The sight of Harrenhal and its melted towers instilled a fear in Arya of the dragons she had not felt before. She ought to have feared them from the start, but such a thing was difficult, when the terror and impossible grief of watching her sister-in-all-but-blood step into flames still clung stubbornly to her bones and overshadowed aught else.
When the flames died to reveal Alysanne, sitting bare among the ashes with three small dragons clinging to her flesh, Arya had felt only relief. She so hated to think about that night; Arya forced herself to accept Alysanne's survival without a second thought, and the existence of the dragons had gone along with that. Now, as the towers of Harrenhal loomed ever larger overhead, Arya's eyes drew warily to the dragons.
It beggared belief to envision that dragons over her head would ever be so large as to bring such destruction. Then again, they grew larger by the day. Soon they'd be large enough to ride, and Aegon, Alysanne, and Jon would take to the skies. And someday after them, my sons and daughters. Arya pushed that thought far from her mind as she watched the dragons climb high into the sky and disappear above the clouds. That was something to fret over later.
Ahead, Martell banners flew proudly over those melted towers. The Dornishparty had reached Harrenhal before them and had been there long enough for their men to make camp. Arya twisted in her saddle to share a bemused glance with Alysanne, who rode a short distance behind her alongside Robb. Arya might have prodded Aegon for her triumph and would have found great joy in it, but he rode ahead of her, deep in discussion with Jon Connington.
"Do you think Harrenhal was this ugly before?" Ser Daemon asked. He rode proudly beside her, dark-haired and dark-skinned in gleaming silver armor and a sharp white cloak.
"It can't have been," Arya said. It must have been magnificent, once.
The second of Aegon's Kingsguard after Rolly Duckfield, Ser Daemon had been the more constant of her guards on the march and the only one of Aegon's men to listen to her demands that they refrain from referring to her solely as your grace.
Never mind that she'd ridden beside many of them at Casterly Rock and through the Westerlands after that, back to Riverrun. Then, they'd called her just Arya, or Lady Arya, if they insisted on some measure of courtesy. She was the same Arya, at least in her mind. Not in theirs, her mother's voice echoed. You're their queen now, not just a Northern princess.
At the very least, she was thankful for Daemon Sand's familiarity. She wasn't your grace; that was Alysanne. The first night on the journey from Riverrun, she'd been announced as "Her Grace, the Queen," when she arrived at the council meeting. It'd been a fight to avoid looking over her shoulder for Alysanne. Rather stupidly, as Alysanne had already been seated.
At two weeks, the march to Harrenhal had not been nearly as long as the one to Casterly Rock, but it dragged on her every bit of patience. To Arya, it'd felt near as long as the one from Winterfell to King's Landing. A week into the march, Jon Connington requested she ride alongside him.
His request had startled her to some degree, as apart from offering his well wishes, he'd hardly said two words to her since her and Aegon's, albeit brief, betrothal had been announced. Not out of malice, Arya thought. He never directed his bitter scowls at her like he did Oberyn, or the suspicion-laden glares he levied at Jon.
Truth be told, she held Lord Connington in no high regard. She struggled to bite her tongue at his sharp words for Jon or his vague dismissal of Alysanne. Still, she accepted his invitation and, if purely to satisfy her own curiosity, resigned herself to ride alongside him that day.
"You should not let him summon you. You should let no one summon you any longer, save Aegon," Arianne'd chided her, when she learned of it, for what else could Arya call it but chiding.
Arya saw no harm in it. She'd be bored otherwise, and whatever it was Jon Connington wished to discuss with her would certainly provide some entertainment. And she'd have Bran, her guard for the day. He'd be riding close behind and would no doubt share in her amusement later.
The vacancies on the Small Council and the Kingsguard were what Lord Connington had wished to discuss. After a slight moment of confusion, Arya saw Aegon's hand in it all; the invitation, and Lord Connington's request for her council as to who to name.
She'd needed but a moment to consider the matter. "My Uncle Edmure has a sound mind for sums and figures. Master of Coin would suit him nicely."
"It'd be a fitting way to support him for his loyalty," Jon Connington mused. It helped, Arya presumed, that her uncle and Lord Connington got on easily enough at her wedding feast, at least when they were deep into their cups.
