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Aegon drummed his fingers on the table, slumped in his chair.
Small council meetings usually served to be quite entertaining with each member angling for their own agendas and snapping at each other like warring dragons. But meetings that droned on about the tedious details of this event or that were hardly tolerable. It was even less so when the event in question was about a royal progress through the North.
The largest of his kingdoms, it promised to be the coldest and dullest. They hosted few tourneys and no masks at all; singers and mummers scarcely dared to tread there; and if his brother’s squeamishness over southern food was any indication, Northern dishes were likely even blander than the rest of the northern kingdoms. Though the land was vast, it was sparsely populated. This venture required slow travel between each holdfast, taking far longer than any other progress that had come before. And it would surely be made longer still with all the maidens who would be pushed at him by their ambitious families.
“Once Your Grace reaches Winterfell, you will be greeted by your aunt, the Princess Daenerys, and her husband, Robb Stark,” Grand Maester Vorian said, as he read off the papers on the table in front of him. “And of course Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn, as well as their youngest son, Rickon. They have a son in the Vale who will not be in attendance as well as their oldest daughter, who is wed and living in the Westerlands. Otherwise, there is only your… um, Lord Stark’s nephew, Jon, and his lordship’s unwed daughter, the Lady Arya.”
“Of course, each holdfast will boast an unwed maid they’re eager for me to meet,” Aegon said impatiently.
And his mother would surely weigh the potential of these girls as a future good daughter and queen. Even now, Mother gave him one of her looks from across the table. But he was too annoyed to care.
“I had best prepare for that unwed daughter of Lord Stark’s to be my constant companion at meals and hunts,” he said. “I’ll be lucky if she agrees to wait outside the door when I make use of the privy.”
Uncle Oberyn and Monford Velaryon chuckled while the shadow of a smile touched Ser Arthur’s lips, but the rest of the table only looked impatient or indulgent. Mother’s smile was sharp enough to carve his tongue out.
“Your Grace will certainly treat all of these ladies with every respect and courtesy,” she said.
“I certainly will,” Aegon said, shifting in his seat. “I am your son, after all.”
And he did.
Though the king thought himself safe in White Harbor as both Wynafryd and Wylla Manderly were wed, he immediately found himself surrounded by a distant Manderly cousin and two Woolfield girls. After making the long journey to Barrowton, he became the unofficial property of Lady Branda Dustin, who strove to spend the bulk of each day at his side. She attempted to spend the night with him as well, but his guards held her off. At Torrhen’s Square, Aegon felt complete sympathy for Eddara Tallhart, whose fair skin seemed to burn with embarrassment each time her father pushed her in the king’s direction. Deepwood Motte was a reprieve for Aegon as the oldest daughter of House Glover was a child. That didn’t stop her parents from extolling her virtues nor Aegon from being coerced into commending her singing voice, which came out as more of a shout. Thus far, the journey resembled nearly every other royal progress he had endured since reaching manhood, only much colder and with far less entertainment.
Through it all, Aegon maintained his mask of charm and graciousness, saving his annoyance and frustration for private moments.
“Well, Mother?” Aegon asked one morning as they broke their fast together in his pavilion. The North was even chillier than he imagined despite the spring season, so both braziers burned beside them as they huddled in their furs. “Have any ladies made an impression on you?”
“It is you they must make an impression on,” Princess Elia said, taking a sip of tea. “Besides, this is no quest for courtship. You are here as their king, to hear the voices of your people.”
“You might wish to inform my leal lords of that.”
Mother set the teacup on the table and straightened her posture. “Love, you know you must wed. Would that you had married years ago.”
Aegon might have pointed out that he would have been wed years ago had she not been opposed to giving both her children to House Tyrell. Growing up, he and Rhaenys had been unofficially betrothed to Margaery and Willas Tyrell as rewards for their House remaining loyal during the Rebellion. But the centuries of blood between Dorne and the Reach proved stronger than the comparatively new alliance. As pragmatic as Mother was, she couldn’t fully see Reachmen as anything but the enemy. In trusted company, she even argued that Mace Tyrell had done little more than sit on his rump outside Storm’s End while most of the fighting, dying, and negotiating took place elsewhere. Each time the Tyrells urged for the weddings to take place, Mother politely delayed and prevaricated. Once Rhaenys turned 16, their wedding could be delayed no longer. Yet, that very wedding celebration resulted in Uncle Oberyn crippling the groom when they met in the lists. Abruptly, House Tyrell no longer desired any more royal matches. While Mother had been sympathetic toward her good son, she happily began to look elsewhere for a bride for Aegon.
