stand!" he stated, waspishly. "And I know where I'm going."

The men who half-dragged him stopped, but didn't let go. They were looking at Bolton, who assented with a nod of the head.

"Thank you, my lord," said Ser Barristan.

Standing of his own volition hurt like all seven hells, but he would sooner die than be carried and thrown at the usurper's feet as though he were a sacrificial offering. Walking was even more difficult, with every step causing his injured limbs to scream with pain. But he gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, enduring every step. Out of the dungeons, they emerged into the clean, fresh air. After being locked in almost total darkness for so long, the sunlight dazzled him, making him wince. If he flagged, the man walking behind shoved him painfully in the small of his back causing him to stumble forwards. But he refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing him fall. Every time a shove came, he ambled forwards and righted himself abruptly.

If he looked to the left, he could see where the jousts were held. The tracks were still there, where the horses charged down the lanes. If he closed his eyes, he could conjure the crowds and the noise of the lances smashing to splinters. Ashara had bestowed her favours on him before he entered and, had he won, he would have crowned her the Queen of Love and Beauty. It was then, in that moment, that he would have announced his decision to forsake his vows. But in the event, Rhaegar won and the crown went to another, altogether different, girl.

A wry smile spread across his face as the crossed the site of the seven sided tourney. If he had won that day, the war would probably have been avoided. Now, it seemed, he would not see that place again until the headsman came for him. The stands where the spectators roared his name would soon be the scaffold on which his head was taken. A fresh scalp for King Robert's collection.

After what seemed an age, they reached a grand hall that smelled as though it had been sealed for a century. Cobwebs hung from the roof beams and dust plumed in the air, catching the sunlight, as the doors swung open to admit them. The new King, Robert Baratheon, was seated on a dais at the far end of the room. Lord Jon Arryn was standing at his side, looking on anxiously.

"Bend your knee," Roose Bolton quietly commanded him.

He hesitated for just a fraction of a second, gulping down a swell of bile as he lowered himself painfully to the ground. He fought to keep his expression benign and betraying no trace of pain as he knelt. But before his knee could even hit the stone floor, Robert was on his feet and striding down the hallway.

"Enough of that!" he roared. "Damn you, Bolton, help him back to his feet."

Now Ser Barristan took pleasure in watching Roose Bolton have no choice but to obey a command. The Leech Lord guided him up again with an expression of utmost sourness on his gaunt features. When he was upright, he took a good look at Robert Baratheon. Tall, handsome and slender. But powerfully strong for his slenderness and with a twinkle in his clear, blue eyes. He was the sort of man women went weak at the knees for.

"Leave us!" the King commanded, still looking him dead in the eye.

Even Jon Arryn shuffled out of the Hall, leaving them quite alone together. Then Robert put an arm around his shoulders and guided him to the same seat on the dais that he had just vacated. A gesture that took Ser Barristan completely by surprise. Even more so when Robert himself poured them both a drink himself. Clearly, he had a lot to learn about being King and running a royal household.

"Summer Wine," said Robert. "I bet you haven't had that for a while, eh?"

He was right, but Ser Barristan was still erring on the side of caution and made no vocal reply. Meanwhile, Robert was scrutinising him closely.

"I'll have my Maesters tend those wounds. They'll bring Milk of the Poppy, too," he said.

Ser Barristan heaved a dry, painful laugh that turned into a wracking cough. "So I can be in finest fettle when they take my head?"

"Who said anything about taking your head?" Robert demanded, glaring down at him from over his goblet of wine. "The Others take Roose Bolton and his useless counsel."

Ser Barristan drew a sharp breath, looking back at Robert and wondering whether he had heard that right.

"Your Grace, I thought for the Targaryens and I would do so again-"

"I expect no less of the Kingsguard!" Robert cut over him, sitting himself down at the edge of the dais. "Look here, I'm not a monster. I'm not Aerys. You took a vow to serve the King and he was the King, not me. You did your duty and I understand that. But now you have to understand that things are different and I am King."

Robert was being reasonable where many others in the same place would have struck him down where he sat. Ser Barristan no longer saw reason to be objectionable.

"I understand," he said. "You are King and whatever show of fealty you require-"

"None," Robert cut over him again. Clearly, he was not yet a man of great patience. He rose to his feet again, restlessly. As he closed the gap between them, he lowered himself to they were face to face. "There's only one thing I require of you right now, and that's the whereabouts of my fiancée: Lyanna Stark. My future Queen. Where did Rhaegar take her?"

The twinkle in the King's eye had hardened into a desperate hunger. It chilled Ser Barristan to think that the young man before him really had torn this realm to pieces for her. It went beyond love and into obsession. Lyanna was like a prize to him; a piece of meat to be won. Not like Ashara and him. To him, Ashara was someone he had to earn. He had to be worthy of her. But, with Rhaegar dead, he realised he had to tell all or Lyanna would be forever hiding in that tower.