"As for his Kingsguard, Jon's squire Alyn is good with a sword, though he's perhaps a bit young. His elder brother Edmund would be a fine choice." Arya might have put forth a Karstark or Umber, but she doubted either would be willing to spend a moment longer away from the North than needed, let alone a lifetime.
"Wise suggestions, your grace," Lord Connington said, words strained even to Arya's ear. She said nothing and instead scrutinized his expression; his pinched smile, taut shoulders, Arya wrinkled her nose and stopped herself from saying anything of it.
Lord Connington did not linger long at her side. He bid her farewell and steered his horse around, disappearing somewhere in the line amongst the Dornishmen and Rivermen who rode together. No sooner had he disappeared u to the crowd did Bran urge his horse forward next to hers.
"Put my name forth, Arya," Bran pleaded, craning over his horse towards her in his eagerness.
"You? Bran–" The mere thought of Bran at her side in King's Landing eased some of the budding ache she already felt for home. A part of the pack to keep by her side. But the truth was a bitter draught, increasingly familiar to her. "Robb will have need of you, Bran."
"Only until he has a son of his own! And there's Rickon still." Summer whined beside him and sprinted up ahead. Bran continued to beg and plead with her, continuing on about how she must remember his boyhood dreams of joining the Kingsguard.
The same, begging pout he'd given her when they were children had accompanied his pleading. Bran had ever been her irritating, beloved little brother. Arya'd never been able to refuse his schemes then, and she was even less able now.
There was no harm that could come from asking, aside from disappointment. She swore to ask Robb once they reached Harrenhal. The notion built and settled over the last week of their march and now, as Harrenhal loomed, Arya was all the more determined.
A shrill, ringing roar from the clouds above tore Arya from thoughts of brothers and white cloaks. All craned their necks in search of from where it'd come. For a long moment there was no sign of any dragon until another cry pierced the air.
A flash of gold surged through the clouds, and Vēlos, in all his splendor, swooped down over their contingent of men with Shaeleys and Frostfyre chasing after him. The trio sang to one another, and to the men, who cheered at their appearance. They arced back up over the walls of Harrenhal and the guards standing atop them shouted and ducked low.
They continued onward, and as they rode through the gates and into the belly of Harrenhal, Arya thought she could make out the melted, dripping visages of gargoyles perched and leering down at those who ventured forth. But perhaps the stone had simply melted in such a way that fooled the mind, as not much could have survived the fire of the black dread.
The crowd gathered to receive them knelt as their horses entered the yard, and remained kneeling even as they dismounted. Aegon offered Arya his arm as she came to stand beside him and she took it gladly, waiting for Arianne to pass them and lead the way forward. Robb and Alysanne lagged behind them, Jon at their side, as they moved towards the waiting Dornishmen.
At Aegon's bidding, the crowd rose to their feet. Two men stood at the forefront; one tall and lithe, and the other squat and stocky. They both wore the livery of House Martell, and that was enough for Arya to name them Arianne's brothers. Quentyn and Trystane, though she couldn't place the others who stood beside them.
"Quentyn," Arianne greeted, and the shorter, stockier of the two stepped forward. Arianne gestured to Aegon and Arya, and Arya tightened her grip on Aegon's arm. "Our cousin, King Aegon Targaryen the Sixth of His Name, and Queen Arya of House Stark."
The man Arya now knew as Quentyn, the elder of the two, dipped his head in deference, as did Trystane, after Arianne gave him the same introduction. Continuing down the line, Arianne rattled off the names of those gathered; cousins Cletus and Archibald Yronwood, Gerris Drinkwater, Andrey Dalt, Franklyn Fowler, Arron Qorgyle, Mors Manwoody, Gerold Dayne, there were far too many for Arya to remember every name.
Arianne came back to Quentyn and Trystane and peered over her shoulder, waving Robb, Alysanne, and Jon forward. "Robb Stark, the King in the North, and his Queen, Alysanne Lannister." Arya did not miss the piqued interest the name Lannister garnered amongst the crowd, and she doubted Alysanne did either. Lucky they'd had the foresight to leave Jaime in the camp without.
