The Grey Daughter

by Winterlyn Dow

Arya Stark, former assassin-in-training and current exile from a mysterious order, nurses a broken heart and some serious grudges as she makes her way across Westeros, seeking revenge on those who have hurt her. Will she find peace in a land at war, or will mysterious forces succeed in shaping her destiny, and with it, the destiny of Westeros? Part 2 of The Assassins Trilogy

60. The Hidden Prince

It's sweet, and it's sad, and it's true, how it doesn't look bitter on you

Oh, my heart

---

Chaos.

Utter chaos, turbid and devastating in its completeness.

Both inside of her head, and out.

First, there is a prickling stillness as they all stare at the harp dully glinting in the torchlight, and then Howland Reed unburdens himself of his secrets.

And oh, what secrets they are.

Such secrets.

Arya is blistered by them, and her whole world dissolves, shimmering brightly in her mind for a single second before dimming and winking out, like a lit candle blown dark by a draft. What is left, (the truth, she supposes), causes her reality to reshape itself into a snarled tumult that has her struggling for sense and balance.

There is none to be found. No understanding. No stability. Her world is off its axis, spinning wildly, and she at its mercy, working desperately to keep her wits. The weight of the harp in her arms becomes incalculable, intolerable. She sags, then sets the thing down, stepping away from it as though she suspects it may do her some harm. As though harm has already been done.

And maybe it has.

"My father…" Jon starts hoarsely, looking around at those gathered in the crypts. There is a plea in his eyes and Arya's heart nearly cracks in two at the sight of it. He has heard the truth, they all have, but it's as though it has been spoken in a foreign tongue he is struggling to translate.

"Yes. Your father was Rhaegar Targaryen, not Eddard Stark." When the crannog lord states those words, he does it so explicitly, the girl cannot doubt their veracity, much as she might like to.

Much as she wishes she could.

Howland's revelation, the undeniable truth of it, annihilates her, and the ground shifts beneath her feet. She reaches to grip something which may keep her from falling. She finds Gendry's arm, solid and unwavering.

Like the man himself.

Fingers wrapping around her friend's wrist, the queen is overcome with the urge to scream, has even opened her mouth to do so, but her lungs will not pull in the air needed to make more than a small squeak. The sound of it is so faint that it is lost amid the angry denials of the king's Hand.

"Is there more? There must be more!" Jon Connington says, his bellowing insistence echoing off the tombs surrounding them. His eyebrows, a mixture of red and grey like the close-cropped hair at his temples, crash low with suspicion as he addresses Howland. "How am I to believe, on your word alone, that Rhaegar…"

"There is more," Lord Reed assures him quietly. The queen is struck by his calm demeanor and lack of offense, given that the Hand is questioning his honor. "Letters. Documents."

"And where are these mythical documents? Will I find the ink still wet on them?" the Hand sneers.

"They were buried alongside Lady Lyanna." Howland's face is solemn. "All the proof you require was placed in her tomb with Rhaegar's harp."

"It doesn't make sense," the old griffin growls, even as Ser Rolly pulls a small chest from the tomb. The knight swipes at the thick layer of dust covering its lid while Lord Connington continues his rant. "All this time… years in which he could've made a claim... Lord Stark might've installed him on the throne, and ruled himself as regent until the boy came of age! Why didn't he…"

"If you think he ever wanted that, you know nothing of Eddard Stark," is the crannogman's sad reply. "He would never make a child the target of Robert's wrath. His own sister's child. He'd bear the dishonor a thousand times over, sacrificing his own reputation, suffering the judgment of lesser men, before risking one hair on that boy's head."

That boy.

Jon.

Arya's head snaps to Jon's, her eyes searching his. Grey gazing upon grey.

Her brother.

Her… cousin?

What she sees in his look causes her to pale.

Years of doubt, of self-recrimination, years of disrespect and disregard, the stoney weight of it all falls away as understanding finally dawns. There is a lightness to him she's never seen before, and a new sort of certainty that only comes when one knows one's place in the world. In an instant, he has become someone else, leaving behind who he has always thought he was, and who she has always loved and revered. As Ser Rolly carefully unrolls a scroll he's plucked from the chest and reads aloud the words penned upon it, Arya's bastard brother becomes her royal cousin.

It is a marriage decree, signed in Rhaegar's own hand, and Lyanna's, and a septon's, his name known to Lord Connington, if the Hand's muttering when he examines the signature is any indication. The document makes clear that like his forebear, Aegon the Conqueror, the prince had taken a second wife. It also makes clear that the Faith had allowed him to do so, bestowing legitimacy upon the union.

There are other papers too, hastily perused. Letters between Rhaegar and Lyanna, making plain their feelings and intent. Raven scrolls in which the prince instructs his white knights to protect his young wife and the babe she carries. His babe. A note in which Howland swears to his liege lord that he will protect the secret of the infant prince, even to the point of shuttering himself behind the moving walls of Greywater Watch, vowing to leave only if his duty to the Starks makes it impossible to stay.

"I kept that vow, and lost my son for it," Lord Reed murmurs to the queen. "I kept that vow until you arrived upon my doorstep."

At hearing a cursory presentation of the evidence, Aegon's brows lift, and his mouth drops open in shock, but it only takes a moment for his expression to transform into one of understanding, and then pure joy. He turns to Jon, no longer a Snow but a Targaryen, and laughs.

"Aunt," he says over his shoulder to Daenerys as he moves to Jon, clamping a hand on his bicep, "we are no longer two, but three." The silver king pulls the dark-haired man into a heartfelt embrace, and Jon's hesitation to return that embrace lasts mere seconds. After that, the men are pounding each other's backs, laughing and crying, all at once, caught between disbelief and elation.

Arya watches, aghast. How can this be? Her heart aches for all the insults Jon has needlessly endured, for all the coldness heaped upon him by her own mother, a result of her father's subterfuge. She should be happy those dark times have passed, shouldn't she? And yet… and yet…

She grieves.

She sees the emotion in Jon's eyes, the slow curl of his lips as he huffs out a hoarse laugh, all while Aegon squeezes him, saying "A brother. My little brother!"

Who could resist that? Who would not be seduced by it all? Acceptance, where once there had been only shame? Worth and importance, where once there had been only contempt? Belonging, where once there had been only resentment? While to her Jon has always been the best of men, to the world, he is unfailingly viewed with the suspicion reserved for bastards. But here, now, a single scroll penned before he was born has erased every bit of judgement and scorn, replacing them with the impenetrable armor granted him by his elevated birth.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Arya understands that she should not be stricken by this. That she should rejoice with Jon, and with Aegon. Even Daenerys has a pleased smile shaping her mouth. But she can't. She can't smile. She can't exult in this revelation.

She can barely breathe.

It feels like loss, like a death to her. It is then she remembers the dragon swallowing the direwolf whole. A white dragon, and a white direwolf. She releases a shaky breath and closes her eyes, finally understanding what the gods have been trying to tell her all along.

Ser Jaime had thought it a dark omen meant to warn her of violence against herself, but he was only partly right. A dark omen of warning it was, but not of violence. Instead, it had portended thievery. A forfeiture. The very appropriation of what matters most to her in this world.

Her brother has been stolen from her and given to another.

She can picture it perfectly in her head, Jon in the Red Keep. Jon resigning from her council to join his brother's. Jon on dragon back. Jon leaving her to join the family that has never known of him, and so has never forsaken him. There would be riches. Titles. Power. While she's been attempting, in vain, to make him a Stark lord by decree, he's been a hidden Targaryen prince all along.

"Lost." The word is uttered in the barest of whispers as she opens her eyes, watching Jon with Aegon. She blinks against the stinging of her eyes and throat. "I have lost you."

Slowly, Arya's fingers slip from Gendry's wrist, and she sinks to her knees, wrapping her arms around herself so she will not feel so utterly alone.

---

"Your grace!" Gendry barked in alarm, drawing the attention of the others in the crypt.

"She must be freezing," Daenerys said, seeing the girl crouched down and hugging herself. Quickly, the princess moved to the discarded guard's cloak on the ground and retrieved it. The dark knight reached for his queen, hauling her up as gently as he could and snatching the cloak from the khaleesi's hands as she approached. He threw it around Arya's shoulders, steadying her when she swayed on her feet.

"My lord, the queen needs warmth," he said to Jon, his concern giving his expression a grave cast. "We should leave this place."

The castellan looked upset, his grin dying as he pulled away from Aegon's hold. He strode to the girl's side. "Arya, are you well?" When she made him no answer, Jon slipped his arm around her. "Come. I'll take you to your chamber."

The queen found her voice then. "No," she croaked. Swallowing against the dryness in her throat, she tried to rule her face. "I'd… like to examine the papers."

"As would I," came Lord Connington's stern agreement.

"We should take them to the council chamber," the girl continued, "and call Matias to see if he has any of our father's…" She stopped and gave a shaky sigh. "…my father's papers which might corroborate…"

"Arya," Jon interrupted gently, "all that can be done without your immediate oversight. You have been down here too long, freezing. You should rest, and let me handle this, with Lord Hoster and Maester Matias."

"I'm not freezing," she objected. Jon stroked along her jaw with the back of his hand.

"Your cheek is like ice," he told her, frowning. "Please, leave this to me. I'll examine everything thoroughly, along with the king's councilors, and discuss it with you first thing tomorrow. But I can't give it my full attention if I'm worried about you. Let your ladies see to you while I sort this. Please."

"I'll go with her," the khaleesi volunteered, coming over and looping her fur-clad arm through Arya's beneath her oversized cloak. Gendry stiffened at her side, misliking how close the princess was to his queen, but he said nothing. He did, however, drop a hand to the hilt of the dagger in his belt.

"Thank you, princess," Jon replied.

"Yes, thank you, aunt. Your concern is appreciated," Aegon added. Then, looking at Ser Rolly, he instructed the knight to carry the small chest to the council chambers and summon Tyrion to join them. As the knight left to do his king's bidding, Lord Connington shuffled toward the tomb with a grimace. He bent to retrieve the tarnished harp from the ground, and, without a word, turned to follow Ser Rolly.

