Did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees? Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
Did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?
Daario Naharis has been both brash warrior and cunning negotiator. He has been an enthusiastic lover of women, lowborn and high. He has been an astute strategist. He has been outspoken, devious, stalwart, and selfish. He has been a student of virtue and of vice. He has been a leader of men. What he has never been, for as long as his memory stretches back, is uncertain.
Until now.
It starts that morning, when he japes with the young princeling and his companion, that boisterous boy who styles himself squire to the Winter's Queen. Daario casts his bright blue eyes over the yard below, watching the slight girl and the dragon king circle one another, then clash. His japes die on his lips and his wit dries up. He is filled with the oddest sensation at the sight of the combatants, something akin to pride, he thinks. He can't account for it. Neither queen nor king means anything to him, not really. His loyalty is to Daenerys.
So why is the match affecting him so?
He delves deeper, taking stock of his reactions, and he comes to understand that the pride he feels is for Arya Stark. It baffles him for a moment, but then he tells himself it is natural, that Aegon is a rival to the khaleesi, and so of course he prefers that this Northern girl humble the king. But honest examination tells him there is more to it. Her every move captivates him, his mouth tugging up at its corners as he watches the fluidity of her dance and the vigor with which she expresses her violence. It is a thing of beauty.
As is she.
The thought troubles him. It will continue to trouble him throughout the day.
"Sinelvargg," Rickon Stark says, nodding toward his sister. The boy's voice startles the Tyroshi. He becomes aware of how he must look, staring after her, and smooths his features as the boy continues. "You gaze at her like a man who means to steal her."
"You have nothing to fear," Daario assures him. "I wish your sister no harm."
"I did not say you wish to harm her," the boy persists blithely, cocking his head to scrutinize the sellsword further.
"I do not wish to steal her, either."
"No," Rickon agrees, "but the man inside of you might."
The Tyroshi gives the boy a strange look, wondering after his meaning, but the young prince is done with their conversation, it seems, and spins away to cheer on the queen as she scores a point.
He turns back to watch the match himself, pondering the boy's words as well as his own fascination with this upstart queen. Certainly, Daario is a man with eyes, and so objectively, he cannot deny Arya Stark's attractiveness. But somehow, it is as if amid her sparring, he is awakened to a pull she has on him that he'd not noted before. It is that pull which sticks with him all day.
It is that pull which discomfits him, just a little, enough to disturb his focus, like a pebble in his boot.
It is that pull which draws his eye and stiffens his spine as the doors to the great hall are thrown open and the queen is announced at her own nameday feast.
Her Lord Commander walks before her, casting his wary eye this way and that, as though he expects an assassin to leap from the crowd and threaten his charge. The Tyroshi snorts at the very idea. The little queen is well-loved here, perhaps by everyone except the rancorous Lord Connington and the khaleesi, though even she seems to have softened toward the girl of late.
The queen is flanked by the Winter Guard, clad in their full armor, enamel glittering darkly in the blaze of the candles lighting the hall. Behind her stands that thick bull of a man who is her sworn shield. His armor sets him apart. It is plainer, but no less fine, and brightly silver, polished to a nearly blinding gleam. Some name him the son of the long-dead usurper, Robert Baratheon. His bastard's eyes rove over the queen, from crown to hem, and something about his look has Daario's jaw working. The sellsword captain narrows his gaze, wondering at the inexplicable feeling which overtakes him.
Protectiveness? Of a queen to whom he owes no allegiance?
No, it is something even more unfamiliar than that. So unfamiliar, in truth, it takes him a moment to put a name to it.
Jealousy.
There is an urge to separate from the crowd, to move into the girl's path and snatch her to him. He is not so foolish as to act on it, but his fingers curl into his palms and he locks his knees with his effort to stay his step.
His own need, his want of her, perplexes him. Before he'd watched her spar with the king, he had barely given her a glance. But now, it is as though he cannot tear his gaze from her. He recalls that he'd awakened from a dream that morning with a start, sweat beading along his hairline and his neck. A dream in which he was searching darkened halls for something. For someone.
He wonders now if perhaps the one he sought was her.
That would explain the impression of familiarity he'd had when he'd first laid eyes on her in the yard, crossing blades with Aegon.
Is this all some trick of his mind? Is he simply relating a vague dream to the queen and allowing it to color his perception of her? Allowing it to dictate his yearning?
He watches her ascend the dais in that diaphanous gown, the embroidered snowflakes glinting and winking like bright stars thrown across the velvet of a midnight sky. He notes the way her hair is woven around the circlet of her small crown of silver and pearl, and cascades in soft waves down her back and over her shoulders. He thinks how utterly foreign she seems. Is she the same creature from the training yard? The same creature who issued veiled threats in High Valyrian when they'd first arrived? Is this the slip of a girl who walks side by side with her grey direwolf atop the battlements without care for her clothes or hair or any adornment?
Yes, it's her, but she is so undeniably regal, so ethereal, he thinks he could be forgiven for his uncertainty. Gazing upon her, he is seized with a longing so piercing, it robs him of his breath. Daario's eyes harden and he slowly rubs a hand over his chest, over his heart. Why does she affect him so? How can he long for a woman with whom he is barely acquainted? Why does he feel as though he's been waiting for her for moons and moons?
He closes his eyes and breathes deep. When he does, an image comes into his mind, unbidden. It is the queen, but younger, her hair shorter, and she lacks a crown. She sits on an ebony bench beneath a lemon tree, frowning. There is something in her features, in the pout of her mouth, in the tilt of her eyes, which grips him. He cannot help but to whisper, "Lovely girl."
Daario's eyes fly open, and he is permeated by an unsettling confusion. The guests are all taking their seats now, and so he joins them. As he glances up at the high table, he decides he will further explore this grasp Arya Stark has on him. He will dance with her, he thinks, and why shouldn't he? He's done it before, danced with a queen. Kissed a queen. Yes, they will dance, and he will speak with her, and perhaps even kiss her. He is certain that will be enough to break the strange spell she seems to have cast over him.
Perhaps then, his peace will return.
"The day I received word that my sister lived, and was safe in the Riverlands, I was filled with such relief and joy, I can hardly describe it." Jon Snow was addressing the celebrants at Arya's nameday feast, holding his goblet before him as he spoke. The mountain lords had called for a toast, and he was obliging them. "That feeling was only surpassed when I was able to embrace her once again. Soon, my joy, and my gratitude that the gods saw fit to return her to me were matched by the joy and gratitude of her kingdom at having been blessed with such a ruler."
At this pronouncement, a deafening cheer rose up, made louder by the way the more raucous and the more drunk among them banged their tankards against their tables. The castellan waited for the din to soften, then continued.
"Raise your cup to our queen, the Winter's Queen, and toast her health." Jon turned to face Arya, raising his goblet higher and giving her that small smile of his which was laden with so much feeling and meaning, it was hard for her to look upon it without tearing up. "Happy nameday, little sister."
The guests cheered again, drinking and laughing and chanting Stark! Stark! Stark!
Many more toasts followed. Hoster Blackwood asked that they drink to 'our wise and caring queen.' Ser Brynden complimented her grace, Ser Jaime her wit, Lord Wull, her bravery, and Tormund, her unflappable nature (after addressing her as 'Snow's Queen'). Rickon, who had somehow procured a horn of ale, stood atop his table while Young Brax bounced excitedly in his seat, looking on. The little chieftain assured the crowd that his sister had been chosen by the gods to lead them, and that she was destined to establish a dynasty that would last more than a thousand years. That led to another rousing cheer of Stark! Stark!