"And Jon Stark, my husband," Arianne concluded, tugging him to her side and wrapping her arm in his. Jon stood tall beside Arianne, and Arya thought they made a fine pair. Her brother, with his height, and Arianne, with her grace, both dark-haired and fine-featured, sharp with wit and matched in temperament just opposite enough to balance.
"Ah yes, the Stark," Trystane said. He lazily considered Jon, but Quentyn remained quiet and stoic beside him. "I'd never thought to have a Stark as a good-brother. I can't imagine father will be well pleased."
Over his shoulder, Quentyn nodded to the gathered lords, and the crowd dispersed. Horses were led to stables and servants unloaded trunks from carts to take into the keep, an orderly affair after so many moons of practice. Robb and Alysanne remained, whispering low to one another.
"Father gave Uncle Oberyn and I leave to make necessary alliances. He'll be pleased to have Aegon on the throne," Arianne rebuked. Trystane kept his lazy smirk and Quentyn remained expressionless, both as difficult to read as Oberyn and his daughters.
After one last sweep with narrowed eyes, Trystane extended a hand and grinned wide. "Well met, Prince Jon." Arianne rolled her eyes and muttered low under her breath, and Jon shook Trystane's hand, returning the smile hesitantly.
Arya'd never given much thought to Arianne's brothers before that day. Trystane appeared as venomous and calculating as his elder sister, and Quentyn…his greeting to Jon lacked the edge of Trystane's; his smile more subdued, his tone softer. Yet it was he who Arianne watched in suspicion.
Quentyn asked after Dark Sister strapped to Jon's side, prompting Aegon to step forward and present Blackfyre. Having heard all there was to hear of the swords, Arya's attention drifted around the yard.
Across the way, Bran led their small pack of direwolves towards the keep. Joy stood conversing with Elia Sand, and a dark-haired Dornish woman led Wylla, Jeyne, Jorelle, and Beth into one of the towers, two servants carrying Alysanne's trunk in tow.
Surrounded by tall, dark walls, the only bits of color in the yard came from the vibrantly painted silks worn by the Dornish and the Stark, Martell, Targaryen, and Tully banners that fluttered together in the autumn wind. Life was a funny thing; the last these banners had flown together had been across a battlefield. The last they'd flown together in peace had been that cursed tourney.
The tournament of Harrenhal was heavy on the minds of all; Prince Oberyn had been uncharacteristically somber the last few days, failing to rise to Jon Connington's increasingly stinging remarks. Looking around the yard, it occurred to Arya that he had not ridden through the gates with the rest of them.
"Lady Alysanne," Trystane said, finally addressing someone aside from Arianne and Jon. Arya ignored his addressing Alysanne as lady, as did Robb. She was not Dorne's queen any more than Arya was the North's. "I've a letter for you, from Myrcella."
"She is well?" Alysanne eagerly accepted the letter from him, hardly glancing at the gilded stag seal before popping it open and scanning the page greedily.
"Quite. Dorne agrees with her. I like to think she's grown as fond of it as I have of her." Trystane scanned the yard, his eyes landing on Tommen, who strolled alongside Theon and Sansa. "I imagine if she knew her brother had found his way to you, she might have sent word to him too."
There was a question in his statement; just how did Cersei Lannister's beloved son wind up in their camp? Alysanne ignored it, eyes not lifting from the page as she said, "it'll be a pleasant surprise then, when I write to her and tell her."
When their small group broke apart, Arya found herself following Alysanne, rather than Bran and Tommen, who mahad found one another and now de towards one of the enormous towers. She wished for nothing more than to spend the rest of her day roprowlg the halls of Harrenhal. The five towers and the sprawling bridges that connected them begged to be explored and jealousy burned low in her belly as she watched Bran and Tommen disappear into the shadows of Harrneenl.
Instead, she joined Alysanne in finding Sansa. The three of them together retraced their steps out of Harrenhal and into the blossoming camp outside the walls, shadowed by Lady and Nymeria, along with Ser Daemon and Ser Donnel, Alysanne's newest guard.
They spoke to the knights and captains of Robb and Aegon's armies; Ronnel of the Barrows, who had a wife and daughter awaiting him at home, and Ser Marq of White Harbor, the youngest of a family of ten. Then there was Ser Yorick of the Boneway, a captain in what was now Aegon's army, old, grizzled, and well-seasoned in the ways of war.
