For the third day in a row since Edmure's wedding, a hastily constructed gallows took pride of place in the outer bailey of Riverrun, and for the third day in a row, Arya stood at the front of the gathered crowd. The third day, and the final day, for there would be no more Frey or Bolton men to execute at day's end. The rest had fled in the chaos or never left the Twins in the first place. Lord Walder, Lame Lothar, Raymund Frey, their justice would have to wait.
On Arya's right stood Sansa, and on her left, Nymeria. The rest of the crowd spread beside and behind them in a dark smear that matched the skies, the river, and the keep. It felt as though the colors of Riverrun had bled dry with every one of the men slain that night. Once rich and green, the grass had been overrun by mud from the autumn rains, and the waters of the Trident were murky and sorrowful rather than the brilliant azure they had been when Arya arrived. The clouds in the sky no longer reminded Arya of the fresh snows of Winterfell. Now, they were a grim, stifling blanket.
A man standing beside the gallows read the charges for three men stood to the right, waiting in chains. Merret Frey, who had slain not only the Greatjon but Eddara Tallhart. Hosteen Frey, who had struck down Lucas Blackwood and Syrio. Edwyn Frey, the man who had killed Arya's grandfather, a grandfather she had never sincerely come to know.
It was a coward who slit the throat of an ailing man in his sick bed, and Arya wished for Edwyn Frey to die a coward's death. Edwyn Frey had never joined the feast following her uncle's wedding. Instead, he'd lain in wait, and when the fighting began, he stole away to her grandfather's chambers and killed the guard outside before slaughtering her grandfather. Arya would have to find satisfaction in the noose that would strangle him, as unsatisfying as it felt.
Waiting patiently to the left of the platform for the man to finish reading the charges were Robb, Aegon, Jon, and Edmure. Behind them, like silent sentinels, were Ghost and Grey Wind, nearly of a height with their masters even sitting. The three men were hauled up to the platform and nooses placed around their necks. Lewys Piper darted forward from where he stood behind Robb to hand him his sword. They would not be granted a death by beheading, but Robb would swing the sword all the same.
Arya reached over and clasped Sansa's hand, digging her other into Nymeria's fur. Her sister gripped her hand tight. When Arya first saw Sansa that night, she'd hardly recognized her with her dyed, matted hair and baggy clothes. Though she'd been able to wash out most of the dye from her hair, a tinge of muddy brown still clung stubbornly, and the dress borrowed from Wylla hung a tad loose.
It almost pained Arya to look upon her sister. Even under the thick fur cloak, Sansa still looked slight. Her cheekbones, which had always been sharp, were far more pronounced than they'd been all those moons ago when they parted ways. Sansa shivered and took a side-step closer, and Arya frowned. In Winterfell, Sansa would not have so much as flinched at temperatures far cooler than this. Lady, sat on Sansa's other side, shifted as Sansa did.
With a dull thwack, Robb cut the rope with his sword. The three men standing atop the wooden platform dropped a short distance and then jerked to a stop. A sickening crunch left Merret and Edwyn dangling limp, their necks mercifully snapped. Hosteen squirmed and gasped for air, his eyes bulging and face purpling, hands clawing his neck to ribbons where the rope constricted. It was over far too soon. None of the men hanged deserved such an easy end, Arya thought. Least of all the men who'd begged mercy and taken the black.
"Mother told me the news," Sansa said. Three more men were brought to the platform, and their charges read. Two Bolton men and one Frey, though none wore the colors of their house.
"What news?" Another thwack, the crunch of men's necks, and a dull thud as the corpses were cut down. Their bodies were carted away like all the rest.
Again, three more men were brought forward. This time, they were met with curses and jeers from the crowd of Dornishmen, who stood to the right. Prince Oberyn spit on the ground, and Arya recognized one man as the one who had slain Nymeria Sand.
"That you're to wed Aegon Targaryen." With cold eyes, the man in question watched as Nymeria's killer had the rope placed around his neck. His neck cracked as clean as any other, and distantly, Arya imagined she could hear the mournful cries of Vēzos.
