Ch-11 Ashara II
Pov Ashara
The evening sun cast long shadows through the solar's windows as Ashara sat alone, a cedar box open before her. The wood was smooth with age, polished by years of handling, and still carried the faint scent of the lavender sprigs she used to preserve its contents. Inside, neatly bound with purple ribbon, lay nearly a decade of correspondence—letters that had tracked the course of her life since Brandon's death.
She lifted the first bundle, the parchment worn soft at the edges from repeated reading. These earliest messages bore water stains—whether from rain during their journey south or her own tears, she could no longer recall. The direwolf seal was pressed in grey wax, a color House Stark rarely used for official correspondence. But these had been personal letters, sent by the youngest wolf of Winterfell in the dark days after rebellion had torn the realm apart.
"Dearest Lady Ashara," the first one began, in Benjen's uncertain hand. He had been so young then, barely more than a boy himself, yet trying to shoulder the weight of his family's legacy. "I know no words can ease your grief, but please know that you are not alone in mourning Brandon..."
She remembered how that letter had found her, secluded in her chambers at Starfall, her belly just beginning to swell with Brandon's child. The realm whispered about her—the dishonored lady, the fallen star—but Benjen's words had carried no judgment, only compassion and a desperate desire to help.
More letters followed, each one offering comfort, sharing memories of Brandon that helped keep him alive in her heart. Benjen wrote of their childhood adventures, of Brandon's laughter echoing through Winterfell's halls, of his fierce protection of his siblings. Through those pages, she came to know the Brandon that existed before ambition and duty drew him south—the wild wolf who had first captured her heart at Harrenhal.
Ashara pulled out another letter, this one from the months just before Edric's birth. The parchment crackled softly as she smoothed it open, revealing Benjen's increasingly confident script.
"I know you've refused before," he had written, "but please consider my offer again. I would wed you properly, claim the child as my own. Brandon would have wanted his son to grow up in Winterfell, to know the North's ways. You would have all the protection House Stark can offer..."
She remembered how her hands had trembled when first reading those words. Benjen's proposal had been more than generous—it was a chance to give her child legitimacy, to spare him the weight of bastardy.
Allem and Allaria had called her mad for refusing. They wanted her to be happy, to find some measure of peace after everything she had lost. But they didn't understand the depths of her grief, how the very thought of replacing Brandon felt like betraying his memory.
Another letter, received after Edric's first nameday, spoke of Benjen's first glimpse of his other nephew. "Jon has the Stark look," he'd written. "Dark hair, long face—but there's something in his eyes..." Even then, Ashara had noted the careful way he described the boy, as though measuring each word.
She remembered when Eddard Stark had come to Starfall, bearing Dawn and Arthur's bones. His eyes had lingered on the babe in her arms, recognition flickering across his solemn features. No words were spoken of parentage, but they both knew—this was Brandon's son. And in that moment, as she watched him cradle his own dark-haired babe, she had seen something that made her doubt. The honorable Eddard Stark, fathering a bastard out of mere lust? No, there was more to that tale. The way he held the child, the fierce protection in his eyes, the careful way he spoke of the boy's mother—it all spoke of secrets deeper than simple infidelity. But she never pressed for details. They each had their truths to guard, their promises to keep.
Her fingers found a letter that had changed everything—the one where Benjen announced his intention to take the black. The parchment was thicker than the others, as though he'd chosen sturdy material to carry heavy news. "The Wall calls to me," he'd written. "Perhaps there I can find purpose, away from all these ghosts..."
Even in what he had meant to be his farewell, his thoughts had turned to Edric. "Though I go North to serve, never hesitate to send word if Brandon's son needs anything. The Watch may take my name, but it cannot take my blood. One raven to Castle Black, and I will find a way to help." Those words, written with such earnest devotion to a nephew he'd never met, had stirred something in her that she thought long buried.
That letter had stirred something in her that she thought long buried. Memories of Brandon's stories about his youngest brother—the laughing boy who played pranks in Winterfell's halls, who dreamed of ranging beyond the Wall but never with such grim purpose. Before she could stop herself, she had penned a response that came straight from her heart.
Ashara unfolded her own letter, a copy she'd kept from that pivotal moment. Her words had flowed like a torrent, speaking of Brandon's love for his siblings, of how he would never have wanted grief to drive his little brother to the Wall. "Your brother lived for family," she had written. "He would want you to stay, to help guide the next generation. You have nephews who need you—both of them."