Finally, the Greatjon stood, his towering presence commanding attention. "Pipe down, you lot!" he called out in good humor, his face ruddy with the warmth of the room and his drinking. "To our queen, Ned Stark's little girl!" he cried, the Northmen in the room calling out their approval at the mention of Lord Eddard. "The woman who guaranteed Emmon Frey a fit fate and gave Riverrun back to the Tullys! The woman who avenged the Red Wedding and put Walder Frey's head on a pike! The woman who cleansed the land of Bolton treachery!" Each listed accomplishment was punctuated by the roaring enthusiasm of the crowd, who drank heartily while Lord Umber looked on. His own hand remained poised, however, his tankard still full, for he had not finished. "Let her grace's deeds be a reminder to any who believe they can thwart her will or claim dominion over her lands that a bloody fate awaits them."
The reaction was a mixture of continued cheering and startled silence. Tension grew in the crowd as Lord Umber lifted his cup to his mouth, glaring over top of it as he drank, staring straight at Aegon Targaryen. The kingsguard knights, scattered around the perimeter of the hall and standing behind their king's chair, stiffened. Jon Connington's expression became murderous. The smile dropped off Aegon's own face. Noting all this, Arya stood quickly, and the crowd hushed and stilled. She surveyed the hall, looking out at all the expectant faces looking back at her. Her mouth formed a grin.
"My lords and ladies," she called out, her voice clear and steady and full of a sweet, calming temper that she managed to make seem natural, "the time has come for dancing!" The queen tilted her face up toward the gallery overhead, finding the minstrels in one corner. "Strike up a tune!" she commanded. All at once, the people rose, the men moving the trestle tables off to the sides to clear a space in the center of the hall. The previous unease was quickly forgotten.
Arya leaned down to whisper in Aegon's ear. "By right of rank, the first dance is yours," she told him, "but I would beg your leave to dance first with Jon Snow."
"Of course, your grace," the king murmured back, "so long as you save the next two for me."
"Two, your grace?" she tutted, shaking her head slightly as her mouth curled into a half-smile. "Do you not fear the judgement of men? They will say you are greedy, or call you besotted."
"Why should I fear what cowards whisper behind my back when the most beautiful woman in the room is in my arms?" he asked. "Besides, in this moment, I am both greedy and besotted." He took her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles before she rose from her chair, causing her to clear her throat.
"Brother," she called to Jon when she tore her eyes from Aegon's amethyst stare, "will you dance with me?"
"It would be my honor," the castellan replied, standing, and proffering his arm. Arya took it and they descended the dais, moving to the center of the hall. Pipes and drums began, and soon the lute joined in, sending out a jaunty tune that had Jon wheeling his sister around the floor at a maddening pace. After a few measures, during which the court clapped happily for their queen, others joined in and before long, the floor was filled with couples reeling around one another and laughing.
By the time the song ended, Jon was laughing too, and it heartened his sister to see it.
"Happiness becomes you, brother," the queen said, just loud enough for Jon's ears alone. "Now, you should go find your pretty dragon and build a monument to your happiness." Jon's brows raised with his surprise, but he did not bother to argue with her or make denials. Instead, he gave her a deep bow but did not have time to lead her from the floor before Aegon was there, taking her hand from Jon's grip.
"I've come to claim my two dances, your grace," the king announced before slipping his arm around her waist. He drew her in closer than was strictly necessary for the dance dictated by the music the minstrels began to play just then.
As the king and queen began the movements, these more sedate than the dance she'd just finished, Arya asked, "And will you be satisfied with only two? The night is young, after all, and the music is sure to last hours."
"I am but one beggar for your attention amid this vast gathering," Aegon replied, glancing at the surrounding splendor, "though perhaps the others will forgive me my gluttony if I steal more of your time than you had previously agreed to give. They know me to be greedy and besotted, after all, so it is to be expected."
The girl threw her head back and laughed as Aegon guided them around the floor with sure steps and a firm grip on her waist and hand. He moved them around a couple near the center of the crowd and as he did, Arya could see that it was her lady in waiting, Bethany Blackwood, dancing with the Lord of Starfall.
"I'm not given to romantic notions," she revealed, "but they make a pretty picture, don't they?" The queen nodded gently toward the blonde nobles.
"Yes, they do," the king answered, "and it seems Lord Dayne feels the same. Just before the feast, he asked my permission to begin work on securing a betrothal to the lady."
Arya startled at the announcement. "Oh? Bethany has said nothing of it to me, nor have any of her brothers."
"That is because they do not know it yet. Edric is a loyal bannerman and would not pursue the lady if I withheld my approval. He is too honorable to risk giving her any false hopes."
"And do you approve of the match?"
"I do, though I imagine her father may wish to consider the matter for a time."
"If the lady is well pleased with Lord Dayne, her father would not like to disappoint her."
"He will want your blessing."
"Lord Blackwood is like a father to me, and Bethany nearly a sister. What reason would I have to withhold my blessing?"
"You might not like to send a girl who is nearly a sister to marry your enemy. Neither would her father, I imagine."
Arya scoffed. "Edric is no enemy of mine! He's an old friend."
"He may not be your enemy, but neither is he your bannerman. His loyalty is to me, and he will always remember his duty, whatever friendships he may entertain."
The king was trying to make a point, that much was obvious, but Arya could only make out the vague edges of it.
"Speak plainly, your grace, I've no wish to solve riddles while dancing with you."
"I merely seek to remind you that it is not only your happiness, or mine, at stake as you consider my suit. The lords and ladies of your kingdom await your decision and will use it to guide their own direction. How can a father dower his only daughter and send her far away when he cannot know if he will soon be asked to fight against her husband?"
The space between the queen's brows wrinkled. "Do you think I mean to attack your lands, your grace?" She gave him a befuddled smile. "Do you think I mean to make war in the south?"
"Without an alliance, how can I know what you mean to do?"
"Will you be easier if we sign a treaty? Then by all means, let's have it drawn up! Look, just there, I see Lord Hoster." She indicated her Hand sitting just below the head table, deep in conversation with his brother Brynden. Her eyes scanned the surrounding crowd. "And look, there is Lord Connington," she continued when she spied him. "We can call them together at once to negotiate the thing. It can be done before the dancing is through."
"A treaty is not an alliance, as you well know, your grace," Aegon told her in a scolding tone, "and alliances want blood to bind them."
"I see you are growing impatient for an answer," the girl replied, her tone suddenly frosty. "What you could not accomplish in all your time here, you mean to secure in the space of two dances."
"Don't be angry with me, Arya," the man pled. "I am impatient. I would marry you tonight, if only you would agree. I don't wish to place undue pressure on you, but neither do I desire to feign disinterest. Our union is of grave importance, not just to me, but to our two kingdoms, and our peoples, and I will not pretend otherwise."
The earnestness of Aegon's words was punctuated by the look he gave her. The girl bit her lip, staring off with a soft gaze as the king continued to guide her through the steps of the dance. After a moment, she sighed.
"Can we leave it for tonight?" Arya finally asked, flicking her eyes to his. "May I be ten-and-seven for a day or two without contemplating how I shall spend the rest of my life?"
The king's brow lowered with his disappointment. He cleared his throat. "Of course."
The girl smiled at him, saying, "You aren't allowed to be glum on my nameday. Besides, you have much to celebrate. You are a fine dancer, after all. That's something."
Despite himself, Aegon smiled back. "It's one of many skills I'm more than happy to demonstrate for you." He was flirting now.
"Oh?" the queen asked with mock innocence. "Name another." She was goading him.
"I ride well."
"You do indeed. Horses and dragons. And another?"
"Well, you've seen me fight."
"Yes, you are a passable swordsman."
"Passable? Not to be indelicate, but I did beat you."
"Fortune was on your side today."
Aegon's look became bitter at her words. "Not as much as I'd hoped, otherwise you'd have agreed to marry me already."
She ignored his ill humor as the dance ended and gave him a graceful curtsey. He held fast to her hand though, and pulled her back into him, glancing up at the gallery to urge the minstrels to start playing once again. When they did, he swept her away, his thumb caressing the hand he gripped.
"I'm sorry," he whispered after a few moments, and he dropped his head so he could press his forehead against hers. "It is your nameday, and it wasn't my intention to vex you."