"Mayhap. Robb's yet to agree." Arya's eyes drifted to where Aegon stood beside Robb. Both men wore their crowns, and both were shadows of grief in drab grays and blacks. Though Aegon could hardly ever look dull. "Though with the men we lost, I imagine we'll need Dorne to win this war."
Lord Bolton's men, the Frey men who'd been complicit, not to mention the men who'd fallen at their fellow Northmen's hands. With Aegon came Dorne and more men. The thought of what would have become of them had Jaime Lannister not warned Theon nearly left Arya gasping for breath.
Sansa hummed, unconvinced. "And what do you make of him?"
"He's not a fool. Wylla's heard no talk of cruelty on his part, and I don't believe he lusts for blood and violence." Or lusts for war, for that matter. The mention of further war after his conquest for the throne had made him appear queasy, and Arya had been surprised at how swiftly Aegon had agreed to negotiate the secession of the North.
That wasn't to say Aegon was a coward. Only a brave man would journey across the Narrow Sea and Westeros to a long-lost cousin in search of an uncertain throne. And as uneasy as the thought of more war made him, he did not quail in the face of battle. He'd ridden with his men same as Robb did at Casterly Rock, and he hadn't fled the hall the night of Edmure's wedding, though Lord Connington had bid him to do so.
"But what do you make of him?" Two more Frey men and one Bolton man at arms were led up to the gallows. Sansa peered down at Arya, eyes wide and solemn in their concern.
Arya paused a moment and weighed her words. "He would not be cruel to me; I don't fear him. He spars with me, does not look down on me when I best him." But will he continue to do so after we are wed? Once he had what he desired, would he continue to let her spar and train as she pleased? Once they were wed, would he want someone docile and sweet? Perhaps she was merely an amusement, a distraction.
A thwack, crunch, and thud. The three bodies were carted away, and only two men led forward this time. A trilling shriek resounded from above them and Sansa started. Arya, having no need to determine the source of the sound, peeked over her shoulder instead. Behind them, Alysanne stood and watched them all with a stony countenance, her face betraying nothing as she spoke to her father. Above them, Shaeleys circled as though she were a crow searching for carrion, rather than a dragon.
It was the first Arya had seen Jaime Lannister since that night. Of all the people Theon and Sansa might have returned with, Arya would not have thought the Kingslayer to be one. Nor Tommen, who had hardly left Bran or Alysanne's company since returning. Theon, Sansa, Ser Jaime, Tommen, but no Jory. Yet another for her to grieve.
"You know Robb will have to agree—" Sansa began, clutching Arya's hand tighter, bony fingers ice cold in Arya's hand as Robb's sword cut through the rope once more.
"Yes I know, Sansa." Several guardsmen stepped forward to drag away the dead men. "I've made my peace with it."
Shaeleys shrieked again, and Sansa flinched. There were several beats of silence as Sansa traced her flight above them with a gaze half fearful, half amazed. "Do you ever grow used to them?" she asked.
"To an extent." Arya watched Shaeleys as she dipped low over the walls of Riverrun before climbing high again, around and around. Even with the sun obscured by clouds, her scales glimmered and shifted through shades of pinks and lilacs. Arya hardly balked at their presence any longer, though the sight of them would never cease to astound her.
Somewhere close, Vēzos and Frostfyre roosted. All three were too large now to safely house in the keep. They'd discovered that when the three had nearly set the entire castle ablaze the night of the betrayal. When they checked the dragons after, they found a corpse burnt to a crisp. Arya almost pitied the man fool enough to attempt to slay them.
Sansa glanced at Alysanne and then back to Arya. "And… did she truly walk into a pyre?"
"Aye. She did." Sansa would forgive her clipped tone had she seen what Arya had. Arya would never forget it so long as she lived; she relived it often enough in her nightmares. She could still feel the raw scratch of her throat from the ash and terror, the acrid smell of burning flesh, the uncertainty of whether or not it was Alysanne's or Ser Addams's. Arya swallowed and shifted her eyes from Sansa's; she preferred not to dwell on those memories.