"I can tell you, Your Grace," he said. "But there's something I need in return."

"Tell it and it will be so," Robert replied without so much as a pause for thought.

Ser Barristan, however, did pause while he gathered his wits.

"Your Grace, I need you to release me from my vows to the Kingsguard," he said, tremulously. "I will serve you as my King in whatever capacity you require of me, but not as Kingsguard. Secondly, I need your men to find Lady Ashara Dayne and keep her safe and unhurt until such time that I can come for her."

"So be it," Robert agreed, again without hesitation. "I will regret not having you on my Kingsguard until the day I die, Ser Barristan. But if this is for the love of Lady Ashara, I won't stand in your way. Just remember my love for Lyanna and tell me what I need to know."

Ser Barristan drew a deep breath. "The Tower of Joy, in the Red Mountains of Dorne," he began, before giving exact coordinates. "She is guarded by Oswell Whent, Ser Arthur Dayne and two others. You may need a host of men to ride south and rescue her. It could be that the men there remain loyal to Rhaegar and Aerys."

It struck him as odd that they were in Oswell Whent's family castle. The rest of the family had clearly bent the knee, but there was no telling what he might do. But the matter was now out of his hands. He had been released from his vows, he had done his duty and now he was free. For the first time in his life, he could follow his heart in the one thing it wanted most. Even if Ashara spurned him, he had the chance to try for her hand. That was all he wanted. He thought he had earned that much.

Meanwhile, Robert was relaying the whereabouts to Jon Arryn. Lord Stark, it seemed, was already well on the road south and now outriders would have to catch up with him and tell him where Lyanna actually is. When the new King returned, Ser Barristan was able to look him in the eye.

"You've treated me with honour, Your Grace," he said, perfectly happy to admit it. It seemed that Robert didn't even know he was locked in a cage until recently. "My health permitting, I will remain in your Kingsguard until such time that Ashara is found and you have a suitable replacement for me. Is that fair?"

The young King beamed as brightly as a boy who had won approval from a favourite teacher. "More than fair," he said, extending a hand. "It would be an honour."

Willingly, Ser Barristan shook it. With that done, Maesters were sent for and a much more comfortable place of convalescence found. He was put in a feather bed, where his wounds were tended and dressed. Before long, Milk of the Poppy was slipping into his bloodstream, lulling him into a peaceful sleep.

It was Ashara's mother who told her the details. Of how Gregor Clegane scaled Maegor's Holdfast to gain entry to the Red Keep; of how he battered down Elia's chamber door and raped her violently before slaughtering her. Of how Rhaenys watched, cradling her little brother and screaming for her father before, they too, were put to the sword. She recounted how Jaime Lannister put a sword through Aerys' back, leaving his corpse bleeding and broken at the foot of the Iron Throne.

Elia must have been where she left her: lying in that bed and fading away from grief. After hearing the final details, she walked from her mother's solar at Starfall and went outside to breathe in the fresh air. And to be violently sick in the bushes. Only when she had heaved up everything she'd eaten that week, did she return indoors to where the real Aegon had been hidden in her old bed chamber. When she reached him, she held him close to her breast and wept. Fat, salty tears dripping onto his head, mixing with his fuzzy silver hair. All the while, she thought of that nameless infant who had died in his place. Probably the son of some prostitute. Unwanted; unimportant.

I would have wanted him, she thought to herself. She had wanted her own daughter, despite the shame she brought on her House. Yet when she died, moments after she was born, her own mother told her she ought to be grateful. The death of her child had been spoken of as though some great stigma had been washed away, but Ashara had been left feeling dead inside. Now, even her daughter's father was dead; killed in front of the whole Court while the people looked on in stunned silence. He had dishonoured her. She only succumbed to him in a moment of folly and weakness, because the man she truly loved could never be with her.

"Who is he really?" her mother asked, standing in the doorway of her room.

Ashara looked over the infant's head, to where she was. "Aegon," she replied, simply. "The real Aegon. Elia begged me to take him and I promised I would."

She didn't know how her mother would react. Whether angry for bringing such danger into their halls, or otherwise. Luckily for them both, it was otherwise.

"Seven blessings on him," her mother sighed, sinking back against the wall. Her eyes filled with tears as she entered the room properly. "Will you pass him off as your own? No one saw…" She trailed off, not wanting to dredge up painful memories.

"No one saw my daughter," Ashara filled in the blanks for her. "But no. Some powerful friends will come for him and he will be raised far from here. Until the time is right. I can't go with him otherwise people will know. But I would that I could."

She looked down at Aegon again. He was sleeping, his fist curled tight around a lock of her hair. If only she could read the future and see what lay in store for him. And for his aunt and uncle, fled across the Narrow Sea to Bravos. While she cogitated, her mother kissed her cheek. There was something about the gesture that seemed almost apologetic.