"I know you're disappointed," she returned quietly, "and I don't mean to…"
He pulled back to look at her. "Let us speak no more of disappointments today."
"What shall we speak of, then?"
"I leave that to you, your grace."
"Well, you were listing the skills you'd happily demonstrate for me."
Aegon's answering grin was positively wicked. "I think you've reached the end of what I can show you without causing scandal."
Arya sniffed, tipping her chin haughtily. "I can't fathom what you could possibly mean."
"Can't you?"
The queen felt a warmth stain her cheeks a pretty pink. She looked away from the king and his burning purple eyes. When she did, she noted the glares of both her sworn shield and the captain of the Stormcrows. Predictably, Gendry was scowling at the king, but Daario…
Daario Naharis was frowning at her.
"I understand you wish to steal my lady away from me," Arya said to Edric. They were dancing together to a tune with tempo, and so they had to speak between small leaps, spins, and claps.
"The king told you?" Edric looked sheepish. "I had thought to tell you myself, your grace. I know I suggested that you and I should…"
"Hush, my lord, I am not offended by the place you have chosen to focus your affections."
He winced at her words, slightly stung, then said, "Only, I knew it to be impossible, that I was not prize enough to tempt you, and so I set my attentions on someone who…"
"Edric," the girl chided, "I do not begrudge you your happiness. You are my friend…"
"It is kind of you to say so, your grace."
"…and Bethany is dear to me as well. If it is what you both want…"
"In truth, I do not know what the lady wants. That is to say, I hope that she… will want me."
Arya glanced at Bethany as she danced with Beren Tallhart. The Blackwood girl smiled shyly at her partner but kept stealing glances at the queen's. "Oh, I don't think you have to worry about that."
"Do you know something, your grace? I mean, has the lady… said anything? About me?"
"I know only what my eyes tell me," the queen replied, "and that you should dance with her again, very soon. She will appreciate the gesture."
The music ended and the Lord of Starfall bowed to the Winter's Queen, soon to be replaced by Brynden Blackwood as a partner.
"It seems an age since we last danced, your grace."
"I shudder to remember my behavior during our first dance, ser."
"Do you mean when you told me you didn't give a 'bloody fuck' if anyone ever understood you?" At Arya's cringe, Brynden laughed. "Why should it bother you? It didn't bother me."
"It was petulant and ungracious."
"It was honest."
"Not that it's an acceptable excuse, but I didn't know then if I could trust you. I didn't understand how much I would grow to admire and respect you, ser. I hope you'll accept my apology, though it is shamefully belated."
The heir to Raventree Hall shook his head. "Wholly unnecessary, your grace."
"Perhaps, but you deserve it nonetheless, because you are my friend, and your family has only ever been loyal and kind to me."
"We will always remain so," the knight assured his queen. "We owe you much. For Hoster, and for what you've done for the kingdom, and our people."
The girl nodded. "I wish your father could've been here. I have want of his advice."
"I know his mind on most things. May I be of service?"
The queen fought the urge to nibble at her lip. "Has he communicated with you regarding his opinion of the suit from the Iron Throne?"
Brynden's look was one of faint displeasure. "He will follow where you lead, of course."
"He is not opposed to uniting Westeros under one banner? To surrendering the kingdom we've only just forged?"
"He would never oppose what will guarantee peace and prosperity for the people under his protection, and the proposed marriage contract is generous, to be sure."
"A politic answer."
"Perhaps, but a true one nonetheless."
Arya cocked her head, her eyes narrowing as she looked at the downward curve of the knight's mouth. "Then why do you look so displeased when discussing it?"
Brynden sighed. "I have a dream of this kingdom, your grace. Of all it could be. And an attachment to what it has been so far, to your place in it, and my own. I shall be grieved to let all that go."
The girl's gaze grew soft. "I never wanted it."
"I know. That is perhaps why you are so fit for the role. You lack personal ambition. It is only your sense of duty which holds you in place and keeps that crown on your head."
"Or maybe it's that my ladies anchored it with my own hair wrapped round the thing," she snickered. "An unforgivable cruelty! My scalp aches." She touched her fingers to the crown gingerly.
"You know what I mean."
"I do," she acknowledged. "Maybe you give me too much credit. Maybe my personal ambitions are just so small and selfish, they have escaped your notice."
"I think not, your grace." Brynden whirled her around one last time, as the dance dictated. "I think it is my own misgivings about this marriage contract which are small and selfish." The dance ended and he bowed to her, saying, "My father trusts that you will ultimately choose what most benefits the kingdom and your people. That may mean I have to sacrifice my hopes for the Winter Kingdom, or it may not, but I have no doubt that whatever sacrifice you must make to do your duty will be greater than my own. I will pray the gods favor you with their wisdom."
As Arya gave the knight a gracious nod, she was approached by Luthor Umber, the Greatjon's youngest son, who was of an age with Jon Snow.
"Yer grace," the bearded man greeted, his Northern brogue as thick as that of the mountain lords, "will ye honor me with a dance?"
"With pleasure, my lord," she replied, perfectly portraying the queen everyone thought her to be.
It was the Bear who finally rescued her from the dance floor. He offered a dance, but then whirled her to the edge of the cleared space and through the crowd so that she might sit within seconds of the music starting.
"You looked like you needed respite," he told her as he guided her up the dais to her seat at the high table.
"I should give you a medal, or a knighthood," she murmured as she slumped in her chair.
"But I am already a knight," he replied with a crooked grin. "I'm sorry, I should've introduced myself. I'm Ser Willem Ferris of Dorne, your grace." He gave her a courtly bow.
The girl pursed her lips, then said in a low tone, "To the seven hells with bloody Dorne. You're my brother, my closest friend, and I love you. Name your reward for your good deed, ser."
The Bear raised his brows. "I understand there is spice cake somewhere in the castle…"
"Come to my chamber later…"
The large assassin gasped in feigned shock. "Scandalous!"
"…there's a bit left and you may have it."
He bent to kiss her hand, saying, "Until then, your grace." Then he was off, seeking a dance partner. After a moment, he found Lady Dyanna. Arya watched with a smile as they moved around the floor, liking the carefree laughter of her Lyseni brother as he held the crannogwoman.
"A merry celebration," she heard from her right. She turned to see Tyrion Lannister standing a few feet away. "And a feast to rival the grandest occasion in the south."
"I suppose Jon was right to insist upon it," she conceded. "The court deserved a reprieve from the onerous business of securing our spot in this land."
"May I sit?"
"Certainly."
The dwarf pulled out the chair next to her and climbed into it. "You know, your spot in Westeros has been secured for you already. You have only to accept it. It awaits you, comfortable and elevated, a seat even higher than the one you sit upon now."
"It would have to be," she replied evenly, one eyebrow lifted, "to raise my nose above the stench of King's Landing."
"Oh, that's nothing," Tyrion laughed. "Have you ever walked the streets of Pentos? The elephant shit alone…"
She cut him off. "You may recall that I spent part of my youth in the Red Keep. It was not a pleasant experience."
"No, I imagine not." The sympathy in his voice seemed genuine, but with Tyrion, she could never be sure. He was as cunning a man as she had ever encountered. As cunning as the principal elder, she thought. "My own experience there was, at best, frustrating. At worst, well…" He sighed, eyes dropping to the folded hands in his lap for a moment as though recalling some painful memory. After several seconds, he breathed in and cast his gaze to the queen's face. "But things are different now. Aegon has made them different."
"Perhaps for you. But I'd still be a girl far from home, trapped in a place I do not understand, or care to."
The dwarf shook his head, the black and white strands of his hair waving with the movement. "As queen, you would set the tone for the court. It would be everyone's task to understand you, not the other way around."
"Surely you don't actually believe that it works that way," she scoffed.
"You can make the place into anything you choose."
Arya laughed. "Can I make it the North?"