"I did not think things would be so different when I returned." The yard began to clear, but Sansa lingered, watching as Theon approached Robb, Aegon, and Jon. "If you're to marry Aegon, I suppose Robb will have me wed to one of his bannermen."
"You shouldn't have to. Not after what you endured." Arya thought Sansa had sacrificed enough for their family, for the North. She could have left with Bran and me, but she hadn't. Instead, she'd remained behind and found herself at the mercy of the Lannisters.
Lady nosed Sansa's hand, and she wound her fingers into her fur. "There's no avoiding it. Not really."
"Then you'll come south. I'll protect you." Sansa smiled at her in the same indulging, manner she often had when Arya was a girl playing games of pretend.
"I rather think I've had enough of the south, sister." Sansa grabbed Arya tight to her. In the past few days, Arya thought she'd hugged Sansa more than she had in her entire life. Arya inhaled deeply. Her sister always smelled of lemons and lavender, reminding her faintly of home.
Across the yard, Theon peeled away from the group and headed towards them, and Sansa and Arya separated. Sansa straightened her skirts and brushed dirt from Arya's sleeve. "Besides. Robb promised he'd let me choose. He won't make me marry someone I loathe."
As Theon came to a stop beside Sansa, she grabbed his arm. He greeted Arya before addressing Sansa. "Are you ready?"
"Where are the two of you off to?" Arya eyed the way Sansa clasped Theon's arm with a raised brow. In the three days since Sansa returned, Arya found her sister in Theon's company when not with their family. Perhaps it wasn't entirely unexpected. He had rescued her from King's Landing.
"I wanted to walk along the Trident. Theon said he'd take me." Arya narrowed her eyes at the two of them, and while Sansa held her composure, Theon pointedly avoided her gaze.
"Surprised you haven't grown sick of him. You've spent long enough together." Weeks on the run with Theon would have been far and enough for Arya. Theon snorted and batted a hand at her, tapping her lightly across the side of her head.
"I'll see you for dinner?" Sansa asked. Arya nodded, and Sansa and Theon bade her farewell. With one of Robb's guardsmen in tow, they headed towards the outer gates. Her sister didn't drop her hold on Theon, and Arya resolved to press Sansa for answers later.
Slowly, the yard around her returned to normalcy. Jorelle, whose face was still half-covered with a thick bandage, made her way back into the keep with the help of Jon Umber, both having grown closer in the wake of losing a parent. Robb approached Alysanne and Ser Jaime, Bran and Tommen strolled toward the training yard, and Arya was at a loss of what to do.
Ordinarily, Arya might have joined Bran. Indeed, Arya itched to follow and take to the training yard. But she knew she would not leave for hours if she did as she desired. It was time she did not have to spare that day, so she scanned the yard in search of something else. Arya absentmindedly tapped the hilt of Needle, strapped to her side. Aegon still lingered next to Jon and Arianne but, upon sighting her, broke away and strolled towards her.
They would meet later that day with Robb to discuss the Riverlands and the march on King's Landing, but Arya had hardly spoken to Aegon since her Uncle Edmure's wedding. Those words had been filled with anger and spite for how he'd suggested a betrothal without her knowledge. That he had gone behind her back in such a manner enraged her to no end, and she'd made sure Aegon knew it. But Robb can hardly refuse his offer.
However, more than her anger towards Aegon was her anger with herself for the swiftness in which she'd forgiven Aegon. Because what was his deceit when compared to that of the Frey's and the Bolton's? Once, Arya might have clung to her fury until her bones ached. A small part of her wished to; it yearned to scorn and curse him to all seven hells, to force Robb and her mother to drag her to the sept with bloody knees and a torn gown. The other, larger part of her failed to recognize what good that would do.
Regardless of her ire, Arya knew she would be betrothed to Aegon sooner rather than later. The Lannisters, the Freys, the Boltons — the thought of adding Aegon to the list of those to seek vengeance from made her weary.
