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“You aren’t my father. Are you, My Lord?”

That question had needled at Allyria since she was old enough to sit a horse. Each and every day since she had stood as tall as her brother Allem's hip, suspicion had pricked at the girl's otherwise good sense till it lay in tatters. The search for a thread of truth tied to that needle that so tormented her had fostered delusions, mad theories, and melancholy. In the face of a child's inquiries, there had been little patience for nosiness or ill manners. Her resulting despondence went unnoticed, and so she sank deeper into her uncertainty and wondered if she were the silliest creature to ever walk the earth. All before she flowered.

Six years. And the answer had been staring her right in the face. The greatest clue of all. 

Allyria had been all of six years old when she timidly asked her lady mother what age Ashara had been when she had died. Lady Mara’s abiding air of gloom asserted itself over the two of them twofold, as oppressive as several heavy wool blankets in the desert. Lady Mara had stilled in her needlework. For a heartbeat, Allyria had thought life had left her body. She had tried to withdraw her question.

Mother would not let her.

“She was not yet twenty,” Lady Mara's mournful eyes grew more unfocused with each syllable. “The singers and the swine they serenade seem to have forgotten that. I should not be surprised. Those beyond the Red Mountains often think Dornish girls women long before they flower. They speak of Ashara outside of Starfall as they would a seasoned courtesan when in truth she was still very much a girl, as in over her head as any other,” Her mother had blinked rapidly, emerging from her daze at last. She had looked upon the child sitting by her feet with a regret.

She sent Allyria off then, to practice the lyre with Septa Leonora. Allyria was afraid to ask about her sister again for weeks afterward.

She wondered for a long time why there were so many years between herself and Ashara. Young as she was, Allyria knew that twenty years was a long time between two sisters with no children in-between to speak of. Not even some that had never lived to see the outside of their cradles. And Mother was so old. How did her mother survive her birth, Allyria wondered fretfully.

She was relieved when Maester Byron informed her of how healthy her mother was for her age and how her birth had been the most straightforward of all her mother’s labors.

“Ashara’s birth was much more difficult. It took days of blood and sweat and tears. Stubborn little thing even in the womb your sister.” Byron noted fondly. That had been the first Allyria had heard of her sister’s birth. She was seven when she learned more of her death.  

Her goodsister Janna became hysterical when her baby daughter Elin was taken by the Stranger in the night. Allem and Septa Leonora locked themselves away in Janna’s chambers and spent the whole day trying to calm her. Not even thick oaken doors and stone walls could muffle Janna’s wail, unfortunately. Allyria had woken to those wails and listened to them throughout that day along with all the whispers that accompanied them.

Janna had been terribly sad since her daughter was born. With her daughter gone, servants began to whisper that she might throw herself into the sea. Just as Ashara did when Stark brought back Dawn.

“Ashara threw herself into the sea?” Allyria blurted out in surprise.

The washerwomen gasped as they turned to find the young lady crouched down behind a pile of laundry in the scullery with cake crumbs on her lips. They begged her not to say anything to her mother and father, and Allyria promised she would not. But she said nothing of her brother Allem and went to ask him about their sister the moment she heard of his emergence from his wife’s chambers just before supper. 

He had not been happy to hear her questions. Anger set her brother's indigo eyes aflame as he took Allyria by the arm into an alcove. Allyria had shrieked, afraid she was about to be throttled like some thieving kitchen boy. Allem hushed her only to reprimand her in the next instant. “You are too young to know such things."

Allyria opened her mouth to defend herself but was silenced with a look. Allem continued, "The servants were sworn never to speak of it besides. Moreover, the idea that my wife would imitate our sister is simply treasonous. I would have their names, sister.”

Allyria had tried to refuse, but under her brother’s displeased scowl, she relented. "Rhian and Cerys."

Allem thanked her, and escorted her to dinner, all gentle touches and kind smiles once again. Even so, Allyria felt sick for hours, and it had nothing to do with her pecking at her plate that evening. The washerwomen would think she had broken her promise. 

Allyria never did get the chance to explain herself. Neither woman was seen nor heard of again at Starfall. 

Nor did Allem ever answer her questions. He didn’t have to. There was always someone whispering down in the kitchens. Over the years, Allyria overheard bits of the story. Never the whole thing. Just enough to never need ask about her sister again.

Janna died the next year in labor with another daughter. The last’s intended replacement. Maester Byron said she lost too much blood, but Allyria wondered if her goodsister’s heart had simply given out when her baby refused to cry.

Poor Edric, everyone said. He’d lost his mother and both his little sisters.

Poor Allem, everyone said. He’d lost his wife and both his little daughters.

Poor Allyria, she finally heard in the faintest of all the whispers that plagued Starfall following Janna’s death. She’d never know the truth. At least Edric and Allem had that.

Allyria stopped lurking around and sneaking cakes after Janna and her baby were buried. Soon, everyone was remarking on how thin she was getting. 

At the age of eight, shortly before her nameday, Allyria was summoned to the kitchens once more by a terrible racket and screams. She peered around the door frame to see two guards hauling their brother away from a weeping woman crumpled to the floor. Owain the cook stepped between the two while the kitchen maids descended upon the woman with comforting whispers and gentle touches. The men had a much different method for comforting their bereaved friend. 

