I don't give a damn about my bad reputation
The silver king leads the procession, his Aunt Daenerys to his right, half a step behind him. She is backed by her own entourage, as though it is she who sits the Iron Throne, but Aegon does not object. If having Missendei, Greyworm, Ser Barristan, and Daario Naharis trail her is what it takes to quell her sour mood so that she is gracious and charming while they are presented to the Winter Court, it is a small price to pay. Lord Connington mislikes the arrangement (it is Daario Naharis' presence as well as the princess' attempt to set herself on equal footing with the king with which he takes the most issue) but the approval is ultimately Aegon's to give or deny.
Besides, he has his own entourage.
Aside from his Lord Hand, the king is followed by Lord Tyrion, his entire kingsguard, Duck, and Haldon. The last two really have no clear reason to be included in the royal party aside from the fact that the king desires them to be. They are his trusted advisors, close confidants, and friends, and he wants to keep them near, both for his own comfort and to reward their steadfastness.
Winterfell is an impressively large castle, so it does not surprise Aegon that the great hall is massive. It could easily seat five hundred men and hold three times that number if the tables are removed and the men stand shoulder to shoulder. The iron and oak doors are thrown open for the party by smart household guards with beards and scowling countenances. They look exactly as Northmen should, the king thinks.
The newcomers enter, and though Aegon stares straight ahead, he sees young Prince Rickon in his peripheral vision, grinning up at him from the edge of the crowd, and notes the bright blonde head of Lord Dayne in the distance, near the foot of the stone steps that lead up to the Winter Throne.
As they march down the wide aisle created by Lords and Ladies, knights and captains, loyal subjects crowding on each side of the room, the king gets his first glimpse of Arya Stark. Even without the crown she wears or her position standing on the stone dais before the throne or the surrounding queensguard in their unblemished armor finished in shining, midnight enamel, he would know her. Maester Brenett's illuminations have insured that, though as he looks upon her now, he realizes there are things the artwork has not conveyed adequately.
Like how slight she is, or how her dark hair has a luster that renders it somehow just as bright as the silver of his own. Aegon had assumed the portraits and renderings to be merely flattering portrayals of a less appealing reality. That is the way with art, or so his experience has always been. But seeing the girl with his own eyes, he now understands they are a poor approximation of who Arya Stark really is. No drawing could capture the glint in her silver eyes as she silently appraises her guests. No mere painting could demonstrate how the curve of her jaw begs for fingers to caress it. No illustration could convey the blur of emotions he reads in the almost imperceptible curl of her lips, how she is somehow amused and irritated and fascinated, all at once, to be standing where she is, seeing what approaches her throne.
She is dressed as… he does not immediately know how to describe it. As a goddess of the hunt, he thinks. Of hunt and horse. Fine boots encase slender legs, stopping just above the knee, drawing attention to shapely thighs covered by fitted breeches, partially hidden behind the edges of her trailing coattails, or perhaps it is a split skirt? He isn't sure. He has not made a study of the fashions of women. She is small but well-formed. The top of the garment molds to her body and though she is covered, practically from chin to toe, showing only the skin of her face and hands, he has never before experienced such a jolt of lust when gazing upon a woman.
Has she bewitched him? Is he the subject of some dark magic?
Aegon narrows his eyes, wondering if there are witches in the hall, whispering their spells into the air, enchanting the chamber. He wonders if Arya Stark herself is a witch.
His thoughts are interrupted by a low murmur from behind. Daenerys speaks softly in High Valyrian, her words directed at Missendei. Their exchange makes it clear she has not been similarly affected.
"Why does she wear her collar so high?"
"Her kingdom is cold," Missendei replies.
"Perhaps it is that. Or perhaps she has a horrible rash she is trying to hide. How do we know she isn't covered in greyscale?"
The king clenches his jaw. The women speak so low that he barely hears them, so he does not fear their conversation reaches the ear of the Winter's Queen, who would be unlikely to understand them anyway, given their chosen tongue. Nonetheless, he is irritated with the disrespect. He glances over his shoulder, catching his aunt's purple eyes with his own, and while she does not look chastened in the least, she does at least cease her cruel speculations.
When he gazes back to the dais, Aegon takes careful stock of the scene before him. Arya is at the center of the tableau, of course. A serious looking man with her coloring who can only be Jon Snow stands to her right and a monstrous wolf is to her left. Nymeria, he thinks. The queen has written of her, of course, her strange direwolf companion, and the stories of her and her immense wolf pack are told throughout the great halls of the kingdom. The beast sits on her haunches, and even so, her large head is level with Arya's own. On each step leading to the throne stand two armored men, one to the right, and one to left. Except the step nearest the queen, the king notes. Though a man stands to one side, it is an armored woman who stands to the other.
Lady Brienne, he realizes. Arya has written of her as well.
Only five of the six guards wear the black plate of the Winter Guard. The sixth man, a tall, dark-haired knight with piercing blue eyes and an impressive sneer, wears unenameled armor, fine but plain. It is only distinguished by a polished helm with bull's horns adorning the crown. Though Aegon puzzles over the matter, he cannot recall a house with a bull's head sigil. That makes the knight a mystery, and one the king is keen to solve, as the man has earned a place so near to Arya and Aegon would know why.
"Welcome to Winterfell," Arya finally says, and her voice catches the king off his guard. The girl is so diminutive and pretty, he'd imagined her words would be spoken in a high tone, or something perhaps whisper thin and soft. But her voice is husky and a little hoarse, as though she has laughed too long and too hard, late into the night, and has not yet recovered herself. Before Aegon can think to respond to her, she lifts her palms, directing servants on each side of the aisle to approach the new arrivals. "Please," she continues, "eat of my bread and salt."
Silver domes are lifted from platters in unison, revealing the queen's offering. Instead of the hard bread and coarse salt they have been greeted with at each stop on their journey north, they are presented with something significantly more appetizing. Fresh bread, warm and soft, sliced and slathered with honey. Over top, each slice is sprinkled with a few grains of salt. It is less a thing of obligatory custom and more a delicacy.
Each man and woman in the royal party partakes, some making appreciative grunts and groans as they swallow the treat. The bread has a velvety texture, like cake, and the few grains of salt complement the sweetness of the honey in an unexpected way. Aegon cannot help but to place the tip of his thumb into his mouth to lick the last bit of the sticky sweet away. As he does, he watches Arya and smiles slightly as he notes that she, in turn, watches him.
"We thank you for your hospitality," the king says, dropping his hands to his sides and flexing his fingers, "and look forward to strengthening the relations between our two thrones."
Lord Connington huffs behind him. Aegon knows his Hand is displeased. Connington has argued for a less conciliatory greeting and for once, Daenerys has taken the griffin's side against the king, but this is the tack the king has chosen. Arguments over rightful claims and territories and rebellions and treaties can be had later, behind closed doors. They do not need to occur before the entire court, immediately upon arrival.
As has been planned, Daenerys steps forward, drawing even with the king. She smiles sweetly up at the queen and Lord Snow, then offers a customary greeting of Old Valyria, something she has suggested and Aegon has agreed to, thinking to highlight their heritage (and hopefully remind these Northmen and Riverlanders of what happened three hundred years past when their forefathers dared to resist Aegon the Conqueror).
"May your household be blessed with riches and comfort, and your days be long and untroubled," the khaleesi says in High Valyrian. As the king watches, Jon Snow's brows pinch together. Arya's own brows lift, and he cannot tell if she is surprised or just impatient for a translation. Missendei obliges, repeating her mistress' words faithfully. The interpretation brings an almost pained smile to Lord Snow's face, but the queen just bows her head graciously, placing a hand over her heart as though touched by the sentiment once she understands it.
Aegon's shoulders relax a bit, and he allows himself a genuine smile, pleased with how seamless the whole affair is proving to be.
The proper courtesies had been offered and received without any real trouble, or indeed, without her little brother threatening to whittle Daenerys Targaryen's thigh bone into a whip handle or sword hilt, so Arya was prepared to declare the whole farce a success. It was true that the khaleesi insisting on speaking a language the court did not understand could be viewed as an insult, or at the very least, a pretension, but the queen was not quick to name it so. It might've been some strange Targaryen tradition meant to show deference (she doubted it, but as the last of the dragons had been driven from the land years before she was born, she couldn't be sure of the intent behind their customs). It was possible these Targaryens merely meant to invoke the image of their forebear, Aegon I, in a bid to give themselves legitimacy in the eyes of the court. It was also possible Daenerys meant it as some sort of test, to gauge the queen's understanding of the language, so that she might assess the level of her education and intellect.