When Aegon finally reached her, he'd hardly greeted her before Arya asked him to join her in the godswood. Just as Nymeria did, Aegon followed along at her side as they set out. The godswood was not far, and they reached it before long.
Charging ahead, Nymeria pounced into a bush on the side of the path. Birds fluttered in the air and twittered in displeasure at the disruption. The heart tree awaited ahead, not as large or imposing as the one in Winterfell, but a weirwood all the same. Aegon and Arya walked in silence until they stopped before it. Nymeria continued to crash and bound through the godswood, yet Aegon directed his attention to Arya with bated breath.
"I wished to speak on your proposal." Aegon nodded and turned to face her. "I've demands of my own, if I'm to willingly agree." For Arya would have to agree, whether or not she wished to.
The thought did not seem so daunting, at least not as it had when the proposal was first put to words. There were worse men she could be married to, like Joffrey or, gods forbid, Theon. And Aegon was… Aegon. He treated the servants and guardsmen with the same respect as any other lord or lady, a simple thing that Arya found could not be said of many. And he never turned his nose up at Jon, had never considered him as anything but a true brother since he learned they shared the same father.
"I would expect no less." Aegon inclined his head. "What are these demands?"
"I'm not a pawn, Aegon. I won't suffer being treated as one." As you treated me at the negotiations, Arya nearly tacked on. But Arya had already made her displeasure known to Aegon regarding that matter, and it would do no good to begin the argument anew. "I will give you an heir. Bear you as many… spares as duty requires, but that will not be my sole purpose. To start, I wish to sit in on the small council by your side." Arya's cheeks burned, and her throat stung with the effort it took to say those words.
"That is reasonable," Aegon said, quick to assent. Arya nodded but would not meet his eyes, remaining resolute on the crying weirwood to her front. "What else?"
"I will attend court and feasts and balls and dress as is expected of me, but I've no desire to sit and do needlework all day. If I wish to wear breeches and take to the training yard or ride through the kingswood, I will." A give and take, her uncle had advised her when Arya told him of her plan.
"Will I be permitted to join you?" Aegon asked.
Arya frowned and blinked. "What?"
"If you take to the training yard or wish to ride through the Kingswood, will I be permitted to join you?" Arya braved a glance at Aegon. He peered down at her, his lips flicking upwards in a teasing smile he struggled to restrain the longer the silence stretched.
Humiliation flashed through her and swiftly morphed into anger. Arya stomped her foot and finally snapped to face him. "Stop it!"
"Stop?" Aegon's face pinched in confusion and he tilted his head, his smile melting into a frown. "Stop what?"
"You're mocking me! You'll be cursed for lying before the old gods." She'd tried, as her mother suggested, and what had it earned her? His mockery and scorn. Arya had never been overly pious, and if there were gods, she doubted they cared where exactly men told falsehoods, but one way or another Arya would see him cursed. Stupid Aegon and his stupid hair, his stupid smile, his stupid… everything.
"Arya," Aegon reached for her hands, but she batted them away and took a small step back. Persistent as ever, Aegon snatched them from where they fluttered in the air and held them close to his chest, tugging her closer. "I do not mock you. I'd like to think I know you rather well by now, or well enough. I'm not fool enough to delude myself into expecting someone you're not, nor would I have proposed this marriage if I found you so disagreeable."
The gaze Aegon directed down at her was heavy, intent and focused and sincere in a way that simmered underneath her skin. It made her uneasy she focused on her hands held in his. They were warm and calloused, encompassing in a way that begged her attention. Arya swallowed. "You swear it, then?"
"Swear what?" Aegon took a step closer, both of their hands pressed between their chests. Her feet were leaden and she could not have taken a step back had she wanted to. "Swear that I am not mocking you or swear that I will let you train and ride and dress as you wish? I would swear to all of that and more."
"Aye. All of… that." Arya's attention remained trained on their hands until Aegon freed one of his to tilt her chin upwards. She'd been in his company for moons now, yet the violet of his eyes was no less captivating. The slope of his nose, the curve of his mouth, the cut of his cheekbones, Arya had been mistaken to call him simply pretty.