That letter had changed everything. Benjen never took the black. Instead, he wrote back months later from Moat Cailin, where he had taken up residence with young Jon Snow. His words spoke of a growing rift with Lady Catelyn, of how her cold treatment of Jon had become unbearable to witness. Rather than flee to the Wall, he had chosen a different path—restoring the ancient fortress while providing a home where his nephew could grow without constant reminder of his birth.
Over the years, their correspondence deepened. Benjen wrote of Jon's progress, of the challenges of rebuilding Moat Cailin, and always, always, he asked after Edric. His letters painted a picture of life in that restored fortress: training yards echoing with the clash of practice swords, halls slowly returning to their former glory, and a boy growing up away from the prejudices of Winterfell's court.
Every few moons, like clockwork, came the same gentle inquiry: "Have you reconsidered my offer?" Each time, Ashara had refused, finding comfort in the careful life she'd built at Starfall. Edric was safe here, loved by both his true mother and the aunt who claimed him as her own. The pretense had become almost natural—Ashara the grieving sister, Allyria the unwed mother, and Edric the child who bound them all together.
But now...
Ashara's gaze drifted to the window, where she could see Edric in the practice yard below. Even from this distance, his transformation was obvious. The way he moved, the careful restraint in each strike of his practice sword, the deliberate way he pretended to tire—all of it spoke of someone struggling to hide extraordinary gifts. Her son was no longer just a child with secret parentage; he had become something more, something that might draw dangerous attention if word spread beyond Starfall's walls.
She thought of Moat Cailin, that ancient fortress guarding the Neck. It was far from the intrigues of King's Landing, away from the watchful eyes of those who might remember Brandon Stark's face. There, Edric could learn to control his abilities without constant fear of discovery. He would have Benjen—an uncle who already loved him from afar—and Jon, a cousin near his own age who might understand something of living between two worlds.
The sun had dipped lower, painting the chamber in deep amber hues. Ashara pulled fresh parchment toward her, dipped her quill in ink, and began to write. The words came slowly at first, then faster, like a dam breaking after years of careful maintenance.
"Dearest Benjen,
Your last letter spoke again of marriage, of making a home for my son—for Brandon's son. For years, I have refused out of grief, out of fear, out of a desire to keep Edric close. But circumstances have changed..."
She paused, quill hovering over parchment. How much could she reveal in a letter? The black substance, the transformation, the incredible abilities—none of that could be safely committed to writing. Yet she needed Benjen to understand the urgency without raising alarm.
"Recent events have made me reconsider your offer," she continued carefully. "Edric has... changed. He grows strong, perhaps too strong for the confines of Starfall. More than ever, he needs guidance, space to develop away from prying eyes, and the chance to know his father's people."
Her hand trembled slightly as she wrote. Each word felt like another stone lifted from the wall she'd built around her heart. "You once promised to love him as your own, to give him the protection of your name. If that offer still stands, I find myself finally ready to accept."
Ashara set down her quill, letting the ink dry as she gathered her thoughts. Through the window, she could still see Edric in the yard, now working with Ser Daemon. Even from this distance, she noted how her son checked each movement, restraining strength that could easily overwhelm a grown man. How long before someone noticed? How long before rumors spread beyond their control?
She returned to her letter, choosing each word with careful precision. "Moat Cailin would suit him well, I think. Far from the politics of King's Landing, yet close enough to learn of his northern heritage. He could train alongside Jon, learn from you the things his father might have taught him..."
The mention of Brandon made her pause again, memories washing over her like a tide. She remembered his laugh, the wild gleam in his grey eyes, the way he spoke of his family with such fierce pride. What would he think of this choice? Would he understand her reasons for finally accepting his brother's protection?
"There are things I cannot explain in a letter," she wrote, "matters that must be discussed in person. But know this: I have not made this decision lightly. For years, I've watched you rebuild Moat Cailin into a refuge, offering Jon the home he deserves. Perhaps it is time for Edric to share in that sanctuary."
The shadows lengthened across the solar floor as Ashara continued writing, each word weighted with years of careful consideration. Outside, the practice yard grew quiet as evening approached. She could hear the distant sounds of the castle preparing for night—servants lighting torches, guards changing shifts, the soft echo of footsteps in stone corridors.