This thought rankled the girl.
It wasn't that Arya was incapable of rising to such a challenge, but that this newly returned exile would dare come into her home and judge her based on such a narrow criterion which displeased her. Her father's own knowledge of Valyrian had been rudimentary, at best, yet he was a just commander, a brave warrior, and a great lord. Indeed, in the whole of the world, Jon Snow was the person dearest to her heart and an excellent leader of men himself, yet he was almost hopeless with languages. That talent had always lain with Arya. And, perhaps a bit with Bran as well.
The girl mastered her thoughts and her face. She did not know that Daenerys intended any insult, and it would not do to make uncomfortable assumptions. At least not yet. She supposed she could suss out the answer for herself, using her gift, but she rather liked the challenge of trying to discover the truth in more natural ways. It was almost a game, and it was certain to be more diverting and less draining than sifting through the musings of a stranger's mind.
"You have brought your dragons," the queen remarked, looking back at Aegon.
"He has brought my dragons," the princess corrected.
"As I said I would," the king replied, ignoring his aunt.
"It has been a long time since the shadow of a dragon fell across this land," Arya said. "Since before our grandsires were born. Our grandsires' grandsires, even."
"Indeed," Aegon agreed amiably. "I hope the people welcome the sight of them flying overhead, as a symbol of a new era in Westeros."
"My people will undoubtedly find them a wonder, providing their safety is assured." The girl looked keenly at the Targaryens. "They would be a great deal less likely to welcome the sight if they must fear their children being carried off in the jaws of the beasts."
"Do the people not have scorpion ballistae mounted on the roofs of their huts and shops and barns?" the king asked lightly. "Surely that would provide them assurance they can safeguard themselves. Or is it only the great houses which are equipped with such weaponry?"
The queen was unruffled. A small smile played on her lips as she gazed down at Aegon. "No, your grace, the smallfolk have not been outfitted with or trained to use scorpions, but your suggestion bears consideration." She looked out over the crowd below and spied the mountain lords standing together on the left side of the aisle. "Lord Wull, Lord Harclay," she called out, "would it be possible to increase the tonnage of iron ore your people are mining, or are we at capacity?"
"We are only limited by the number of men we have to do the labor, yer grace," Lord Wull replied.
"Aye," Lord Harclay agreed. "We could double the amount we mine per moon with enough men."
The girl nodded. "We shall address the labor shortfall in the council meeting tomorrow, my lords. It seems the kingdom's forges have need of more iron for the building and arming of scorpions. I'm certain we can find the men you need." She turned her gaze back to Aegon's and then, as though confiding in him, said, "It's hard work, but honest, and it pays well."
The king pursed his lips, but before he could respond, his aunt spoke up.
"And how will we guarantee that the dragons are unmolested?" Daenerys wanted to know. "With iron bolts trained on the skies in every direction, how will you assure their safety?"
"The bolts, Princess Daenerys," Arya began, adopting the tone Septa Mordane had often used when lecturing her, "can be trained either on the skies or on the ground. And if you do not give us reason to use them, they will remain where they are, stacked atop the walls, and not buried in your dragon's eye."
The silver woman tensed, but said, "Perhaps you would give us leave to take the dragons into the countryside, where they will be less likely to… spark any misunderstandings."
"But rather more likely to spark a fire to burn down the forests we rely upon to satisfy the trade agreements we've made with the Iron Bank, I think," was the queen's amused reply.
"A dragon is not a dog to be caged or a horse to be corralled!" the princess seethed.
"No, but a dragon is a weapon of war," Jon Snow intoned, speaking for the first time, "and one we are unwilling to see unleashed upon our people." He spoke firmly, but not unkindly.
Daenerys tilted her head, regarding Jon for a long moment before answering. When she did, her voice became airy, her tone pleasant, as she said, "I may be just a young girl, naïve in the ways of warfare, but…"
It was then that Arya snorted. Startled, the princess halted her intended speech, her smile faltering. The queen realized it was a terrible breach of protocol, but she could hardly contain herself. A young girl? Daenerys Targaryen was a woman grown, twice married, and of an age with Jon. And that claim of naivete was equally ridiculous. The woman had ordered the gruesome executions of most of the masters in Slaver's Bay before turning half of Essos to ash!
The silver woman gathered herself, conjuring up a smile even more fake than the one she had worn a moment earlier. When she next spoke, it was in the musical tones of High Valyrian, nodding delicately toward her translator and her Unsullied protector in turn as she did. Jon looked on patiently, awaiting translation, smiling slightly. Why wouldn't he? Valyrian was a lovely language, and the princess spoke it sweetly and softly. For all he could tell, she was singing the praises of the beauty of the land or the admirable industry of its people.
Arya knew better, but she looked on with a disinterested expression, not reacting to the insults being leveled at them as the queen and her entourage conversed in High Valyrian.
"The audacity of that barbaric girl to snort at me like a fatted sow," Daenerys murmured.
"It is not to be born, khaleesi," Missendei said, "but perhaps she is so simple and coarse that she does not know better."
"I should have suspected it, after how her beast of a brother behaved at Cerwyn. That stinking wolf next to her has more courtesy."
Greyworm spoke up then. "This one will teach a Northern girl a lesson in civility if you command it," he offered. His grip on his spear tightened.
"Greyworm," the king said in warning. He spoke in a hushed tone without turning. The girl could tell he worked to keep the emotion out of his voice, likely hoping to mask the threatening nature of the conversation from the court.
Daenerys spoke over Aegon, her tone even lighter and more amused than before, giving no hint at the poison dripping from her tongue. "If not for the king's desire to engage in diplomacy, I would have you cut her tongue out for her insolence," the khaleesi said to the Unsullied warrior, "but stay your hand, my faithful captain. She's completely harmless, even if vulgar."
Completely harmless?
That insult was a step too far for the queen and she would not allow it pass.
Arya strode forward, to the very edge of the dais, but her expression was benign enough to prevent alarming anyone. Jon kept his place and her queensguard knights did not stiffen or draw steel. Aegon's eyes drank in her movements, and he watched her expectantly. The translator opened her mouth then, likely to speak a ready lie to cover for the princess.
"Your grace," the young woman said, "Princess Daenerys says…"
The girl raised her hand, staying the translator's attempts to explain away their exchange, then looked directly at the silver woman and in perfect High Valyrian, announced, "I appreciate your indulgence, khaleesi. I am so very fond of my tongue and would feel its absence keenly." The tone she used was even more syrupy and musical than the princess' had been.
Daenerys took a half step back, gasping. Greyworm's expression hardened while the translator's turned to one of horror. For his part, Aegon looked stunned, but only for a moment, and then his gaping mouth shaped itself into a mischievous grin. Arya turned and looked over her shoulder at her brother, saying, "I was just thanking them for not cutting out my tongue, though they have expressed a desire to do so."
Jon's bemused expression melted away and was replaced with something altogether darker. He moved swiftly to his sister's side, glaring down at the royal visitors and their entourage. The wrath that rolled off him was nearly palpable.
Arya continued in the foreign tongue when he reached her, directing her speech at the khaleesi and her creatures. "Still, you should consider your words in my court carefully. Though I do not stand on ceremony and am not easily offended…" Here, she paused, then, switching to Dothraki, which was a language made for threats and violence, hissed, "…I am a great deal less harmless than you seem to think."
Greyworm's face pinched and he moved forward a step, still gripping his spear tightly in one hand while his other reached for the hilt of the arakh at his hip. Though Jon did not understand the words that had been spoken, he did not mistake the threat in the Unsullied captain's movements or expression and instantly grabbed Arya's arm, yanking her behind him so that he could put himself between her and the point of Greyworm's spear.