Moving his hand from her chin, Aegon placed it on her cheek, and his voice was soft, though there was no one to overhear his words. "Very well. I will hear your counsel, and make no objections to your state of dress or desires to train and ride through the kingswood. I swear it, by the old gods and the new. Will that suffice?"
His eyes flit over her face, and Arya fancied she could feel their path. His gaze was not leering, like some of the lords who'd danced with her or challenged her in the yard. "I suppose—" Frustratingly, her words stuck. Who was she to be struck by pretty words and a prettier face? Stupid, arrogant, self-important…
Taking advantage of her lack of words, Aegon's other hand dropped to her waist, and he dipped his head to kiss her. His lips were warm on hers, gentle and insistent, and when Arya pressed into him he clutched her closer. Kissing Aegon was unpleasant in that it twisted her belly and sent warmth pooling low and made her limbs feel as though they were molten. No one had ever kissed her like that; Arya had never kissed anyone at all. Aegon made to pull away, and she reached a hand to wrap around his neck, drawing him back to her.
When Aegon did manage to pull away, it was with a soft chuckle and a gentle sweep of his thumb across her cheek. Her cheeks must have been as scarlet as the leaves on the weirwood, with how they burned, and Arya could do nothing but stare dumbly at Aegon. What does one say, after kissing someone? In any case, it pleased her to note that Aegon looked as struck as she felt.
Aegon must have also found himself at a loss for what to say as he kissed her again and then again after that. Disconcertingly, she found she liked the feel of his lips on hers; the brush of his tongue against her lips, the bite of his hand at her waist, the tangle of his hand in her hair, all of it sent her heart thrumming in her chest, and though one of Aegon's hands held her close, it wasn't close enough. At some point, Arya had wound her hands into the front of his doublet and the next time he pulled away, he didn't go far.
The disturbance of Nymeria crashing through the brush reminded Arya that they were in the godswood and not, in fact, somewhere where no one could come upon them. Why should it matter? Regardless, Arya relinquished her grip on Aegon and took a slight step back. Her mother had enough on her mind, without the added scandal of Arya being found kissing Aegon in the godswood.
The slight step back did no good, as Aegon took one step forward to follow. He untangled his hand from his hair and, with an expression bordering on smug, did his best to right the mess he'd made of it. "We'll be late if we don't leave now."
His breath brushed over her face, and her eyes darted down to his lips. It would be all too easy to kiss him again, but Aegon was right. If they lingered too much longer, someone was certain to come looking for them.
By the time Arya and Aegon made their way into the keep and to the room, they were the last to arrive. The room, though smaller, was not far different from the one they'd last met in. Tall windows let the daylight in, and a round table sat in the center of the room. There was no grand spread of food this time, only a pitcher or two of wine.
Calling it a council meeting was generous, when one compared it to the last. There were only seven of them this time, rather than Aegon's advisors and the countless Rivermen and Northmen. Her Uncle Edmure, Robb, Alysanne, Arianne, Jon, Aegon, and herself. Arya went to sit in her usual place beside Robb and Alysanne when Aegon pulled out a chair beside his own place and looked at her expectantly.
Wavering, Arya looked between the empty seats. None else aside from Aegon paid her any mind; Alysanne stood staring out the window, Robb talked with their uncle, and Jon and Arianne spoke amongst themselves. There was none to make the decision for her. Aegon gave her a slight smile and shifted his weight. She sniffed and claimed the seat next to him, ignoring the bemused smirk Edmure gave her when he noticed.
"Shall we begin, then?" Aegon said. The conversations ceased, and all focused on Aegon, except Alysanne, who kept her vigil at the window and made no move to abandon it.
"What do we intend to do about the Freys?" Alysanne asked, when none else responded. She painted an austere figure dressed once more in mourning blacks, her hair hanging down her back in a simple braid. It was a color Arya had grown far too accustomed to seeing her good sister wear. First for my father, then Ser Addam, and now Lady Eddara.