"I know this may seem sudden," her quill scratched across the parchment, "after so many years of refusal. But you've always understood, haven't you? That's why you kept writing, kept offering, even when I could give you nothing but denial. You knew someday the winds might change."
She paused to sprinkle sand over the wet ink, watching the grains catch the last rays of sunlight. Her mind drifted to all Benjen had shared about Moat Cailin in his letters. The ancient fortress was no longer the ruins of legend—under his care, it had become something else entirely. The crumbling towers had been rebuilt, the flooded cellars drained and restored. He wrote of gardens taking root in the rich soil, of training yards echoing with the clash of steel, of halls slowly returning to their former glory.
More importantly, he had written of Jon Snow's life there. Away from Winterfell's judgmental eyes, the boy had flourished. "He grows stronger every day," Benjen had written in his last letter. "Here, he's not just a bastard—he's my nephew, a child of the North, free to become whoever he's meant to be."
Ashara's heart tightened. Wasn't that exactly what Edric needed now? A place where his extraordinary gifts might be seen as blessings rather than causes for fear? Where his heritage could be quietly acknowledged without risking the realm's stability?
She dipped her quill again, the words flowing more freely now. "When you first offered marriage, I thought only of what I would lose—my independence, my home in Dorne, my private grief for Brandon. Now I see what we might gain. Edric needs more than Starfall can safely offer him. He needs the North, needs to understand that half of himself we've kept hidden. Most of all, he needs family who can protect him while he grows into whatever the gods intend him to be."
The light was failing now, and she lit a candle to continue her task. Its flame cast dancing shadows on the walls, reminding her of how Edric had described his newfound abilities with fire. Another secret that needed stronger walls than Starfall could provide.
"I propose we meet," she wrote, her script growing more decisive. "Not at Winterfell or Starfall—both too public, too many eyes. Perhaps somewhere along the way, where we can speak freely of matters too delicate for ravens. You'll understand when you see him, Benjen. He's changed in ways that make me fear for his safety if we remain too long in the South."
The candle flickered as a cool breeze swept through the solar. Ashara drew her shawl closer, though the chill she felt came more from within than without. She had one final truth to commit to parchment, perhaps the hardest to write.
"You should know, Benjen, that Edric has learned the truth of his parentage. The careful fiction we maintained—of aunt and nephew, of Allyria's supposed motherhood—has fallen away. He knows he is Brandon's son, knows I am his mother. More surprisingly, he has accepted this truth with a wisdom beyond his years."
She paused, considering how to phrase the next part without revealing too much. "Recent events have forced us to be more honest with each other. He understands now why we kept such secrets, why we must continue to guard them. But he also asks questions about the North, about his father's people, about the heritage we've kept from him for so long."
The memory of Edric's transformation, of finding him covered in that black substance, made her hand tremble slightly. She steadied it before continuing. "When you see him, you'll understand my urgency. He resembles Brandon more with each passing day—too much, perhaps, for comfort. Here in Dorne, where few remembered his father's face, we might have hidden it longer. But soon enough, anyone who knew Brandon would see him in Edric's features."
A log shifted in the brazier, sending sparks dancing upward. Ashara watched them fade, thinking of how Edric now commanded fire with casual ease. Another secret to protect, another reason to seek safer harbor.
"I ask only this: when we meet, come with an open mind. Much has changed—more than I can safely explain by raven. If, after seeing him, after hearing all I cannot write, you still wish to offer us sanctuary at Moat Cailin... then yes, Benjen. Yes to everything you've proposed these past years."
She signed her name with practiced grace, then reached for her seal. The falling star of House Dayne pressed into purple wax, marking this letter as both official and deeply personal. As she waited for it to cool, she pulled out Benjen's last letter, re-reading his description of life at Moat Cailin.
The fortress he described seemed almost mythical—a restoration born from determination and northern resilience. Where once broken towers had reached like skeletal fingers toward the sky, now stood renewed battlements. The ancient stronghold that had guarded the Neck for thousands of years was awakening from its long slumber, stone by stone, secret by secret.
More importantly, it had become a sanctuary. Jon Snow had found peace there, away from Lady Catelyn's cold stares. Benjen wrote of the boy's progress with sword and horse, of quiet evenings spent teaching him the old stories of the North, of a childhood free from the weight of his birth status. It was everything Brandon would have wanted for his nephew—everything Ashara now hoped to secure for his son.