---

Arya's ladies met her in her chambers, having left the feast when they realized she was missing. They awaited her, pacing and fretting, and when she walked in with Daenerys, there were exclamations of relief as well as confusion at the khaleesi's presence. It was a credit to their manners that they did not give voice to that confusion, but it was painted in the set of their mouths and the pinch of their brows clearly enough.

"Your grace, we were worried!" Lady Bethany cried, breathless and agitated as she took the guard's cloak off her queen. "Where did you go? The whole court was speculating, and Lord Dayne said the king had gone after you. Then the Greatjon threatened to gut the king if he dared lay one wrong finger on…"

"Hush, Bethany," Lady Wynafryd scolded the younger woman. "Give her a grace a moment to get settled."

"Oh!" the Blackwood girl squeaked. "Pardon me, your grace."

"It's fine, Bethany," Arya replied, fatigue weighting her words.

"Dyanna, fetch her grace's dressing gown," the Manderly woman instructed. "Rosie, take the pins from her hair. Here, your grace," she continued, gently guiding the queen to a chair near the window, "let me remove your slippers… oh." Wynafryd was kneeling before Arya, looking befuddled when she lifted the hem of the silver snowflake gown to see overlarge boots on her queen's feet. The lady gave the girl a dubious look, removing the boots, then the sodden silver slippers she still wore beneath them. "These may be ruined," the lady said grimly, giving the Targaryen princess a look that was, at best, weakly apologetic.

"No matter," Daenerys shrugged. "They are not practical for this Northern climate, as we learned tonight, and if Queen Arya desires some when she arrives in King's Landing…"

"When her grace arrives where?" Dyanna did not bother to disguise her shock.

"…then I am sure the king will have half a hundred pairs made for her."

Wynafryd took the wet slippers and set them on the hearth near the crackling flames to dry. She turned and eyed Arya, her look curious but careful. "Has your grace come to some understanding with the king? Is that why you disappeared?"

"Understanding?" the girl echoed softly as Rosie busied herself taking her hair down and brushing it. "No. We have no understanding."

The Manderly woman nodded in satisfaction, crossing her arms over her ample bosom, and smirking at the princess. "I thought not."

"It's only a matter of time," Daenerys said, her voice mild. "Especially now that we've discovered our two houses are so closely bound."

The ladies' attention all snapped to the princess, then back to their queen.

"What… what can she mean, your grace?" Bethany asked tentatively.

Arya's tired expression crumpled, giving way to her gloom. "I'll tell you, I promise, but not now. I can't…" The girl dropped her head back, closing her eyes and sighing. Rosie ceased her brushing. "I don't wish to speak of it now," she muttered. "I've had no time to make sense of it for myself, how can I hope to explain it to you all?"

"Leave us," Daenerys commanded suddenly, straightening to her full height. "I shall tend to the queen myself." She pried the brush from Rosie's reluctant fingers.

The tension in the air intensified. The princess outranked all but the queen, and she was a guest beneath the queen's roof, so their duty was to pay deference where it did not interfere with their loyalty to Arya, but the way Wynafryd Manderly bristled at the khaleesi's words, and the way Dyanna and Bethany moved closer to their queen, as though they meant to put themselves between her and any threat Daenerys might pose, demonstrated exactly where their respect for royal Targaryen blood ended.

"Your grace?" Lady Wynafryd's voice was even, her brows slightly lifted as she looked to Arya.

The girl sat up in her chair, her eyes catching the worried gazes of her ladies and her maid. Daenerys was the only one of them who seemed in good humor, a half-smile fighting to form on her pink lips. She only barely managed to suppress it. It was a good thing she did, as far as Arya could tell, because Dyanna Cray looked like a woman on the edge. The girl suspected even the slightest of provocations could lead the crannogwoman to strike the khaleesi.

"You needn't worry, ladies," the princess said, her voice musical and light. "There is a queensguard knight, a kingsguard knight, the queen's sworn shield, and the captain of my Unsullied posted outside of the door. Your queen will be quite safe without you."

For as kind as Daenerys looked and sounded just then, Arya was certain she was purposefully tweaking her ladies for their suspicion of her, and for daring to disobey her command. By the way Wynafryd's eyes narrowed and her mouth firmed, she seemed certain of it, too. The girl stepped in to avoid any unpleasantness. The last thing she wanted was for a screaming argument to break out and draw the guardsmen in from the hallway. All she craved in that moment was peace.

"My ladies, the Princess Daenerys and I will be fine on our own," Arya assured them. "Return to the feast, if you like, or retire to your beds, if you have had enough of revelry." She looked at Bethany Blackwood then. "Though Lord Dayne may be sorely disappointed if you have." Her eyes flicked to Dyanna and Wynafryd. "And perhaps even Ser Willem and Ser Brynden?"

It was an apt tactic. The ladies blushed prettily, smiling, and murmuring that perhaps another dance or two was in order. All but the Manderly woman. She was older, wiser, and altogether harder to steer. But she could not defy her queen's wishes and so she curtsied, saying that if Arya had any need of her, she had only to send someone to fetch her.

"And I'll speak with Ser Gendry as I leave," she added, giving Daenerys a hard stare, "and ask him to be alert for any… disturbance."

"Yes, thank you, Lady Wynafryd," the girl replied, biting back the chuckle that fought to push up her throat. As if Daenerys Targaryen could possibly pose a threat to her in this room. There were no fewer than seven blades scattered about her chamber, some visible, some well-hidden. The only thing she had to fear from the princess was her command of dragon flame, and that was no danger to her here and now. Arya supposed she owed the Manderly woman for providing her with a bit of levity, even if that wasn't her intention.

When the ladies and Rosie had all scurried out (Wynafryd, true to her word, had stopped as soon as she'd exited, whispering hotly in Gendry's ear. Arya could see them both as the door slowly closed behind them), Daenerys set to work. She placed the brush on the table and eyed the queen.

"Let's get this gown off of you."

Carefully, the two of them toiled to remove it, no small feat considering the dozens of buttons which fastened the thing, as well as the attached train. The princess laid it out over a chair and sighed when the silver embroidery caught the firelight.

"It's so beautiful," she said.

"I'm sure I have you to thank for that."

Daenerys smiled, looking from the dress to Arya. "Actually, much of it was Aegon. He knows little of women's fashions, but he had a definite opinion about what would befit your nameday. He nearly drove the poor seamstress mad."

The girl gave the princess a puzzled look. "I can't imagine…"

The khaleesi's voice dipped to a much lower register. "That's not right," she mimicked. "Do you not understand this is for the Winter's Queen?"

"Of course, your grace. That's why I have requested ermine from the most reputable furrier in the city," the princess squeaked, obviously impersonating the seamstress now. "And the silk merchant from Yi Ti delivered this grey velvet for the gown only last week. It is of the finest quality."

"Ermine? Velvet? No! It has to be thread-of-silver!" Daenerys barked insistently in her deepest voice. "It must look like a dazzling snowfall. It should sparkle like the night stars!"

Arya gave a startled laugh, shaking her head. "What?"

"But your grace," the woman continued in a high, tremulous tone, "snowflakes don't sparkle. And they're white, not silver!"

"Oh, no," the girl chuckled.

"What do you know of snow?" the princess blustered, dropping her voice again, adding a pinch of irritation to it. "You're from Myr, not the North. And anyway, I commissioned you because you are supposed to be the most talented lacemaker and seamstress within five-hundred leagues. I do not require your opinion of the weather!"

"He didn't really say that…"

Daenerys shrugged. "I may have taken liberties with the verbiage, but I think I've captured the sentiment."

Arya snorted a little and allowed the princess to drop her sleeping shift over her head and then slip her arms through her dressing gown. The girl belted it, drifting toward her window and leaning heavily on the sill as she peered out into the night. Her amusement at the silver woman's story bled away and she sighed against the cares and worries that crept back into her mind. They were quiet for a long time, princess and queen, and then Daenerys drew near to the girl, her lilting voice parting the silence gingerly.

"His birth was legitimate. He's not a bastard."

Arya's eyes closed and she breathed in, slow and deep. When she breathed out, she whispered, "To me, he never was."

"Forgive me, your grace, but I don't understand your obvious dismay."

"I imagine not. Everything you thought you knew about your life, from earliest memory, wasn't tainted by a lie."

"Surely not everything. I know it's a shock, but once you've had time to think on it, I believe you'll see all the advantages that will come of this."

The girl straightened, turning toward the princess. "I'm certain it's easy for you to see the advantages, since it's you who benefits."

Daenerys balked. "This is Jon's good fortune. How does that benefit me?"

"Aside from his becoming a man suitable for marriage to a princess, you mean?"

"He's made me no offer, no promises."

Arya threw up her hands. "Of course, he hasn't! He wouldn't think to burden you with such folly. A bastard and a princess? He'd never presume! But now, he's free to do so, isn't he? You're his aunt, after all. Fitting for a Targaryen wedding, don't you think?" the girl seethed. "He might object at first, but I'm sure you can convince him. And you will, won't you?" It wasn't really a question. "After all, he's a dragon now, and one is as good as another."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you couldn't talk Aegon into a marriage, but what does that matter now that we've discovered he has a brother?"

The princess drew back as if she'd been slapped. "You know what that was about. Don't pretend otherwise. And when I met Jon, I abandoned all pursuit of Aegon because what I wanted changed."

"Then I suppose I should congratulate you. You can finally have what you want because who you want has miraculously become acceptable."

"I never treated him like he was worth less than any other man!" Daenerys objected. "I love Jon. You know I do!"

Arya's brows flew toward her hairline, her eyes hinting at a fierce wildness. "You love Jon?" Her tone was both mocking and incredulous. "You don't know him! I know him! I have always known him! My earliest memories are of his face. My earliest heartbreak was for his sake, seeing how my own mother treated him. My deepest sorrow was when I believed him dead in that cowardly attack at the Wall, and my joy and relief at finding him again was so profound, the words to describe it haven't yet been invented! You think you love him? I love him! I have loved him my entire life! He taught me what it even means to love!"

Understanding began to glint in the khaleesi's eyes. "He means so much to you."