"No," he admitted, "that, you cannot do. But would you really want to? After all your time in Braavos? And the Riverlands? You really aren't just a Northman's daughter anymore, your grace."
"Oh? Then what am I?"
"You are the person to heal this land of its hurts. Perhaps the only one who can."
The girl's brows pinched together, and she regarded the dwarf keenly. "You say that as if you mean it, my lord."
Tyrion nodded. "I do mean it. This land was bleeding when Aegon arrived. He was the flaming sword that cauterized the wound, and you are the cool cloth to soothe the burn. Unless the two of you stand united, I fear Westeros may breathe its last, and we shall all succumb to the decay and rot of its corpse."
"You paint a vivid picture, Lord Tyrion, but I think you mistake me for my sister. I assure you, I am more than a cool cloth, though perhaps if I agree to this union, that's all I'll be worth in King's Landing." She stared hard at the dwarf. "Surely, you can understand why I do not find the notion appealing."
Tyrion grimaced. "No, I do not mistake you for Lady Sansa. I know your strengths and hers are different. I did not mean to imply that all you are fit for is providing womanly comfort, only that if you marry Aegon and take your place by his side, it will ease the pain which has been inflicted on the Riverlands and the North…"
"The Kingdom of Winter," she corrected.
"Ah, yes, just so, your grace. It will appease your people to see that their grievances will not be forgotten, nor will they have to endure what they have endured in the past."
"You mean what they endured when your father sent his men to rape and burn and murder?" Arya asked sweetly. "I was fortunate to have been in the Riverlands during that time, to witness what your father wrought firsthand. To experience some of it for myself, in fact."
"A crime he paid for with his life, taken by my own hand."
"I did not realize you'd kinslayed to avenge my people, Lord Tyrion," the girl remarked, her brow raised in question. "You are a true champion of winter. We should devise some fit reward for your deed." Arya's expression turned hard.
He held up one hand in a gesture meant to stay her rising fury. "Your grace, I do not wish to be an adversary to you…"
"Only to manipulate me."
"To offer counsel, not to manipulate."
"I have my own advisors, my lord."
"And none can see the broader landscape as well as I!" It was clear the dwarf was becoming frustrated. He blew out a breath, then pressed his lips together until they were nearly bloodless. Once he restored his own calm, he leaned in closer to the queen. "I… apologize, your grace."
The girl scoffed. "I am not so thin-skinned that a small outburst from you distresses me. But neither am I so naïve as to think you can advise me on a matter such as this without considering Aegon's interests over my own. Please speak freely, my lord, but expect that I shall do the same."
"Your grace, in this matter, Aegon's interests are your own. He may marry any number of eligible women, all of whom have old names and powerful houses to back them, but only marriage to you will stitch Westeros back together."
"What does a united Westeros mean to me? To my people?" Arya sat up straighter in her chair. "We have our kingdom, and it is sound. We prosper already, and we keep the profits from our trade instead of surrendering them as tax to a throne which forgets us unless it has need of our labor or our swords. Our men are not marched away to fight in wars for the ambitions of others. Our women do not grieve their sons dead on battlefields in places they will never see. Our babes no longer starve in their cradles. This can only improve with time."
"What you say is true, but your kingdom borders another. If your prosperity exceeds that of the south, how long will it take for jealous eyes to turn your way? How long until your people are engaged in another war, this one fought in the shadows of your own walls? Will your women weep less if their sons die violently on hills they can name or near towns that they know?"
"You're telling me Aegon will take my lands by force?"
"I'm telling you that if you do not marry him and unite the kingdoms, then he will marry Daenerys…"
The girl scoffed. "They have no affection for one another…"
"That's true. He has affection for you. And if you spurn it, then his heart will harden, and he will choose what is left to him. Power. And you will leave your people at the mercy of dragonlords. Tell me, your grace, do you know your own history? How did the North fare the last time dragonlords turned their eyes to Winterfell?"
"This Aegon is not that one."
Tyrion shrugged. "Perhaps this Aegon's respect for you would curb his ambitions, but what of the ambitions of his children? Or their children? How long until there is another Aerys, only this time with dragons at his command? Will you leave your children, or their children, unprotected against such a threat? Will the North still laud you while it burns? When they know you might've prevented their misery?"
The girl stared past Tyrion for a moment, recalling the words Daenerys had spoken to her in the godswood that morning.
You are the treaty. You are the alliance.
You don't have a choice.
She blew out a breath, her ire leaving her as her grey eyes caught the dwarf's mismatched gaze. "It feels like blackmail." There was more resignation than accusation in her words.
"It's not blackmail when you recognize it benefits those you have sworn to protect, your grace. Then it's just a wise decision and a prudent course."
A decision only she could make.
A course only she could follow.
The weight of it nearly bowed her shoulders.
The conversation she'd had earlier in the evening with Brynden Blackwood played in her head. I have no doubt that whatever sacrifice you must make to do your duty will be greater than my own.
"Sacrifice," she muttered, breathing out in defeat.
"What would any of us be willing to sacrifice for the safety and prosperity of our people? And of our own family? If you do this thing, your grace, your children…" Tyrion shook his head, almost as if he could hardly believe what he was about to say. "They will be the dragonlords."
She squinted at the thought, turning it over in her mind. It was strange, like a foreign tongue she'd never heard before. It was an idea she'd not considered, this idea of children. Of her children. Motherhood was such a nebulous concept to her, and legacy even more fantastical. Catelyn Stark was a mother, not her. Eddard Stark was the conduit for Stark legacy, not her.
That she would have children, and that they could be… would be… dragonlords? It was a notion almost too alien to fathom.
And yet… and yet, to have such a thing be true… Jon would never have to fear a single thing. Rickon would be protected his entire life, and so, too, would his children be. Her blood could conceivably control the North, the Riverlands, the Crownlands, and the Eyrie, through Sansa. Marriages her grown children might make could potentially bring the Westerlands, the Reach, and even Dorne under the same aegis. Not a kingdom of contentious, grasping lords, loosely confederated, joined only by shifting appetites and changeable loyalties, but a kingdom bound by blood. Her blood. Stark and Tully blood. And yes, Targaryen blood, too, but it was the idea that the North's influence could reach even as far as the Summer Sea that had her suddenly chewing her lip as her eyes grew softer and softer.
The kingdom at peace. Her people secure. Her family protected for generations. It was all within her grasp, and all she would have to sacrifice was what she had built in a year, marching north.
All she would have to sacrifice was this Winter crown.
All she would have to sacrifice was… Jaqen.
What she did not know, what she could not know after a year, was if he was even hers to sacrifice any longer.
"I beg you to think on it, your grace," the dwarf was saying, "for the sake of us all."
The girl looked out over the hall, taking note of the dancers. The king was partnered with Lady Wynafryd, but he gazed over the Manderly woman's head, locking eyes with Arya. The smile he favored her with was nearly blinding in its brilliance. She gave him a small nod in return, lifting her wine goblet to him briefly before taking one deep swallow after another.
There is a reason Arya hates wine, red wine in particular, but when a serving girl refills her drained goblet and she lifts it to her lips, she is hard-pressed to recall the details of that reason. Something about the Inn by the Moon Pool. But thinking of that place makes her think on things both horrible and heartbreaking, and so she pushes the memories aside and continues drinking.
Everything in the hall seems to soften as she sips, the blaze of the candles all around, the buzz woven from hundreds of conversations and japes, the music drifting down from the high gallery, the weighty concerns pressing against her heart, and even the tight prickling of the small hairs on her neck and arms that tell her she is being observed just a little too closely.
The girl does not allow herself to be alarmed over it. After all, the entire Winter Guard is present, armored and armed, as is her sworn shield, and the king has his guard as well. Her brothers are here, along with three very deadly assassins who, for some reason, are intent on her protection. If she drifts on a cloud of comfort or indifference, what consequence is it? She is not like to need any of the blades she has hidden on her person.