She rose from her desk, letter in hand, and moved to the window. Below, torches were being lit in the courtyard, their flames catching her eye in a way they never had before. Since Edric's transformation, she found herself studying fire differently, wondering at its secrets. Her son could command those flames now, bend them to his will. What other gifts might emerge as he grew? What other powers might need careful concealment?
A knock at her door interrupted her thoughts. "Enter," she called, quickly tucking Benjen's letters back into their cedar box.
Allyria stepped in, her face drawn with concern. "You missed the evening meal," she said softly. "Edric was asking for you."
Ashara turned from the window, the sealed letter heavy in her hand. "I've been thinking," she said, "about his future. About keeping him safe."
Her sister's eyes fell to the letter, understanding dawning in them. "You're considering Benjen's offer at last?"
"More than considering." Ashara held up the letter. "I'm accepting it. Moat Cailin could give Edric what Starfall no longer can—space to grow, to learn his abilities away from prying eyes. And Benjen..." She paused, emotion threatening to overcome her carefully maintained composure. "Benjen has proven his loyalty a hundred times over. He's created a haven there, for Jon Snow and perhaps now for Edric too."
Allyria sank into a nearby chair, her skirts rustling softly against the rushes. "After all these years..." she whispered. "I always wondered if you might eventually accept. But now, with everything that's happened..." She gestured vaguely, encompassing all the strange events of recent months.
"You've seen how he struggles," Ashara said, returning to her desk. "Every day, pretending to be weaker than he is, hiding abilities that seem to grow stronger by the week. The story of divine intervention will only shield him for so long. Eventually, someone will ask too many questions."
"And Benjen?" Allyria's voice carried a hint of protective concern. "You're certain about marriage? It's not just about finding Edric a safer home?"
Ashara touched the cedar box containing years of correspondence. "Benjen is... different from what I expected. These letters—they show a man of honor, yes, but also of deep understanding. He took Jon from Winterfell not just to protect him from Catelyn's scorn, but to give him a place to become his own person. He rebuilt Moat Cailin not just as a fortress, but as a sanctuary."
She pulled out one of the more recent letters, reading aloud: "'The boy flourishes here, away from judgmental eyes. Sometimes I watch him practicing in the yard and think of Brandon—how he would have loved to see his nephew growing strong and free.'" She looked up at Allyria. "He wrote that about Jon, but couldn't the same be true for Edric?"
"And what of Allem? Have you discussed this with him?"
"Not yet. But after seeing Edric's transformation, after accepting our need for greater secrecy..." Ashara shook her head. "He'll understand. He might even be relieved. Starfall has too many eyes, too many chances for Edric's abilities to be discovered."
"And what of Edric himself?" Allyria asked, leaning forward. "How will you tell him? He's only just accepted you as his mother openly, and now..."
Ashara moved to the brazier, watching the flames dance. How like Edric's controlled fire they seemed, beautiful and dangerous all at once. "He asks about the North constantly. Even before his transformation, his questions always turned to Winterfell, to the old gods, to the heritage we kept from him. Now?" She turned back to Allyria. "Now he needs answers we cannot give him here."
"Moat Cailin," Allyria mused. "The ancient seat of the First Men, guardian of the Neck. There are stories about that place, about the magic in its stones..."
"Yes," Ashara agreed. "Perhaps that's fitting. A fortress of legends for a boy who seems to be becoming one himself." She paused, considering her next words carefully. "And there's Jon Snow. A cousin near his own age, another boy walking the line between two worlds. Benjen writes that the boy has a quiet strength about him, a determination to prove himself worthy despite his birth."
"Like Edric," Allyria whispered.
"Like Edric," Ashara confirmed. "And with Benjen there to guide them both... It feels right, doesn't it? As though all these years of correspondence were leading to this moment."
She returned to her desk, pulling out fresh parchment. "I'll need to write to Allem as well. He should hear this from me directly, not through castle gossip or servant's whispers."
"When?" Allyria asked. "When would you leave?"
Ashara dipped her quill, considering. "Not immediately. There are preparations to make, arrangements to consider. And I want to meet with Benjen first, somewhere private where we can speak freely of Edric's... changes. Perhaps at the Tor, or one of the quieter ports along the coast."