"Protect the queen!" he commanded, and the Winter Guard instantly drew steel and closed ranks. The courtiers rumbled and cried out, shifting restlessly. Some drew swords and daggers while others stilled and stared, waiting to see what action they would need to take. At the sound of steel being unsheathed, the kingsguard knights moved themselves to defend Aegon, surrounding him and making ready with their swords. Jon himself unsheathed Longclaw, causing Arya to lament that she had not been allowed to bring Frost or Grey Daughter with her. Jon had insisted it would be seen as a provocation and that there was steel enough to protect her without the requirement for her to wield it herself.
He did not know about the slim pocket Gendry had directed be sewn into her boot; the pocket where even now, Needle was hidden.
Though she knew the Unsullied man would be a fierce foe, she wagered that if she shed her beautiful new coat, she could be quick enough to poke him full of holes with her old sword before he could do any serious damage to her.
If only Jon and her queensguard would step aside and allow her through.
The burnished man took another step forward, muttering in Valyrian about respect and threatening the mother of dragons through gritted teeth. When he spoke, the language sounded much less musical and light than it had coming from Daenerys Targaryen's mouth. Arya tracked his movements and strained against Jon's arm which clamped her against his back. He gave her an admonishing look over his shoulder.
"No, Arya," he muttered.
She ignored him and continued her struggle, straining to reach Needle in her boot. Only a loud, barked command from the southron king stopped the imbroglio from erupting into an all-out massacre.
"Enough!" Aegon shouted in the common tongue and the girl saw that he had not drawn his sword or even rested his hand on the pommel. For some reason, this commanded her attention, and she stilled, watching him. When Jon felt her stop her struggle, he released her from his iron grip. Arya stepped from behind her brother, but did not move to descend the stairs, nor did she withdraw Needle from her boot.
"Please, everyone," the silver king said shortly, his grin having dissolved into a stern look. He turned to face the Unsullied captain and addressed him in High Valyrian then. "The queen did not mean to threaten the princess, Greyworm. Whether any disrespect was meant is another matter, but we are guests here. Put away your steel, for the love of the gods, before you get us all killed!"
The Unsullied captain stiffened and hesitated. Arya imagined he was calculating how likely his spear was to pierce her heart before he could be stopped by the Winter Guard. She thought he had a better than average chance, but he certainly was not factoring in the skinny dagger strapped to her wrist and hidden beneath her sleeve. It would be lodged in his throat before he could even raise his weapon and pull it over his shoulder in preparation for an attack.
"Greyworm!" Aegon barked.
Reluctantly, the man obeyed the king, moving back to Daenerys' side, his features etched with unmistakable disdain. Once he was settled, the king gave a look to the white knights surrounding him, nodding to the one in command. After scanning the room and looking back to Aegon for confirmation, the knight sheathed his steel and directed the rest to do the same, moving back into formation behind the king.
"I apologize for the quick temper of our Unsullied captain, your grace," Aegon said, once again speaking in the common tongue after all was calm. That was smart, Arya thought. He would want to regain the favor of the court after such a display. "He has been too long on alert during times of war and strife and has forgotten how to behave in the presence of gentle people."
The girl blinked, then pushed through the wall of guards to descend two steps. Ser Jaime grunted his displeasure, but he knew better than to try to stop her. Arya came to rest on the last step, which brought her closer to eye level with Aegon, then said, "If I see any gentle people, your grace, I shall be sure to introduce them to your captain, so that he may reacquaint himself with such graces. That endeavor will have to wait, however, for there are none here now." She stared pointedly at Daenerys. "Here, we have only coarse barbarians, beasts, and fatted sows."
The women of the court gave a collective gasp, finally understanding the extent of the insult the princess and her attendants had dared utter in the queen's presence, and the men growled and grumbled their displeasure. For her part, Arya's mouth curled into her malicious little smile. Then, as if nothing untoward had happened at all, she called for attendants to show the dragons to their chambers.
"I'm certain you wish to refresh yourselves after these… festivities," the girl said.
Jon descended the steps and stood next to his sister. "I'll show the princess to her chamber," he offered, and the girl knew it was his way of trying to soothe the hurts of the last few minutes. She nodded and watched as he stepped down to the floor and approached the silver woman, offering her his arm. Daenerys smiled up at him and took it, and the girl almost thought the princess' look was genuine.
The princess' retinue was led away but the king's men remained, waiting for their introductions.
"Your grace, this is my Lord Hand, Jon Connington, of Griffin's Roost," Aegon said, gesturing to a gaunt man with a grizzled beard more grey than red now. He was missing an arm.
Connington bowed his head stiffly, looking none too pleased to make the girl's acquaintance. Arya studied him a moment, befuddled, but his dislike was made clear when she touched his mind, only briefly, and found that he'd dredged up a memory of Prince Rhaegar and Lady Lyanna. Rhaegar was offering a crown of roses to her aunt. The tourney at Harrenhal, she realized with fascination. It seemed Jon Connington was inclined to despise her for the sake of people long since dead.
"You are most welcome, my lord," the queen said. He merely grunted his acknowledgement, his bow just respectful enough to evade overt censure.
"And this is Lord Tyrion Lannister," Aegon continued after clearing his throat, uncomfortable with his Hand's manner. The dwarf waddled to Aegon's side and bowed.
"Lord Tyrion and I know one another," the girl revealed, smiling at the man, She did not seem the least put off by his scarred face or half-missing nose.
"I did not know if you would remember, your grace," Tyrion replied. "It was so long ago, and you were so young. And I am much changed."
"Of course, I remember," Arya replied. "It's not every day you see a dwarf slap the crown prince silly in your bailey yard."
"Ah, saw that, did you?" He looked abashed.
"Yes. It's one of my fondest memories."
Aegon raised his brows. "This sounds like a tale that wants telling."
"Perhaps later, your grace, over wine," the dwarf suggested.
The king laughed. "That's the only way you ever tell a tale, my lord."
"Precisely. Why stray from tradition now?"
This caused Arya to chuckle. "Perhaps at supper tonight. We'll have wine aplenty."
Aegon and Tyrion agreed to the plan, and then the king continued introducing the men of his party, Ser Rolly, Haldon, and the knights of his kingsguard. Servants led the lords and knights from the hall to their accommodations, save for two of the kingsguard who stayed with their charge.
"Courtesy says I should be the one to take you to your chamber, your grace," the queen told her guest, "owing to your rank."
"But we both know how little store you set by things such as titles and honors," he replied, quirking up one corner of his mouth.
"True, but in your case, I don't think I'd mind much."
"Don't mind what much?" the king inquired.
"Doing my duty."
"Ah." He looked down at her a moment, his gaze roving from her eyes to her lips to her neck, then back up. "What if I said I wasn't ready to go to my chamber?"
"Then courtesy would dictate that I should ask you what you would like to do instead."
"And if I were to say that I wished to walk and talk with you?"
"I would ask you how many of your kingsguard you would like to join us on our expedition."
Aegon glanced at the men behind him and shrugged. "Does the number matter to you?"
"Not in the least."
"Then I am happy to throw myself at your mercy." He turned to his protectors. "You men are dismissed."
"Your grace?" the older of the two knights asked him.
"It's fine, Ser Orlys," the king assured him. The knights bowed, then marched away in lockstep. Arya drew up next to Aegon's side and leaned toward him.
"Are you sure?" she murmured. "Don't forget what I told your aunt. I'm a good deal less harmless than you might imagine."
"Did you tell her that? I didn't catch it."
"You must not speak Dothraki, your grace." Her smirk was as audible as it was visible as she tilted her head so that she was gazing up at him.
The posture was familiar, too familiar, the proximity almost improper, considering their ranks and the formality of their meeting moments before (considering they were both unmarried and that their marriages would be of paramount importance to their respective kingdoms), but somehow, it felt comfortable. Though they had only just laid eyes upon one another, to the girl, it seemed as though they were friends already, both through their correspondence and for the way the king had just defended her against his own people.
Perhaps there would be a price to pay for that. She wasn't sure, but if there were, she vowed she would not let Aegon pay it alone. He'd taken her part, and she owed him for that. Arya Stark was a great supporter of loyalty, owing to how rare it was.
He smiled down at her, leaning his own head until the strands of his forelock nearly brushed her ear. "I wouldn't dream of thinking you harmless, Arya. I've heard too many stories," he murmured. "I have no doubt that you are the most lethal creature in the whole of the North, but I trust you enough to put myself into your hands."