"I shoulda known!" The guard yowled, red-faced. "He looks nothin' like me - I shoulda known, you whore!" He was chided with a wallop to the gut and a reminder to act like a man. There was all sorts of talk about bastards around Starfall for days after that could not be contained by the kitchen walls. 

At the age of eight, Allyria truly looked at her parents for the first time. 

Lord Alistar had a hook nose and high cheekbones with a strong square jaw. His hair was silver now but Allyria suspected it had once been pale gold like Allem’s. His eyes were violet like her own and all the rest of House Dayne. His sons owed their stature to him, and perhaps the affections of many ladies as well, for he might have been handsome once.

Lady Mara possessed beautiful dark skin, marred only by a smattering of pockmarks. The lasting scars of a dreadful childhood illness. She hated these marks so much, that she wore her veil even in the dark interior rooms of Starfall and wore her dark ringlets loose on her shoulders and down her back. She was an artwork of soft edges, round of face and body, plump with years comfort, childbearing, and woe. 

At the age of eight, Allyria truly looked at herself for the first time.

Her face was not round like her mother’s, nor square like her father’s. It was long and dower, unlike any other in House Dayne. Her hair was dark like a freshly turned over field, a stark contrast against Allem's pale golden mane and her mother’s coppery ringlets. Her nose was not a hook, nor snub. It was an austere, unyielding nose. A nose that did not bow like a servant, nor take it upon itself turn up in condescension at the world. 

She bore only traces of Lord Alistar and Lady Mara in her looks, Allyria found. Violet eyes, skin of the Rhoynar, tall stature, long fingers. There was someone else in her though. Someone with dark brown hair and an unyielding nose. Someone with a long face. Someone who was not a Dayne, a Vaith, or mayhaps even Dornish. 

For her nameday Allyria's parents purchased her a horse of her own. From that day forth her pony Dust went unridden. He lingered in and around the stables most days, attended to only by the stable boys and the young, giggling children of servants. Then came a day when Starfall was visited by merchants out of the Arbor, and Stardust was sold off for a neat little stack of silver stags. Allem congratulated himself on the negotiation with those sweets Byron was always warning him off of. 

At nine Allyria would regret not having continued to love and care for her pony after she received Ebon. But between the time spent enjoying her palfrey and the greater freedom the young mare afforded and the time spent with Septa Leonora and lessons, Allyria had been consumed by thoughts of herself and her so-called parents. There had not been a moment to spare for old ponies.

At first Allyria had wondered if she was a product of an affair on her mother’s part. She spent a whole turn of the moon clammed up in horror at the mere sight of her mother speaking with any man besides Lord Alistair. Josmyn the steward, Owain the cook, the household knights Ser Arron and Ser Ullric, their ward Vicar Wells, too many guardsmen to count. It made her queasy to imagine her mother being so loathsome as to even kiss a man beside her husband.

Of course, it was to be expected and accepted that a young Dornish girl might behave as any Dornish boy and take a lover or two before marriage. But afterward, it was of great importance that she be faithful to her husband or else be clear the children were not her husband's. Especially if they were the ones marrying into the new house. It was not just a matter of breaking vows made to the Seven, even a child as young as Allyria knew that much. How else would they be certain that the rightful heir was receiving lands and titles? Bastards were fine, their birth was no fault of their own. But trueborns made everything simpler. 

Allyria quickly saw the lack of sense in this theory and felt terribly guilty about all the glares she shot Josmyn's way. Her eyes were violet, a trait that if not of House Dayne, would be Targaryen or Velaryon. Though the Mad King had still sat the Iron Throne when Allyria was born, Lady Mara had not left Starfall since Ashara was Allyria’s age, not even when Arthur was made a Kingsguard. She was too embarrassed by her scars.

Allyria then suspected she was Lord Alistar’s bastard. By some Sandy Dornishwoman, mayhaps. A Starfall servant. Or, more likely, a relative of Lady Mara. That would explain why Lady Mara had raised Allyria as her own and why they did share some resemblance though not enough to be mother and daughter. Yes, yes, that makes sense, Allyria began to think. After all, even if bastardry was not so bad in Dorne, trueborn was better still. If a bastard could be passed off as trueborn, then why wouldn’t they be? It was no matter as Allyria still sat at the back end of succession, and her father had been born into House Dayne so it was certain she had some claim to his lands and titles, be it a weak one. 

She still did not dare share these suspicions with anyone. Not even her most trusted handmaidens and Septa Leonora. As these theories could neither be confirmed nor denied, Allyria was left with no choice but to accept the idea that she was quite possibly a bastard. Two years passed, and at times this hurt her. Allyria might go days without being able to even look at Lady Mara or Allem. She would be burnt up with anger at Lord Alistar and her behavior might take a nasty turn, leading to unfavorable comparisons between her and her younger nephew. Septa Leonora was most pleased with her those times her young charge was struck with a sudden spell of piety and would spend hours in prayer. Allryia never shared what she was praying for: to be wrong, for the shame to disappear, for forgiveness of her adulterous father, for absolution. At other times, this unconfirmed knowledge empowered her with a sense of wickedness. As if she was getting away with some great mischief far surpassing salt in Leonora's morning tea and mice down the back of a guardsman's shirt. There were many emotions beyond any empirical measure cooked up by the Citadel.