"There is not much we can do as of now. If we wait too long to march, it gives Lord Tywin more time to build defenses around the city," Arianne said.
"And let the Freys go unpunished?" Alysanne finally faced away from the window. Her face twisted, words slicked with venom. "Lord Walder should count himself lucky that Shaeleys is not yet big enough to ride; else there would be naught but ashes left of his crossing."
"You are not the only one who lost those you love in this betrayal, Alysanne. Do not forget I lost a cousin. Vengeance will be had when there is not another war to win." Arianne could have been a queen, what with her stony stare and the circlet of beaten gold upon her head.
Princess Arianne, Arya found, was as bold as she was beautiful. There was few who she wouldn't openly challenge, the times when Lord Connington found himself at odds with her were especially amusing. In fact, Arya thought her cutting remarks a fair match for the ones Jon often saved to share with her in private. It was less amusing, however, when it was Alysanne that Arianne butted heads with.
Alysanne took two, sprawling steps forward. "I remember, Arianne." Alysanne had turned to the cool winds of the North, and it chilled Arya to the bone in such a way that she found herself longing for the flames. "Lord Walder will pay for Nymeria, Lady Maege, Eddara, and all the rest of the Northmen and Dornishmen they betrayed. I will always remember what they stole from us and what they tried to take from me."
Before Arianne could respond, Aegon held his hand up. "You will have justice, cousin. The moment King's Landing is secured."
"I want more than that. I want his head," Alysanne hissed. She set her hands on the table and leaned forward, her stare unwavering from Aegon. "His, and all the craven men who fled. I will pull the Twins down stone by stone if that is what it takes."
"I am no oath-breaker. I promised you fire and blood, and I intend to hold to that." The look Aegon fixed Alysanne with was just as severe as hers. Her whole body was rigid, taut like a bow ready to snap. Robb regarded her warily, but Arya and Jon shared a brief glance, both recognizing her temper from Casterly Rock. Eventually, Alysanne took her seat.
My brother does not know this Alysanne, but Arya did. Arya had seen her covered in Ser Addam's lifeblood, cursing a Septon and cracking at the seams. Arya had watched her walk into a burning pyre without so much as a flinch and emerge with three dragons clawing into her flesh. Arya had seen her swallow her grief whole and spit it back out, had seen the way it ate at her very being. Robb hadn't, but he did now.
Hesitantly, Edmure leaned forward. "Will it not be Robb exacting justice? I swore the Riverlands to my nephew on behalf of my father, and I intended to uphold those vows as Lord of Riverrun and Lord Paramount of the Trident in my own right."
The tension lingered a moment longer, but lessened when Alysanne and Aegon finally broke their stare. "I understand, Lord Edmure, but I cannot simply let Robb take both the North and the Riverlands," Aegon said, looking from Edmure to Robb. "You must understand."
The disappointment of it sent Edmure sinking back into his seat, but even he could see the reason of Aegon's stance. Not for the first time, Arya noted the dark circles below his eyes. The past few days had been far from easy for any of them, Edmure least of all. He'd spent the last few nights with Roslin, and Edmure said she wept when not asleep, and she only slept when the maester gave her a sleeping draught.
Sitting back in his chair as Edmure did, Robb sighed. He rubbed the space between his brows. "I had expected as much." He looked at Alysanne, who gave a terse nod. "Your previous offer. It still stands?"
"It does. The North will remain free and independent in return for a marriage between Jon and Arianne and Arya and myself."
A heady silence followed Aegon's words, and Arya's head swam. The reason for the meeting had never been any secret, but hearing the offer put to words in a setting such as this came with a feeling of finality Arya could no longer ignore.
Robb looked to Jon, who nodded, and then to Arya. She held her chin high. If she said no, protested, what would he do? She would never know, as she gave her brother a firm nod, same as Jon.
With a heavy sigh, Robb faced Aegon. "Very well. We can make the announcement on the morrow, perhaps."