She wasn't sure how serious he was, if he truly trusted her or not, but she found the declaration endearing. "Well then, Aegon, let's hope you don't find cause to regret it." She called over her shoulder to her wolf. "Nymeria, to me." The beast bounded down the stairs and stood at her side. "I'll not be needing my guard," she called back without looking.
"Your grace," Ser Jaime said. Only the Kingslayer could make those two words into a severe admonishment. The girl smiled wryly to see the difference in his tone as compared to the one Ser Orlys had used with Aegon only moments before. The kingsguard had sought to ensure himself that he had heard his king correctly while the Jaime sounded like a father chastising his wayward daughter.
"My Lord Commander," the girl whispered to her guest, then louder, she insisted, "It's fine, Ser Jaime. We'll only be walking the along the top of the inner wall."
"A spot from which he could toss you down to your death quite handily," Jaime growled.
"No harm will come to the queen by my hand," the silver king vowed. "You have my word."
"Words are wind, your grace. I trust steel more," the Lord Commander replied.
"No doubt those are your house words, ser," the king retorted. "They certainly applied when you broke your kingsguard vows and slew my grandsire."
Arya whipped around in time to see Jaime's jaw clench. She looked up at her Lord Commander apologetically. "Come, your grace," she prodded Aegon. "Let's not provoke Ser Jaime while you are undefended."
It was clear the king wished to say more, but at the gentle squeeze of the girl's fingers around his wrist, he swallowed his words and nodded, turning and leaving the hall with her at his side.
Rickon had insisted on joining the king and queen (and Nymeria) on their ascent to the high wall, dragging Ser Ben, Augen Heldere, and Shaggydog in his wake. Arya suspected he merely wished to gain a vantage point from which to see the dragons again, but he claimed he was there to prevent Izdrekki from stealing his sister.
"Izdrekki?" Aegon echoed. "Is that supposed to be me?"
"No 'supposed,' dragon king. It is you," the boy replied.
"What's wrong with Aegon, little prince?"
"You should be flattered," Rickon sniffed. "There have been many Aegons. There is only one Izdrekki."
"I'll decide whether to feel flattered once you tell me what it means, I think."
Arya looked at her brother uncertainly, puzzling out the name. "Ice Dragon?"
Rickon nodded once, then tilted his head toward the king. "He has braved winter to come to us. He is Izdrekki now."
Aegon's eyes narrowed but he sounded almost playful as he queried, "Is that so? Who decided this, Magnar? Was it you, or the old gods?"
The young chieftain's grin grew slowly, and he simply shrugged in answer. Arya suppressed her own confusion and consternation, keeping her features smooth as she realized her brother and this silver man shared some history to which she was not privy. Their manner was far too easy for it to be anything else, and she found herself wondering just how close the two had grown during the Rickon's short adventure at Cerwyn.
Close enough to make Rickon the first Stark on dragonback, she admitted to herself with more than a touch of envy.
"No matter," Aegon decided. He looked thoughtful for a moment, then pronounced, "King Izdrekki of the Seven Kingdoms. I like the sound of it." The last bit he could not help but say with a smile.
The queen cleared her throat. "Apologies, your grace, but I think you'll find Izdrekki, first of his name, rules four kingdoms. Or is it five? You've yet to tell me of your visit to the Vale."
The silver king straightened, his smile faltering. "Is that what you would like to speak of now, Arya? Territory and boundary lines?"
Rickon rolled his eyes, muttering about 'boring politics' as he bounded ahead of them, making for the east wall so he could look out at the dragons resting on the far hill crest. Shaggydog loped after him, causing Ser Ben to scramble to catch up. For his part, Augen Heldere looked unhurried and unbothered, but still, he followed on, leaving the two monarchs alone to talk. Nymeria paced ahead, but only a few steps, whining after her littermate but not wanting to leave her mistress.
"No, Aegon. It's not boundaries I want to discuss, not yet anyway. It's my sister. You are the first person I've come across in years who could even confirm she's alive."
"Oh, yes. Of course. Forgive me."
His look of contrition seemed genuine to the girl. She took a moment to study his face, the hard angles of it, the bow of his lip, and the piercing brightness of his amethyst eyes. Objectively, he was beautiful, like one of the expertly carved marble statues in the main temple chamber of the House of Black and White. The Silent God, perhaps, or the Merling King.
The king arched a brow when she did not ask a question.
Clearing her throat, the girl began to drift slowly along their path, gazing out over the crenellated wall toward the far borders of Winter Town below. "Was she well? Did she seem… happy?"
Aegon kept pace with her. "She seemed… the lady of a great house."
"That is no answer." But maybe it was, she thought. The reluctance in his voice was an answer, of a sort.
He sighed. "I do not know her, so it is hard to judge, but she seemed… faded."
"Faded," the queen repeated softly.
"Seeing her, I found it difficult to imagine you two as sisters. And now, seeing you, it is even more difficult."
The girl gave a dark chuckle as she cut her eyes to his. "It has always been so."
"Why is that, do you think?"
"Because Sansa is the perfect example of everything a high-born daughter of a great house should be, while I…" Her voice trailed off and she gazed ahead, her eyes tracking her little brother as he moved along the east wall, pointing at something in the distance.
"While you?" he prompted after a moment.
Her shoulders drooped a little. "Apart from my father and my brother Jon, the whole of the world has always regarded me as Princess Daenerys does." Arya looked at him skeptically. "Isn't that what you meant? That Sansa and I are nothing alike because my sister is a paragon of everything Westeros values in great ladies, while I am little more than a coarse northern barbarian?"
The king gave a startled laugh. "What? No! Hardly."
Arya's brows drew down. "Then what?"
Aegon drew in an audible breath through his nose, then released it as he gazed down at her. Their steps slowed. "She was… insubstantial, somehow. Faded, as I've said. It was like… like watching a wisp of cloud in the sky being burned away under the summer sun."
"That's not… that's not her," the girl insisted. "That's not Sansa."
"But it was," he replied, gentle regret coloring his words. "I do not know what circumstances have changed her from the sister of your memory to the woman she is now, but that was her."
Arya shook her head. "She was always the most beautiful, the most graceful…"
"She is still a woman of in possession of much grace and beauty, more than her fair share, I'd say, but not to match yours."
She drew to an abrupt stop, her eyes snapping to his, balled fists pressing into her hips. "I'll thank you not to mock me, your grace."
The king's look was one of surprise. "I'm not…"
The girl scoffed, folding her arms over her chest. "Careful. Nymeria eats liars."
"If I'm lying, she's welcome to feast on my flesh."
As if summoned by the words, the wolf doubled back and stepped between them. Arya's mouth curled up on one side. "Are you certain?" No sooner had she spoken than Nymeria dropped her head, sniffing at Aegon's hand. Then, to the surprise of them both, she chuffed and licked his fingers before ambling away to join Shaggydog on the far end of the wall path. "Traitor!" her mistress called after her. When Aegon snorted, she turned to him and scolded, "Don't think this means anything. She has a sweet tooth."
"You think me sweet?" The words were said innocently enough, but Aegon's purple eyes burned in a way that told her they were not meant to be.
"You probably have honey on your fingers still!" Arya hissed.
There was a sinfulness in the king's answering grin that had the girl turning away and quickening her pace to join her brother and his keepers.
Aegon did not immediately chase after the little Winter's Queen as she strode toward her brother and the odd fellows that made up the boy's protective detail. A mythical beast, a savage cannibal, and a gallant knight from an ancient house, all garbed in black: black armor, black leather, black fur. What a sight they made when one stood back and observed long enough to consider it.
A wry smile tugged at the king's mouth as he considered them all. Such an outlandish place the North was proving to be.
And the queen herself might've been the most outlandish thing of all.
She was angry at him, actually angry, because he'd said she possessed more beauty and grace than her sister. He couldn't understand it. What woman did not like to be lavished with superlatives? What's more, it was the truth. He supposed some might argue against it, those who preferred russet hair, for instance, or the sort of man who liked his women weak of constitution and weak of will. But that was not him. And even for those men, justifying their preference would be a chore in the face of all that he saw in Arya Stark. All the cacophonous, vibrant life that animated her, all the boldness, all the bravery. She was provoking, but only when she chose to be. She could be as still as the surface of the frozen pond they had passed near Castle Cerwyn, or as riotous as an alehouse full of brawling men.