"He means everything, and you and Aegon have stolen him from me!"

Arya hated that her lip trembled as she shouted the words. She turned her back to Daenerys, fighting to gain control of her emotions. The fact that she was so overwhelmed by them was disconcerting. It wasn't like her, even in such a fathomless circumstance. She knew she should be happy for Jon. Deep down, she even understood he would never wish to abandon her, no matter who his father was and what he was entitled to claim because of it. Why, then, was she so bereft?

It was too much. Too much upheaval. Too much loss. It was her nameday, and all she could think was she'd had three living brothers at the start of it, and now she only had two. And even if Jon wouldn't truly abandon her, things would change. They had to, didn't they? And hadn't her dreams warned her of exactly that?

A nameday without her parents, without Sansa, Robb, and Bran. A nameday where Jon had been pulled from her desperate grasp, falling into the welcoming arms of others. A nameday without even word of Jaqen.

She felt as though she were slowly being crushed. Soon, there would be nothing left of her but dust.

The girl's shoulders slumped. "Everything is slipping through my fingers," she murmured miserably. After a moment, she felt Daenerys place a palm against her shoulder.

"We aren't stealing him," she said, her voice soft and pleading. "We couldn't if we wanted to. You should hear the way he speaks of you. You say he means everything to you. Do you not understand what you mean to him? He lives to protect you. Do you think there is anyone in all of Westeros who could drag him away from you?"

Yes. There might be. You.

The girl bit her lip and stayed her tongue. She understood that Jon had feelings for Daenerys. She'd read it in his eyes. Now that the most significant obstacle to their courtship had been removed, how could she object to it? As much as she feared losing him, she could not be the thing which prevented his happiness.

Arya turned around. "I'm… sorry. I'm just…" Terrified of how fast everything is changing. "…tired. And it's been a bit of a shock, learning that my brother is not my brother, and my father never faltered in his duty or compromised his honor. I didn't mean to shout at you."

The khaleesi gave her a sympathetic smile. "After the way I behaved when we first arrived, I owe you a bit of grace."

"You are kind, princess."

Daenerys shrugged. "Not really. But I am practical. We should try to get along, for Aegon's sake. And for Jon's. I imagine they're both reeling from all this, too."

"Reeling?" the girl scoffed. "Aegon was grinning like a lecher in a whorehouse after Ser Rolly read that marriage decree." The princess lifted a questioning brow and Arya noted the gesture. "What? It's true. And Jon looked nearly as pleased. They're probably toasting with Arbor gold while they pore over Rhaegar's letters, planning to have dragons stitched onto all Jon's doublets and cloaks." It was hard to hide the bitter edge coloring her tone.

"He's as much Stark as he is Targaryen," Daenerys reminded her.

"Maybe," Arya replied, "but we both know that's not how the world will see it."

The silver woman shrugged. "All that matters is how Jon sees it."

The girl could not deny that the princess had the right of it. The thing that troubled Arya in that moment was that even though she could guess how Jon Snow would react, she couldn't know the mind of Jon Targaryen.

---

Jon Connington paced by the fire in the council chamber, his one hand tugging thoughtfully at his beard, while the king and Winterfell's castellan stood side by side at the table, reading bits of the documents to each other, too excited to sit. It made the old griffin scowl.

It was easy to see that Aegon was lost to the fantasy of having a brother, a wish he'd had since childhood. One that the maddening wolf queen had unwittingly granted. He wasn't an only child, but he'd been raised as one, having lost his sister when he was too young to remember her. It had always troubled him, as though he could sense what he was missing. It had made him resilient, self-sufficient, and determined, but it had also made him lonely, and a little melancholy. Though perhaps that was simply something he'd inherited from his father. But now that he'd miraculously found that thing for which he'd always yearned, his Hand could see that he was dreaming of some glorious future for the two of them. A future he was building in his mind.

And that had always been the boy's problem.

Aegon tended to focus his eyes forward, never remembering to look behind him to see who might stab him in the back.

So that had become the job of his Hand.

"He meant for us to be brought up together," the king was saying as he lifted the raven scroll he was reading a little higher and leaned closer to Lord Snow.

Or, Targaryen, the griffin thought with a grimace.

"What makes you say…" the dark-haired man started, but then squinted at the line the king pointed to with one finger. "Oh."

Lord Connington cleared his throat. "What does it say?"

The king turned, the light in his eyes vexing his Hand. "It says that if the child is a girl, she should be named Visenya, and if a boy…" Here, Aegon turned to his brother, smirking, "…Vhaelor."

Jon's brows drew together, and he looked abashed. "I don't feel much like a Vhaelor."

The king clapped a hand on his shoulder, a smile tugging on his lips as he looked his brother in the eye, nodding. "It is a good name, and fitting. It means valiant man in Valyrian."

The Hand sniffed. "Just because your father suggested names doesn't mean he intended…"

"No," Aegon agreed, interrupting, "but after his suggestion, he writes, '…and when your confinement is over and you are strong enough to travel, I will take you to King's Landing, where the children may be educated together. If it is a girl, Rhaeneys will teach her all she need know of being a princess and if a boy, then he and Aegon will train side by side under the tutelage of Arthur Dayne, when they are not at their lessons.' I'd say his intent was clear, wouldn't you, my lord?"

The old griffin just frowned, turning, and continuing his pacing, frustrated the king could not see just how precarious his position was.

A northern wolf, now a legitimate dragon, with eighty thousand wildlings and another twenty thousand Northmen under his command, and no reason to support Aegon's claim, could be very dangerous, indeed.

Unless… unless…

Arya Stark truly was the key, just as Aegon had claimed all along.

Rhaegar's by-blow would not think to set his army against his cousin. They had been reared alongside one another as siblings and she had the same strange pull over Lyanna's boy that she seemed to hold over the king. Perhaps it was his curse to always bear witness to the impact Stark women seemed to have on Targaryen men. But in this instance, that influence might be the thing which saved Aegon.

But how to secure this marriage contract? Many of the Northern lords opposed it, and many River lords as well, hoping, no doubt to marry their own sons to the girl and maintain their independence while elevating their own status. The queen herself had been aloof during the negotiations, giving no hint as to her disposition, but had she been inclined to marry the king, Jon had no doubt she would've given some indication of her intentions.

So, how to sway her?

The old griffin stopped his pacing, turning toward the table, and moving past Winterfell's maester as the man sifted through a sheaf of the late Lord Stark's papers. Lord Connington ignored Lord Hoster and Lord Tyrion as they argued some obscure point about the succession. He Ignored even Aegon himself. Instead, he turned his shrewd gaze to the dark Targaryen. After studying the boy a moment, he stalked to the head of the table and addressed the assembled men.

"My lords, I suggest we sit and discuss what opportunities this… happy discovery might present us."

---

The queen's ladies have returned to the feast and rejoined the now raucous celebration, but they have not brought their queen with them. Strange, that, Daario thinks, taking another bite of the cake he'd been given by the Skagosi. There is a tang to it he'd not noted in the first bite, or the second, something almost metallic in its flavor, but the exotic spices and the sweetness soon overwhelm his tongue and he greedily consumes all that he's been given.

As he chews, the niggling dissatisfaction he feels at the queen's absence fades, as does the odd sense he'd been struck by when he'd taken his first bite. Gone are thoughts of the boys in the kitchen, giggling together as they hide beneath a table, convinced of their own stealth. Gone is the familiar warmth that had filled him as he recalled kissing the lovely girl. Gone is the uncertainty about what is real and what is not.

About what he feels, and what he should not.

Daario turns, spying the hulking Skagosi man once again, far enough away that he cannot make out what sounds leave his mouth as the warrior's lips move, but close enough that he can appreciate the glint in his eyes as he stares at the Stormcrow captain. For a single second, an overwhelming sense of dread and loss washes over the Tyroshi, but just as quickly as it had come, the feeling fades. Then, he simply wonders where Daenerys has got off to.

---

The feast slowly waned as the candles burned low in the great hall, and the attendees began to drift away, finding their beds, or the beds of others with whom they planned to spend more time.

Daario Naharis retired to his bunk in the guards hall alone, still curious about the khaleesi's whereabouts, but not particularly troubled over it, or much else. As he'd left the great hall, he'd caught the eye of the large, Skagosi warrior once again and nodded to him, a thanks for the cake. The look he received in return was strange. The man had appeared almost amused, though it was hard to say for certain beneath all that paint he wore on his face.

Jaime settled after a word with Ser Kyle, asking to be awakened if anything at all seemed untoward during the knight's watch at the queen's door. The happenings in the crypt, and the strange discussion which followed in the council chamber, had left the Lord Commander restless and uneasy. He could not say how much of his mood was fed by the fact that he'd known both Rhaegar and Lyanna, yet had never suspected the truth about them, or their son, and how much was simply his worry for Arya. He'd seen too many people crushed in the jaws of politics. He did not wish to see that fate befall the girl he'd come to regard almost as a daughter.

Jon lay sprawled beneath his sleeping furs, one hand dangling over the edge of his bed, his fingers scratching at Ghost's ears as he alternated between speculation and calculation. As the fire in his brazier flickered, he stared at the shadows dancing along his ceiling, wondering at the path his life might've taken if his father had lived, and had claimed him. If he had indeed been brought up alongside his brother, as Rhaegar had intended. With Targaryen tradition, it might be that he would've wed Daenerys already. Or, perhaps from the vantage point of the Iron Throne, his father might've turned his eyes north, and envisioned an altogether different union for his youngest son.

The little chieftain, or the Winter's Prince, as the people had taken to calling him, slept fitfully, dreaming his wolf dreams. He stared at the moon overhead with his lupine eyes while Nymeria nuzzled his neck, wondering all the while how wolves would fare where snows were sparse and sharp tongues plentiful. Where, indeed, the wolves walked on two legs, and schemed, and played games only meant to extend their own power, running with the pack only when it suited them.