Rosey, an older woman wise in the arts of healing, had hands as calloused as a blacksmith and near as many stories to tell as Old Nan, had been Arya's favorite amongst the women who followed the camp. Tansy and her young son Ben had been another pair Arya was fond of. Ben had been enamored with Nymeria and Lady, and Tansy was as gracious as any noblewoman.
It wasn't so late in the afternoon when they returned that Arya couldn't explore some of Harrenhal. She wandered off alone with Nymeria at her side. There'd be no time that day to traverse through the towers, so she bypassed them in favor of the Hall of Hundred Hearths, which was indeed a disappointment, as it had no more than forty. It'd taken her no time at all to waltz through it.
The godswood, however, was no disappointment at all. It was unlike anything she'd ever seen, so large she'd could become lost in it if she so desired. It was there she spent the rest of her afternoon, following the slithering stream that cut the godswood in two. She followed it all the way to the gnarled heart tree. As old as the realm, perhaps even older, Arya marveled at the thirteen gashes carved into it by Daemon Targaryen himself.
The weirwood's face, carved in agony, fit Harrenhal. What had Harrenhal ever wrought but agony and misery? Its very walls were bathed in it, melded together with the stone by the fires of Balerion. Did Aunt Lyanna find this place so haunted? So many stories she'd heard about Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, and all began at Harrenhal. Do they laugh to see Aegon and I here, together? Or mayhap they wept.
What must this be like for Jon, Arya wondered. The very place where his father crowned his mother, spurning his wife and sending the realm on a path to doom. What must it be like for Aegon?
She remained in the godswood until the sun dipped low, only then did she retreat indoors for a quick dinner with her mother. After that, she followed a servant to one of Harrenhal's many halls.
The first council with the rest of the Dornish, there were thrice as many as before in attendance. Lord Manderly, Karstark, and Cerwyn, the Smalljon in his new role as Lord Umber, the new Lady Mormont, Alysane, her uncle Edmure, Lords Blackwood and Bracken, Marq Piper, Prince Oberyn and Obara Sand, Lord Connington, Ashara Dayne, Quentyn, Trystane, Gerold Dayne, Mors Manwoody, many and more gathered in the room and around the table.
Stood at the head of the table beside Aegon, the weight of the room settled upon them. Nymeria sat behind her, and ever thankful to have her back at her side, Arya wound her fingers through her fur and leaned gently against her.
The hall they gathered in that evening was no more gloomy and draft-ridden than the rest of Harrenhal. A chill persisted throughout the keep, and Arya drew the furs she'd grabbed from her rooms tighter around her shoulders. It wasn't the same soothing chill of autumn that'd surrounded them on the march from Riverrun; this chill was stale and empty, and remained stubborn against the lit hearths and candles around her.
Their shadows flickered and trembled against the walls, making them appear as though they were slipping and melting as they must have three hundred years ago at the hands of Aegon the Conqueror. Arya understood why so many thought Harrenhal haunted; the very walls felt alive.
Men huddled closer around the table as Prince Trystane moved little suns and spears to represent the Dornish and their men, explaining their positions along with them. He stepped away from the table with his hand folded behind his back, and those gathered silently evaluated the shifted playing field. Hightowers and Tarly huntsman sat to the south of King's Landing, lions interspersed amongst them. The Redwyne fleet rested in the Blackwater, and their own host of little wooden wolves, dragons, and suns amassed to the north.
Breaking the silence, Quentyn leaned on the table and pointed towards the Vale and addressed Aegon and Robb. "What of the Arryns? You made no mention of them."
"There's been no word from my Aunt Lysa," Robb said. He shook his head and scowled toward the painted Vale on the map, as though that alone might spur Lysa Arryn to action.
Their Aunt Lysa's continued silence ate at her mother, who'd had such faith in her younger sister. Even the news of Hoster Tully's death hadn't coaxed her from her roost. Her mother sent one final raven before they left, and while she held out hope, Arya knew in her heart that Lysa's silence would persist.
"It's too late anyhow, unless we wish to wait a few moons more to march," Robb added.