(That, he had not witnessed yet, not fully, but he sensed it in her, and the stories men told of her exploits lent credibility to the assertion.)
The king sighed to himself as he stared at Arya's retreating back, her sweeping coattails fluttering with her flight. The prick he felt at her absence was mitigated by his desire to observe the way she moved, even if it meant watching her migrate further from him, driven by her anger. She was graceful, of course, and her gait trumpeted a strength one did not often associate with her sex, but that wasn't what engrossed him. It wasn't something observable which caught his eye, his ear, but rather the absence of such a thing. It was the way her step was so light as to be soundless. No scuff of leather or soft thud of her footfall emanated from between the sole of her boot and the stone of the floor over which she walked.
It was extra-natural.
A strange thing for him to have noticed, he thought. A strange thing to send prickles skittering across the skin of his chest until they came to rest in the very center just before sinking below his flesh. A strange thing to somehow delight and dismay him, to raise his curiosity and restrain his caution.
The caution was there, though, heating the edges of his enthrallment, but he did not stop to wonder at it. Did not stop to consider from where that faint thrill of fear arose.
He told himself he was mistaken, that it was a trick of his mind, or a trick of his ear. He told himself it was the ambient sounds drifting around them, the wolves softly padding next to each other at Rickon's back, the faint chatter between the young Magnar and his sworn protector, the distant cry of a hawk swooping over the wolfswood, which drowned out what was surely the most inconsequential of noises, that of a woman's quiet step.
He told himself that, because he was not his father, and he would not succumb to fancy or superstition. He would not assign meaning to that which had none. He would not concern himself overmuch with the unprovable while ignoring what was real and relevant and right before him.
A kingdom united, the restoration of a dynasty made of blood and fire and three hundred years of toil and sacrifice, was nearly within his grasp. It rested just beyond his reach, and he vowed to find a way to grip it, no matter how angrily it fled from him, or how noiseless its footfalls as it did.
The only thing to fear in that was failure.
"Damn, woman, you nearly took my ear off," the Bear groused a second after he'd managed to sidestep a blow from Grey Daughter. Barely.
"Did not," his sister huffed, drawing back into her comfortable side-face posture. "I'd never hurt you."
They were alone in the training yard the morning after the Winter Court had received the Targaryen party. It was early, the sun just lightening the night sky from the black of coal to a deep grey. They'd been sparring in shadow, their only light from scattered torches around the edge of the yard. The way it flickered and jumped as the wind moved the flames reminded Arya of training in the bowels of the temple of the Faceless Men. The memory was made of one part pleasant recall, one part aching resentment.
Ser Kyle observed from the overhead gallery, far enough away that he could not hear the quiet conversation between the two assassins. Arya had tried to send him to his chamber to rest, insisting she had no need of a guard, but he told her that the Lord Commander had given the strictest of orders that the queen was not to be left without protection while the southron king and those loyal to him were under Winterfell's roof.
"I'm not without protection," the girl had said, pointedly gripping the hilt of Frost at her hip.
"Sanctioned protection," the knight had clarified. "Ser Jaime said if you resisted, I was to remind you that the last time a royal party visited the castle, they brought with them a man who tried to slit your brother's throat as he lay in his sickbed."
It was a bold tactic for the Kingslayer to have used, considering he was one of the members of that royal party, and he was also the one who'd put Bran in his 'sickbed' in the first place, but that was not an argument she was willing to have with Kyle Condon, so she let it go. They'd compromised when they'd reached the yard and the queensguard knight noted it was Ser Willem who was joining her. The false-Dornishman had established himself as a loyal supporter and was above suspicion, and so Ser Kyle did not insist on being within three strides of her as was the standard. Instead, he withdrew to the overhead walkway to monitor his charge.
"You wouldn't hurt me on purpose," the Lyseni man agreed, "but when you're distracted like this, I'm less inclined to trust you with live steel so near my face."
"Distracted?" she scoffed.
"Shall we agree to save ourselves the time an argument would take before you admit I'm right and just get to the part where you tell me what troubles you?"
Arya bit her lip, but then her expression morphed into one of irritation and she released it from between her teeth and growled wordlessly. "No," she finally said with a frown.
"Why are you angry with me?" her brother laughed, parrying a stiff thrust she leveled at him.
"I'm not. I'm angry with myself."
"What grievous sin have you committed now?" he teased.
She ducked under his high cut and sprang toward him, nearly kissing his belly with the tip of Frost. "It's just… don't you ever tire of being my confessor?"
"No. Your confessions tend to be quite juicy. It's good entertainment for me."
"Don't jape. I'm serious. It's like you're on constant alert for the slightest change in my demeanor and when you detect it, you make it your mission to help me sort through whatever it is that weighs on me in that moment."
The Bear's brows pinched together, and his mouth turned down. "So?"
"So, aren't you sick of it?"
"Sick of caring for you? Of course not."
"Sick of playing nursemaid to me. Sick of mothering me. Surely you find it tiresome and frustrating."
"I don't."
"It's the worst kind of tedium."
"It's friendship, Cat. It's love." He stepped closer, glaring down at her. The sun had just begun to rise. In the improving light, the girl could clearly read his vexed expression. "And you're stalling."
"I'm not," she insisted. "I'm… trying to be considerate. And less selfish. You shouldn't have to constantly concern yourself with my burdens."
"I don't have to, sister. I want to. There's a difference. And there's nothing considerate about letting me continue to worry over you when you might relieve my mind simply by telling me what the fuck is going on." The last part he gritted out through clenched teeth, but the girl took no offense. In fact, his small reprimand brought a smile to her face.
"You really are the best, you know."
He snorted. "I find it telling that you only say that after I curse at you. You are the most baffling creature ever devised by the gods, Arya."
"That's why you love me," she contended.
"One of many reasons," he acquiesced.
The Cat whispered, "If Ser Kyle weren't watching, I'd kiss you"
"You're still stalling."
"No, that's not true. I'm merely trying to say thank you. You never fail me."
"Thank me by explaining what's got you so distracted it nearly cost me an ear."
"It's not one thing," the girl said as they fell into water dancer's drills so that they might stand side by side, making conversation easier.
"I'm here for all the things. What's the first?"
She sighed. "Aegon told me about meeting Sansa."
"He said something that worried you?"
"Yes. It's as if the person he described was a stranger. My mind has run away with the possibilities."
"What's the worst of them?"
"That she's not Sansa. That Sansa really is dead, and an imposter stands in her place."
"It's far-fetched."
"That didn't stop Ramsay Bolton from claiming he'd married me," she reminded him. "And it didn't stop my father's bannermen from accepting the story."
"You make a good point. Still, what are the chances the lords of the Vale would try a similar scheme?"
"Low, I'll grant you."
"Isn't it more likely that time and marriage and motherhood have shaped her? Just as your life in the intervening years has shaped you?"
"But I'm still me, at my core. I could not recognize my sister at all in the person Aegon described. I worry she's been broken beyond repair, and she will do nothing to assure me it isn't so. She hasn't written me a single line since I've reached out to the Eyrie." The girl's frustration was plain to see.
The Bear looked thoughtful. They moved through the steps of the drill they'd started moments before fluidly and in perfect synchronization. "Perhaps… do you think it possible for you to reach out in a different way?"
"What do you mean?"
He glanced toward the place where Ser Kyle stood looking down on them. "I mean, might you seek her in her dreams?" His whisper was so faint, the girl could barely hear him.
She huffed. "It's unlikely to succeed." The Cat's expression surprised her brother, filled with defeat as it was.
"What makes you say it? Have you tried already?"
"Not with Sansa," she admitted, "but last night…"
He waited patiently for her to continue as they completed their drill and moved on to the next. Halfway through, he guessed. "Last night, you looked for him, didn't you?" Arya blew out a breath and nodded. "You did not discover him?"
"You can't know how maddening it is!" she seethed. "He's here. He has to be! But I can't find him." She stilled, abandoning her drill as her arms dropped to her sides, blades thudding against the packed dirt of the yard as she did. "I can't feel him. I don't see him. I tried to detect even a hint of him. All night long, I tried."