"Mama," she said, meeting her gaze.

But her mother pressed a finger to her lip, quietening her. "I leave for Sunspear in the morning. I must pay my respects to the Martells. But our day will come again, thanks to you." She smiled and a pained smile. "Now let no man speak ill of you again."

It was Elia, really. Elia sacrificed her life so her son could live freely, without being hunted. Viserys and the newest Princess would spend their lives dodging assassins round every corner. But little Aegon will thrive and be loved, secretly growing, secretly promising the return of the dragons just when the usurper least expected it. That was all the revenge Ashara needed.

When morning came, her mother left and Varys arrived. Their conversation was brief. The details of the slaughter had shaken the Master of Whispers. He was pale and stammering, looking like he was about to vomit. But he spelled out the plan and her part in it was done. When Varys left with the baby, she was alone. Only the household staff remained, and they did not trouble her unless she needed them.

As the weeks went by, she took to walking the ramparts of Starfall. From up high, she could look out over the Red Mountains of Dorne. She could look down the length of the twisting Torrentine River and out into the wide Summer Sea. If she looked east, she could see the Stepstones on a clear day. The whole of southern Westeros spread out before, rolling and undulating into the distance, vanishing into mist.

She liked it when the northern winds brushed past her face, fanning her hair. Even the early morning dew falls felt vivid and alive on her skin. But as time passed, the sorrow followed her. A quiet, everlasting presence of sorrow. It was nothing dramatic; no wailing or gnashing of teeth. Just as sadness that their whole world had been torn asunder. She did not think it would ever go away.

It must have been a month after Varys came for Aegon that Eddard Stark showed up at Starfall. She was up on the battlements when he arrived and watched as the tiny black speck of his horse drew closer to the castle. She looked down between the merlons as he crossed the drawbridge and passed beneath the portcullis before going down to greet him.

He was waiting for her in the Great Hall. Dawn, their ancestral longsword had been placed on a trestle table normally used at meal times. Looking from the sword, to Stark and back again, she remembered the boy she danced with at Harrenhal. There was none of that left in him now. The war had aged him. His expression hang dog and thin. Grey eyes, like his sisters, now shadowed with pain and grief. Experiences worn on his sleeve for all to see.

"Lord Stark," she said, greeting him with clipped tones. "You appear to have my brother's sword."

He turned that doleful expression on her. "My Lady, I-" he began, then the words seemed to choke him. He stammered, drew a deep breath and started again. "My Lady, your brother fell in battle; at the Tower of Joy. I – I'm sorry."

She almost expected it, but still the news came like a kick in the gut. But she would not grieve in front of his enemy. Instead, she picked up the sword in her bare hands and kissed the blade.

"He was a good man," she said, tremulously. "He fought on the wrong side, but he was a good man."

"He was, My Lady," agreed Eddard. "Many good men died fighting in these wars. It's the nature of the beast."

She couldn't argue with that. The most painful thing was that there would be more wars, sooner or later. More good people would die. More wives, mothers and sisters would be left to grieve.

"Did you find her?" she asked, looking back up at Lord Stark. "Lyanna, I mean."

His expression closed, almost as though she had struck him. "Yes," he replied. "Dying, at first. Now dead."

Ashara felt no pleasure. Only a deepening of the sadness that already existed in her. Putting Dawn back down on the table, she crossed the room to him and placed one hand on his arm. When he met her gaze, she saw the tears standing in his eyes. Not falling. Just standing there.

"I was no great friend to your sister, after what she did to Elia and the realm," she said. "But news of her death saddens me. I am sorry for all your losses, Lord Stark. For your father, and Brandon too."

He trembled. She could feel it under the sleeve of his surcoat. "And I for yours, My Lady."

"So, what of Lyanna's child?" she asked. His eyes widened in alarm, shocked that she should know. But Ashara only smiled bitterly. "That's why my brother was guarding her and not on the Trident with his Prince, Lord Stark. We're not idiots. So, a boy or a girl?"

"A boy," he replied, his voice barely a murmur. "He lives and I've named him Jon."

Another Targaryen Prince. But Aegon's claim would come before Lyanna's offering and she wasn't about to divulge the Prince's survival to a Stark rebel. Not even one that had a cuckoo in his own nest, now.

Ashara nodded. "Tell everyone you had an affair with a tavern girl and he was the result. You might just get away with it if he looks like her."

"That's the plan," Lord Stark replied. "Everything is arranged already." They lapsed into silence, each harbouring their own silent grief. Stark was about to walk away, when he suddenly stopped himself and faced her once more. "If I had been in King's Landing, those babes would never have been put to the sword."

She met his gaze and knew he was telling the truth. A trust she conveyed with a pained smile.