"Excellent," Aegon beamed. "We'll seal the alliance before we march. The rest of the details can be decided upon once I win my throne."
Before we march. Aegon's presence beside her prickled, and just as before, she could feel his eyes trailing over her face. She could not meet his eyes, nor anyone for that matter. A nick in the table proved far more comfortable than any of that.
The meeting ended with that, and Arya found herself whiling away the hours until dinner with Jeyne, Beth, Wylla, and Joy Hill at Jorelle's bedside. Aside from brief forays down to the yard to watch Robb met out justice to the Freys and Boltons, Jorelle was largely confined to her sickbed. The cut to her eye was not the only wound she'd sustained; she'd earned a rather nasty cut to her thigh. The cut would heal, but her eye would not.
There was none of the usual prodding japes from Jorelle or bits of gossip from Wylla. Eddara's absence hung too heavily over them all, stifling any conversation before it could truly take form. She might have shared that her betrothal to Aegon had been finalized, that within a scant few days she would become Queen Arya.
Sharing that news would simply bring questions down upon her that Arya knew not how to answer, or had no desire to. Before the march. Queen of the Six Kingdoms. The next day, or whenever it behooved Aegon and Robb to announce, it would be all they would wish to talk of. While she still could, she would cling to the title she'd once bristled against.
Similarly, she refused to speak of it at the evening meal that night. Alysanne bid her to remain behind to discuss it, and having no desire to, Arya slipped away before she could corner her. It was pure luck that her mother took her meal with Roslin and Edmure. She would have been far more persistent than Alysanne.
So it was that Arya found herself spending the evening in a small alcove, located at the top of one of Riverrun's towers, where there was naught near but dusty chambers filled with old chests. The large window faced north, overlooking where the Tumblestone met Red Fork and the Whispering Wood beyond. A padded bench sat beneath it upon which Arya sat, Nymeria on the floor beside her. She idly stroked the top of her head.
There were no stars or moon that night, and Arya could not see beyond what the torches atop the wall illuminated. Though there was only darkness to be found, Arya imagined she could see all the way to Winterfell, where Rickon awaited their return. How much will he have changed, the next I see him? Would he be of height with her by now? Perhaps Ser Rodrick had started letting him use blunted steel rather than a wooden sword in the training yard. And Shaggydog, how large has he grown?
Soft footsteps and Nymeria's lifted head drew Arya from her thoughts, and she peered over her shoulder to find her mother approaching. Arya didn't turn from the window as her mother glided forward to stand behind her, and she respond to her mother's greeting with a soft smile.
"How is Roslin?" Arya asked. Of her new lady aunt, Arya had seen neither hide nor hair in the three days since her wedding, not that Arya could truthfully fault her for it.
The day after the wedding, when the men responsible had been brought before Robb in the great hall, Riverlords and Northmen alike called for Roslin's blood to be spilled along with her kin. It wasn't enough that Roslin's brothers Olyvar and Perywn had been cleared of any fault, as there were many who witnessed them fighting against their own family that night. How would they have known of the plan, anyway? Both Olyvar and Perwyn had been among Robb's men since they left the Twins.
Had they not seen how Merret Frey tried to restrain her? How she tried to warn Edmure? Edmure had, at least, as had Robb. Roslin would remain the Lady of Riverrun, though Arya wondered how much of a kindness that truly was.
"As well as can be expected." Arya hummed in response, and her mother reached down to scratch Nymeria before taking a seat on the bench beside Arya. "Did you know I used to come here to hide, as a girl?"
"Aye, Uncle Edmure told me. Said you showed it to him before you left for Winterfell." Arya imagined that had she not claimed the spot first that evening, Edmure would have. More and more she found kinship with her uncle, and already she considered what place she might find for him in King's Landing.
Brushing stray strands of Arya's hair behind her shoulder, her mother hummed. "Robb told me the news. You've made a brave choice."
Arya pulled her feet up onto the bench with her and wrapped her arms around her knees, resting her chin upon them. "It wasn't truly a choice, was it?"