The evening sun cast long shadows through the solar's windows as Ashara sat alone, a cedar box open before her. The wood was smooth with age, polished by years of handling, and still carried the faint scent of the lavender sprigs she used to preserve its contents. Inside, neatly bound with purple ribbon, lay nearly a decade of correspondence—letters that had tracked the course of her life since Brandon's death.
She lifted the first bundle, the parchment worn soft at the edges from repeated reading. These earliest messages bore water stains—whether from rain during their journey south or her own tears, she could no longer recall. The direwolf seal was pressed in grey wax, a color House Stark rarely used for official correspondence. But these had been personal letters, sent by the youngest wolf of Winterfell in the dark days after rebellion had torn the realm apart.
"Dearest Lady Ashara," the first one began, in Benjen's uncertain hand. He had been so young then, barely more than a boy himself, yet trying to shoulder the weight of his family's legacy. "I know no words can ease your grief, but please know that you are not alone in mourning Brandon..."
She remembered how that letter had found her, secluded in her chambers at Starfall, her belly just beginning to swell with Brandon's child. The realm whispered about her—the dishonored lady, the fallen star—but Benjen's words had carried no judgment, only compassion and a desperate desire to help.
More letters followed, each one offering comfort, sharing memories of Brandon that helped keep him alive in her heart. Benjen wrote of their childhood adventures, of Brandon's laughter echoing through Winterfell's halls, of his fierce protection of his siblings. Through those pages, she came to know the Brandon that existed before ambition and duty drew him south—the wild wolf who had first captured her heart at Harrenhal.
Ashara pulled out another letter, this one from the months just before Edric's birth. The parchment crackled softly as she smoothed it open, revealing Benjen's increasingly confident script.
"I know you've refused before," he had written, "but please consider my offer again. I would wed you properly, claim the child as my own. Brandon would have wanted his son to grow up in Winterfell, to know the North's ways. You would have all the protection House Stark can offer..."
She remembered how her hands had trembled when first reading those words. Benjen's proposal had been more than generous—it was a chance to give her child legitimacy, to spare him the weight of bastardy.
Allem and Allaria had called her mad for refusing. They wanted her to be happy, to find some measure of peace after everything she had lost. But they didn't understand the depths of her grief, how the very thought of replacing Brandon felt like betraying his memory.
Another letter, received after Edric's first nameday, spoke of Benjen's first glimpse of his other nephew. "Jon has the Stark look," he'd written. "Dark hair, long face—but there's something in his eyes..." Even then, Ashara had noted the careful way he described the boy, as though measuring each word.
She remembered when Eddard Stark had come to Starfall, bearing Dawn and Arthur's bones. His eyes had lingered on the babe in her arms, recognition flickering across his solemn features. No words were spoken of parentage, but they both knew—this was Brandon's son. And in that moment, as she watched him cradle his own dark-haired babe, she had seen something that made her doubt. The honorable Eddard Stark, fathering a bastard out of mere lust? No, there was more to that tale. The way he held the child, the fierce protection in his eyes, the careful way he spoke of the boy's mother—it all spoke of secrets deeper than simple infidelity. But she never pressed for details. They each had their truths to guard, their promises to keep.
Her fingers found a letter that had changed everything—the one where Benjen announced his intention to take the black. The parchment was thicker than the others, as though he'd chosen sturdy material to carry heavy news. "The Wall calls to me," he'd written. "Perhaps there I can find purpose, away from all these ghosts..."
Even in what he had meant to be his farewell, his thoughts had turned to Edric. "Though I go North to serve, never hesitate to send word if Brandon's son needs anything. The Watch may take my name, but it cannot take my blood. One raven to Castle Black, and I will find a way to help." Those words, written with such earnest devotion to a nephew he'd never met, had stirred something in her that she thought long buried.
That letter had stirred something in her that she thought long buried. Memories of Brandon's stories about his youngest brother—the laughing boy who played pranks in Winterfell's halls, who dreamed of ranging beyond the Wall but never with such grim purpose. Before she could stop herself, she had penned a response that came straight from her heart.
Ashara unfolded her own letter, a copy she'd kept from that pivotal moment. Her words had flowed like a torrent, speaking of Brandon's love for his siblings, of how he would never have wanted grief to drive his little brother to the Wall. "Your brother lived for family," she had written. "He would want you to stay, to help guide the next generation. You have nephews who need you—both of them."