The particular day that the Dondarrions arrived, Allyria felt a tad naughty. 

Here was this noble lord and his lady wife, come to arrange a marriage for one of their children. Perhaps their daughter, a girl of five-and-ten and great beauty, to Allem. Perhaps their strapping young heir to Allyria. They were entirely unwitting of the bastard taint they were inviting into their line. 

That is, if it was not there already. 

Over wracks of lamb seasoned with garlic and rosemary, zesty spring greens, mashed turnips with butter, a creamy soup of herbs, white cheese and sweetbreads, strawberry tarts, and cups upon cups of sour Dornish Red, Allyria took notice of her prospective groom. And his parents. The resemblance was ghostly, hardly there. 

Where his sister seemed to have been stitched together from her parents' best parts, Beric was molded only in a vague fashion after his mother it seemed. He was slight of body and fair of face, with red-gold hair that sat in curls on his head and shoulders. There was nothing of his father's broad, coarse features in him, nor a single brown hair to be found in his mane. One--that one being Allyria--wondered if there was even a drop of Lord Dondarrion in him. 

After supper, Lord Alistar instructed Allem to show Beca around the garden while they still had the setting sun to light the paths. With Lady Dondarrion for a chaperone, of course. In the meantime, Lord Dondarrion would join the Lord and Lady of Starfall in their solar to sample some Myrish liquor. Beric and Allyria adjourned to her playroom under Septa Leonora's watchful eye. It was a bit silly to Allyria to watch a boy five years her older than herself shuffle about the room, poking at instruments and toys abandoned by Allyria and her handmaidens earlier that day. 

She sat upon a scissor-chair, watching him, waiting for Leonora to lose herself to one of her romantic Lyseni novels. Beric picked up a lyre and began plucking at strings. He struck two ill notes and looked to Allyria. She nodded encouragingly, and he continued. Half an hour passed and Leonora rested her cheek in her left hand, lost to the world of Lyseni pleasure slaves and their handsome pirate suitors. Allyria moved slowly from her chair to sit near Beric by the windows. 

He paused in his strumming with a darted look across the room at Septa Leonora. He went on at Allyria's insistent gesture. Allyria settled into her new seat, feigning interest in the young knight's newly discovered musicality. 

She endured each stumbled note in silence, distracted by the careful formulation of her question. It must strike to the heart of the matter, like a lance through plated armor. It would do to lead with his lady mother. Remark on their resemblance, and then ask after those traits that certainly did not come from his lord father. His nose and eyes, for example. Neither would have suited Lord Dondarrion or his wife's faces. But perhaps this did not ring true for some stranger, a gallant hedge knight who had once serviced the house a near full score ago, along with its lady in the dark.

Allyria giggled at the scandalous idea before being swept over by a wave of guilt. It was not a very kind thing to think of Lady Dondarrion. A dangerous thought, even for a Dornishwoman sometimes. More dangerous still for the wife of a Marcher Lord. Not all husbands obeyed Rhaenys' Rule of Six. Allyria, so caught up with the zeal of thinking herself onto a great secret, had forgotten that. She had not even thought to consider that Beric might never once have entertained the idea of his own illegitimacy. Even if he had, who was to say he believed it as easily as Allyria did. There was the great potential that he would take it as the worst insult against his house, his mother, and himself, and all of this evening's headway might prove a waste of time and lamb. 

Allyria felt foolish and wilted against the cool window glass. Outside, the world was dark. 

Beric paused and blinked at Allyria. "Do you have something on your mind, My Lady?" 

She shook her head free of its occupying thoughts so she would not be lying when she said no. "Let me play you a song now, Ser." She said, taking the lyre from Beric. She took a moment to tune it, smiling at Beric's reddening cheeks, and then began a hymn. Soon, Septa Leonora set aside her novel and joined in on the chorus. 

As the song drew to a close, the oaken door to the playroom was swung open by one of Lady Mara's handmaidens. She entered and sank into a curtsy for the old woman that followed her, Lady Emeralda Caron, Lord Dondarrion's mother. She had been fatigued by the journey to Starfall and had thus not joined them for supper, instead taking to the chamber arranged for her and enjoying her meal abed. This was the first Allyria had seen of the woman since midday. Even that had been a brief glimpse as she and her ornate fan were quickly ushered out of her stuffy wheelhouse into the cool keep.

Allyria and her septa stood and paid their respects to the woman. They were acknowledged with a single elegant nod, and the handmaiden was dismissed with a wave of a spindly hand glittering with jeweled rings. 

"Pardon my intrusion. I thought I might find good company with the young lady of the house and my grandson." Lady Emeralda glided further into the room with the grace of a woman many years younger, seeming to have no need of the polished cane she carried, and found a seat next to Allyria by the window. "Please do continue with your music. The notes sounded lovely flitting through the corridors along my way here." 

"Of course, My Lady." Allyria began a sweeter tune, an ode to lovers gone off to fight a king's righteous war. Lady Emeralda and her grandson listened with smiles.

Mirror images of one another in many ways. The old woman wore a tender expression as she reached out to comb a stray lock of hair from Allyria's face. An act that colored Allyria's cheeks, as surely this meant the woman liked her. Mayhaps enough to advise her son on the matter of marriage. It did not sound such a bad idea to Allyria, for surely with their strong resemblance, Beric would grow to be as handsome a man as his grandmother was a handsome woman.