"That's why you wanted to train so early. You couldn't stand to sleep any longer if you couldn't discover where your master hides."
"Last night, Ser Gendry dreamed of the Inn at the Crossroads, training orphans in the forge. Lord Hoster wore a maester's robes and studied dragon lore at the Citadel. The Rat's master… well, never mind what he dreamed. And you, brother, you…" Her eyes were shining when she looked up at him. "I miss her, too, but your guilt... It pains me to see you suffer so."
The Bear stiffened. "You were there?" he croaked.
"I didn't mean to intrude. I was looking for him, and I found everyone but him. I… I can't control it. Not exactly. But if he were here, wouldn't I have seen? I've found him across hundreds of leagues before. A thousand. But now that he is under my own roof, he eludes me."
"Maybe he's not."
"Not what?"
"Not under your roof."
Arya looked stricken. "He must be. I told him… and even if… he was with the dragons!"
"The royal party is small, sister. He might've been left back."
"He wouldn't have stayed. If they did not agree to bring him, he would have followed on his own."
The large assassin shook his head. "We can't know what shackles the principal elder has designed for your master. There could be things we don't understand which hold him back from you."
"No…"
"You must allow for the possibility."
"I… I have waited," the girl rasped. "I have been patient, and I have… I have done my duty."
"I know."
"I didn't ride south when I might've! I didn't go searching for him because… because…"
You are my grey daughter. The North has need.
The Bear placed a warm palm on her shoulder. "I know."
"Instead, I came home. I let them crown me, and then I came home."
"It was the right thing to do. You know this. For many reasons."
"But what if I traded him for it?"
Gods, the idea of it was like being run through with a pike. Her insides ached and her knees felt weak. It was not a choice consciously made. It was never meant to be a choice of duty over love. That wasn't a bargain she would've willing accepted, and it wasn't one that had ever been presented to her. She could have both, had meant to have both! And why shouldn't she? She could satisfy her vow to her mother, her father's edict, her duty to the North and the Riverlands, and still have Jaqen. There was nothing stopping her!
Or so she'd thought.
But here she stood, behind Winterfell's walls as a crown weighed upon her brow, separated still from her master. As petitioners sought her counsel, her intervention, her decree; as she meted out justice for festering wrongs; as she learned to be a politician, a diplomat, a commander, and a queen; as she tried to provide stability for her people; as she prepared her kingdom for war even while seeking peace; as she stared into knowing amethyst eyes and struggled to balance on the thinnest tightrope imaginable, where falling to one side would make them the eyes of the closest ally, but falling to the other would render them the eyes of the bitterest foe.
Here she stood, a thousand thousand obligations and worries and burdens standing between her love and her duty.
Here she stood, crushed under the weight of disappointed hopes and ever-increasing expectations.
Here she stood, without Jaqen.
She stifled a sob.
Showing no regard for Ser Kyle's watchful gaze, the Bear reached out for his sister and wrapped her tightly in his arms, murmuring soothing words into her hair.
Her fast broken amid her courtiers and their southron visitors, the queen took her leave after a time, escorted out of the hall by her Lord Hand as they walked together to the council meeting. Before she left, she agreed to ride out with Aegon after the midday meal to see the dragons up close.
"You are quiet this morning, your grace," the silver king had remarked after watching her pick at her sweetened porridge. "I hope you are not still cross with me."
"It is not that," she'd assured him, trying to conjure enough of a smile to be convincing. She'd failed but offered him no other explanation for her melancholy. To his credit, Aegon had not pressed her for one.
He'd watched her for another moment, then said, "I know what may cheer you."
"Oh?" The response was born of courtesy but no real curiosity.
"You've introduced me to Nymeria. Let me show you Rhaegal."
The light in her eyes then had been genuine and the king's satisfaction at that was easy to read.
That agreement would prove to be a source of tension in the council chamber only moments after it had been struck.
"Your grace," her Lord Commander seethed at the news, "pardon the directness of the question, but are you fucking mad?"
"Ser Jaime!" Ser Brynden barked.
"Allow him to rave, ser," the queen directed the Blackwood heir, waving a hand dismissively. "He'll never be easy until he does."
"Since the moment the Targaryens entered the gates of the castle, you have thrown every caution to the wind," the Kingslayer berated.
"I argued for wearing Frost and Grey Daughter to the presentation," the girl replied mildly. "You can blame their absence on Jon."
Her brother just flattened his lips and shook his head in response.
"It wasn't your lack of weaponry that presented the danger in the great hall," Jaime said, "but your own temper and reckless love of violence!"
The girl protested. "I didn't lay a finger on anyone!"
"Do you think I didn't see you struggling to dig a dagger out of your boot? Only Lord Snow's determination kept you from striking the first blow and turning the whole affair into an impromptu melee."
"It wasn't a dagger, it was Needle," she sniffed, "and I wouldn't have attacked Greyworm unless he made ready to throw his spear."
"Which he was only tempted to do because you threatened the princess," Jaime reminded her.
Arya scoffed. "If you actually spoke Valyrian, you'd know I didn't threaten her. I merely reminded her of her courtesies."
The golden knight drew in a great breath and attempted to rein in his ire. "Your grace," he finally growled, "you simply cannot approach a dragon. There is no defense that will save you if one of the Targaryens decides to utter dracarys."
The girl raised her brows. "Your High Valyrian is better than I thought. Excellent pronunciation, ser."
Jaime banged his golden hand on the table, causing Lord Hoster to jump. "You cannot be this foolish, Stark!"
"You forget yourself, Ser Jaime," Jon admonished in a steady tone.
"Surely you aren't in support of this, Snow."
"I am not, but that doesn't mean I will allow you to speak to my sister this way in council chambers."
"Then by all means, my lord," the knight said with a mocking bow of his head, "use your sweet words to convince her not to commit suicide. Perhaps offer a weak platitude while you're at it."
"As much as I abhor his choice of expression, your grace, I must agree with the Lord Commander's sentiment," Ser Brynden said. "This is a dangerous undertaking. One I fear cannot be justified."
"Thoros," the queen said.
The bearded priest looked up from his seat in his usual corner. "Your grace?"
"Have you seen anything to worry you in your flames?"
"Daily, your grace."
The girl snickered, then asked, "Anything regarding me being roasted by a dragon? Today, after the midday meal, specifically?"
"Bah!" Jaime spat. "This means nothing. Thoros cannot know everything. I question if he knows anything at all."
"You're right, Lannister. My knowledge is limited."
The golden knight gave Arya a smug look. "You see?"
"R'hllor's knowledge, however, is vast," Thoros finished. He looked at the queen. "I have seen nothing of you being harmed by dragon flame…"
"There, Ser Jaime, perfectly safe…" the girl began.
"…but the lord of light has shown me other visions. Visions of a dragon and a direwolf."
The room grew quiet. Howland Reed sat up in his chair, suddenly alert.
"In the flames, I have seen a dragon swallow a direwolf whole. A white dragon," the priest said, looking at Arya and holding her gaze. "And a white direwolf."
The girl felt a chill in her bones, looking to her brother, confused. Was the white direwolf meant to be Ghost? Her eyes searched Jon's for any clue he understood the vision. It was her vision, her dream, but she'd never known the dragon or the direwolf to be white. This was a detail only Thoros could offer. For his part, Jon seemed no less befuddled than she.
"A dragon swallowing a direwolf, your grace," Jaime said slowly. "Does that sound safe to you?"
"You said you didn't think Thoros knew anything," the girl replied softly, her eyes growing thoughtful. After a moment, she settled on her answer. "I will see the dragons," she decided. "Rickon and Jon will stay in the castle and the scorpions will be manned."
"Arya," Jon said in a low voice, leaning toward her. He gave her a subtle shake of his head, and she could feel his disapproval and his worry.
"My heir and his regent, safely behind Winterfell's walls," the girl continued, her voice becoming more forceful, "and the scorpions trained on the dragons. If I come to serious harm, loose at will. Kill the dragons and install my heir on the throne, with my most trusted advisor backing him. And if no harm befalls me, we can all enjoy my nameday feast in two days rather than my funeral."
"By the gods, you are your Uncle Brandon in a gown, your grace!" the Greatjon declared, nearly wheezing with his laughter.