The trouble was, she and the council couldn’t agree on anyone. So the quandary stretched on well after the regency ended. A Dornish match would serve no purpose other than showing favoritism to the princess’ region. The daughter of the Sealord of Braavos would lose her value as a political match once her father died and the daughter of the Archon of Tyrosh would no longer be important enough once her father’s term ended. Rhaenys and Daenerys were already betrothed and then wed. Asha Greyjoy was the daughter of a twice-over traitor. To choose a Blackwood or Bracken was to court the enmity of the other House. And on and on the debates went until Grandmother finally persuaded Mother that Robert Baratheon’s daughter would be ideal … only for the old rebel to quite rudely refuse after spending more than a year pretending to negotiate.
But rather than mention any of that, Aegon filled his mouth with spiced eggs.
“If you were to find a bride in the North, the place to look will be Winterfell,” Mother said.
Aegon covered his mouth to stop from sputtering the eggs out in surprise.
“You would have me wed one of Jon’s cousins?” he asked once he managed to get the food down.
The king had been a babe in arms during Robert’s Rebellion, yet he knew well what his father had done to Lyanna Stark from his history lessons and a very uncomfortable conversation where Mother explained his father’s visions to him and Rhaenys. No matter what his father’s intentions had been, Aegon had a difficult time imagining that Lady Lyanna’s brother would be eager to grant the king his daughter’s hand in marriage. If anything, he had already prepared himself for the possibility of dealing with someone even more hostile toward him than Robert Baratheon, no matter how strong his relationships with Jon and Robb were.
“The Lady Arya is of the highest birth and she has ties to nearly all of the Houses who rebelled against your grandfather,” Mother said. “Binding these Houses to us in marriage will leave Lord Baratheon with far fewer allies, should he consider war again.”
Though the princess’ expression remained serene, he knew her well enough to see rigidness in her posture and the falseness in her expression. This prospect gave her little pleasure, but she must see it as necessary.
Aegon nodded, returning to his breakfast. “Well, I am certain to have plenty of opportunities to consider her once we reach Winterfell. Indeed, I’ll scarcely have time to do much else.”
Even if Lord Stark opposed the match, his wife or daughter was like to feel differently.
Upon riding through the gates of Winterfell, the king was reunited with Daenerys and all her good family. Though approaching his aunt first was the proper choice, given her royal rank, it had been agreed that he would grant his host pride of place to set them all on the right footing. All of Winterfell knelt even as he greeted them with far more enthusiasm than he felt in that frigid air.
“Rise!” the king called, swinging down from his sand steed and handing Embers’ reins to the groom who hurried forward. “My lord! Dany! Everyone! Rise!”
Aegon pulled the man who must be Lord Stark, given his age and strong resemblance to Jon, to his feet and grasped his shoulder familiarly.
“Well met, my lord!” Aegon forced himself to ignore the needling cold and smile broadly. “I have heard tell of the might of your seat. I am pleased to see there was no exaggeration.”
Lord Eddard Stark was far from warm toward Aegon. He paid his king the exact amount of respect required.
“Your Grace,” he said, long face solemn. “Winterfell is yours.”
Aegon couldn’t help but move down to the right to embrace Dany, rather than the left where Lady Stark stood.
“It has been too long,” he said, as she squeezed him in return.
“You must tell me everything that couldn't fit into a letter,” Dany whispered.
He proceeded to grasp arms with Robb and made the acquaintance of Rickon, before returning to Lady Stark to bow his head over her hand and kiss it. And at her other side, he found the unwed daughter.