She drinks until she feels something akin to happiness, a lazy sort of gaiety that has her grinning from the high table as the dancers spin before her. She watches them long enough that she begins to feel as though she is spinning herself.
"Your grace," a lightly accented voice greets, and the queen blinks slowly before turning her attention to the man who has approached her with a step light enough, she hadn't noted it.
"Captain Naharis," she manages not to slur.
"Would you honor me with a dance?"
Arya laughs. "I'm not sure I'm fit for dancing. I'm feeling rather… clumsy." She rolls her neck then presses the back of her hand to her mouth to stifle a yawn.
The man gives her an exaggerated pout. "I cannot imagine the woman I saw water dancing in the yard this morning could ever be described as clumsy."
"Nonetheless…"
"What if I were to tell you it is also my nameday? Can you imagine how it feels to share a nameday with the Winter's Queen? Completely overshadowed, lonely, and forgotten…"
The girl gives the sellsword a skeptical look. "Is that true, Captain Naharis, or are you trying to appeal to my pity with a cleverly crafted lie?"
The Tyroshi smirks and shrugs. "In truth, I'm not entirely certain when my nameday is. It is as likely to be today as any other."
Arya snorts and starts to turn away.
"But isn't that even worse, your grace? You have the power to erase the sting of all those forgotten namedays by granting me a single dance." His eyes glitter as he speaks, and something about his manner both riles her and charms her. He reminds her of the handsome man in that way.
"Very well, captain, you shall have your dance. And if I crush your toes or we crash into other guests, you have only yourself to blame. I did warn you that I'm feeling clumsy."
"A man must be willing to take a risk if he is ever to have any reward," Daario replies, offering her his hand.
Arya leans heavily on the sellsword as they descend the dais. It is only a few seconds later that he is holding her and moving her around the floor, expertly weaving his way through the rowdy dancers. She does not think to match his step. Rather, she closes her eyes and tips her head up, sensing the ebb and flow of his movements and allowing him to carry her along. She feels weightless in his arms and after a few moments, she nearly forgets who it is that she dances with, or that she's dancing at all.
She is a leaf drifting in the river's current, or a flower petal caught in the wind.
It is a feeling she embraces, so different is it than the frustration and confusion which had inundated her after Tyrion Lannister had left her to think on their conversation. So, when the music stops, the girl does not even open her eyes when she says, "Another dance, if you will, captain."
"As your grace commands," he agrees, and he does not release her as they await the next tune. When it starts, she knows it for a gavotte, so they should join with others in a line to begin the dance, but they don't. The queen looks to see the floor is crowded with dancers, all facing away from her and her partner as they begin their steps. Daario whirls her around the edge of the floor, and she begins to feel so dizzy and heated, she begs him to stop.
"My head rocks like a ship in a storm at sea," she moans, fingers gripping at his sleeve in mild distress.
"I will find you a quiet place to recover," he offers, pushing past the onlookers, lifting her off her feet so that he is carrying her. He finds a dim corner past some haphazardly placed trestle tables and deposits her there, shielding her from any curious onlookers with his body. She leans back against the cool stones of the wall, inhaling deeply and closing her eyes to stop the room from moving around her.
"Too much wine," the girl murmurs with regret.
"It will pass," Daario assures her, but his voice trails off as he speaks, so that she nearly misses the whispered, "lovely girl," as he says it. Her eyes fly open and her lips part.
"What?" she breathes as the hall slowly turns all around them. "What did you just say?"
He makes her no answer, but stares into her eyes with something like bewilderment that slowly gives way to hunger. Then his hand is gripping her neck, his thumb lightly stroking at the notch at the base of her throat while his gaze drops to her mouth. All at once, his hands plunge into her hair and his lips press against hers, moving wildly, as though he means to devour her whole.
Arya gasps and stiffens, her head no longer merely rocking but spinning out of control. Daario pushes against her firmly, pinning her between himself and the wall, and she thinks that if he weren't, she might tumble to the ground in her shock. His kiss is both ferocious and familiar, and she finds her lips moving against his of their own accord as her thoughts turn to Jaqen. It feels like… love.
The Stormcrow captain tilts his head more, deepening his kiss, tongue sweeping inside of her mouth. The girl can taste him, mint and ale, and then it feels less like love and more like bad judgment brought on by wine. She shoves at his chest, turning her head to tear her mouth from his and breathing as though she'd just dashed up four flights of stairs.
"What is it, lovely girl?" he asks intently, pressing his nose to her temple and inhaling.
"I don't… why do you call me that?" Her voice is shaky, and she holds her breath as she awaits his answer.
Because there is one thing he can say that will change her life in an instant.
Daario hesitates, as though he is unsure of the answer. Finally, he says, "I call you that because that is what you are. A lovely, lovely girl." His hands grip her at the waist, and he is kissing her neck, almost in a frenzy. The touch of his lips against her skin is nearly right, somehow, but the words are wrong, and his taste is wrong, so she wrenches herself away from the man, shaking her head. Her disappointment is almost too much to bear, though she does not know how it is possible she had even the smallest sliver of hope to begin with.
"No," she says simply, backing away from him.
"Your grace," he rasps, brows crashing low as he reaches a hand toward her. "Arya…"
"No!" she cries more forcefully, moving two more steps before turning and crashing into a table. She grips the edge to steady herself, feeling a wave of nausea hit her. Distressed, she gulps in air then looks around frantically, as though someone might come to her rescue and place a healing hand on her head to take this all away.
The dizziness.
The grief.
The sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.
She glimpses Gendry in the distance and catches his eye. He is moving toward her, a thunderous look on his face. She thinks she has never seen a sight so reassuring in her life and starts to straighten so that she can run toward him, but she catches sight of something over his shoulder that has her gripping the table's edge once again.
There is a man peering down at her from the gallery, his face hidden in shadow. As she watches, he descends the stairs, and she loses him in the crowd. Her heart pounds in her chest as her eyes search for him. She starts to move in the direction she thinks he has taken, but she is stopped by a hand at her elbow.
"Your grace," Daario whispers in her ear, "we should finish our dance."
The way he says 'our dance' leaves Arya with no doubt he is referring to their stormy interlude in the corner and not their aborted tour of the dance floor. Without looking at him or saying a word, she jerks from his hold and moves around the table, gaining speed with each step. She is flying by the time she reaches Gendry. Without looking at him, she drags her fingers across his back, subtly turning him in the direction she wishes to go. It is a silent entreaty to abandon his intention to thrash the Stormcrow captain and instead accompany her. Instantly, he obeys.
The girl cranes her neck, her head whipping back and forth, which does nothing to dampen the lightness in her head. She searches the crowd with increasing agitation, scanning faces, builds, postures. Finally, she sees him. Or she thinks she does. He slips through the door to the north wing of the hall and then is gone from her sight. He is of the right height, the right build, his hair the right shade of chestnut. She'd be willing to wager that if she could but gaze at his face, she would see that his eyes were the right shade of grey.
The same as her own.
'It's impossible,' she thinks, her breath hitching. 'Is it possible? How is this possible?'
"Your grace," the dark knight calls from behind her. "What is it?"
The girl turns and marches straight to her sworn shield. "Did you see him, Gendry? Did you?" She is breathless and bothered, swaying slightly with drink. Her eyes implore him, but for what, he does not know. His expression displays how at a loss he is.
"See who, Arya?" he murmurs, brows knitted. He wants to understand her, that much is clear to the girl, even through the haze of the wine.
"My father," she rasps. There is a confused moment between them, the queen staring at the blacksmith-knight with expectation and the knight staring back at his queen, frozen. She swallows, and so does he. And then she turns and rushes to the north wing doors, Gendry scrambling to follow.