That letter had changed everything. Benjen never took the black. Instead, he wrote back months later from Moat Cailin, where he had taken up residence with young Jon Snow. His words spoke of a growing rift with Lady Catelyn, of how her cold treatment of Jon had become unbearable to witness. Rather than flee to the Wall, he had chosen a different path—restoring the ancient fortress while providing a home where his nephew could grow without constant reminder of his birth.
Over the years, their correspondence deepened. Benjen wrote of Jon's progress, of the challenges of rebuilding Moat Cailin, and always, always, he asked after Edric. His letters painted a picture of life in that restored fortress: training yards echoing with the clash of practice swords, halls slowly returning to their former glory, and a boy growing up away from the prejudices of Winterfell's court.
Every few moons, like clockwork, came the same gentle inquiry: "Have you reconsidered my offer?" Each time, Ashara had refused, finding comfort in the careful life she'd built at Starfall. Edric was safe here, loved by both his true mother and the aunt who claimed him as her own. The pretense had become almost natural—Ashara the grieving sister, Allyria the unwed mother, and Edric the child who bound them all together.
But now...
Ashara's gaze drifted to the window, where she could see Edric in the practice yard below. Even from this distance, his transformation was obvious. The way he moved, the careful restraint in each strike of his practice sword, the deliberate way he pretended to tire—all of it spoke of someone struggling to hide extraordinary gifts. Her son was no longer just a child with secret parentage; he had become something more, something that might draw dangerous attention if word spread beyond Starfall's walls.
She thought of Moat Cailin, that ancient fortress guarding the Neck. It was far from the intrigues of King's Landing, away from the watchful eyes of those who might remember Brandon Stark's face. There, Edric could learn to control his abilities without constant fear of discovery. He would have Benjen—an uncle who already loved him from afar—and Jon, a cousin near his own age who might understand something of living between two worlds.
The sun had dipped lower, painting the chamber in deep amber hues. Ashara pulled fresh parchment toward her, dipped her quill in ink, and began to write. The words came slowly at first, then faster, like a dam breaking after years of careful maintenance.
"Dearest Benjen,
Your last letter spoke again of marriage, of making a home for my son—for Brandon's son. For years, I have refused out of grief, out of fear, out of a desire to keep Edric close. But circumstances have changed..."
She paused, quill hovering over parchment. How much could she reveal in a letter? The black substance, the transformation, the incredible abilities—none of that could be safely committed to writing. Yet she needed Benjen to understand the urgency without raising alarm.
"Recent events have made me reconsider your offer," she continued carefully. "Edric has... changed. He grows strong, perhaps too strong for the confines of Starfall. More than ever, he needs guidance, space to develop away from prying eyes, and the chance to know his father's people."
Her hand trembled slightly as she wrote. Each word felt like another stone lifted from the wall she'd built around her heart. "You once promised to love him as your own, to give him the protection of your name. If that offer still stands, I find myself finally ready to accept."
Ashara set down her quill, letting the ink dry as she gathered her thoughts. Through the window, she could still see Edric in the yard, now working with Ser Daemon. Even from this distance, she noted how her son checked each movement, restraining strength that could easily overwhelm a grown man. How long before someone noticed? How long before rumors spread beyond their control?
She returned to her letter, choosing each word with careful precision. "Moat Cailin would suit him well, I think. Far from the politics of King's Landing, yet close enough to learn of his northern heritage. He could train alongside Jon, learn from you the things his father might have taught him..."
The mention of Brandon made her pause again, memories washing over her like a tide. She remembered his laugh, the wild gleam in his grey eyes, the way he spoke of his family with such fierce pride. What would he think of this choice? Would he understand her reasons for finally accepting his brother's protection?
"There are things I cannot explain in a letter," she wrote, "matters that must be discussed in person. But know this: I have not made this decision lightly. For years, I've watched you rebuild Moat Cailin into a refuge, offering Jon the home he deserves. Perhaps it is time for Edric to share in that sanctuary."
The shadows lengthened across the solar floor as Ashara continued writing, each word weighted with years of careful consideration. Outside, the practice yard grew quiet as evening approached. She could hear the distant sounds of the castle preparing for night—servants lighting torches, guards changing shifts, the soft echo of footsteps in stone corridors.
