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Ashara wept.

She wept for her dead brother, flinging herself from the Palestone Tower in the Red Mountains. The salty, warm waves of the Summer Sea filled her mouth and nose. A merchant's ship located her drowned body floating in their nets, reviving her with the Kiss of Life. Ashara expected to be returned home to Starfall. To live a miserable and lonely life.

To curse her ill-fortune for knowing the likes of Ned Stark, her darling, her brother-murderer.

Instead, the men with skin as dark as teak did not recognize her. Not as a Lady. Not as anyone special to them. In the Common Tongue, the sellsails offered her a long but safe passage to Walano. One of the Summer Isles, rich with color and spices.

(She promised herself to never weep again.)

Ashara cut off her lovely, waist-length black hair to her ears, smudging her face with dirt and binding her chest. She never called herself Ashara Dayne again. Despite renouncing her nobility, many have seen Ashara's foreign, moon-pale beauty for their own eyes. The pillow houses were considered holy and revered by the Summer Islanders, where prostitution held itself in high regard, encouraged to both men and women, but she did not wish to give away her maidenhood. Not without reason.

It took another eight years before Ashara — the Cold Star of the Southern Waters, hard-hearted and with noble fingers heavily scarred and calloused — discovered herself on a swan ship, carrying a bow of goldenheart tree of a slaver Ashara killed in battle and her own rations. A mere archer working with a company of sellsails. None of whom aware she was a woman.

A strong and thunderous storm hit, breaking apart the vessel with lightning. What else could it mean? The Seven wished claim her finally, to take her heart and soul to her once beloved Ser Arthur Dayne. Ashara had already escaped death once.

No drowning. She swam from the wreckage, collapsing face-first onto the hot beach. Waking on her back to the ceiling of a grass-hut and the olive-skinned faces of Rhoynar women. They fed her and bathed her, speaking in a monotonous and thick language Ashara did not understand, examining her skinny, vulnerable body as white as their sands. Kindly, so kindly.

They treated her wounds with soul-smelling poultices and tinctures. One of the younger women, with slate-green eyes and a braid of ebony, followed Ashara where-ever she went. Her mother had been one of the Isle dwellers and her father a Westerosi.

Men were forbidden to remain on the Isle for more than a day. If they refuse to leave, the men were imprisoned and gutted.

It is considered ill-fortune to live among men, the young, beautiful woman explains solemnly to Ashara, massaging a small, milky teat and pressing a line of kisses against Asha's jaw. They lie out on rough, straw bedding, nude as their birth. Ashara's fingertips smelling of oil and her lover's cunt.

Perhaps they're not wrong, Ashara considers.

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GoT isn't mine. I really do love the fictional universe of ASOIAF and did I mention I love Ashara Dayne? Because I do. I decided to get really wild with an idea. Requested by Anon (AO3): "can you do Any/Any and something with the summer isles." Lots of fun! Hope it was to your liking!

((Want a request for GoT? I'm doing 100-500 word drabbles of any ship + any prompt until S8 ends. Rules: you need to comment here and provide a ship and prompt, as well if you want NSFW or SFW. The only requests I'll be looking at is if you ALSO commented about the fic you just read as well. It's only fair. You came to this fic to read it and me doing something for you later on is a sweet bonus!))