As Arya exited the hall, several things happened at once. Both Jon Snow and the king converged on Daario Naharis. Daenerys rushed to join them, though it was unclear on whose behalf she meant to intervene. The Hand of the King and Howland Reed became suddenly alert, setting their tankards down and rising from their seats. The Hand moved towards his king, the crannogman toward the castellan of Winterfell. Podrick Payne looked to Lady Brienne for direction, and she quickly sent him through the door to the northern wing, to chase after his queen while Kyle Condon yanked on Jaime Lannister's sleeve, pulling his attention away from some story Tyrion was telling him. The knight whispered hotly in his Lord Commander's ear.
Hoster Blackwood urged a few gawking guests to continue their dancing while his brothers looked to one another, then dashed in separate directions, Brynden joining the growing crowd around the Stormcrow captain and Ben moving to the place where the Winter guard had converged.
"What did you do to her?" Aegon was demanding as Brynden arrived. He was speaking to the sellsword, anger slitting his eyes.
Daario shrugged, seemingly untroubled. "Nothing of consequence."
"The queen fleeing her own nameday celebration is not a thing I'd characterize as 'nothing of consequence', captain," Ser Brynden retorted, his righteous indignation declaring itself in his tone and posture.
"We do not know that she left because she was offended by Captain Naharis," Daenerys reasoned. "All he did was dance with her, the same as you, Ser Brynden."
Daario nodded his agreement, offering, "A simple dance, a simple kiss…"
Jon Snow's face formed a scowl so dark, Daenerys nearly shrank from him. He grabbed the Tyroshi by the front of his doublet and yanked him so that they were nose to nose. "You dare to touch my sister?" he growled, low and threatening.
"Well, to be fair, she touched me as well," the captain said with a grin, causing Daenerys to give an irritated squeak.
"Mind your tongue!" Aegon seethed. "You will not speak of her!"
Jon slammed Daario against the nearest wall, his breaths so harsh and hard, they called to mind a bull about to charge. "If you think I will allow this insult to stand, you are mistaken," he told the sellsword through gritted teeth.
"Lord Snow," the princess cried, moving to his side, and placing her palm on his arm. "We do not know that there was any insult…"
Jon did not spare the woman a glance, but kept his eyes locked with Daario's as he spoke to her. "You would defend this blackguard?" The disgust in his tone was unmistakable.
"No, that's not my intention, my lord," she assured him quietly. "Only, this is a celebration, and the eyes of the kingdom are on you in this moment. This is not the place for displays of violence, especially if you do not wish to spawn murmurs of scandal."
"Captain Naharis did not seem to consider the place when he assaulted my sister." Jon's words were quiet and laden with menace.
"Assault, bah!" the sellsword laughed, causing Jon to tighten his grip on the man's garment.
"Daario!" the khaleesi hissed, vexed at his bold irreverence. She glared at him, then moved her mouth close to Jon's ear and whispered, "Consider what your guests will think. What will they say about your sister?"
"In truth, I do not know why the young queen absconded," the sellsword revealed. "One moment, we were… enjoying each other's company, and the next, she seemed to take ill. Perhaps she has only run off to find the nearest privy?"
"The queen is ill?" Hoster Blackwood asked in alarm. He snapped his fingers, drawing over a household guard and instructing him to find the maester.
"I do not know that for a certainty. She was behaving strangely, though that may only have been the wine. Her head swam, and she seemed to feel weak a moment, but then she ran off under her own power," Daario explained.
Ser Jaime had arrived in time to hear the last few exchanges. "We should go look for her," he suggested. "Lady Brienne sent Ser Podrick after her and they have not returned."
"Yes," the king agreed. "We should go after her."
"Your grace, perhaps it is best for you to return to the revelry while the queen's own guards search for her," his Hand said.
"You may revel all you wish, Lord Connington," Aegon spat. "As for me, I shall look for Queen Arya."
After a few more murmured words from Daenerys, Jon Snow released Daario's doublet, stepping back from the man but scowling at him as he did. "The north wing lets out near the great keep," he offered. "She may have returned to her chamber."
"I'll send Ser Kyle and Lady Brienne there straightaway," Jaime said, "but I'll go myself and trace her steps, in case she has left the north wing and somehow bypassed the great keep."
"I'll go with you," her brother replied, then, turning to Aegon, asked, "Your grace?"
"Yes, I will go as well."
Jaime spoke to Brienne and Kyle Condon, sending them on their way, then joined Aegon and Jon Snow once again. They were flanked by Ser Rolly, Howland Reed, Jon Connington, and Daenerys.
"You do not have to come, princess," the castellan said in a gentle tone. "Stay. Dance."
"I have no appetite for dancing while you are worried," she replied quietly. He nodded at her, then they all made for the door through which Arya had disappeared. Just as they'd walked through it and entered the vestibule on the other side, Ser Podrick came rushing back up the long hallway of the wing. When he ran into the group, he stopped, placing his hands on his knees, leaning over, and heaving a several great breaths.
"Good gods, man, what is it?" Ser Jaime demanded. "Where is the queen?"
"Gone," he panted. "Through the… the keep… and across the yard."
"Training?" Aegon asked, wrinkling his nose. "In the cold night? On her nameday? That doesn't seem likely."
"No," Podrick replied breathlessly. "She ran… then Ser Gendry took her into the guards hall… and they disappeared."
"Ser Gendry?" the king repeated with a frown.
"Did she say anything?" her brother asked, ignoring Aegon.
Podrick shook his head. "It didn't… didn't make any… sense."
"Ser Podrick," his Lord Commander began, exasperated. "Get ahold of yourself and tell us exactly what happened."
The knight nodded, gulping in a few more deep breaths, then said, "I rushed after the queen not long after she left through that door." Here, he pointed at the door they'd all just used. "I caught sight of her as she left the northern wing and followed her to the great keep. I thought she only meant to return to her chamber, but she passed through the keep, Ser Gendry at her side. She rushed across the training yard, towards the guards hall, saying all sorts of things that I didn't understand. After she began repeating them, Ser Gendry bade me run back and find Lord Snow while he continued on with her."
"What was she saying?" Jon asked desperately.
Podrick's face pinched with his effort at recollection. "Uh… your father. She said she had to find your father, or... she knew what he wanted? Something about music. She remembered there was music there too, and that she was supposed to show the dragons Lyanna. Her father had told her to do that. She said Bran had tried to tell her about Lyanna, and that Lord Stark had as well, but she hadn't understood until now." He looked at the castellan apologetically. "It seemed like… like ravings, my lord if you'll pardon me saying so."
Aegon looked at Jon. "Why would she be talking about Lyanna? What would she need to show us about her aunt?"
Howland Reed stepped forward. "Your grace, my lord, I think I may know what the queen is referring to…"
Jon held up his hand, stopping the crannogman from saying more, his face arranged in a thoughtful expression as though he were puzzling out a great mystery. He breathed quietly for a moment, arms folding over his chest. He looked at Aegon, then Howland, then Jaime. "It's not the why or the what that's important," he finally said. "It's the where."
"Lady Lyanna and your father," Ser Jaime mused. His eyes snapped to the castellan's. "The crypts?" Jon nodded his agreement with the Lord Commander's conclusion, causing the knight to curse. "She's wearing silk slippers and a dress as thin as a spider's web! If she doesn't freeze to death, she'll still lose her toes to frost bite. By all the gods, I will run Ser Gendry through when I find him!"
The castellan shook his head. "You know as well as I do that the best he could hope for was to keep up with her," he groused. "I just hope he managed that much."
"Well, let's go," Aegon urged. "The sooner we find her, the sooner we can get her warming by a fire."
At least he'd found a cloak for her in the guards hall, Gendry thought as they trudged through the courtyard of the First Keep toward the crypts. And some boots, too, overlarge as they were. Even still, the dark knight worried about the queen's sodden skirts and wet feet. The snow had been falling all evening, and a fresh layer covered the ground, so of course she had thought it a splendid idea to go running through it wearing footwear no more substantial than a scrap of silk and a bit of ribbon.
What a night, he grimaced inwardly, but even as he thought it, he knew it was far from over.