"I know this may seem sudden," her quill scratched across the parchment, "after so many years of refusal. But you've always understood, haven't you? That's why you kept writing, kept offering, even when I could give you nothing but denial. You knew someday the winds might change."
She paused to sprinkle sand over the wet ink, watching the grains catch the last rays of sunlight. Her mind drifted to all Benjen had shared about Moat Cailin in his letters. The ancient fortress was no longer the ruins of legend—under his care, it had become something else entirely. The crumbling towers had been rebuilt, the flooded cellars drained and restored. He wrote of gardens taking root in the rich soil, of training yards echoing with the clash of steel, of halls slowly returning to their former glory.
More importantly, he had written of Jon Snow's life there. Away from Winterfell's judgmental eyes, the boy had flourished. "He grows stronger every day," Benjen had written in his last letter. "Here, he's not just a bastard—he's my nephew, a child of the North, free to become whoever he's meant to be."
Ashara's heart tightened. Wasn't that exactly what Edric needed now? A place where his extraordinary gifts might be seen as blessings rather than causes for fear? Where his heritage could be quietly acknowledged without risking the realm's stability?
She dipped her quill again, the words flowing more freely now. "When you first offered marriage, I thought only of what I would lose—my independence, my home in Dorne, my private grief for Brandon. Now I see what we might gain. Edric needs more than Starfall can safely offer him. He needs the North, needs to understand that half of himself we've kept hidden. Most of all, he needs family who can protect him while he grows into whatever the gods intend him to be."
The light was failing now, and she lit a candle to continue her task. Its flame cast dancing shadows on the walls, reminding her of how Edric had described his newfound abilities with fire. Another secret that needed stronger walls than Starfall could provide.
"I propose we meet," she wrote, her script growing more decisive. "Not at Winterfell or Starfall—both too public, too many eyes. Perhaps somewhere along the way, where we can speak freely of matters too delicate for ravens. You'll understand when you see him, Benjen. He's changed in ways that make me fear for his safety if we remain too long in the South."
The candle flickered as a cool breeze swept through the solar. Ashara drew her shawl closer, though the chill she felt came more from within than without. She had one final truth to commit to parchment, perhaps the hardest to write.
"You should know, Benjen, that Edric has learned the truth of his parentage. The careful fiction we maintained—of aunt and nephew, of Allyria's supposed motherhood—has fallen away. He knows he is Brandon's son, knows I am his mother. More surprisingly, he has accepted this truth with a wisdom beyond his years."
She paused, considering how to phrase the next part without revealing too much. "Recent events have forced us to be more honest with each other. He understands now why we kept such secrets, why we must continue to guard them. But he also asks questions about the North, about his father's people, about the heritage we've kept from him for so long."
The memory of Edric's transformation, of finding him covered in that black substance, made her hand tremble slightly. She steadied it before continuing. "When you see him, you'll understand my urgency. He resembles Brandon more with each passing day—too much, perhaps, for comfort. Here in Dorne, where few remembered his father's face, we might have hidden it longer. But soon enough, anyone who knew Brandon would see him in Edric's features."
A log shifted in the brazier, sending sparks dancing upward. Ashara watched them fade, thinking of how Edric now commanded fire with casual ease. Another secret to protect, another reason to seek safer harbor.
"I ask only this: when we meet, come with an open mind. Much has changed—more than I can safely explain by raven. If, after seeing him, after hearing all I cannot write, you still wish to offer us sanctuary at Moat Cailin... then yes, Benjen. Yes to everything you've proposed these past years."
She signed her name with practiced grace, then reached for her seal. The falling star of House Dayne pressed into purple wax, marking this letter as both official and deeply personal. As she waited for it to cool, she pulled out Benjen's last letter, re-reading his description of life at Moat Cailin.
The fortress he described seemed almost mythical—a restoration born from determination and northern resilience. Where once broken towers had reached like skeletal fingers toward the sky, now stood renewed battlements. The ancient stronghold that had guarded the Neck for thousands of years was awakening from its long slumber, stone by stone, secret by secret.
More importantly, it had become a sanctuary. Jon Snow had found peace there, away from Lady Catelyn's cold stares. Benjen wrote of the boy's progress with sword and horse, of quiet evenings spent teaching him the old stories of the North, of a childhood free from the weight of his birth status. It was everything Brandon would have wanted for his nephew—everything Ashara now hoped to secure for his son.