Lady Arya was a lovely young woman with her father’s lean face, dark hair, and grey eyes. Seeing her beside Jon, he couldn’t help but think that they looked even more like twins than Margaery and Loras did. Lady Arya was polite enough with a curtsy and a greeting, before allowing him to kiss her hand. But what stood out about her the most was the way her grey eyes failed to follow as he moved on to embrace Jon. When he turned away from his brother to introduce the rest of his party, Aegon noticed that the young woman’s gaze had instead followed his black sand steed as he was guided away.
That night, Aegon was fully prepared to lead Lady Arya into the great hall for the feast, where she would surely be rooted at his side. Instead, he was paired with Lady Stark while Jon did the honor of escorting Arya to the table just below the dais. He found his hostess so charming and handsome -- particularly because she made no heavy-handed case for becoming his good mother -- that when the time came for dancing, he happily asked to lead her in the first.
“My thanks, Your Grace, but my dancing days are done,” she said with a gracious smile. “I will leave it to you young people.”
“Of course, my lady,” he said, before stepping down from the dais to do his duty and approach the unwed daughter with a slight bow of his head. “Lady Arya, would you do me the honor of leading the first dance with me?”
The young woman blushed prettily as she gave her assent. Aegon found her to be a lively partner both in her steps and in her conversation. The first dance was fast and rowdy with Arya practically leading him along, which was for the best because he wasn’t familiar with the steps. Each holdfast they had visited thus far had kept to southron dances. Somehow, he was only just now realizing that. Was this meant to be a slight?
Aegon only had the briefest moment to glance at Lord Stark, whose frozen face was steadily being thawed by Mother’s sunny conversation, before Arya turned him the other way. His host didn’t appear resentful or angry, no more than he seemed pleased or gracious.
“Are you all so slow on your feet in the south?” she asked, before tacking on, “Your Grace.”
Aegon raised his eyebrows. “Forgive me, my lady,” he said as pleasantly as possible. “This dance is new to me. I thought it best to follow your lead so I don’t collide with anyone.”
Arya’s mouth opened and she slowed a touch. “Pardons. I thought you would be practiced at our dances by now. You have been in the North for almost two moons.”
“I ought to have learned the steps to your dances before I came,” the king conceded, though this had never happened at any other seat he visited. But to point that out might be taken as chastisement for not catering to his preferences. Arya had no hesitation at chastising him.
“You should have,” she agreed. “Every time we travel to another region, my septa and lady mother have me learn the different customs, so I won’t look stupid while I’m there.”
Aegon’s own mouth dropped open at that. Through his surprise, the king couldn’t decide whether he was offended or on the verge of laughing. Did she just call him stupid? She did! In a roundabout way. Completely oblivious to the backhanded insult she had just delivered, she continued on.
“I must needs learn more of Dorne soon,” she said. “Mayhaps I can teach you the steps to our dances and you might show me a few Dornish ones.”
“Your family means to visit Dorne?” he asked.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Arya said. “The next will be a Southron dance.”
Sure enough, "Fifty-Four Tuns" began to play once they took their places and Aegon found himself back on familiar ground. This one had them spinning apart to the beat of the music to swirl about with different partners before returning to each other’s arms. The king found that his gaze remained tethered to Arya as she flitted about, graceful and spirited. A fierce, bearded man garbed in black and white whispered something in her ear that incited a booming laugh from her as he spun her around. The young lady continued chuckling as they were reunited.
He had to wait until the third dance to ask after the other man. This one was slower and the king found himself oddly grateful that they weren’t required to part until the end, allowing free conversation.
“Is he a sweetheart of yours?” Aegon asked, slightly inclining his head in the direction of the other man.
Arya laughed again, a smile transforming her face. “He and his father would like that.”
“But not you?”
“I like Harry well enough,” she said. “That’s Harrion Karstark, the heir to Karhold. I don’t know if you met him yet. Lord Karstark has wished to wed him to Sansa and now me. His younger brother wed Wylla Manderly a few years ago. But poor Harry...”
“...was kept in reserve for a daughter of Winterfell.” Aegon nodded. There was sense in that. If Lord Karstark hoped to get any of his sons wed to a high lord’s daughter, it could only be his heir. “But you only like him… ‘well enough’? At least he makes you laugh and you wouldn’t be too far from home.”