It had started auspiciously enough. He'd escorted the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen to a feast being held in her honor. He'd eaten a fine meal and drunk fine wine. He'd laughed with guards, knights, lords, and ladies, even a prince, all while watching his queen, ever ready to stand between her and danger.
He'd thought for a moment that the danger had presented itself in the form of an arrogant and overly bold sellsword with a penchant for taking liberties, and he'd been prepared to act, but now, as they opened the door to the crypts and descended the icy stairs into the dim corridors of the dead, he wondered if the danger wasn't actually the northern clime.
As soon as Arya had burst out of the door at the end of the north wing and into the expanse between the great hall and the great keep, she'd sunk into the snow and slush halfway to her knees. She'd tried to take a few steps, the little fool, until he'd put an end to the farce and scooped her up into his arms.
She had actually tried to protest.
"Sometimes, your grace, I think the most difficult of all my duties is protecting you from yourself," he'd declared as they entered the great keep. He had set her down and allowed her to find her feet and steady herself before he released her. "Now, would you mind telling me what this is all about?"
"I need your hammer, ser," she'd whispered. She hadn't been looking at him, though. Her head had turned this way and that, her eyes wild. He had no idea what she was looking for.
"No, what you need is to change into dry clothes and then sit by your fire," he'd countered. He started to walk toward the staircase so that he might lead the way to her chamber.
"I'm not going to my chamber," Arya had insisted, moving through the keep to the door which let out into the training yard.
"Well, you can't go outside, not dressed as you are!"
The queen had ignored him, as she often did, obstinate thing that she was. She'd grasped the door handle and pushed through. Podrick had come puffing up behind them just then. "Your grace!" he'd called.
"My father," she'd said to them over her shoulder. "Hurry! I know what he wants… I should have known all along." She'd scurried through the snow, causing Gendry to curse. It wasn't nearly so deep in the training yard because servants cleared it each morning to allow the men and their queen to spar, but there was enough there to cover the girl's feet as she'd moved through it. The dark knight had jogged up behind her, picking her up once again.
"Do you like your toes?" he'd growled at her.
"He said to show the dragons Lyanna," she'd muttered, not protesting his concern or scolding this time. "I don't know why… I don't know why…"
"Your grace, where are you going?" Podrick had asked her, struggling to keep pace with Gendry's long strides. The snow was little impediment to the dark knight, and the weight of the queen in his arms no more than a pillow or a bouquet of winter roses.
"Bran told me to remember," Arya had replied. "My father told me as well, and now he wants me to follow… follow the music. The music is there, with Lyanna." She'd shaken her head, as though she knew what she'd said sounded like nonsense. "Gendry, your hammer…"
"My hammer is behind us, but I'm sure I can find one in the guards hall if it will soothe you," her shield had replied.
"Yes," she'd said, "the guards hall. We must follow my father. He said to show the dragons Lyanna. Bran knew. I dreamed of him, but it wasn't a dream, not really. He told me to remember, and I thought he meant us, or our childhood, maybe, but he didn't mean who, he meant where…"
Gendry had glanced over his shoulder then, yelling out to Podrick Payne, "Go and find Lord Snow. Tell him what her grace is saying. I will stay with her, but you go and find him now."
Podrick had nodded, then he'd turned and run as best he could across the yard in the deepening snow while the blacksmith-knight carried his queen into the guards hall. He'd brought her to the cloak room and put her down.
"Take off your slippers," he had commanded, walking over to the wall where several pairs of tall boots were lined up. He'd surveyed them, then snatched a pair up, taking them to her. "Here, put these on. They'll be big, but at least they'll keep the snow off your feet." He'd walked to the opposite wall and plucked a cloak off a hook. Shaking it out, he sniffed it. "A bit musty," he judged, "but it's no worse than you deserve for rushing out into the night in a ball gown."
The girl had stared at him. "You are a truly good man."
"I'm your sworn shield," he'd countered. "How great a failure would I be if I couldn't even protect you from the weather?"
"You are more than my shield. You are my oldest friend."
He'd resisted the urge to smile at her words, working to keep the stern look on his face. Gendry had walked over to her, throwing the cloak around her shoulders. It was enormous on her, dragging the ground, but it was warm. "Do you want to tell me what this is about, Arya?"
She shook her head. "You wouldn't believe me if I did."
"Tell me anyway."
"Dreams. Prophecies. Green seers. The Nightlands."
"You're drunk," Gendry snorted.
"I am, but that's of no consequence."
He sighed. "What would you have of me?"
"Your hammer. We go to the crypts."
"And what will we find there?"
Arya had shaken her head, her eyes flicking back and forth as though she was seeing something he couldn't. She'd chewed on her lip in that way she did when she was uncertain. "I don't know, only that whatever it is, I am meant to find it, and it will change everything."
Now, as they walked down frosted stone steps into the crypts, a warhammer clasped in one hand as his other provided a steadying grip on the queen's arm, Gendry had no doubt that what she had said was true. He could feel it, even more than he could feel the cold piercing his bones.
Everything was about to change.
Daario's head feels strange. He has been drinking, of course. It is a feast, after all. But he is not drunk. He has not consumed enough wine or ale to be so. Why, then, does his mind feel so clouded?
It had started when he'd danced with the queen. Damn the girl! Why should she affect him so? He'd meant to discover the reason, that was why he'd asked her to dance. It was why he'd kissed her.
No, that wasn't true. It was supposed to be why he kissed her, but it wasn't. When he'd secreted her off to that dim corner, it was as though all his motivations had shifted, and he had no explanation as to why. All he knew was that she was lovely, and he was meant to kiss her; had been longing to do so for moons and moons.
And that made no sense. He'd arrived at Winterfell less than a moon's turn ago. He'd not even been interested in the girl beyond the political and strategic implications she represented. At least, not until this morning, when he'd watched her in the training yard. Why then, are his thoughts of his own life being crowded out of his head by thoughts of a life with her?
Even those thoughts are nonsense, for they are not fantasies of life with her at court, either this court or the one which exists in King's Landing. They aren't thoughts of some future as the queen's lover or consort, with all the benefits of being the queen's favorite. Rather, he imagines a simpler life, envisioning snippets of walking with her in foreign streets, no entourage in tow, just the two of them, talking and japing. He sees himself lying next to her in a narrow bed or kissing her in a dim stairwell. He sees a moonlit courtyard, and a fountain, and a thin gown of white.
Stranger still, the ideas come to him unbidden, requiring no conjuring on his part. They simply… are.
Daario tries to force himself to think on Daenerys. She has withdrawn from him since their arrival here, but she can be coaxed back. She is not the queen, it is true, but she is his surest path to influence and favor, and she is a beauty besides. But every time he pulls her face up in his mind, it is supplanted by the Winter's Queen.
No, not the Winter's Queen, exactly, but the girl beneath the raiment and crown. Someone more trusting and less polished. Somehow, she has wormed her way into his brain, and he cannot dislodge her.
Does he want to?
"Just because these Westerosi highborn forget their courtesies doesn't mean we should suffer."
The voice is haughty, and familiar. Daario turns to see a painted warrior of Skagos standing there, addressing him, and holding out a chunk of cake. The Tyroshi blinks, trying to reconcile the man he sees before him with the voice he'd just heard.
"Pardon?" the sellsword says with a frown.
"Queen and King left before cake," the warrior replies, a hint of a smile in his glittering blue eyes. His accent and syntax are suddenly as expected and the Stormcrow captain wonders if he had imagined the initial address. His mind is exceedingly foggy. "Cake?" The warrior places the dense square in Daario's hand.
"Thank you," the captain says absently, watching the Skagosi man grunt in acknowledgment and walk away. He stares at the cake in his hand, then lifts it to his mouth, taking a nibble. The flavors explode on his tongue, spices he knows but has not tasted in far too long. He closes his eyes and savors.