"I know," she said. "Before you leave, do you know what happened to Ser Barristan Selmy?"

His brow furrowed as he waked back over to her. "He survived the battle but was taken prisoner. I left Harrenhal just as he was being brought in."

Her heart lifted at the news of his survival, racing and beating against her ribs. "Was he injured?"

He hesitated, only supplying more information at her shrill demand.

"Yes, injured," he replied. "But Lord Bolton was pushing for his execution, my lady. As far as I know, he will be beheaded at Harrenhal. Given how much time has passed, it's probably already been done."

Of course, she thought to herself, how could I have been so damnably stupid? He fought against the King; he had been captured as a traitor. Despite the pain in her heart, she managed a ghost of a smile as she waved Ned Stark off. Really, she should have taken Arthur's sword and shoved it through his grim, northern heart.

Alone again, she returned to her empty chambers with only the ghosts of her friends for company. Arthur; Elia, Rhaegar, the children; Ser Barristan. Even Brandon the Dishonourable and his morally questionable sister. He and Lyanna were not bad people. Just people whose personality flaws were different to her own. Now that they were all dead she could no longer continue to hold that against them. They all played the game and now they had all gone back into the same box; pieces of the same board, all making their own unique moves towards the hungry graves.

Dawn was a beautiful sword. Light and deadly. She'd heard the legends of Azor Ahai and Lightbringer just like every other child in this accursed continent. But she still refused to believe any weapon could outshine their very own Dawn. Just as no man could outwit Ser Arthur Dayne, her invincible brother. His death did not feel real. She could not process it. Her mind no longer registered grief as a unique emotion. It simply formed part of her being.

She did not think of where she was going; her feet carried her to the castle ramparts of their own volition. On her way there she toyed with a silk handkerchief of pale pink. There was a strip missing, frayed and loose now. Almost two years ago, she had cut off a piece and given it to Ser Barristan to tie around his wrist before facing Rhaegar in the lists at Harrenhal. She used what was left to dab the tears that spilled down her face.

Outside, the sun was setting over the Red Mountains of Dorne. They stood stark against the purple sky. A warm breeze plucked at her face, fanning her hair in the way she loved so much. Still her tears fell as she gazed down into the rushing waters of the Torrentine River. She slipped the handkerchief down her bodice, close to her heart. Then she removed her slippers, so her feet were bare against the warm sandstone as she climbed up onto the merlons. When she stood up high and turned up her face, she noticed the first stars winking back down at her.

They say Starfall was built when the first Dayne followed a shooting star. But the last star fell a long time ago. The last time she saw Ser Barristan was just as he rode off to war. She had clasped his hand as they parted forever; like the ghost of a lover's dance step they moved around each other and whispered their farewells. She mimicked the move again, as she stepped off the merlon. Turning lithely and supple as she spread out her arms and fell, the air rushing up and fanning her hair. She did not cry out, not even when she hit the Torrentine. She let the rushing swells take her, sweeping her body outwards into the wide Summer Sea as her last breath burned her pale chest.

Ser Barristan was back on duty by the time the messenger arrived. Back in King's Landing, waiting out the rest of his time until Ashara was found and brought to a place of safety. The city was still scarred from the sacking. The castle still half in ruins. But together, they stood a chance of building something.

King Robert passed him by as he went to meet the messenger from Dorne. Their eyes met briefly, a knowing look passing between them. He was half surprised that there was no animosity there, given what happened to his beloved Lyanna. Robert had been mad with grief since Lord Stark returned, en route to the north to bury his sister. Now, it was his turn and all he could do was wait by the side lines once more.

"Well, what news?" asked Robert.

The messenger was wringing his cap in his hands as he knelt before the king.

"Lady Ashara Dayne was seen by witnesses falling from the top tower of her family Castle, Your Grace," he said. "They say she hit the water, but her body has yet to be recovered."

Although he heard clear enough, Ser Barristan did not flinch. Not even when the King instinctively glanced over at him, as though making sure he was not falling apart. He clenched his jaw, kept his emotions in check. Silent and stoic he held his poise. But inside, it felt as though a fundamental part of his heart had ceased to function.

His gauntleted hands tightened around the handle of the sword he knew he would be carrying until he drew his last breath. When that last breath came, he knew now it would probably be because another sword had been plunged through his heart. All the same, his eyes misted over as it all slowly sank in. She was gone. The beautiful dancing girl, the one with the haunting lilac eyes. She was gone forever.

Around his wrist he wore a strip of pale pink silk. It was dirty now. Stained by war and wear. But when night fell, he pressed it to his lips and remembered the way she looked as she tied her favour to wrist. He recalled the look in her eyes as Rhaegar knocked him into the dirt. Now he had been knocked into the dirt again and there was no left to pick him up.

The End.

Thank you again for reading this. Reviews would be lovely if you have a minute. Thank you.