As the week went on, Allyria's sense of mischief and all the feelings that often accompanied it faded away. Her suspicions were eased, right down into the earth like a casket put to rest, for Lady Emeralda had opened her eyes. There existed mothers and fathers before one's own. Their traits might sit idle in their children's blood, only to resurface a generation or two later. Such was the case of Lady Emeralda and Beric Dondarrion, grandmother and grandson who shared a face, if not hair or bodily form. If them, why not also Allyria and her own grandsires? Her pride prevented it at first, but within a matter of days Allyria had swallowed it and admitted to herself that she had been a silly little girl with silly ideas about being a bastard, all over a nose. 

One day, once we are wed, I might admit it to Beric as well, and we might share a laugh. Allyria thought this many times as she admired him from afar. Be it from a window looking upon the practice yard or sitting atop the dais at mealtimes. He really was quite admirable. 

It was crushing when on the last day of the Dondarrions' visit, a betrothal was not announced for either Allyria or Beric, but rather their elder siblings. Beca was to stay behind as Lady Mara's handmaiden, while Beric returned to the Stormlands with his parents and Emeralda. Allyria wondered if perhaps she had misread the many affections showed to her by Lady Emeralda during her stay. If she had in fact taken a great dislike to Allyria, or even mistook her for a bastard as Allyria had herself and Beric, and consciously dissuaded her son from the match. 

Her lady mother explained that the decision was all hers and Lord Alistar's own. "Ten is too young for a betrothal. We will look for something better within Dorne's borders. Failing that, it might prove profitable to secure a match in the Reach." She brushed Allyria's cheek so gently. "We want only the very best for our girl." 

The next year saw Starfall visited by many suitors and their families. Vaith and High Hermitage cousins, Blackmonts and Manwoodys, Costaynes and Cuys. Allyria's parents took issue with all of them.

There was no advantage to be had by wedding Allyria to a cousin, no great wealth or power to consolidate, no claims to strengthen. Nor was Cousin Gerald was so skilled and handsome to make up for his meanness.

Lady Larra did not have the good grace to offer up her own son, the house spare, but rather her sister's son who sat near the back end of that wagon train called succession. Allyria's parents took it for a horrible snub and scoffed at the word of that spare's betrothal to a Blankmont bannerman's girl.

Franklyn Fowler was too old, with two healthy children already, twin girls older than Allyria. His next closest male relatives were farther down the succession than Lady Blackmont's nephew. And Lady Mara would not give her daughter over to a man old enough to be her father just for position. 

The Costayne boy was a lout.

Lord Branston Cuy was younger than Lord Fowler's twins and already had his title in hand. But Septa Leonora remarked that he seemed too interested in a girl not yet flowered, though Allyria found him rather sweet and indulging of all her whims. Lord Alistar and Lady Mara hastened to send him back to Sunhouse, convincing Allyria that her parents were bent on her becoming a septa.  

For all her family's complaints about her suitors, Allyria took the same issue with them all. They were not Beric Dondarrion. With his dashing good looks, skill in the practice yard, and ineptitude with a lyre coupled with a willingness to make a fool of himself trying for a silly little girl like Allyria. 

She watched her brother finally wed Beric's sister in the Starfall sept with misplaced envy. Allyria still kissed her new goodsister's cheek following the ceremony and did her duty to temper little Ned's growing discontent with his father's new union by praising his new mother. Her own secret ill feelings were only quelled by Beric's presence once again at Starfall.

They sat together at the feast and danced many songs together. The next day, they rode across the great bridge connecting House Dayne's ancestral seat to the mainland and frolicked in the yellow-green pastures that persisted at the heel of Dorne just west of the Red Mountains, little Ned trailing after them on his piebald pony. Feeling a bit mean that day, Allyria rode Ebon in circles around Ned and his pony. She made a show of out-pacing him and Beric both whilst riding side-saddle. They returned to the castle in the late afternoon for lemoncakes and blueberry tarts with fresh-squeezed orange juice and enjoyed them in the gardens in the shadow of a great topiary of a horse rearing up. Beric spoke highly of the knight he had squired for and recounted the tourney he'd competed in since his last visit, his first since his knighting. Allyria and Ned shared silly stories of Starfall's many visitors in the past several moons. A man grown now - a handsome one at that - and he had such patience for children like them. They laughed well into the evening, till they sat under stars and their chaperones reminded them that the farewell feast would begin soon. 

The next morning, Allyria bid Beric farewell as a friend. With their siblings married, there was little hope that they would ever wed, and Allyria accepted that with all the grace an eleven-year-old girl could muster. That is to say, she cried into her pillow that night. Not Septa Leonora, nor her handmaidens Ala and Rowan, nor Lady Mara could console her. 

There were only two consolations to this grave loss for Allyria. 

The first, that Beric and Emeralda had helped put to rest those silly fears of hers about being a bastard. How could I ever think such a thing? To have been a bastard would have been a terrible fate, and Allyria wanted no part in it, even for the momentary thrills of secrets. Besides, she so adored her mother and father. Since accepting her legitimacy, even more so. How awful of her to even entertain the idea they were not her own parents. 