The briefest suggestion of waiting longer than they already must sent cries of protest around the room. Robb and Aegon, as it would turn out, hadn't been entirely incorrect with their assumption that they'd arrive before the Dornish.
Autumn storms and the Redwyne fleet at the mouth of Blackwater Bay had forced the other half of the Dornish contingent, who'd departed later, to adjust their course further east, towards Pentos. It'd be another two weeks at the least, if they weren't further delayed.
The dramatics of the gathered lords made Arya chuckle, as it did her uncle, whose eyes she met across the table. "And the Tyrells?" Edmure said once he'd gathered himself. "You say the Hightowers and Redwynes are in King's Landing, where are the Tyrells?"
Trystane and Quentyn shared a long look. "There's been no sign of them since Renly's fall," Trystane said.
"No sign?" Alysanne frowned and exchanged a look with Robb. "We'd hoped by now they might have at least sent word, either for or against."
Not even Brienne of Tarth, the lady knight who'd guarded her mother since her return from Bitterbridge, knew what might have become of them. It's not as if a host of their size can simply disappear.
"They remained loyal to the Targaryens in the Rebellion. Perhaps they lay in wait," Jon Connington said. "What of other houses from the Reach?"
Doubtful faces were all that met his statement, and Quentyn shook his head. "The Tyrells would have sent word. My father has heard nothing from them."
The ambiguity of the Tyrells was not a comfort to any present, but Arya cared not where they were. So long as they did not stand against them when they marched on King's Landing.
"And with Lady Desmera wedding Joffrey, the Redwyne's are firmly at his side," Trystane added. "The Hightowers certainly won't break from the Redwyne's, and the rest of the Reach will fall in line. We must count the Reach out."
Poor Desmera Redwyne. The word of Joffrey's wedding had reached them a week ago and had been no cause for celebration. Arya felt only pity for the woman, as did Sansa, she suspected. Upon hearing the news, Sansa had gone silent and left Arya's tent for her own. They'd not spoken of the matter since.
"We rely on what we have. The rest of our men will land here," Quentyn pointed to the shores just east of Maidenpool. "We'd thought to march back to Maidenpool to meet them."
"That leaves two paths," Oberyn said. He sauntered around the table, holding carved lion's head markers idly in his hands. "We pass Antlers, Sow's Horn, and Hayford, or we go from Maidenpool to Duskendale."
All looked to Aegon, who leaned heavily on the table and studied the map and placed markers intently. He pointed a finger towards Duskendale. "The Redwyne fleet blocks the Blackwater. If we lay siege to Antlers, we risk them sailing back into the bay and landing men at Duskendale to march on us from the south. I say we avoid Antlers and take Duskendale, prevent the Redwyne or Hightower fleet from taking us by surprise from the rear when we march on the city."
Aegon lifted his eyes from the map and studied the gathered lords, the rigid line of his shoulders softening as they all nodded and muttered agreements. Lord Connington nodded once when he caught Aegon's eye, approval coloring the twist of his mouth.
Hovering to the back of the crowd, pressed into the shadows, Ashara Dayne watched Aegon with a proud tilt of her chin and the warm smile of a mother. Arya liked Ashara enormously, far more than she did Lord Connington. Aegon met eyes with Ashara, and his lips twitched into the slightest smile that was gone as swiftly as it appeared.
Prince Oberyn's path carried him right to Duskendale. He twirled the lion's head once, twice more in his hand before firmly setting it on the table with a light thunk. "Our King has spoken. Maidenpool, Duskendale, and then King's Landing."
The bare bones of a plan had been set, and that was enough for all present to call an end to the council. All were weary from the days of travel and the moon had only risen higher whilst they spoke. People filed from the hall, and Bran, who'd lingered at the edge of the crowd, cast her a pointed look before he disappeared out of the door.
Arya called Robb's name just as he made to leave with Alysanne. He shared a brief word with Alysanne, who continued on out of the room without Robb. Her brother wove a path back to her, stopping to bid this lord and that a good night as they stopped him.
Even as the hall emptied, albeit slowly, the shadows remained just as numerous. The dark stone walls and the swooping arches that spanned the ceiling appeared ravenous and gaping, and the windows at the far end were lonely pillars of pitch. Perhaps the hall keeps shadows behind to keep it company in the early hours of night. A silly thought, one that better belonged to Old Nan.