"Lord Hoster," Arya said, addressing her Hand, "before I visit these dragons, have you anything of import to tell me?"
"About what, your grace?" Ser Brynden wanted to know. His gaze traveled back and forth between the queen and the Hand.
"I've asked your brother to find what information he can about dragons in the library," the girl replied lightly, "incase any forgotten weaknesses might be discovered."
Her answer seemed to satisfy her advisors.
"Not as yet, your grace. Nothing beyond what we've already discussed," was the Hand's disappointing reply. His look was apologetic.
"I suppose it's possible we know all we are ever to know of dragons already."
"I shall continue my efforts, to be certain."
"Thank you, Lord Hand." She looked around the table at the council. "Now, shall we discuss the labor the mountain lords need for their mines?"
"We could ride, but the walk is not far, if it please you," Aegon said to Arya as they finished their midday meal. He relished the idea of a stroll, as it would mean more time in the girl's company.
"So long as you are warmly attired," she replied. "A walk will mean more time in the elements."
"If we are chilled, we can always have a fire. Dragons are talented in that manner." He gave her a lopsided grin.
"I am rarely chilled, but are dragons not also talented in flight?"
"Are you asking me for a dragon ride, your grace?"
She shrugged.
"Because if you are, I believe it can be arranged." He did not miss the way her eyes flared at his offer. It seemed the young princeling had not led him astray. "Will your brothers be joining us?"
"No."
Thank the gods for small favors. He would have her all to himself.
"Oh?" He hoped his feigned disappointment looked more convincing than it felt. "I'm surprised. Prince Rickon had expressed that he wished to…"
"Rickon and Jon will be staying behind. It was the only way to prevent a mutiny in the council chamber this morning." She grinned at him. "Ser Jaime was ready to tie me to my chair to prevent my going." Her eyes swept across the hall, over the courtiers and fighting men and guests eating their midday meal, until she found Jaime sitting next to Brienne, glaring at the head table; at her. "In fact, we should probably leave now. He looks like he's ready to try it after all."
Aegon traced her gaze and registered the angry look on the Lord Commander's face. "I'm afraid I don't understand."
"Really?" she scoffed, glancing sideways at the king. "You can't imagine a reason my advisors, the head of my queensguard in particular, would object to me standing before the dragon's mouth, begging to be turned to ash?"
Aegon's expression marked him as affronted. "Have I not already vowed to the man that I wouldn't harm you?"
"Ser Jaime… finds trust difficult," Arya said. "Particularly when it comes to Targaryens."
"If anyone has a grievance in that matter…"
"You don't know the truth," she murmured. "Not the whole of it."
Aegon's jaw clenched, but after a moment, he nodded. "Will you tell me?"
The girl bit her lip, her eyes slipping to Jaime's. "I wish I could, but it's not my story to tell."
The king studied her mouth, his eyes narrowing as he watched her teeth pinching into her plump bottom lip. He had the urge to reach out and tug on it, pulling it from beneath the sharp, white edges, but he mastered his control and his hands remained on the table before him. His fingertips, however, pressed firmly enough into the surface that his nailbeds paled.
"Very well, then, I shall have other stories from you instead."
"Oh? Am I a mummer or a bard to entertain you?"
"Consider it the price of a ride on Rhaegal's back."
The girl gasped with false shock. "You rogue! You already agreed to it!" Her tone was playful.
"Did I?" Aegon rubbed his chin thoughtfully with one finger as if he could not quite recall the exchange.
"You did! You said if I wished to ride a dragon, it could be arranged."
"Yes, your grace, and this is me arranging it. If you entertain me as we walk, I'll reward you with a prize like no other: flight."
Her chuckling faded as he spoke. "Don't call me that," she muttered. "Your grace."
"Why does it offend you?"
"It doesn't. Not exactly. It's just…" The girl released a slow, even breath as though she needed a moment of reprieve to gather her thoughts. She surprised him by twisting in her seat to face him fully. "Today, I just want to be Arya. For as long as I can, anyway."
There was something in her eyes, in the way she used them to meet his gaze, that gripped him. Aegon stared back at her, knowing that the intensity of the look between them was likely being scrutinized by everyone in the hall, but he could not make himself care. In that moment, there was only her, and only him.
He leaned toward her, his gaze never wavering, trying to understand what he was seeing radiating from her silver eyes. Pain, he thought. Perhaps loss. And a plea.
A plea for comfort and understanding.
Things he was only too ready to provide her.
When the king had moved close enough to her that a mere handful of inches separated their noses, he murmured, "Alright, Arya."
"High Valyrian from a young age, I understand," the king was saying, "but Dothraki? Why would you even bother?"
"That's easier to explain when you've lived the childhood I did."
"How so?"
As eager as the girl was to see the dragons up close, their pace was still a leisurely one. The full kingsguard and queensguard followed them, save Ben Blackwood, who Arya had insisted stay with Rickon, and the pair of Ser Jaime and Ser Orlys, who walked ahead of them, scanning their path for threats. Nymeria had wanted to come, had tried to lope after them, but the girl had ordered her held back. Thoros' vision of the dragon swallowing the direwolf had inspired the precaution, even if she was reasonably sure the warning in it wasn't literal.
"There are more Dothraki words for killing than could fit on a page of parchment, but no word for 'thank you'," she revealed. "In Dothraki, I could describe removing a man's head more than twenty different ways but have no way to describe a gentle touch."
"A language of action and violence," Aegon concluded.
"Precisely. And after watching my dancing master die defending me and my father's head being taken on the steps of the Sept of Baelor… well, perhaps you can imagine how appealing action and violence seemed at the time."
"I can. More than you know."
She glanced at him. "Your own life has been similarly affected, I know."
"I did not watch Robert slay my father, or the Mountain kill my mother, but I've heard the stories often enough, it sometimes feels as though I did."
Arya nodded. "Then you understand what it is to want vengeance."
"I do."
"And to pursue it with a single mindedness that those who have no call for it cannot make sense of."
"Learning Dothraki was part of that pursuit?"
"Yes. And no."
The king gave the girl a half-smile. "Oh, Arya, you'll have to do better than that. Your dragon ride is at stake."
She stared ahead, moving alongside of her companion for a few moments without responding. She was working out what she should reveal of her time in Braavos, studying languages and poisons and fighting and death.
"I had… the opportunity to further my blade skills," the girl finally said, "and other things. Learning various tongues was part of that. And I've always had an ear for languages."
"How many do you speak?"
"Fluently?" Her look became faraway as she calculated. "Nine. Ten if you count Dothraki, but I wouldn't consider myself fully fluent in it. I'm still learning the old tongue, and I have a smattering of Ghiscari and the language of Asshai', but not enough to speak of."
"Ten!" Aegon cried. "Fluent in ten, plus the old tongue and a bit of a few others." He shook his head. "I shall have to scold Haldon and Lemore for their lackluster tutelage."
"It's not as impressive as it sounds. The languages of the Free Cities are similar enough that once you master one, the others are easy. The only one that's remotely challenging is Braavosi. Well, and Lorathi, when you consider their odd syntax conventions."
"You speak Lorathi?" the king chuckled. "I didn't think anyone spoke Lorathi except the Lorathi themselves."
"The Lorathi, and me," she replied, her voice quiet.
Some of the most beautiful words the girl had ever heard spoken were Lorathi. Her eyes grew soft as she recalled them then.
"Have I said something to offend, Arya?"
She cleared her throat. "No. I was… just remembering the last time I heard someone speak that language." She shook her head as if to clear her thoughts. "So, what tongues have you mastered?"
"Oh, no. I'm not telling you. You'll only make sport of me."
"I would never…"
Aegon pursed his lips, giving her a dubious look. "Fine. Three."
"Two more than most," she replied graciously. "Let me guess. Common…"
"Of course."
"High Valyrian…"
"Naturally."
"And…" Arya narrowed his eyes, studying him. "Volantene?"
"Pentoshi."
"Ah. Well, if you know Pentoshi, you practically know Volantene, anyway. And Myrish. And Tyroshi."
"Maybe that's true for you, but their differences have always been enough to keep me from understanding more than a few scattered words heard shouted at the docks."
"The docks?" Her face lit up with delight. "Why, Aegon Targaryen, did you live a sailor's life in Essos?"