The second consolation was that she might see Allem happy again and would have more nephews and some nieces to spoil in the near future, who might also keep little Ned good company. Beric would have many darlings to visit often, and he might esteem Allyria for how well she helped look after his little kinsmen. 

She must have angered the Seven when she speculated on Lady Dondarrion's fidelity to her husband. The moon turned six times. Allem and Beca seemed fond of one another. Allyria often spotted them walking together in the gardens and they had no qualms touching one another in view of others. Clasped hands, stroked cheeks, and more. They were always eager to go to bed at an early hour, and Lady Mara, whose spirits had also been lifted by her son's marriage, remarked to Allyria that Beca would be with child quicker than Allyria could say 'tansy tea'. Whatever that was. 

Allyria turned twelve, and a week later Allem died of a burst bowel. 

In his final hours of agony, Allem told Maester Byron of his wish not to be buried beside Janna and their daughters. Rather to be cast into the sea and be with Ashara. “Arthur rests under a roof of stones where his blasted Prince’s tower once stood. Ashara was lost to the Torrentine. It would be wrong of me to intrude upon those eight warriors, so let me be with Ashara instead. She always did loathe to be alone.” Maester Bryon had informed her when Allyria tearfully asked if her brother had any last words. Everything after that was pained ramblings not fit for a little girl’s ears.

Once prepared by the Silent Sisters and the services in the sept completed, Allem’s body was wrapped in white linen and purple silk. Then weighed down by old chains from the dungeons. Allyria was permitted to accompany her parents and goodsister to the top of the Palestone Sword to watch the guards heave Allem over the railing. Little Ned was left to weep into Septa Leonora's arms at the bottom while it was still allowed for a small boy like him. On the way up, Allyria wondered if the raven had made it to Blackhaven yet to inform Beric and his family that his sister was a widow. 

Allyria watched with tearful eyes and a trembling lip as her brother’s body plummetted like a stone into the rocks below. There was a sickening splash that was soon overpowered by the waves beating against the cliffs. She couldn’t help but lean over the railing and hope for one last glimpse of the Dayne sigil before her brother’s body joined their sister's at the bottom of the sea. 

Her father pulled her away. “Don’t look, child.” He said as he led her and her lady mother down the tower stairs. The whole way down, her father’s grip on her arm was bruising and Allyria could not shake the weight of her mother’s unhappy gaze. At the foot of the tower, she realized she was the only child left to them.

That evening, Allyria took up her lyre with every intention of playing a song for her parents to raise their spirits. She asked Josmyn the steward where she might find her parents and he told her they were in the gardens sharing a flagon of Arbor Gold. Allyria crept outside with her lyre pressed to her chest and hope in her heart. She was their last. This was her duty and she would do it gladly. 

She found her lady mother and lord father sitting in woven chairs in the center of the garden, speaking by lantern light. Lord Alistar filled Lady Mara's chalice to the rim, without care of spilling. In the late evening, Allyria was hidden by the dark shadows of citrus trees and tall ornate shrubbery. For that reason, she was able to hear what she did.

“We have lost them all. That isn’t right, Ali. That isn’t right at all.” Her mother moaned.

Her father sighed. Older and more tired in one breath than Allyria had seen him after his last fateful bout against Allem in the yard before retiring his sword years ago. “As you have been saying for some time now.” He said. 

“I cannot help it!" Mother protested. "My children are all dead!” She sobbed and wheezed like she was choking on smoke. Rather, her words. “What did we do to deserve this, Ali? Have we not given enough to the poor? Do we not pray often enough? Are we worshiping the wrong gods altogether? Were we wrong to call Ned after Stark?"

The list went on and Allyria found herself answering each question in her mind. No, you give out so much bread and mend the clothes of the poor. No, you pray fiercely every morning and evening. No god could fault your devotion. No, it was all your own choice whether Stark deserved to have a child called after him. Perish the thought anyone else could make that decision for you! Allyria wanted to tell her mother all these things aloud. She moved forward, only to be brought to heel by her mother's next question.

"Have we not been good enough to our daughter’s bastard?”

The question was punctuated by a sweeping hand gesture on Lady Mara's part that emptied her chalice onto the paving stones. The Arbor Gold glittered in the lantern light.  

Allyria watched from the shadows as her father stood from his wicker chair and pulled her mother into a tight embrace, all the while knowing she was no longer spying on her own mother and father.

It all made sense in an instant. 

Feeling a fool, Allyria was seized by anger. Her nails dug into the wood of the instrument and she hurled her lyre at the stone walkway of the garden. The wood cracked and a string snapped and Lord and Lady Dayne finally took notice of her.

The both of them gasped, "Allyria?" 

She sneered in answer, though they likely didn’t see it in the darkness, and fled.

It took two whole hours for the guards to force open her bedchamber doors and drag her to the Lord and Lady's solar. Allyria was presented to Lord and Lady Dayne in the tattered remnants of a pale silk dress embroidered with silver stars. She’d ripped off one sleeve completely and clawed out the silver thread on the bodice and front of the skirt. The ribbon braided into her hair was long gone, leaving a wild next of dark hair. In her chambers, she had felt righteous as she’d yanked and shredded. Standing in the solar, all Allyria felt was shame and heartache.  