The Lyseni assassin moved swiftly through the corridors, unable to stifle the dread that had built in his gut ever since his sister had vanished from his sight. He didn't know what had happened, or what she'd been doing. He only knew she needed him, though he couldn't say how. It was a feeling, nothing more, but he'd learned during his time in Braavos to pay heed to his intuition. His conviction was proven true when he'd shed his cloak and boots, slipping silently into her bed, to find her drawn into a ball beneath her sleeping furs. "Brother," she'd said hoarsely, turning toward him and burying her wet cheek against his neck. He hadn't said a word, just pulled her in close, stroking her hair and kissing her forehead.

The king's heart had been light as he'd lain his head on his pillow, thoughts full of Jon and Arya and Daenerys. Full of his life thus far, and full of hopes for his life yet to come. For all the years he'd spent in exile, with servants and supplicants and instructors, with mentors and patrons, he now believed he was finally being rewarded with family. He felt, well, if not quite settled, then well on his way. His future seemed bright, and secure, and right at his fingertips. He would add to his legacy, the Targaryen legacy, and leave his indelible mark upon this world. Of that, he had no doubt. As he drifted off to sleep, he thought of soft, grey eyes, so near to the laughing eyes of his brother (his brother, by all the gods!) and he marveled at the strange whims of fate. Where once he'd had nothing, he felt he was soon to have everything.

Tyrion sipped at his wine, staring into the flames dancing in his hearth as one of Winterfell's maids lay sleeping in his bed. Randa? Rilla? He couldn't recall her name, only that her soft body had provided him some distraction from his considerations after the council meeting had broken up. Such distraction. He'd see that she was amply rewarded. Distraction aside, he occupied himself with puzzling out the various ways recent developments would affect the Iron Throne. The king had a brother now, and soon, he would have an intended, it seemed. Brother and betrothed were, the two of them, inextricably bound. This could prove advantageous, the dwarf thought, savoring the wine. Though they were often at odds, the Hand was of the same opinion in this matter. Well, it couldn't hurt for them to unite behind the same purpose, just this once, Tyrion supposed.

Daenerys gave her kingsguard knight a stern look as she exited her chamber, a single glance conveying all she needed to regarding discretion. After a slight nod from the man, she began her swift walk through the corridors and up the stairs to the place she felt she was being drawn. After a quick, quiet rap on the door, it creaked open and she saw Jon peering through the narrow crack. At the look on her face, he stepped back, pulling the door with him and allowing her entry.

Barristan Selmy's sleep was saturated with dreams. In them, he was young, his heart unburdened by the concerns and regrets he carried in his waking hours. He was at another feast, presided over not by a young queen, but an old king, his jaundiced eye casting a jealous glare over the celebrants. As the noblest of princes maneuvered unwittingly toward his own doom with little more than a song and a wreath of blue winter roses, the white knight was oblivious to every machination, intrigue, and suspicion as he bowed to the most graceful of ladies before leading her to the dance floor.

The Myrish assassin, his face false while his eyes remained true, strolled at a leisurely pace along the battlements. He stared at the stars overhead as he moved, thinking on his brother and their shared master. As he flexed his fingers against the sting of the newly dressed wound on his left palm, he found himself wondering if it was their god or one small girl who truly bound them all together.

Howland Reed's thoughts were burdened with questions of loyalty and duty as he surrendered to slumber and slipped into his green dreams. In them, the queen was laughing, her heart light, but then she was crying, her grief nearly palpable. Watching it all was a man in the shadows whose face the lord could not see.

Gendry reluctantly left his post by Arya's door when Ser Kyle arrived to relieve him and Ser Ben. Daenerys had departed more than an hour past, taking her kingsguard protector and that strange, silent eunuch with her. Though there had been an earlier, brief argument they could all detect through the door, the princess had failed to raise the 'disturbance' which had so concerned Lady Wynafryd. In fact, it had been the queen who had done the shouting, causing the Unsullied captain to stiffen and scowl. The blacksmith-knight did not blame the Manderly woman for her caution, however. He was no admirer of the Targaryens and did not trust either of them to be in such close proximity to Arya. Though Daenerys had demonstrated no prowess for fighting, one did not have to be a master of blades to slip one between another's ribs. Betrayal demanded no skill. All that was required was to be close enough and unsuspected.

---

True to his word, the morning after her nameday feast, Jon had joined Arya in her father's solar to outline for her all he'd learned. He'd chuckled about Vhaelor, then grown pensive a moment before murmuring, "I was planned, Arya. From nearly the moment they met, my father desired a child by my mother." His eyes shone with such relief, the girl choked back a sob at the sight of it. "They were married before I was conceived. I wasn't just some accident, or a burden to them. They weren't ashamed of me. They wanted me."

"Oh, Jon," she whispered hoarsely, "of course you were wanted. You've always been wanted."

The man smiled wryly. "I think we both know that's not true."

"It is. I wanted you."

A single tear trekked down her cheek, and it drew him up short. He leaned into her then, swiping at it gently with his thumb, saying, "Don't cry, little sister…" Jon stopped himself and Arya froze at that same moment. They stared at one another and then her tears were flowing in earnest.

He shushed her quietly, wrapping his arms around her and hugging her tight. Her face was pressed into his chest, wetting the front of his doublet as she shook with silent sobs.

"No, no, no, sweet girl," Jon soothed, "none of this. It doesn't matter who my father was, it doesn't change how I feel about you."

"I'm s… s… sorry," Arya hiccoughed softly. "I don't m… mmm… mean to mmmake you feel bad."

"Don't apologize. I should be the one to say I'm sorry."

"What have you done to wa… warrant an apol… apology?"

"I shouldn't have allowed myself to be so giddy without considering how you would feel."

Arya drew back from him, wiping at her cheeks with the backs of her hands. She gulped in a few breaths, then ruled her face and moved to the head of the table. She sat heavily in the chair there. After a moment, she gave a sad chuckle and told Jon not to be stupid. "You had every right to be happy. I'm just being ridiculous." She gave him a penetrating look. "You know I don't begrudge you your happiness, right?"

"Still, I don't want you to feel as though I am abandoning you. No matter what may come of all this, I could never leave you behind." He took the seat to her left, facing the door. "I've only just gotten you back," he reminded her.

Arya snorted. "You've been talking to Daenerys."

"So, what if I have?" He cocked one eyebrow.

"So, she shouldn't have said anything."

"Well, I'm glad she did. I don't want you to hide your feelings from me. I'm still me, Arya. We're still us."

The girl read the sincerity in Jon's eyes and nodded. "We're still us," she echoed, trying to find the same conviction he felt. After a moment, she cocked her head, fixing him with her narrowed gaze. "Will you marry her, do you think? The princess?"

"That's not up to me."

"Oh? Who else?"

"Daenerys must agree," he pointed out.

"I don't think that will be a problem."

"And… I'd need my queen's sanction."

Arya scoffed. "You can't truly believe I'd deny you anything you'd ask."

"Of course not. But sis… Arya, there are things which you've yet to consider."

"Such as?"

"Such as the fact that suddenly, Lord Connington seems consumed with the idea that I should marry Daenerys, and that you should marry Aegon."

"What?" she chuckled, startled. "The man hates me."

"And he has little use for me, which is why it gave me pause when he suggested it."

"It seems like I should've been at this council meeting after all, instead of resting." Her look then was equal parts smugness and irritation. "But why should I care what he thinks?"

"Because everything he does is only to strengthen Aegon's position. All along, that's been to push the king toward Daenerys. Why the sudden change?"

"Well, it's not because his heart has suddenly softened and all he wants for the king and the princess is for them to be happy."

"No," he agreed, "it's not."

Arya pulled her lower lip between her teeth, her gaze becoming soft as she placed her forearms on the tabletop, leaning over them and considering. "More likely," she murmured slowly, "he fears us." She turned her face to Jon's. "He fears us now. You have the blood of the dragon…"

"And an army to rival theirs."

"But why empower you further by wedding you to the mother of dragons?"

He gave her a solemn look, and his tone became grave. "Because that is less of a threat to the Iron Throne than me marrying the Winter's Queen."

Arya flinched, pulling upright, her spine slamming into her chairback. "What?"

"It's not something I would've considered myself," Jon said quickly. "It had never entered my mind, but this morning, Lord Hoster approached me and…"

"Lord Hoster…"

"…and it was suggested that…"

"Jon, no." She was shaking her head, her look incredulous.

"I'm not saying it's a suitable plan, I'm just saying that it could explain Lord Connington's shift in thinking."

"That you and I might…" The girl balked.

"I'm your cousin, not your brother," he started.

"Yes, yes," she muttered, irked, "I'm well aware."

"So, we are free to marry."

"Each other?" Her expression twisted.

"Look at it from Lord Connington's perspective. I have the Targaryen name and the support of the free folk. And you are the Winter's Queen, and well-loved in the kingdom, with the support of the River lords and the Northern lords alike."

"I understand how daunting the idea of all that might be to the Iron Throne, but these men, the king and his Hand, they know us. They understand what we are to each other. Surely, they can't believe we'd ever…"

"But we could."

The girl rose from her seat, stalking toward the hearth, her arms wrapping around her middle as though she felt sick. "Jon, no. We couldn't."

"Listen to me. It wouldn't have to be like that. A marriage would be little more than a way to show a united front. A way to combine our strength. We could live as brother and sister, with Rickon as heir. It would be no different than it is now, apart from your being free of the burden of needing to choose a husband."

"I could never consent to this."

The dark lord stood then himself, moving to her side and looking down at her until she met his gaze. "I didn't think you would object so strongly." He shook his head. "You've never shown any interest in marriage or children, so I didn't think you would see it as such a sacrifice."

Arya reached out, placing her palm over his beating heart. "For me, it isn't. But for you…"

"I've told you I don't mean to abandon you. Did you think me insincere?"

"No, I don't doubt that you are in earnest, but I couldn't allow you to forsake everything you might have for yourself in a bid to protect me and solidify my sovereignty. I may never have shown an interest in marriage or children, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't."

"I've… never allowed myself to consider such a life before," he admitted. "What could a bastard offer a wife? What name could he give his sons?"

"You have a name to give them now. Would you squander that?"

"It wouldn't be squandering it if it was to protect you."

He lives to protect you.

Daenerys' words echoed in Arya's head.