He grinned. "At times."
"You must tell me of it sometime."
"Gladly. When it is my turn to entertain you. But, as it stands…"
"Very well. How may I be of service?" she asked. "A song? I warn you, I am mostly acquainted with bawdy, alehouse melodies, and I haven't the voice to sing them."
"Everything that leaves your mouth is an utter delight," the king replied in a flat voice, causing her to laugh. "Perhaps, instead of giving me a drinking song, you'll answer a question."
"You have only to ask."
"Why were you so angry with me yesterday?"
"Ah." She stared off ahead, watching Ser Jaime's back.
"You did not like that I complimented you."
"I do not like false flattery."
"And if it's the truth?"
Arya cut her eyes at him. "It wasn't."
Aegon's nostrils flared. When he spoke, the words were low and heated. "We see things differently, Arya, and that is no sin, but you will not tell me my mind."
His response gave her pause and when she considered it, really considered it, she was chastened. Had she not suffered the same lack of regard herself, from earliest memory? People telling her what she did and didn't want, think, feel, with no regard for her own insistences and opinions?
"My apologies, your grace," she murmured after a moment.
The king heaved a sigh. "None of that, I beg you. You wish to be Arya today? Then allow me to be Aegon."
The girl smiled. "Agreed. Shall we have Lord Connington and Lord Hoster draw up a treaty laying out the terms?"
"Let's agree to them here and now, and keep them between us," he suggested.
"Fine. When we are alone…" She looked around, taking in their guards and the curious onlookers lining their path, then amended, "…reasonably alone, you shall be Aegon, and I shall be Arya."
The king held up a finger. "And, in our personal communications, we shall always be honest, eliminating the need for either of us to claim the other speaks false."
The girl's cheeks colored at that, and she bit her lip, but nodded once, signaling her agreement.
"Very well then, a treaty has been struck," he said. "And just in time. Here we are."
They both looked up from the bottom of the hill toward the peak, seeing three dragons curled together, smoke drifting from their nostrils as they drowsed.
The dragons are, quite frankly, breathtaking. The queen is filled with an overpowering awe in their presence and struggles to understand what it is her eyes see. They are so strange, so foreign to her sensibilities, that she cannot describe the feeling which overtakes her when she gazes upon them. It is like glimpsing something entirely other. There are no words for it.
At the king's encouragement, she reaches out her hand and strokes Rhaegal's smooth scales. When she touches the beast, she expects to feel that kinship she feels with living things—with Nymeria and her little cousins, with the temple cat, with Bane, with other people. But it is utterly lacking, and it leaves her filled with a queer sensation. It leaves her…
Bereft.
"How strange," she whispers.
"What is?" Aegon asks but she simply shakes her head.
He helps her climb atop Rhaegal's back and seats her in front of him. She had not expected this. Rickon had been seated behind the king, clinging to his cloak when he'd ridden, but Aegon is insistent, she must be in front. His arms press in against her own as he takes what she can only assume are reins. After a moment of adjusting, the king reaches first for one of her hands, then the other, placing them on the leather straps and then wrapping them around her wrists before encouraging her to grasp. When she does, he covers her hands with his own and leans forward, bringing his lips to her ear.
"Hold tight," he murmurs. She does, and then she feels the inside of his thighs squeezing tightly against her hips. A moment later, Rhaegal is bounding. Down the hill and into the open field on its other side. Just as he reaches it, his wings begin to beat, and Arya senses the moment they lift into the air. Despite herself, she gasps, feeling as though she leaves her stomach on the ground behind them.
Eyes wide, she stares up at the rapidly approaching clouds and then they are in them, flying through them, while her heart pounds as though it wishes to beat out of her chest and join her stomach on the ground.
"Breathe, Arya," Aegon urges, his lips warm against her ear.
So, she does. She gulps in a great breath, then another, and before she knows what is happening, they have broken through the clouds and are alone with the sun on the other side. It's quiet, and still, somehow, even with the wind loosening her braid and whipping her hair back over the king's shoulder. To avoid being blinded by it, he leans forward, molding her back to his belly and chest, gently resting his cheek against her temple.
"Aegon," the girl says hoarsely.
"Is this not a fit reward for your entertainments?" She hears the smile in his voice. "Your brother said the gods must live here because this is how he feels when they speak to him."
It strikes the girl how apt Rickon's words are, but for her, there is more.
She cannot explain it, has no way of understanding the why of it, or indeed, of knowing how long it will last, but here, above the clouds, with the sun warming her cheek, she feels whole. It as if the hollow place in the center of her chest which has burdened her since that day at Baelor's feet has been filled completely.
Or perhaps it was simply left behind on the ground, with her stomach.
She does not have time to wonder at it or to question how it could be so, because just then, she feels Aegon tighten his grip on her hands as he murmurs, "Don't be frightened."
And then they are diving.
It could be like this, the king thought.
It was so easy to picture.
Arya seated before him, his arms wound tight around her, his lips pressed against her temple as they flew high above their united kingdom.
King and Queen.
Aegon and Arya.
Izdrekki and Sinelvargg.
He had only to convince her.
To steal her.
He chuckled at the thought. When Arya looked back over her shoulder at him, questioning eyebrow cocked, he merely grinned and let her think it was the joy of the flight that had wrought from him his laughter. Then they banked sharply, and she jerked her face forward in alarm, stiffening against him.
"Don't worry," he said, "Rhaegal hasn't killed me yet."
"That's you," she retorted. "I doubt he has much concern for me."
"He's concerned for you because I am concerned for you."
"Is that how it works?" she mused. "I suppose I should stay on your good side, then."
"While I very much like the idea of you staying on my good side, I'd rather you did it for the sake of our friendship rather than out of fear of my dragon."
Rhaegal straightened then, and the girl relaxed. They'd circled the castle twice already, Arya marveling at what her home looked like from above, and then streaked over the wolfswood. The great beast had flown straight, pointed toward the western coast, and they'd covered leagues and leagues. The turn he'd just performed led the girl to assume they were heading back to Winterfell. When she asked Aegon, he confirmed it.
"Afraid you'll miss your supper?" she laughed.
"Afraid your brothers will think I've abducted you and hold my advisors to account."
"To account?" Arya smirked. "Oh, dear."
"I hadn't intended to take you so far or be gone so long," he admitted. "I don't wish to call your virtue into question."
She barked a laugh at that. "This Westerosi obsession with reputation!"
"Your reputation is excellent. I'll not be the one to tarnish it."
"Excellent, is it?" she scoffed. "Let's see, to your aunt, I'm a fatted sow, to her translator, I'm coarse and simple, and to that Unsullied warrior, I'm a Northman in need of a lesson in courtesy. Yes, that sounds most excellent." Grinning, she turned to look at him over her shoulder. "Maybe it's your own reputation which concerns you. You're afraid people will think I'm using my feminine wiles to gain influence over you."
"Hardly," he laughed. "Carrying you off on dragon back and having my way with you could only enhance my reputation."
"Having your way?" she echoed, rolling her eyes. "The last man who tried that ended up with his head liberated from his body and placed so that he could stare out at his own hall from the high table."
Aegon's brow furrowed, the description of the scene familiar. It jibed with the tales he'd heard of the business Arya had settled at the Dreadfort. All but one detail.
"Ramsay Bolton tried to lay hands on you?" He bristled at the thought.
"And paid for it dearly."
"But how could this happen? Your guard, your brother…"
"Jon wasn't there. He stayed at Winterfell, where I needed him."
"But Ser Jaime, the rest of them…"
"…were unaware of a secret passageway that allowed the bastard into my chamber while the main door was bolted."
The king worked his jaw. "I'm glad you killed him," he finally said.
"Ah, look, something we have in common!" Arya laughed, turning to wink at him. He glowered at her in return.
"There is much we have in common."
"Oh? Tell me then," she challenged. "List all the things a northern barbarian and a famed southron king have in common."
"I shall. When it's my turn to provide the entertainments."
The girl faced forward once again, scanning the landscape over which they flew and sighing contentedly. She leaned back into Aegon, settling against his chest, and tipped her face up to find him staring down at her.
"I shall look forward to it," Arya told him.
"As shall I."
Bad Reputation—Joan Jett