Cinnamon. Cloves. That bite of ginger. Nutmeg.
An odd thought comes to him, then. Boys in a kitchen, hiding from their mother, waiting for her to be called away so they can pilfer pieces of cake she has set aside for later.
Had he ever been such a boy? With a mother, and a brother?
How is it that he does not know?
"She's down there," Ser Jaime said when he noted the door to the crypts was ajar.
Jon grabbed a torch off the wall near the door. "Careful," he warned. "The stairs are slick with ice at the top." He began to lead the way, but then heard a voice which stopped him in his tracks.
"Wait!" Daenerys cried. Jon stepped back from the threshold to see the silver princess scrambling toward him. She was wrapped in a fur cloak as pale as her own hair.
"Princess, what are you doing here?" he asked her quietly when she reached him. He'd told her to stay back when they'd realized Arya had trekked outdoors. The khaleesi was a stranger to winter and wasn't dressed for searching in the snow. "It's freezing and the ground is treacherous."
"I had Missandei fetch me my cloak and boots," she said, her breath forming small, frozen clouds in the torchlight. "I knew you were worried, and I wished to be a help to you."
"Aunt," the king began, his tone full of censure, "Lord Snow has told us the stairs here are frozen. I would not wish to risk your person by allowing you to tread on them."
Daenerys squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. "Your grace, I have faced rival khalasars, warlocks, slavers, and insurgents. I am not afraid of slippery steps."
"You should wait indoors, in the warmth," Aegon insisted, "and let us continue our efforts unburdened."
"I shall not be a burden!" the woman insisted.
"Your grace," the castellan said, giving the princess a small nod before turning to the king, "I will take responsibility for the princess. She will be quite safe."
"Fine then," the king relented, "but let us get on with it."
"Hold tight to my arm," Jon murmured to Daenerys, "and settle one foot well before lifting another. At least two kings interred below met their ends on icy stairs."
The khaleesi nodded gratefully at him, threading her arm through his as he passed through the door.
"Shut the door," they heard Jaime call back to the last man to enter, "so that more snow does not blow in and stick to the steps."
They all reached the bottom safely and walked two abreast down the long corridor of the first crypt chamber. It was dimmer than usual. Time constraints imposed by nameday feast preparations had resulted in only every third torch being lit along the walls. The low light gave the place an eerie feel, eerier than usual. They moved quietly, the only noise made by the scuffle of boot leather over stones, their own breathing, and the occasional squeak of a rat. Then, in the distance, they could detect a faint noise.
"What is that?" Aegon whispered as they all stopped, straining to hear.
"Sounds like a pickaxe in a mine," Ser Rolly replied. The king turned to his knight with a cocked eyebrow, as if to ask how the man knew what a pickaxe in a mine sounded like.
"Come," Jon commanded, moving once again, faster this time. Though the floor here was not icy, Daenerys still held his arm and she scurried to keep pace with him. The noise grew louder as they walked, more obviously the sound of stone being stricken with something hard. When they finally entered the newest part of the crypts, the place where the last fifty years of Stark dead rested, they found the queen.
The torches here blazed brighter. It appeared Gendry had lit them all, and the glow bathed Arya in her gown of silver snowflakes. The sight of her arrested the newly arrived, because she was beautiful, and wild, and engaged in something of which none of them could make any sense.
Jon finally found his voice and called out hoarsely, "Arya." When she did not answer him, indeed, when she did not even seem to hear him, he cried louder. "Sister!"
His hail drew the girl up short. She turned, a warhammer gripped between her two small hands, raised as though she was prepared to deliver a mighty blow. She swallowed, her eyes wide and chest heaving. "Jon," she murmured, seeing him, but she did not lower the hammer.
"What… what are you doing?" he asked, pulling his arm from Daenerys, and taking a step toward his sister.
Arya blinked, then said, "What I must." With that, she turned and struck at the face of Lyanna's crypt with the hammer.
There is a cloak puddled on the floor at the queen's feet, the sort that the household guardsmen wear. Aegon thinks this is strange, but not as strange as Arya swinging a warhammer at the stone face of her aunt's tomb. With her movement, the silver embroidery of her wispy skirt waves and twinkles in the torchlight, and it's as though the girl exists at the very center of a winter storm which blows madly all around her.
His eyes travel to her hem, and he sees that the edges which brush against the ground are crusted with ice. This alarms him, but he notes that she is wearing boots now, so he is less concerned for her health than he might've been.
The new arrivals are frozen in a tableau of confusion and helplessness. Everyone seems at a loss for how to proceed. Everyone but the queen herself, and her man Gendry. The large knight moves to stand nearer to her, as though he means to stop anyone who might try to interfere with her bizarre endeavor.
And what is that endeavor?
That, Aegon cannot say, beyond the obvious. Destruction.
Had Arya found out some awful truth about her aunt that made her want to desecrate her resting place? Had the long-dead woman betrayed her family in some awful, unforgivable way? He cannot fathom what else could have sent the girl into such a frenzy, intent on reducing the tomb to dust.
The face was already cracked when they arrived, pebbles and slivers of stone piling up at the base of the tomb. But with one more swing at the center, the whole thing splits open, large slabs crashing to the ground where Arya stands, causing her to leap back to avoid crushing her feet beneath them. The girl drops the hammer, panting, and they all stare at the dust which now drifts in the torchlight. Slowly, she turns her head, looking first at the king, then her Lord Commander, then her brother.
"Your grace," Lord Reed says, his tone cautioning. He takes a step forward, but Ser Gendry moves to place himself between the crannogman and the queen. Howland Reed looks on sadly and drops his head as Arya moves to the gaping maw of the tomb.
"Gendry," she whispers, "a torch."
Wordlessly, the dark knight retrieves a torch from the wall nearest them and hands it to her. She takes it, then drifts forward slowly, her steps seemingly weighted with dread. Was a girl who had seen dozens of corpses, who had made dozens herself, really afraid to see the polished bones of her aunt?
Aegon longs to go to her, to wrap a comforting arm around her and tell her that he will help her carry whatever burden has brought her into the crypts. Be it sorrow or anger, be it foolishness, be it madness, he wishes to lend her his strength to overcome it.
Before he can offer her anything, though, she is standing at the jagged opening of the tomb, and then, she is on her knees, practically inside of it.
"Arya!" her brother cries.
"Your grace!" several of the men echo. Others are silent, watching with mixtures of horror and disbelief. Jon Connington looks disgusted. The king mislikes their judgement and moves to assist the queen. To pull her free or shield her from the judgement of others, he does not know, but he rushes to her. The bastard knight blocks him, placing himself directly in the king's path. This draws the attention of Lord Connington and Ser Rolly, both of whom come to stand at Aegon's side.
"You will stand aside, ser," the king says with more calm than he feels.
"I will not," the bastard knight growls.
The situation is on the verge of escalating to violence when they hear the queen gasp. "Music," she says, and though the word is whispered, it echoes inside the hollow tomb so that it is amplified enough for them all to hear. "Gendry!" she calls, thrusting the torch back toward him. He takes it, then watches as she grabs something and begins dragging it as she backs out of the hole she created. When she stands and turns, she is holding it in her arms, causing the king's Hand to blanch and stumble back.
It is an ornate harp with tarnished silver strings, made dusty and dull by long years, but the three headed dragon which makes up its crown is unmistakable.
"Rhaegar's harp," Lord Connington chokes out, then his face shapes itself into a perfect reflection of his anger as he demands, "What is it doing in her tomb?"
Wish You Were Here—Pink Floyd
A/N: The title of this chapter comes from an obscure reference to Rhaegar's harp made by Jon Connington in ADWD, Ch 61, as he remembers the time when the prince visited Griffin's Roost in his youth. The quote is as follows: At the welcoming feast, the prince had taken up his silver-stringed harp and played for them. A song of love and doom, Jon Connington recalled, and every woman in the hall was weeping when he put down the harp.