"Jon," the girl began, "I love you. Too much to allow you to sacrifice your entire future, and your heart, for fear of Lord Connington's aims. You want these things you are offering to leave behind, I know you do. What's more, Daenerys wants them too, with you."

He frowned. "I don't wish to be anyone's puppet. I won't allow Jon Connington to use me to force your hand."

"No one is forcing my hand," she assured him. "And no one shall."

---

Despite his assurances that he would not abandon her, Arya scarcely saw Jon over the next week, so engrossed was he in spending time with both Daenerys and Aegon. They introduced him to Viserion, and he even flew on dragonback over Winterfell, the silver woman pressed up against him as he did, giving him direction and encouragement while he held the reins.

Their closeness had set the court gossips to tittering.

The queen often happened upon Aegon sparring with Jon in the training yard, or Daenerys breaking her fast next to him in the great hall. They'd always seemed to be just finishing when she arrived, so she missed joining in with them. She knew she wasn't being purposefully excluded, and she was busy herself, using the time after her nameday feast to meet with and hear the concerns of the various lords who had journeyed to Winterfell for the celebration. Still, she was beginning to miss Jon's company. And, if she was being honest, she missed Aegon's, too.

The king still sat next to her at meals, when they both could find the time to attend them, but he spent as much time talking and japing with his new-found brother as with her. Once, she'd even had to stop herself from sarcastically asking if perhaps Aegon might prefer to marry her castellan rather than her. She didn't wish to draw the conversation back around to his suit, however. The king had ceased pushing her on the matter, suddenly seeming to find a wellspring of patience he'd previously lacked. With all the upheaval their discovery in the crypts had created, she did not wish to reignite the discussion, enjoying her reprieve from considerations of matrimony.

That her reprieve came at the expense of being all but forgotten was less agreeable.

Jon failed to attend two successive council meetings as he inspected some crumbling masonry along the west wall and met with the builders who would undertake its repair. Overseeing the castle's defenses and ensuring its structural integrity were part of his duties as castellan, and so his absence might not have normally annoyed the queen, but when she discovered that Aegon was accompanying him to observe (what business did a king have concerning himself with masonry, anyway?), she felt herself growing jealous.

Though whether of Aegon or Jon, she could not say. Perhaps both.

She also would've appreciated Jon's insight as the council discussed fresh news from the Wall. The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch had sent a raven with a disturbing report regarding sightings of the Others, both from free folk fleeing the menace, and sailors who had seen strange things along the coast near Hardhome and even further south at the village of Ulvevikt. Far enough south that the Lord Commander had been troubled. He'd used phrases like, 'rising threat' and 'inevitable confrontation.'

It was talk of that 'inevitable confrontation' which occupied the queen's small council during Jon's second missed meeting. Namely, how they would equip themselves to fight in it, should it come to that.

"Dragonglass?" Brynden Blackwood was saying. "Are we certain there's nothing else that could be of use?"

"There are accounts in the histories of dragonsteel ending the Long Night," Lord Hoster replied.

"Dragonsteel?" Jaime mused. "Valyrian steel?" He shook his head. "It will have to be dragonglass, then, unless you can somehow get the forges in Old Valyria firing again or you think an army of a few dozen is sufficient for the task."

"There are more than two hundred Valyrian blades in Westeros, by most accounts," Maester Matias objected.

"How many of those can the Kingdom of Winter claim, though?" Jaime shook his head. "We cannot rely upon our neighbors to the south, not unless we secure some sort of alliance."

"And dragonglass itself is not plentiful," Howland Reed remarked. "Even accounting for that, we could not arm more than a hundred men, I think. Could such a small force be enough to combat this unholy army?"

"Aye, it might be," Lord Wull said. "We all know the castellan's story of wights in Castle Black. He needed no special weapon against them beyond the flaming drapes in Lord Mormont's chamber." The mountain lord nodded thoughtfully. "We only need Valyrian steel and dragonglass for the cursed Others. For the rest of the lot, fire will do."

Fire. Arya sighed, then muttered, "Dragonsteel, dragonglass, dragons." She did not like the thought of her kingdom being made to depend on another, especially not now, when she was irritated by nearly everything involving the Targaryens. Still, she could not allow her feelings to put her people in jeopardy. Looking to her Hand, she said, "We should apprise the king's council of this news. If the Wall fails to stop the threat, then it won't be long until it sits on their border."

Hoster nodded. "Yes, your grace. I shall inform Lord Connington as soon as we adjourn."

Thoros proposed they send someone to the Wall to speak with the Lord Commander directly and obtain a more detailed assessment of the danger. Having a direct observer report back to the council so that they might better prepare for a possible coming battle seemed a wise course. Ser Brynden suggested that Jon was the most qualified for the task, considering his unique understanding of the inner workings of the Night's Watch and his experience beyond the Wall.

He was correct, of course, but Arya couldn't help scowling at the idea. Not only did she resent that her duties made such a journey impractical for her to undertake herself, but she also worried that a return to the place where Jon had been betrayed and died might prove difficult for him. And though she told herself it was petty and childish to think it, she still found herself wondering if she approved the plan, would Aegon join Jon on his journey, and if so, would the two fly off on dragon back together.

Leaving her behind, just as they'd done since discovering they shared blood.

When the council meeting ended, the queen was left alone to ponder those thoughts, and she did so over the next few days.

Finally, frustrated with her feelings, she reminded herself that she did indeed have a brother, not to mention a squire, and she'd been woefully neglectful of them both of late. When no Targaryen appeared in the great hall for the noon meal that day, she called out to Rickon and Young Brax as they finished up the pork pie they were sharing.

"Boys," the queen said, "would you like to spar?"

Rickon's eyes slid to the wildling woman seated at the end of their table. "Osha says we stink and need a bath before supper," he groused.

"Osha will be glad to be rid of you both for an hour or two," the wildling woman retorted. "Go have your spar. The bath can wait."

Young Brax squealed his excitement while Rickon grinned slyly. "Your grace, I cannot wait to show you what Ser Willem has taught me!" the squire cried. "And Ser Brynden said that Rickon and I will be knights before our sixteenth namedays if we keep working hard!"

"Prince Rickon," Osha corrected, face stern, causing Young Brax to draw up his shoulders sheepishly and the young prince himself to growl.

"I'm a magnar, not a prince," he objected.

"You smell more like a sweaty boar than either," the wildling shot back, causing Arya to bark a laugh.

"Come on, boys," the queen said, draining her cup and rising from her seat. "Let's get out of Osha's hair. We'll go find some blunted blades and you can show me what you've learned."

In the yard, they saw Ser Willem and his squire Baynard training while Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne drilled side by side in one corner. Everyone stopped as the queen approached, calling out respectful greetings of, "Your grace," and bowing their heads. The false Dornish knight approached as Arya sent her young charges to retrieve the proper weapons.

"It is good to see you here," the large assassin said. "You've been scarce."

"My home has been overrun with lords and their proxies," the girl replied. "I tried to make their stays worth the journey. So many private audiences…" She shrugged. "Tedious, but necessary."

"And to think, you never wanted to be queen," he quipped, "when you're so bloody good at it."

She rolled her eyes. "You may have the crown for all I care," she said sourly, "but what I can provide, I do. Often, it's little more than hearing their reports and sympathizing with their concerns. I prefer action…"

"You don't say," the Lyseni chuckled, and she glared at him.

"…but not every situation can be solved by steel."

"A truth you were no doubt devastated to learn."

"It seems you know me well."

"That I do."

Arya tilted her chin so that she met his eye. "Since it is so, tell me, what do I need now?"

The Bear grinned. "You've been too long from the training yard. No worries, your grace, I'll help you remember your skill."

"I've not forgotten it," she warned, "and I've been itching to use it."

"Draw your blade then, little Cat, and dance with me."

Her mouth curled into her malicious smile. "I thought you'd never ask."

---

The girl had sparred hard with the Bear, relishing every ringing clash of their steel and the stretch of her muscles as they moved around each other with grace and speed. After two matches, they stood aside so the prince and his friend could demonstrate what they'd learned. Arya called out to the boys as they fought, offering encouragement and advice. It amused and warmed her to see how Young Brax would stick out his tongue in concentration with each correction she offered, trying his best to incorporate her instruction into his moves.

Rickon, though… That boy was fierce. And like his sister, he was a natural with steel in his hand. With each direction either she or the Bear would offer, he would subtly adjust, the change so fluid and excellent, it was almost as though he'd anticipated what their guidance would be.

As they finished their match, Arya offered to step in and give them a common opponent so they could practice fighting in tandem. "You must master fighting together," she said, "so you may guard each other's backs on the battlefield." Just as she entered her stance, however, Jon and Aegon entered the yard, walking side by side and laughing at something. They seemed so carefree, so oblivious to the world around them, (so oblivious to her), it made the girl want to smack them with the flat of her blade to get their attention.

She pulled back from her stance, then glanced toward the Bear. "Ser Willem," she called, "would you mind filling in for me? I have something I need to do."

"Of course, your grace," he replied, smirking at her tone. Turning to the prince and Young Brax, he said, "Alright, let's see what you've got."

The sound of their swords ringing spurred Arya on. She marched toward the two Targaryens, drawing right up to them and blocking their path. They had nearly trod on the toe of her boot before they paid her any heed.

"Your grace," Jon said, smiling at her. Aegon's face was more sedate, but she could read the merriment in his eyes.

"Your grace," the king greeted. "It seems an age since we spoke."

"Three days, in fact," she snapped. Then, looking at Jon, she asked, "How fares the work at the west wall?"

"I… er… it's… fine. It's good." His expression morphed into one of confusion. "But we weren't at the west wall just now, your grace."

"Oh, no? Then where were you?"

"We were… uh…" The castellan seemed at a loss, puzzled by the girl's demeanor.

"We were dragon riding," Aegon replied helpfully. He gripped Jon's shoulder. "My brother rode alone for the first time this morning." The king's pride was evident, and the spark in Jon's eye then caused Arya's heart to sink.

A dragon swallowing a direwolf whole. It was happening right before her eyes.