That was the struggle with both Rhaenys and Dany being wed to heirs of regions outside of the Crownlands. The three of them had grown up as close as anything, only for each of them to be stolen away by marriage. They had once shared a nursery and now only exchanged letters. At least Arya would remain in the same region as her family. Then again, travel in the vast North was an agonizing struggle and he couldn’t recall exactly how far off Karhold was since that holdfast was not on their itinerary for this progress.
“Harry was making mock of your dancing,” Arya said, a light chuckle in her voice.
Aegon felt a flush searing up his neck, humiliated anger flaring through him. His gaze darted about the hall looking for the other man, but he couldn't find him quickly enough to avoid being blatant.
“Don’t be cross!” Arya cried. “I defended your honor and told him he would look a fool in a southron court. But you ought to practice with me or Dany.”
“Of course, my lady,” he said automatically.
“But to the rest of what you said….” He noticed Arya frowned, clearly considering. “I don’t know that I want to remain at Karhold. Or anywhere. The best part of courtship is seeing new places and meeting different people. If I wed Harry or the Small Jon, I bet I would scarcely leave their holdfasts let alone the North. But if I married someone like Edric Baratheon or some other southron lord, it would be the same, only even further from Winterfell.”
“Mayhaps you’ll wed a traveling singer,” he suggested.
Arya laughed. “My lord father and lady mother would sooner let me wed a wolf. Anyway, singers almost never come so far North. I wouldn’t see Winterfell again. But can you tell me about your horse? It’s a sand steed, yes? I’ve never seen one before.”
She asked him a great deal about Embers and the other horses he bred. The king took to the topic eagerly. Uncle Oberyn had instilled a love of the art in him. Only after a song and a half had passed did Aegon fully realize that they had partnered each other for four dances in a row.
“Embers is the seventh horse I bred and trained myself,” he was saying as she answered his bow with a curtsy. “He-”
“We have to change partners,” Arya said abruptly. “Father’s glaring at me. We’re only supposed to dance with one person three times at the most. Usually not even that unless you’re married or betrothed. That’s a rule in the south too. A stupid rule. We finally got to a good conversation and we have to stop. My thanks, Your Grace.”
With that, she strode off. Aegon watched her walk away, dumbfounded by the brusque parting. Of course, he could only be grateful that she wasn’t clinging to his side, but still. With a shake of his head, the king forced himself to continue on as an amiable guest through the rest of the feast.
“There go your plans for a match between us,” the king said upon the morrow as he broke his fast with Mother, Elia Sand, and Ser Arthur in his solar. “It would seem Lord Stark and his family are nearly as disinterested in a second marriage alliance as Lord Baratheon.”
Everyone at the table looked up at him, eyes wide as though he’d gone mad.
“I thought last night showed very good promise,” Mother insisted.
“You danced with Arya half the night and kept sneaking glances at her for the rest of it,” El said, a smile touching her eyes. “It was disgusting.”
Mother nodded. “You may wish to be more subtle in your courtship. Mayhaps only two dances at the next feast. If you must dance with her thrice, at least take other partners between each one.”
“I am not courting her,” Aegon insisted.
“Fear not,” El said, turning back to her crispy bacon. “Even if you were courting her, Arya didn’t seem to notice. When we talked last night, she didn’t mention you once. It was quite nice.”
Aegon doubted that. He was the king. Of course he would come up at least once. But he didn’t want to encourage this line of discussion, so he agreed instead.
“There you are,” he said. “Not only is Lord Stark opposed, but Lady Arya has no interest either.”
“I wouldn’t say Lord Stark is opposed,” Mother said. “We have yet to broach the subject.”
The king laughed. “He couldn’t have been colder toward me if he was the Wall itself. It goes without saying. I’m only grateful he has become fond of Dany or her life here might be a misery.”
She sipped her tea slowly before setting the cup down. “Lord Stark is a reserved man by nature. You will find no false courtesies or easy jests with him. That doesn’t mean he wishes you ill or even mislikes you.”
Aegon shrugged. “I suppose I will see if you’re right at the hunt today.”