"No, I suppose not," her mother sighed. "But I remember a time not so long ago that you would have railed against this betrothal, stolen away in the night and made for Braavos as you always threatened."
Arya gave a half-hearted smile. You still could, a voice prodded. But what will become of the North if I do? As she looked out the window, Winterfell stretched further and further away, and so she looked to her mother instead. "I won't return to Winterfell with the rest of you."
Arya and Jon would go south, and Sansa wherever was required, certainly not Winterfell. Bran would perhaps return, would Theon? And how many of our household, our men have perished? The only ones Arya knew for certain would go home were Robb, Alysanne, and her mother, for even Rickon would someday leave. Somewhere along the way the Winterfell she once knew had ceased to exist, and Arya wondered how it had escaped her notice.
"No, you won't." Her mother smoothed a hand along her head with a sad smile. "Not yet, at least. But you will return someday. Aegon does not seem the type to keep you from your family forever."
"Rickon will be a man grown the next I see him." Tears prickled in her eyes, and Arya sniffed stubbornly.
Her mother clutched her hand tight, and that only encouraged the tears. "I wouldn't be so sure. I mean to send for him once matters are settled. Rodrick might escort him, or Bran."
"What do you mean, send for him?" Hope bloomed, and try as she might, Arya could not smother it. She placed her feet back on the ground and shuffled closer. "Will you not return to Winterfell?"
Her mother's hands fell back to her lap, and the reassuring grin she gave Arya nearly brought on more tears. "I can't very well leave you on your own. I plan to remain with you in King's Landing for a time, just long enough for you to adjust."
Arya scrubbed a hand over her eyes to dry them. "You will stay forever, then?"
That drew a watery laugh from her mother. "Oh, my girl. I suspect you will adjust to King's Landing far swifter than I did to Winterfell. You are more resilient than I was, at your age. Brave and bold and assured. I imagine King's Landing will need a queen like you in the years to come."
"Sansa was always meant to be queen, never me," Arya muttered. She glanced back outside the window in time to see two distant torches bobbing along the path to the godswood.
"Mayhap. But you both have your strengths, and you and Aegon have no simple task ahead of you. Many will challenge his rule, and by extension, yours." Her mother paused and regarded her, a weary frown tugging at her lips. "I know this is not what you wished for."
"The North will be free; my family will be safe," Arya remembered Alysanne's words from several days ago, though it felt as though it were decades. "There is a certain type of freedom to be found, I suppose. And Aegon is… he's… I don't dislike him."
The gods know she'd tried to find fault enough in him to call off the betrothal, or refuse it altogether. He was proud, stubborn, and had a tendency towards humor when the situation required otherwise. Worst of all, he'd gone behind her back and made the offer to her brother before everyone without the courtesy of warning her. None of those had made any headway in curbing the breathless flutter that threatened to overwhelm at the mere sight of him, and none had stopped her from kissing him earlier. If only we were both simply no-one.
Her mother tilted her chin knowingly, and there was a glint in her eye that forced Arya's attention to Nymeria. "He seems a good man." Arya nodded. "It's late. You should be abed."
Arya stood, and Nymeria stood with her. "I will. I wish to go to the godswood first."
"Alone?" Her mother raised a brow, and the suspicious narrowing of her eyes made Arya wonder for a moment if she knew what had happened between her and Aegon earlier.
"I have Nymeria, and Edmure has doubled the guard. I'll be fine." Her mother's responding hum did not sound entirely convinced, but she made no further protests.
Indeed, no one troubled her on her way to the godswood, aside from the guardsmen she passed who stopped her to bid her a good evening. Clouds still blanketed the sky, blocking any light from the moon or stars. She slowed her steps, but as she had earlier, Nymeria darted ahead.
The godswood was empty, and Arya took a seat on one of the thick roots sticking out above the ground. In the dark, with Nymeria at her feet and Riverrun obscured by the dark, Arya could pretend she was in the godswood of Winterfell. Home, where she need not be a queen, or even a princess. I will return someday, she promised. Perhaps she would bring Aegon with her.