The look on the girl's face made Jon reach for her. "Sist…" He breathed in and out harshly, then squeezed her arm, though whether it was meant as a comfort or an apology or something else entirely, she could not say. "Arya, don't be alarmed. I was quite safe."

"More than safe," Aegon assured her. "He rides as though he was born to it."

Jon cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I don't know about that."

"We would have taken you up with us, but you've been so busy, with court, with petitioners," the king said, studying her keenly. "We did not like to take you from your duties."

"The last of the visiting lords departed this morning," she told him. "Now, my most pressing duty is in this yard."

"Oh?" Aegon raised his eyebrows. "What duty is that, your grace?"

"Draw your steel and find out," was her low retort.

"Arya, no." Jon was shaking his head. "Not live steel."

Her eyes flicked to his and she fought to contain the rage she felt rising from her very bones. "Worried for your brother?"

She needed to hit something, to swing her sword long and hard until she was too tired to lift it. Sparring with the Bear had done nothing to dull the desire and seeing Aegon and Jon together after barely seeing either of them over the past week only intensified it.

"I'm worried for you both."

"Do not make yourself anxious, Jon," Aegon soothed, shaking his head. "I'm happy to use blunted blades. But do let's get on with it. Her grace seems to be losing her patience." He winked at her as he said it, reaching out for one of the training blades Ser Willem's squire had helpfully brought over to them.

"Thank you, Baynard," Arya said, reaching for the steel, a hint of acid in her words.

"I live to serve, your grace," the assassin replied, a touch too jovially to the girl's mind.

The combatants had barely set their feet in place when Arya was attacking Aegon. She pressed him, chased him, harried him. She danced around him with an energy and purpose rarely seen in training. The king met her blows and cuts, defending himself ably, but she was in rare form and seemed unflappable.

"Dead man," she hissed in his ear when she feinted then spun around behind him, the dull point of her short sword pressed into his back just over one kidney. Rather than allow anyone to call the point while the opponents reset their feet, she continued without halting. With a dizzying flurry of cuts and thrusts, she maneuvered herself until their chests were nearly flush. Her thin stiletto stood ramrod straight, the hilt gripped in her left hand caught between them at the level of Aegon's hip, its rounded tip kissing the spot just above the apple of his throat.

"Dead man," she whispered again as the king swallowed hard, feeling where her fist was pressed against him more than he felt the bite of the steel. And then she was back at it.

On and on they fought, until sweat stung both their eyes, and Arya had said, "Dead man!" to him for what felt like the hundredth time.

"Enough!" Jon called, caught between thinly veiled mirth and discomfort. "Let the king catch his breath."

The girl drew back, dropping her swords to her sides as Aegon doubled over, resting his hands on his knees, nearly wheezing as he breathed in and out. After a moment, he chuckled, still bent but peering up at Arya through the hair which had fallen over his eyes.

"Feel better?" he rasped.

She sniffed. "Marginally."

He straightened, still breathing hard. "Perhaps you can air your grievances with me in a… less active setting later?"

"Who says I have grievances?"

Aegon snorted. "Perhaps that is my mistake, your grace. I assumed something must be driving you to feign killing me dozens of times just now."

Arya shrugged. "I merely craved the exercise."

The king nodded graciously, then walked to her. "And have you had enough?"

"Enough what?"

He looked down at her, saying softly, "Exercise, your grace."

She glanced around the yard, seeing that the others had stopped their own training to watch her match with the king. Rickon was grinning widely at them. Turning back to Aegon, she replied, "I had hoped to train more with my brother and squire, but time has grown short, and I must meet with Lord Hoster."

The king's brow furrowed. "Another meeting with your Hand? You make me feel as though my own dedication to my duties is lax."

"The danger beyond the Wall is more immediate to my kingdom than to yours," she sniffed. "So, I suppose there is no more time for exercise today."

The king's eyes did not leave hers as he reached for her swords. Gently pulling them from her grasp, he said, "Always so busy. Allow me to put these away for you."

When his fingers brushed over the backs of her hands, the girl felt a shiver travel up her arm and straight to the center of her chest. The sensation was unexpected. It caught her off her guard. "Thank you, your grace," she breathed.

"If you want to thank me, you can join me for a private supper tonight. We've had little time to speak since your nameday."

"I…" She hesitated, wondering if he meant to use the supper to reopen the subject of his suit. The negotiations had been tiresome thus far and were better left in the hands of their advisors, who had far greater patience for such drudgery. While she wished to spend time with the king, she was not keen to dedicate an evening to rehashing the sticking points of the marriage contract.

The main sticking point being that she had not yet given serious consideration to actually accepting the proposal despite the hours both their small councils had spent bickering over every detail of it.

Aegon stepped closer, his head bent to look down at her. "I've missed your company."

She nodded, but said, "I've barely seen Jon, either." Arya tried to keep the accusation out of her tone.

"Then he shall join us," the king replied with finality. "He and Daenerys."

She supposed that would limit the talk of matrimony.

"Alright. Supper, then," she agreed, liking the way her words seemed to turn his intense look into something soft and pleased.

---

Jon Connington had advocated for hard pursuit and relentless pressure (why he had suddenly shifted his support to back Aegon's suit, the king did not question). It had been Tyrion who'd suggested that in the queen's case, absence might be more effective than a smothering presence.

"I am not well acquainted with the girl," Tyrion had admitted, "but I do sense that she resists being managed, and she resents being coerced."

Aegon had snorted. "This I know. So, what is your suggestion, my lord? How do I win her?"

"The starving man dreams of food and is quick to consume whatever is presented to him. A boiled radish may look like a feast during times of famine," the dwarf had said before taking a sip from his wine goblet.

"And am I the boiled radish of your parable?" the king had asked, amused.

"You are the tenderest suckling piglet, your grace, roasted to perfection," Tyrion replied, a twinkle in his mismatched eyes. "Much more appetizing than a radish, so imagine how much more appealing to the starving man. Or, woman."

"Yes," Aegon murmured, "starving woman…" His gaze grew soft and unfocused as he thought on the lord's words.

The dwarf had been right, it seemed, but the king felt like he was the one starving now. That had been one consequence of the strategy Tyrion had failed to consider. In depriving Arya of his company, the king had also deprived himself of hers. It had been a maddening week and he'd nearly abandoned the plan several times.

Only the promise of the ultimate reward kept Aegon in check. That, and the time he'd been able to dedicate to developing a kinship with Jon.

Aegon was not blind to Arya's unease regarding his burgeoning relationship with her cousin, but he hoped with time, the bond between himself and his brother would strengthen her regard for him. She loved and admired Jon so much, the king hoped some of that feeling might color her view of him as well. He'd certainly tried to allow her time for such awareness to bloom.

He was hopeful his approach was beginning to pay off, considering her reaction to him in the training yard this morning. She'd been annoyed with him, it was true, but it was the reason behind the annoyance which bolstered his confidence. It seemed to him that the queen had indeed grown fonder of him in his absence. Perhaps there was something to Lord Tyrion's boiled radish theory.

Or maybe fondness didn't figure into it at all. The way she'd reacted when he'd touched her, her small shiver and the way she'd parted her lips to breathe then, made him think that if nothing else, her desire for him had grown. When he'd gazed at her, the look in her eye had mirrored his own. He'd told her that he'd missed her, and she'd nodded in agreement, but perhaps what she'd missed was his touch. His kiss.

The king's lids drooped as he gazed into the distance, the images playing in his mind approximating the hazy shape of his future. Lust would not be enough for him. He wanted more from the girl. He wanted everything, and he wanted it with an almost obsessive fervor.

No, lust would not be enough. But it might be enough to start.

---

The foursome made up of the three Targaryens and Arya had been drinking, dining, and conversing for nearly an hour already in Lord Stark's solar. Through small talk and japes, the girl's sense of disquiet with all the recent changes in her life was beginning to ease. Still, she was finding it hard to let go of her vexation completely, especially when Jon and Aegon would share an anecdote involving everyone at the table except her, or a jape that only the three of them understood because she had not been there to witness its conception.

"I am glad I was finally awarded my supper in the solar," Aegon said genially as the maids cleared away the platters from their second course. "I was beginning to grow jealous of your lords and all the time they commanded. I was afraid I might never have my turn."

Arya shrugged. "You might've requested your own audience whenever you liked. It was only today that you thought to do so."

"You've both had duties," Jon interjected as diplomatically as he was able, "and it's only been a week."

"But an eventful week," the queen replied, turning to face Jon. "You've been riding Viserion nearly every day."

His expression was caught between guilt and triumph. "It is… I mean, the feeling of it…"

The girl nodded. "I know." She leaned back as a serving boy set a trencher in front of her, then she tore a piece of the bread that was set on its edge and dragged it absently through her stew, never raising it to her mouth. "I wonder, when you are so high in the air, can you hear the wolves howling after you?"

Jon's brows knitted. "Do they?"

"Well, not Ghost, of course. He just lifts his head and stares at the sky."

"What a strange thing," Daenerys commented, looking between Jon and Arya.

"Not so very strange," was the girl's observation. "They fear losing him."

The silver woman laughed lightly. "Do wolves consider things so deeply?"

"I have always believed so," the queen replied. "Direwolves, at least."

"And what are they thinking? That he'll fall to his death?"

Arya tilted her head, her expression growing thoughtful. "Or perhaps that he'll fly away somewhere they cannot reach him."

Jon leaned forward in his seat, staring at her from across the table. "That will never happen," he said, locking his grey eyes to hers.

The girl was very still, her own gaze unwavering as she spoke. "Things change, do they not? People change. Their aims change. Beliefs, desires, purpose…"

"My purpose has not changed." Jon's voice was low and firm. "So long as I am wanted here, you will not find me elsewhere."

"But surely you cannot mean to live out your days in Winterfell," Daenerys said, "so far flung from your family…"

"I would not be far flung from my family." He pulled his eyes from the queen to pin the princess with his laden stare. "Arya and Rickon are my family."

"Of course," she acquiesced hastily, "I only meant that now you are a prince, you would…"

"I am no prince."