As with most things, Mother had the right of it. Lord Eddard was cool by nature, but that didn’t make him unkind or quarrelsome. Riding with him and the rest of their party during the hunt proved far more enjoyable than he expected. Along with the Stark men and knights of Aegon’s own retinue, El, Dany, Lady Arya, and a few other ladies rode with them as well, donning breeches with crossbows strapped to their saddles. Though the Northern bannermen who accompanied them -- particularly the Karstarks and Umbers -- made unveiled jibes at the king, he was forced to laugh through their words and silence them with his prowess in the hunt. Without an unwanted companion shadowing his steps, it was shocking how much he was able to achieve. Even that Harrion seemed to grant Aegon a grudging level of respect by the time the sun began its descent.
“You ride well,” Lady Arya said as she reined up beside him on their return to Winterfell.
“Ony well?” Aegon asked, knowing that he rode expertly.
“Fine, more than well,” she conceded. “But is that more your skill or the horse’s?”
“Both,” he said, softening his arrogance with a grin.
Arya grinned back. “For true? I’ll race you back to Winterfell?”
“Done.”
In the same instant, they broke away from the rest of the party, shouts from the others trailing in their wake. Aegon claimed the early lead, though he had to admit that Embers was mostly responsible for that with his effortless speed.
“Wrong way, Your Grace!”
He turned in time to see Arya racing down a path to the left. Turning his horse about, he backtracked and rushed after her, a Kingsguard knight struggling to keep up. Embers closed the distance between them easily as they sped through the Wolfswood. Just as he was about to outstrip her, Arya swerved away to the right, once again forcing Aegon to wheel around and follow. This happened thrice more before he realized what was afoot.
“Where are you leading us, my lady?” Aegon asked, breathlessly as he sped up beside her again.
She laughed, before shouting, “Winterfell!” Abruptly, she turned again and called back, “The long way around!”
Aegon chuckled and put his heels into his mount and charged after her.
A few more twists and turns through the woods finally brought them back to Winterfell’s grey walls. Though the king knew he should have been annoyed, the sight of her from behind, seamlessly weaving through the trees, had him twitching in his breeches.
When they finally reached Winterfell, the rest of the hunting party had already dismounted, their steeds being led away.
"I thought to find you here when we arrived,” Jon said, bracing for Arya to drop down into his arms. He caught her with an exaggerated groan. “Did you stop by White Harbor on the way back?”
“I gave His Grace a better tour of the Wolfswood,” Arya said as she strode over to Embers. “I wanted to put this beauty through his paces to see what he can do.”
Dismounting, Aegon noticed that she made sure to catch the sand steed's eye before stroking his neck as if asking permission. As he watched Arya admiring the horse, Aegon found himself longing to say something clever and splendid, like he was some green boy desperate to impress the very first girl he fancied. That girl had been Allyria Dayne, the first person he kissed when they were just three and ten, or near enough to make no matter. Arya looked nothing like her, yet, something about this Northern girl brought Allyria to mind even beyond their love of horses.
Since he could think of nothing interesting to say, Aegon winked at her when she glanced over at him and strode away to chat with Jon and Robb.
“How have you slept since coming to Winterfell?” Dany asked the next evening.
After a day of holding court for the nobles in the Great Hall, his aunt had invited him to dine with her and Robb in their quarters. Since she had heard of Arya’s promise to teach him Northern dancing, she invited her good sister as well as a number of the other young people in the castle to join them for practice after the meal. Several merry hours were spent stepping on toes and colliding with each other, but the hour of the owl approached and their party was drifting away leaving the king and his aunt to sit alone in a window seat while El regaled the others with the story of the first tourney she entered as a mystery knight.
“How have I slept? Very we-” Aegon began with a standard response, only for the serious expression on her face to silence him for a beat.
Had she seen it too? Just thinking of the dreams brought on the sensation of heat from those pillars of fire that encircled the roaring beast. Or perhaps that was only the warm wall against his back.
“A dragon,” he confessed. Though he knew for a certainty that it was not but a dream, the king still awoke shaken from the experience. “I’ve dreamed of an orange and red dragon each night I have slept here. He’s caged in flame. I know him and he knows me.” Aegon noticed her silver brows furrow as she nodded. “You had the same dream?”