In truth, the shadows belonged to the chairs and the pitchers of untouched ale and wine atop the table, and the oddly carved pillars and uneven surface of the walls. Light played all sorts of tricks in the dark, something which had provided great amusement and terror to her active imagination as a small girl.
The hall was nearly empty, save Robb, Aegon, and Ashara Dayne. Aegon muttered to her that he would find her later in their chambers, that he wished to speak with his uncle before he retired. When they left and the large doors shut behind them, only Robb and Arya remained.
Robb took a seat but when he gestured for her to do the same, Arya shook her head. She remained standing, hovering over the map and tracing a finger along the Blackwater. I am a Queen in my own right, now. Robb is not my King. Though he was Bran's, and he remained and always would be, her elder brother.
"I have hardly seen you since the wedding," Robb said. He watched her where he sat with a tilted head and a deepening crease between his brow. "Are things well with Aegon?"
"Aye, things are well." She looked around the empty hall. Her shadow cast tall on the wall behind her, and Robb's shadow veiled the map between them. The tall windows at the opposite end of the hall let in a sliver of moonlight, and though a hearth was lit, the hall still felt cold and vacant. "Have you any word from Rickon?"
"Aye, he sent a letter along with the news of the victories against the Ironborn. Winterfell celebrates their impending victory, as well as the recent harvest. He passes along his love to us all." Robb picked up the wolf's head marker that rested on Casterly Rock and studied it a moment, before placing it back where it'd been.
No word of his training, of the stories Old Nan has told him, or his newest lessons from Maester Luwin. He'd included all of that and more, in his earlier letters. "He's still cross with us," Arya said. Robb hummed his agreement.
The soft snores of Nymeria and Grey Wind resounded around the hall. Both wolves rested before the hearth, ignoring all else. Arya envied Nymeria at that moment. What she wouldn't give to have all the cares of a direwolf and nothing more.
"I wish to ask something of you," Arya said. She did not look at Robb, though he watched her, instead keeping her attention trained on Nymeria and Grey Wind.
"Anything," Robb said. He means it, Arya knew. He'd made as much clear the night of her wedding, and the earnestness and gratitude with which he spoke nearly made Arya feel guilt for what she meant to ask.
There was no use dallying around it. "I intend to ask Aegon to name Bran to his Kingsguard." Though she paused, Robb said nothing, so she continued before she lost her nerve. "Aegon will do so if I wish it, but not if it will place the two of you at odds. You said anything, so, there. This is what I want."
Slouching in his chair, Robb sighed and rapped his knuckles against the table. The fire crackled, the direwolves snored, and the shadows continued their silent dance. "I'd hoped to give him Moat Cailin and arrange a match with the daughter of one of my bannermen."
"Give it to Rickon, then. He deserves as much after we've left him alone." A poor consolation prize for his months of solitude, Arya thought. But Moat Cailin would be a fine seat once finished, and the surrounding land wild enough for Rickon's adventurous spirit, or so Arya hoped.
For a long moment, Robb stared out the windows across the hall, into the night. He spared another glimpse at Grey Wind and Nymeria before meeting Arya's eyes. "And Bran wishes for this?"
"He does." How often had Bran filled their family meals with talk of joining the Kingsguard as a boy? How often had he begged their mother for a spare bit of white cloth, so he might pretend to have a white cloak of his own? Too often, and if Arya remembered, so must Robb. And in case he did not, Arya reminded him.
Robb remained uncertain and Arya leaned on the table as Aegon had earlier. "Please, Robb. I am asking as your sister. Do not send me South alone. I will have mother, but only for a time. And Jon, but only so long as Arianne remains in King's Landing. You cannot say you do not see the sense in it."
"Arya," Robb trailed off. He said no more, so she circled the table and sat in the chair beside him and waited silently. His eyes flickered between hers, and Arya noted just how tired her brother appeared. Dark circles that had yet to fade hung under his eyes, and with a beard that was never truly clean-shaven, her brother looked older than his years.
"After the war," Robb finally resolved, breaking their gaze. "After King's Landing is won. If anything happens to me between now and—"
Arya did not let him finish the thought. She surged forward and embraced Robb. "Thank you. I'll never ask you for anything again, I swear it."