Here, Aegon cleared his throat, giving his brother an apologetic look. "Actually, you are." He breathed in deep, then revealed, "I'd meant to tell you this news first, when we were alone, but I've met with my council and signed the necessary decree, acknowledging you as my brother and a prince of the royal blood."

Jon's face darkened. "How could you do this without even speaking to me about it?"

"I don't see the issue. This is who you are, Jon. I'm simply recognizing the truth of it."

"A royal decree isn't you simply recognizing something," the dark lord argued. "This has political ramifications, as well as personal ones. Did you consider that?"

"I did." Aegon's simple answer was delivered calmly, but there was steel behind his words.

"Why would you think I'd even want this?"

"Want what? To be my brother?" The king's ire was rising.

Jon blew out a harsh breath through his nose. "That's not what I meant."

"You must understand, Jon," Daenerys pled softly, "it has to be this way. For us. It must be."

"Must it?" He looked at the silver woman, then at his brother. "It seems as though you two have already decided for me." The dark lord slumped back in his seat, turning away from the princess, and shaking his head slightly. Aegon opened his mouth to speak but he was halted by Arya's quiet voice.

"Prince Jon of House Targaryen." Her words hung in the air between them and drew Jon's eye back to her. Giving him a sad smile, she asked, "Or will you adopt the name Vhaelor, as your father desired?"

He swallowed. "Arya…"

"Daenerys is right." She worked to rule her face. "It must be this way, or you will never have all that you deserve."

"I have everything I need," he insisted.

"But not everything you want." Arya glanced at the princess, then back to Jon. Much as he tried to mask it, the girl could read the agony behind his eyes. She nodded, saying, "It's okay to want. It's always been okay, but with this decree, no one can fault you for it ever again."

Jon's voice was hoarse as he said, "What I want is not to hurt you."

The girl's lips curved, ever so slightly. "And isn't that just like you? To hurt yourself so that you might spare others their pain?" Her small smile died, and she stared down at her trencher and the piece of sodden bread she'd abandoned to her stew. "The thing is, this time, you can't prevent it. The pain comes, no matter your choice. Accept your name, marry your love, and leave me behind. Or deny your birthright, stay here always, and make me eternally guilty for standing between you and the life you should've never been denied."

Aegon reached for the queen's hand, pulling it between both of his and squeezing gently. "These are not the only choices." He looked to his brother. "You are a Targaryen. You must accept that but accepting it need not mean abandoning everyone you have known and loved."

Jon scoffed. "Tell me, then, your grace, how will I keep everything I value when those things belong to two different kingdoms?"

"We make the kingdoms one."

And there it was. The pieces of Jon Connington's master scheme falling neatly into place. The solution so undeniably elegant, so sensible, so inevitable, who could argue against it?

Arya pulled her hand from Aegon's grasp. She shook her head. "Did you make him a prince to strengthen your suit?"

"What?" The king looked at her, stunned at the suggestion.

"Did you sign that decree so you could claim the Winter Kingdom?"

"Did you?" Jon pressed, head whipping toward his brother.

"No, of course not!"

"Was the decree your idea, or your Hand's?" the girl asked.

"It was my idea," Aegon insisted, sounding insulted.

"But Lord Connington didn't object," Arya surmised. "I'd wager he was even surprisingly supportive of the idea."

"Shouldn't he be? He's my Hand."

"I don't understand your concern," the princess said. "Isn't it better that Lord Connington support the notion? Being at odds with him could create difficulties at court, even for a prince."

"So now Jon's to be at court, is he?" the queen inquired. "The Targaryen court?"

"Well, it would be his choice, of course," Daenerys said a bit weakly, realizing her gaffe.

The dark lord stiffened, then rose abruptly from his seat, squaring his shoulders. "Do not think me ungrateful that you have accepted me," he began, his eyes boring into Aegon's. "I do wish to know you, and to share both friendship and kinship with you."

The king nodded. "Yes, I feel the same. I…"

Jon held up his hand. "I was not through." He glanced at Arya, then back to Aegon. "As much as I respect and admire you, you are my brother, not my king. My fealty is pledged to the Winter's Queen. She may not be my sister in truth, but she is my family, and she commands my loyalty in the way only family can."

Aegon rose then himself. "I am also your family, am I not?"

Jon blew out a breath and dropped his head, placing his palms flat against the tabletop and leaning down as though a heavy burden was bowing his back. "You are," he admitted.

"How does your honor fare when your claims of loyalty to family mean you must discard a brother to bolster a cousin?"

The dark lord pounded a fist against the table. "She is more than a cousin to me! You know this!"

Jon's outburst gave Arya the sense that she'd been a topic of discussion between the two on more than one occasion.

"Am I less than a brother, then?" the king asked softly.

Jon's eyes squeezed shut as though he found the question excruciating. Slowly, he straightened, then looked to Arya. "Forgive me, your grace. I must excuse myself." With that, he strode through the door of the solar which a maid had just opened to begin gathering their plates in preparation for the next course. She stood aside, allowing the castellan to exit.

"Oh," the maid squeaked, looking from the lord to the table.

Daenerys sprang up, saying that she was going to go after him before scurrying from the chamber.

"Shall I come back later then, your grace?" the maid asked. It was Aegon who answered her.

"You may clear all this," he replied, gesturing vaguely to the table, "and then give us the room. We are not to be disturbed."

When the queen did not contradict the king's order, the serving girl did as she was bid and then left, shutting the door behind her. He stood in silence for a moment, watching the door as if to reassure himself that no one was going to burst through and interrupt them. After two minutes of undisturbed quiet, the king ran his hands through his hair, gathering his wits.

"You must know I never intended for any of this to happen," Aegon finally said, moving to the hearth. He clasped his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels a moment before turning around to face the girl. "But now that it has, I think we should settle some things, you and I."

---

The girl is guarded. Aegon sees that, sees that she withdraws from him, from their previous intimacy, almost as though it had never happened. The ache he feels at this surprises him. It would bring him to his knees if he allowed it to, but he refuses. There is too much yet to accomplish to allow such weakness now.

'No,' he thinks to himself, remembering their kisses and embraces in the godswood a week past. Remembering the hunger he'd felt then (that he still feels). The hunger he is sure she reciprocates. 'This will not do.'

His eyes trace the shape of Arya's jaw, the line of her neck. They settle on her face, willing her to look at him. She looks everywhere but where he wishes her to.

She is hurt. Wounded by what has occurred. Damn Daenerys and her loose tongue! He hadn't meant for any of it to come out this way. And he certainly hadn't meant for it to seem like a scheme on his part, a grasp for power and position. He would be lying if he said it hadn't occurred to him that Arya might see Jon being enfolded into the Targaryen dynasty as a draw, as a reason not to reject it herself, but that truly was not the driving force behind his decree. Marriage contract or no, his brother is his brother, and they have lost too much time already.

Still, the damage has been done, and he must do what he can to repair it now.

To what will she respond? To flattery? To indifference? What will assuage her suspicions? Obeisance? Denial? Time?

No, there is no more time. Or, rather, he can no longer stomach waiting.

It's honesty, then.

He girds himself, drawing in a deep breath and blowing it out before he starts.

"I love you," he says plainly, and his tone and expression make no apology for the declaration.

"Oh, Aegon," she quietly groans, and there is reproach in her voice. She does not think him sincere, that much is clear.

"I do, Arya. I've tried my best to adhere to customs and traditions, to mind my courtesies and curb my ardor. I've tried to be respectful." He shrugs. "I've tried to win you, and not frighten you with my feelings."

"Frighten," she scoffs quietly.

He chuckles. "Yes, sweetling, everyone knows how brave you are, how fierce. But courage in a battle is not courage in matters of the heart. And you… You. Are. Scared."

She stands then, spine straight. She so resembles Jon when she glares at him, it's quite remarkable, really. They truly could pass for siblings.

"How can you claim to love me when you barely know me?"

"Oh, I know you. Since your first letter to me… perhaps even before that, when Tyrion spoke to me of you."

"What has Tyrion to do with this?"

Aegon laughs outright then, the sound of it a little desperate. "I can see it now. I had no chance! There was never any possibility I might resist you." His eyes almost beg her to understand. "My head has been full of you since I began to seriously consider who I might one day marry. Who I would need to marry."

"What are you talking about?" She stalks over to him on silent feet, her eyes stormy. "Barely more than a fortnight has passed since we met. You cannot know someone, or love someone, when all there is to your acquaintance is a fortnight."

"Even if that were true, you know our acquaintance stretches further back than that. Months of letters. The things you said to me in them…" He shakes his head. "And for me, it has been even longer. Years more of stories, of encouragement…"

"I don't know what you mean."

"It doesn't matter. However it happened, whenever it happened, I know how I feel. I am in love with you. Not your throne. Not your power. Not your name. You." He moves closer to her. "The way you fight. The way you think. The things you say." He reaches for her, his fingers skimming along her neck as he drinks in her features. "Your silver eyes. Your dark hair." He bends his head, drawing his mouth close to hers. "Your rosy lips." He kisses her, and for a moment, he thinks she will surrender to him. He feels it in the trembling of her shoulders as he gently grips them in his hands. Relief causes the tension in his neck to drain away, and he sighs against her mouth before tilting his head further to intensify his kiss.

The feeling is short-lived, though. The girl tears her lips away from his, pulling herself from his grasp and turning to pace away from him. He resists the urge to snatch her back and wrap her in his embrace. After she stands with her back to him in silence for several minutes, Aegon finds himself compelled to break the stalemate.

"Whatever hinders you, whatever your reservations, tell me, I beg of you. I will do my utmost to help you overcome any obstacle." When she makes him no answer, he persists. "Please, Arya. I will do anything, but you must be mine."

He sees her head bow and has to strain to hear her whispered reply. "I once belonged to another."

Aegon must smother his anger at the mention of it. He knows little of this man and considers him nothing more than a passing fancy of a young girl far from home. He is no threat to what has been building between the king and queen. Why can she not see that?

"Let us leave the past to mourn itself," he says with more restraint than he thought himself capable of. "Whatever words were exchanged, whatever promises were made, they mean nothing in the face of what binds us."