Lord and Lady Dayne were equally mortified at her state. Lady Dayne stepped forth and took out the hairpins and helped Allyria out of her dress so she stood before them only in a linen shift. Lady Dayne smoothed her hair out of her face and, despite everything, Allyria didn’t feel so awful anymore. 

Lady Mara rejoined her husband in front of his writing desk. She wrung her hands nervously as her husband’s gaze drifted between the floor and Allyria over and over. The room was engulfed in a silence that reigned for several long minutes before at last Allyria slew it.

“You aren’t my father. Are you, My Lord?” She asked.

It was a silly question. Allyria had good ears, perfect for music Leonora often said, and Lady Mara spoke with clarity. Even six cups deep. 

Lord Alistair’s eyes remained fixed point on the floor as he gave a solemn nod. He was thus fortunate enough not to see Allyria’s heartbreak as any grain of hope that she might be wrong was swept away by a harsh sea breeze, the harbinger of a terrible storm. 

“Ashara was your mother.” Lady Mara confessed.

Allyria at first began to nod, understanding, like the well-behaved child she usually was. She stopped herself. That would be lying. She didn’t understand at all.

She hazarded to ask, “Why keep that a secret? Bastards are not hated in Dorne.” It was a lapse in memory on her part. 

“Bastards are not terrible,” Said Lord Alistar. “But trueborn children are better still. It was for your own good, and Ashara’s.”

“Ashara’s?” Allyria parroted. More of a croak, really. She was about to cry. 

“We never told you much about Ashara. We feared that you would put the pieces together like a puzzle and learn the truth.” Lady Mara spoke regretfully.

Allyria wanted to protest that she knew plenty of her sister. Now her mother. Her lips parted. However, no words came. It was a lost battle, the victor decided years ago when this conspiracy was hatched. The sum total of Allyria Dayne's knowledge of Ashara Dayne was such: she was beautiful with dark hair and violet eyes; song and dance were her passions, not men; there was little truth to the idea that she and Princess Elia were great friends before King's Landing, though in time they were indeed thick as thieves; she once yanked a clump of hair clean out of Arthur's head as a child no older than Edric for breaking her doll; she came into the world stubborn as a mule, and she left it having not yet turned twenty. A self-inflicted fate. It was awful to find that her mother was a stranger. 

Lady Mara slowly reached out and lifted Allyria's chin. Her mouth clicked shut.

Allyria slapped her hand away without thinking.

Lady Mara retreated, dark eyes shocked wide. There was hurt there, and in how she cradled one hand in the other. Allyria would not allow herself to feel sorry. Not yet.

"Tell me now." She commanded. 

Lord Alistar stepped forward, stone-faced. Had the circumstances been different, Allyria had no doubt that she would be in for worse than a tongue lashing for daring to strike her lady mother, so-called or otherwise. Lord Alistar gestured to a chair. Allyria shook her head. She felt in sitting, she might relinquish the shred of power she'd acquired, ripping it from Lady Mara's hand. Lord Alistair begrudgingly accepted this.

“You’ve heard of the Tourney at Harrenhal over the years, and of the Targaryens and Princess Elia?” He must have doubted her, for he ignored her impatient nod and continued, “Ashara became a handmaiden to Princess Elia when she was fifteen. Arthur was a good son who hoped to further House Dayne’s ambitions by surrounding his sister with wealthy, powerful lords in need of brides. He used the good favor he'd garnered at court to have Ashara appointed to the position. She accompanied Princess Elia from Dorne to King's Landing for her wedding and remained by her side thereafter. That next year, Ashara accompanied the Prince and Princess to the tourney at Harrenhal.”

“She had sounded so excited in her letters.” Lady Mara wept into her sleeve.

Lord Alistar’s violet eyes welled with tears of his own as he pressed on. “She danced with many lords and charmed several of them, as well as their heirs. She no doubt had the time of her life basking in the attention of hundreds. Arthur wrote that she was considered the most likely to be crowned Queen of Love & Beauty by sheer virtue of how many knights were taken with her.” Pride managed to gleam in Lord Alistair’s eyes through the fog of grief.

“But something bad happened." Allyria knew it to be true. She drew breath, so something bad must have happened. 

Lady Mara wiped her woeful brown eyes and pinned Allyria with a grave look. “She returned to court pregnant.” Lady Mara whispered it if it were the name of a dreadful plague. Allyria felt ill at the implications. Had she been a disease in Lady Mara’s eyes all these years?

“Was my mother raped?” Allryia asked with a queasy stomach. It felt so strange to say aloud. All her life, Ashara had been her elder sister.

“Gods, no.” Lady Mara breathed. “No, no. Ashara had simply been doing as young girls do. She met a Lord’s son whom she wrote she liked very much though she did not elude to an encounter at the time. She spoke with regret that such a man was not a prospective husband. Why, she did not say at the time. We suspected he was married already or betrothed...” Lady Mara trailed off as she cast her husband a meaningful look. Her bottom lip began to quiver violently as it had earlier atop the Palestone Sword. "She had a good head on her shoulders. It might have been that she simply did not think him particularly advantageous to our house." 

“Queen Rhaella had no tolerance for Ashara’s indiscretion and its consequences," Lord Alistar informed the consequences. "She heard a lady's maid was pregnant on Dragonstone and Ashara was dismissed immediately. She returned to Starfall and, soon after the rebellion began, you were born.”  