She rose from her desk, letter in hand, and moved to the window. Below, torches were being lit in the courtyard, their flames catching her eye in a way they never had before. Since Edric's transformation, she found herself studying fire differently, wondering at its secrets. Her son could command those flames now, bend them to his will. What other gifts might emerge as he grew? What other powers might need careful concealment?
A knock at her door interrupted her thoughts. "Enter," she called, quickly tucking Benjen's letters back into their cedar box.
Allyria stepped in, her face drawn with concern. "You missed the evening meal," she said softly. "Edric was asking for you."
Ashara turned from the window, the sealed letter heavy in her hand. "I've been thinking," she said, "about his future. About keeping him safe."
Her sister's eyes fell to the letter, understanding dawning in them. "You're considering Benjen's offer at last?"
"More than considering." Ashara held up the letter. "I'm accepting it. Moat Cailin could give Edric what Starfall no longer can—space to grow, to learn his abilities away from prying eyes. And Benjen..." She paused, emotion threatening to overcome her carefully maintained composure. "Benjen has proven his loyalty a hundred times over. He's created a haven there, for Jon Snow and perhaps now for Edric too."
Allyria sank into a nearby chair, her skirts rustling softly against the rushes. "After all these years..." she whispered. "I always wondered if you might eventually accept. But now, with everything that's happened..." She gestured vaguely, encompassing all the strange events of recent months.
"You've seen how he struggles," Ashara said, returning to her desk. "Every day, pretending to be weaker than he is, hiding abilities that seem to grow stronger by the week. The story of divine intervention will only shield him for so long. Eventually, someone will ask too many questions."
"And Benjen?" Allyria's voice carried a hint of protective concern. "You're certain about marriage? It's not just about finding Edric a safer home?"
Ashara touched the cedar box containing years of correspondence. "Benjen is... different from what I expected. These letters—they show a man of honor, yes, but also of deep understanding. He took Jon from Winterfell not just to protect him from Catelyn's scorn, but to give him a place to become his own person. He rebuilt Moat Cailin not just as a fortress, but as a sanctuary."
She pulled out one of the more recent letters, reading aloud: "'The boy flourishes here, away from judgmental eyes. Sometimes I watch him practicing in the yard and think of Brandon—how he would have loved to see his nephew growing strong and free.'" She looked up at Allyria. "He wrote that about Jon, but couldn't the same be true for Edric?"
"And what of Allem? Have you discussed this with him?"
"Not yet. But after seeing Edric's transformation, after accepting our need for greater secrecy..." Ashara shook her head. "He'll understand. He might even be relieved. Starfall has too many eyes, too many chances for Edric's abilities to be discovered."
"And what of Edric himself?" Allyria asked, leaning forward. "How will you tell him? He's only just accepted you as his mother openly, and now..."
Ashara moved to the brazier, watching the flames dance. How like Edric's controlled fire they seemed, beautiful and dangerous all at once. "He asks about the North constantly. Even before his transformation, his questions always turned to Winterfell, to the old gods, to the heritage we kept from him. Now?" She turned back to Allyria. "Now he needs answers we cannot give him here."
"Moat Cailin," Allyria mused. "The ancient seat of the First Men, guardian of the Neck. There are stories about that place, about the magic in its stones..."
"Yes," Ashara agreed. "Perhaps that's fitting. A fortress of legends for a boy who seems to be becoming one himself." She paused, considering her next words carefully. "And there's Jon Snow. A cousin near his own age, another boy walking the line between two worlds. Benjen writes that the boy has a quiet strength about him, a determination to prove himself worthy despite his birth."
"Like Edric," Allyria whispered.
"Like Edric," Ashara confirmed. "And with Benjen there to guide them both... It feels right, doesn't it? As though all these years of correspondence were leading to this moment."
She returned to her desk, pulling out fresh parchment. "I'll need to write to Allem as well. He should hear this from me directly, not through castle gossip or servant's whispers."
"When?" Allyria asked. "When would you leave?"
Ashara dipped her quill, considering. "Not immediately. There are preparations to make, arrangements to consider. And I want to meet with Benjen first, somewhere private where we can speak freely of Edric's... changes. Perhaps at the Tor, or one of the quieter ports along the coast."