"And what does bind us?" she asks, finally turning to face him. Her eyes are shiny with tears that refuse to spill, the firelight catching them and turning them into brilliant stars. "Your father and my aunt? Our thrones?"

The king is unsure if she is toying with him or simply pretending ignorance. He cannot accept that she is truly unaware of the connection they share. For him, it is more than appreciation fed by long expectation, careful planning, and Tyrion Lannister's encouragement (and even the more recent prodding of Jon Connington). It is more than his strange dreams where she reaches for him. It is a physical feeling, one which intensified when they'd first sparred. It is as though in that moment, she'd given him a piece of herself, a piece that lives inside of him now, in exchange for the piece of him she'd taken. He is no longer complete without her.

She must feel it, too. It is impossible that she doesn't.

"I have had an attachment to you, to the idea of you, since long before we exchanged our first raven scroll," he tells her, "fed by dreams where you watched me, waiting for me…"

Arya takes a step toward him unconsciously. "Dreams?" she murmurs.

Aegon swallows and nods. "You know of Daenerys' test, yes? That I withstood dragon fire?"

Another step brings her closer to him, her gaze sharp. "On a hill, near a tree…"

The king studies her expression closely. "A wych elm. Yes. It burned."

"But you didn't."

"No. I didn't."

"And you… stood naked, your hair turned to ash, and you…" Another step, and another.

"And I?"

Arya shakes her head, still moving toward him. He stands perfectly still, lest he frighten her away. He awaits her and awaits her answer. "It's not possible," she breathes, stopping when their toes nearly meet.

So far, she has recounted the details of the trial perfectly, but any one of his advisors, his guards, his lords, or even Daenerys herself, might've told the girl. There is nothing remarkable in her words, but the way she delivers them, the way she seems to see the moment, makes Aegon suspect there is more she is not saying.

"What's not possible?" he urges.

"That we have had the same dream."

"You were there, a witness," he confirms, "and when it was all over…"

"You beckoned to me."

"Yes," the king says, satisfaction coloring his tone. "You have dreamed this as well?"

"It was… more like a vision, I think. In the fire."

"Like the red priests," Aegon murmurs.

"I didn't know you'd seen it too."

"Over and over. So many times, when your first letter arrived, it didn't feel as though it was written by a stranger."

It wouldn't have felt like that anyway, with as long as he'd been hearing about this daughter of the North, Eddard Stark's little girl. He'd been too young, too embroiled in the things he considered more important than love and marriage when the deal had first been struck which would secure Arya as his bride. But even with sparring, with studying, with instruction in the faith, and battlefield strategy, and politics, he was aware enough of the discussions and plans to understand what had been set in motion.

Later, when Tyrion joined their cause and determined that a Northern marriage would secure the Iron Throne and heal the fractured kingdom in a way wedding Daenerys couldn't, Aegon had grown savvy enough that he understood such matters deserved his attention, at least as much as swordplay and diplomacy. So, when the dwarf began to bend his ear about the grey eyed girl who would someday hold her father's bannermen in the palm of her hand, he'd listened.

Listening had turned to dreaming, and dreaming had become wanting.

Craving.

And so, when tales began to trickle down to King's Landing of the girl, Aegon had been helpless against his growing fascination. And when the first raven from Winterfell had arrived, for him, it was not the beginning of their story. It felt more like the next chapter.

But admitting this to her would raise uncomfortable questions, he thinks, and he vows to do nothing that has the potential to push her away.

So, honesty, but curated with caution.

He will speak of dreams, but not plans. Destiny, but not bartering.

For as far as Aegon is concerned, Arya was always meant to be his. The path which has led him to her means nothing in the face of that truth.

"So, you see, my love, it has not been a mere fortnight, any more than our attachment is a mere passing fancy. Any more than our bond is forged merely by our pasts or our power."

He reaches out, tracing the column of her throat with his fingertips until they settle on the neck of her blouse.

"What has forged it, then?" Arya whispers.

Sheer force of will, he thinks, and his own endless yearning. But there is more to it, he can feel it, and he knows she does, too.

"The gods," he replies, his voice deep and certain. He stares down at her, his expression almost pained, then drops his mouth to hers and this time, she does not pull away from him. This time, she moans as though her heart clenches in the same instant his does. He backs her to the table, feeling his way on instinct alone, then lifts her so that she is sitting on its surface. Aegon pushes in as close as he can get, then drags her to him so that he stands between her thighs and can feel her heels pressing into the back of his legs, just above his knees.

"I thought I was the only one," she pants between his ravenous kisses. "I thought I was insane."

"The only one who what?" he mutters, dragging his mouth along her jaw and nipping at her earlobe.

Arya shudders. "The only one who felt it. That bond." Aegon's fingers slip into her hair and he angles her head so that his teeth may gently scrape at the junction where her neck meets her shoulder, his nose pushing the neckline of her blouse away from the spot he wishes to taste. "When we were sparring, it was suddenly as though you'd…" She gasps at the feel of his tongue traveling along her collar bone.

"As though I'd…?" the king murmurs against her skin. There is a smile in his voice as he does.

She swallows. "As though you'd bled into me and then it was your blood running through my veins. Dragon's blood, hot, like molten steel."

He nods. "Yes. I feel it too." Aegon pulls at her blouse, untucking it from her breeches and sliding his palms against her bare back. The cool of her flesh soothes the burning in his fingers. "You are a part of me now, as I am part of you. How, then, can you deny me? We belong together. There is no other way forward. Nothing else makes sense."

"Aegon." His name is a soft entreaty on her lips.

"You understand this. I know you do." The king draws back, staring into the girl's eyes, reading the torment in them. "You must yield in this. For the sake of our peoples, for Jon, for my own sanity." She bites her lip, blinking up at him, and he can feel her uncertainty, her waning resolve. It spurs him, and he presses her in hoarse, feverish whispers. "I will give you anything you want. Everything. All that I have, all you could possibly desire. Name your price, Arya, only marry me before I descend into madness and despair."

The queen releases her lip and takes a halting breath in. He reads the conflict in her eyes, but there is a growing hope there, too. She is on the cusp of acceptance, and he drops to one knee, pressing his cheek against her leg. He feels her gliding her fingers through the hair atop his head and relaxes into her touch.

"Please, my love," he breathes, eyes closing at the feel of her fingers gliding over his scalp. "Marry me, and together, we can set this world to rights."

"Should the threat from beyond the Wall come to the North…"

"We will use all our strength to send it straight to the seven hells."

"And Jon?"

"Shall marry who he wants, and live as he chooses."

"Rickon?"

"He will be as my own brother and inherit all that belonged to your father."

"What of my loyal bannermen?"

"I will honor the terms of the marriage contract."

"This point was still in dispute, as I recall," she says.

He gives her what she wants, capitulating on every last point the two councils had been debating. "They will retain all their lands, titles, and rights. You will award what belonged to the Freys and the Boltons and any other traitors as you see fit. No one will interfere."

"Not even Lord Connington?"

"Especially not him."

"I am not ready for children."

For the first time, Aegon balks. "My love, we must have heirs."

"Eventually. But I will not be told by any maester or septon or meddling councilor that I cannot ride, or fight, or…"

"Arya," the king says, drawing his head back so that he can look up at her, "I have no wish to change anything about you except your marital state."

"You say that now, but when I am with child, your child, you'll…" The smile on his face as she speaks draws her up short. "What?"

"When you are with my child," he whispers, "I will be the happiest man in the whole of the world and will not deny you anything."

"I'm serious, Aegon. I won't be corralled, or controlled, or kept locked away, no matter how you may insist it is for my own safety."

"Is this all that hinders you from accepting my suit?"

"It may seem a small thing to you, but I will not surrender my freedom. Not for anyone."

"My love, do you forget I have lived my life in Essos? That I've sailed along the coast and down rivers all over the continent?"

"What of it?"

"How many women with ripe bellies do you suppose I've watched wash their laundry along the banks or draw water from wells or help their husbands gather their harvests? Daenerys says Dothraki women ride until their waters break, then slip from horseback only long enough to labor and suckle their newborn babes before they are riding again. Do you suppose I think you weaker than a washer woman or less capable than a savage's concubine?"

"Will you not see it differently when the woman is your wife, and the newborn babe is your own blood?"

Aegon rises then, towering over her once again, parting her knees to move between them so that he might wrap his arms around her. He presses his lips against the top of her hair, breathing in the scent her ladies have dabbed behind her ears. Cinnamon. Ginger. Cloves.

"I will not stifle you," he promises. "I will not deprive you of your autonomy. I don't wish to strip you of your power, I want you to share in mine." He tips her chin up with one finger, reading her expression. "Does this not make you happy?"

"It does," she murmurs. "It should."

"Then why do I see sadness behind your eyes?"

Arya swallows. "I…" She begins to chew her lip. When he brushes it with his thumb then tugs it from between her teeth, her sad look intensifies until a single tear spills from the corner of her eye and trails down her cheek. He cannot help but to kiss her there, feeling the wetness against his lips. Somehow, this seems to soothe her. She breathes in deeply and says, "I had an idea once. A thought of where my life would take me. I find I have arrived in a different place now and no matter how… how wonderful this place may be, I can't help but grieve that other place. The place I never reached. Do you understand?"

Aegon nods, cupping her face in his hands. "You have arrived at the place you were always meant to be, the place you were destined to inhabit," he assures her with conviction. "I shall never cease my efforts to make you see it." This time when he kisses her, he feels the exact moment she gives in to him. It's in the way she almost melts into him, the way she meets the fervor of his mouth with a passion equal to his own. It's in her soft moan when he grips her neck.

When he ends their kiss, his brow furrows as if it hurts him to do so. "Say you'll marry me, Arya," he demands. "I need to hear you say it."

Her grey eyes go wide and though she almost chokes on them, he hears the words he has longed for since before he crossed the Narrow Sea.

"I'll marry you, Aegon. I will."

"Oh, my love," he breathes, the ache in his chest easing all at once. He presses his lips to her forehead, her nose, her cheek, each kiss punctuated by that same endearment. "My love. My love. My love."

---

Oh, My Heart—REM