“We had hoped to return Ashara to her position after the rebellion ended and to procure a good match for her still.” Said Lady Mara. "Surely Rhaegar would not do something so scandalous as make off with the Stark girl and still not have the guts to dethrone his father. We were certain he would be crowned king within the year, with Lyanna Stark for a mistress, and Princess Elia might be more than glad to take back her dear handmaiden and circle the Dornish wagons so to speak in King's Landing. Shameful as it was, we even happily supplied the Prince with food and servants out at that old tower in order to ingratiate ourselves to the future king." A fretful expression overtook her features. "I thank the Seven and those Old Gods of Ned Stark's every day that he kept that well away from Robert's ears." 

Lord Alistar nodded in hearty agreement with his wife. "Indeed, yet another debt we owe the man. He has kept many secrets for us, just as Princess Elia and Queen Rhaella did once. They were discreet persons. Few have any inkling of why your mother left King's Landing and it was possible she might have been able to return with none the wiser. Most believe Ashara left court willingly, that she’d even grown bored with them all in keeping with the mystique their songs have conjured for her. If some found the timing of your birth suspect, the mess with Rhaegar and the Starks made it the least of anyone's cares. Why, there are many children born between the start and end of wars whose origins might seem suspect, what with their so-called fathers' odd comings and goings under their lords' banners, and their mothers fleeing the fighting. No one cares to ask the hard questions that might tear families apart. It would have been easy for Ashara to return to her position.”

“Too easy.” Lady Mara whimpered into her sleeve.

“But if that was the case, why did she throw herself from the Palestone Sword? Why would she leave behind a living daughter?” It didn’t make sense to Allyria that her mother would just abandon her like that.

Lord Alistair and Lady Mara shared a dark look. As night gave way to dawn, that dark look softened into a morose glance, husband to wife. Old knees found their way to the carpeted floor. Allyria shuffled back in surprise. The Lord and Lady of Starfall knelt before her, a child, like penitents before a god's altar. Bowed heads and all. 

“Forgive us, Allyria.” Lady Mara pleaded, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. “Some say it was a stillbirth that put Ashara atop the Palestone Sword. Others a brother’s death. In truth, it was her own parents who drove her up those steps.” The Lady confessed. 

Allyria felt a cold hand wrap its chilled fingers around her heart and give a terrible squeeze. As if the Stranger was about to steal the life right out of her. All it would take was one more precise blow. She begged for it, “What are you saying? What did you do?” 

“In order to keep up the ruse and realize our ambitions,” Lord Alistair began hollowly. “We took you away from Ashara the moment you were born. As soon as the midwife had cleaned and dressed you, you were handed off to a wet nurse and taken to away by Wylla as Maester Bryon advised. He said that you should never be given the chance to bond if we wished to make the separation as painless as possible. Ashara never held you. She never nursed you. She never had the chance to show her love to you. Because we thought good marriages for the both of you was more important.” 

“It kills me a little every day to think how much more pain my daughter suffered because we defied the gods and committed the grievous sin of stepping between mother and child.” Said Lady Mara. A devout woman, her eyes drifted up as if she might find the Mother in the rafters, passing judgment from on high. “She never stopped begging us for you, Allyria. And we didn’t think to concede until the minute we learned of her leap.” Lady Mara’s face contorted with anguish.  

Allyria imagined a dusky-skinned girl with dark, coppery hair on her hands and knees in this very solar, twelve years prior. She imagined desperate pleas and tears pitter-pattering against the rushes. She saw the Lord and Lady kneeling before her now standing then with resolute authority as they dug the knife deeper into their daughter’s heart. All for her own good, obstinately. Allyria wanted to kick them in their teeth, to lash them with a leather belt, to scream and cry about the horribleness of what they did to their daughter, but she didn’t. They’d been doing it to themselves for twelve years.  

There were still many questions, however. Answers would be their penance. “Why did she give up? Something must have happened to make her give up hope.” Allyria suddenly recalled the whispers from years past. Her brother’s death broke her, they said. When Stark brought back Dawn it was over for her…Wylla and Leonora warned them…Remember how she cried when Stark left… 

“What does Lord Eddard Stark have to do with any of this?” Allyria demanded. 

“Ned Stark has nothing to do with this.” Lady Mara declared fiercely. She rose to her feet in a hurry. “He showed us great kindness when he brought back Dawn, and he was the one who gave Arthur a proper burial. Don’t let those kitchen wenches convince you Stark is anything other than a good and honorable man, Allyria.” The girl was startled by the ferocity with which Lady Mara defended the man who was said to have helped her daughter to her death by far more than a few kitchen wenches. House Dayne had onced turned out a graceless singer for some thinly veiled ballad about a maiden betrayed by her prince throwing herself from her tower. Surely that song was sung elsewhere in the Seven Kingdoms. 

“But Stark killed Arthur—that means he helped kill Ashara too!” Allyria argued.

Lord Alistar’s cheeks began to burn the same angry red as his wife's. “You have not the faintest idea what you are saying, Allyria. Believe us when we say that Ned Stark does not deserve such harsh judgment from you.”

“But why?”

“Because honor forbade him from saving your mother.” Answered Lady Mara.