Her brother laughed. "You used to say that to father. Often."
They went their separate ways not long after. Bran was nowhere to be found when she sought him out to tell him the news. Neither could she find Tommen to inquire as to her younger brother's whereabouts. The news will be just as sweet tomorrow, she decided, so she returned to her chambers.
It was no great surprise that she returned before Aegon. He'd intended to speak with Oberyn, and in the short time she'd known him, Arya had not once found Oberyn inclined to brevity. She readied herself for bed and wrapped herself in her dressing robe before shuffling over to the window, settling in to marvel out at the view below.
The God's Eye reflected black in the dark of night with a swath of fog floating above the surface, the Isle of Faces alone in the center. Nymeria trotted up beside her and nudged her. When Arya remained where she stood, Nymeria huffed and retreated to the bed, jumping up and making herself comfortable.
Torch lights and cook fires dotted the land surrounding Harrenhal and the God's Eye, and from her window far up high in the Kingspyre Tower, they felt as small and distant as the stars in the sky above. From one side of the God's Eye, a dragon screeched and let loose a burst of molten flame. Arya wondered if the sound struck terror through the ghosts who'd fallen to Balerion's fire.
After a time, the chamber door creaked open and Arya peeked over her shoulder to see Aegon slip in. She smiled at him before turning back to watch the dots of torches move throughout the sprawling camp, weaving and bobbing alone or in little clusters.
From so high above, not even the clamor of noise that Arya knew for certain littered the camp reached her. The only sounds were the whistle of the wind and the gentle clinking of Aegon's sword scabbard as he unwound the belt. His boots fell to the ground with a soft thud, yet his footsteps were heavy as he came up behind her.
"Ah, is that your Isle of Faces?" Aegon wrapped his arms firmly around her and rested his chin atop her head.
"It's not mine, but aye, it is," Arya said.
"You told me of it, so to me, it's yours." Arya snorted and leaned back into Aegon, resting her hands on his arms which draped around her chest. She enjoyed the moment of peace that blanketed the room and watched as one dragon skimmed low over the waters of the God's Eye, sending the still reflection of the moon to a mess of ripples.
It was the first genuine moment of peace they'd had alone with one another since they were wed. The nights on the march didn't count to Arya, as even alone in their tent they were never more than a few feet away from someone. Here in Harrenhal, the walls were solid stone, and even if there were ghosts to play witness, they kept their secrets to themselves.
Arya studied the stars a moment longer and debated speaking of the past with Aegon. Her aunt and his father had remained largely unspoken between the two of them, for what was there to say that others hadn't already said? Not this night, Arya decided. The ghosts, if there were any, left them alone, so she'd grant them the same courtesy.
To some, she and Aegon were the ghosts; the image of Rhaegar and Lyanna, roaming the halls of Harrenhal once more. She felt it in the heavy gazes that followed them, mournful and disbelieving in every manner of the word. It was all rather unfair. Arya was not her aunt, and Aegon wasn't his father.
Ghosts and shades of the past fled her mind when Aegon, bored with the silence, ducked his head to nip along her neck. Arya leaned further into him. Her wedding night had not been nearly as dreadful as Septa Mordane had once cautioned it would be. That had come as no great surprise, as her mother had pulled her aside the morning prior to tell her the Septas knew nothing of the matter.
That had surprised Ayra a great deal, as she'd never heard her mother disagree with Septa Mordane so openly. And Aegon's cousins had been none too shy with telling her of their own dalliances. Yet, even with what she'd been told, Arya never expected to enjoy it.
Arya made to turn around in Aegon's arms, yet he held her soundly in place and kissed further down her neck as he walked them backward toward the bed. He ignored her demands to be released until she tumbled backward, landing on the bed with a huff and sending Nymeria leaping for refuge on the floor. Aegon tugged her closer to the edge, and she propped herself up on her elbows and let Aegon untie her dressing robe. Her sleeping shift came next, and after that, Aegon's clothes.
There was little sleep to be had that night, and it was sleep that Arya gladly let slip into the wind. Let the realm keep their shadows and shades of the past, she decided. Arya would gladly keep Aegon to herself.