“What vow could prevent him from saving Ashara from her despair? Any vow like that must not be worth keeping!” Allyria’s frustration with Lord and Lady Dayne grew with each passing second, as did her anger at Lord Stark. She didn’t care what they said about him being an honorable man. His actions at the Tower of Joy had been as good as a shove at Ashara’s back.

Lord Alistar and Lady Mara fell silent.

"Well?" 

Lady Mara sent Lord Alistair a pleading look. Her lord husband sighed. “Allyria, at the beginning of the war, Ned Stark was obligated to marry Catelyn Tully, his murdered brother’s betrothed. When the war was over and he came here that meant he could not do as your mother pleaded months before when she rode off to find him.” He explained. “I know not of what they spoke of then or when Ned Stark returned Dawn. Ashara requested an audience with him in private. After Stark left, she was hollow and the next morning she climbed the steps of the Palestone Sword.

“One might surmise that she asked Stark to wed her instead of the Tully girl at Riverrun in hopes that might appease us. She failed to take into account that there was a war to be fought and armies to be acquired. We believe that Ashara asked him to plead with us on her behalf at their second meeting, thinking as a Lord Paramount and a friend of the new king he might have a great influence on us. In truth, we are uncertain of what they spoke of on either occasion. They spoke for no more than a handful of minutes, then Stark and Reed spent the remainder of their time at Starfall carefully avoiding her. If I was a gambling man, I might wager that Stark refused to further associate with Ashara out of respect for Lady Catelyn and believed us right in our methods. Resulting in our daughter's despair.”

“What are you saying? That Ned Stark is my father?” Allyria had only heard stories about Ned Stark. He was King Robert’s dearest friend, he and six comrades fought three Kingsguards at the Tower of Joy, he was the Lord of Winterfell, Lord Paramount of the North, and Warden of the North all in one, but only because the Mad King murdered his father and brother. Those rare times she had during her lessons, she’d always imagined him as a man hard and cold as the lands he ruled, steeled by war and tragedy. Could such a man truly be her father?

Lord Alistar hesitated, his words teetering on his lips before tumbling out. “Yes, he is. Ashara wrote of her fondness for him at the Tourney of Harrenhal. After your birth, she asked after you constantly: ‘Does she have grey eyes or violet?’, ‘How dark is her hair?’, ‘Is she paler than I?’ When she rode off with Allem and some guards to Riverrun, we suspected something between them. When Stark came here, we took note of his features. After her death, we became certain.”

“And he knew that, and he just abandoned me.” Lord Paramount, best friend to the new king, holder of their secret involvement with the Tower of Joy; he held all the game tiles and could have demanded his daughter, and Lord Alistair and Lady Mara would have had no choice. He made no such demands, however. Allyria had never felt so unwanted. 

“No, child.” Lord Alistar protested. “He could not have taken you with him, for it was bad enough for him to bring one bastard back to Winterfell and his new bride.”

“There was another?” Allyria hadn’t realized until that moment that she would have siblings by her true father. Now she was hearing of a bastard brother or sister, and Lady Catelyn had surely borne Ned Stark an heir by now, eleven years after the rebellion. It was thrilling and bizarre. 

Lady Mara answered hesitantly, “A boy. Jon Snow.” 

“Do I have other brothers? Sisters?” Allyria inquired shyly.

“There was another boy born right after the war, by the Tully girl. And then two girls. And another boy, named for his uncle Brandon.” Three brothers and two sisters. That was one more brother than Allyria had had before, and twice as many sisters. She wondered what they looked like, if they liked music and horseback riding like her, and how much Tully there was in them. How much of their father did she have in herself by comparison? What was Lord Stark even like? Surely much different from how she imagined him if Ashara liked him so well. 

It occurred to Allyria that there was a simple way to answer all her newfound questions.

She imagined setting out for Winterfell in the small hours of the morning. She, Ebon, and a small retinue could be there within a matter of weeks. They could arrive under the pretense of arranging a marriage for Edric to one of the girls. Allyria could corner Lord Stark late in the evening and then reveal her identity. Then he would--then she could…Allyria didn’t know what would happen after that. Would she be embraced with fatherly affection? Sent away at dawn and asked never to return?

Allyria realized how unwise it would be to do such a thing as go off to Winterfell and confront Lord Stark. He had abandoned her, there was no two ways about it. Perhaps for good reason, to spare his new bride who helped him win a war more hurt feelings, but it was still abandonment. It had long been decided that her true identity, whatever that was, was a detriment to herself and those around her. And they were correct. She would never be able to marry Beric Dondarrion if the truth were to come out that she was a bastard all along. It was better not to risk an unveiling by seeking out Lord Stark.

Despite any imaginings on her part, she was doomed to live under a false identity for the rest of her days. She would always be Allyria Dayne, daughter of Lord Alistar Dayne and Lady Mara Vaith, sister of Ser Arthur of the Kingsguard and the tragic Lady Ashara. She’d never know what it would be like to be Allyria Snow, Allyria Sand, Allyria the daughter of the Lord of Winterfell, Allyria the daughter of the wronged Ashara Dayne. There were so many Allyrias and she could never be any of them but the one she was certainly not. 

Allyria did not wish such an existence as hers on anyone. She envied Jon Snow and their trueborn siblings; they’d never know her pain.

They had their true names. They had their father.