“I have that dream at least once a fortnight,” she said. “Only my dragon is purple and silver.”
“What do you think it means?”
Dany gave a shrug. “Old Nan claims there’s a dragon heating the castle. But if there were dragons here for true, their eggs would have been lain during the Dance.”
Aegon nodded. For them both to have this same dream must mean something.
“We ought to have Rhaenys and Viserys spend a few nights here,” he said. “Grandmother too. There might well be dragons here for all of us.”
Dany looked up at him, genuine alarm in her eyes. “Viserys with a dragon?”
Aegon laughed. “Surely the gods wouldn’t be so cruel.”
The weeks that followed showed just how important these royal progresses were to the peace and governance of the realm. Each time the king held court with the Starks and Dany arrayed around him, he knew that he wasn’t just hearing the concerns of the people, but was gaining their acceptance and hopefully their regard. Similarly, with every hunt, feast, game of bowls, or training session in the yard, the once suspicious or even hostile lords gained a level of respect for their king, though some still granted that grudgingly. Mother made similar inroads with the ladies of the castle and the smallfolk during the women’s court that she held with Lady Catelyn, Dany, and Arya.
“Most women simply indulge us when we host these courts,” Mother said one morning. “That Margaery Tyrell even thought to suggest that a woman was more powerful when she guided her menfolk subtly rather than taking direct action.” She let out a laughing scoff. “She was well-meaning, of course. But Lady Arya seemed to marvel at the women’s court. I won’t be surprised to hear that Arya continued the practice once we leave.”
The princess glanced up at him. “That is if she doesn’t end up in King’s Landing with us.”
“Is that your way of asking after the state of our supposed ‘courtship’?” Aegon asked.
The smile lines around Mother’s eyes deepened.
“Well, we aren’t spending nearly as much time together as most of the other ladies I’ve met,” he said. “But I think I’ve grown to know her better and I believe we like each other well enough.”
“Only well enough?”
Aegon studied the flaky biscuit on his plate. How could he describe to her just how much his spirits rose when he knew he would spend more time with Arya? Or how he eagerly left the warmth of the castle more than he ought just to accompany her -- along with several others -- on a ride or to the winter town? Or how he thought of the way she moved, in a dance or in the saddle, well into the night?
Just the day before Aegon found himself watching Arya swing into the saddle in one fluid movement and couldn’t help but imagine her climbing astride him in a similar manner. El nudged him and he turned to see her snickering.
“Stop,” he had commanded.
“Stop what? I’ve said nothing, cousin.”
“You’re thinking it. Stop.”
“Mayhaps you ought to be more concerned with what you’re thinking,” El whispered. “You might as well be screaming it all over your face.”
But he needn’t say anything to his Mother because she had a way of reading his face too.
The princess smiled as she stirred the sugar into her tea. “Ah, I see. I have grown to admire her as well. I have long feared that whoever your wife might be wouldn’t continue the advancements your grandmother and I worked so hard to make. But Arya told me she liked the women’s courts and she is a very assertive and opinionated little thing. She will do well as queen.”
Aegon opened his mouth to refute the idea that the matter was settled. Yet, no words came.
Of all the women proposed as a potential wife and queen for him, Arya was the first one he could easily imagine slipping seamlessly into his life. In his mind’s eye, the king could see her arguing along with the others during small council meetings, hunting and riding with him in the Kingswood, receiving petitioners during court, and making diplomats who visited from across the sea feel like old friends. Even aside from his growing affection and her high birth, Arya was ideal.
Now he only needed to broach the subject to see what she thought.
On a midmorning ride, Aegon intended to draw Arya aside when they went riding with the others, but she unsettled him with a question about a very different prospective groom.
“Do either of you know Edric Dayne?” she asked him and El. “We were invited to Starfall to meet him. His aunt hinted at a match between us. If we like each other, that is. What manner of man is he?”
Aegon stared at her. Was she telling it true? Or was she bringing in a false rival to test his interest in her?
Arya stared back, her dark brows slowly furrowing as the silence grew.
“Is this Edric Dayne ill-natured?” she asked. “You’re my friend. You have to tell me if he’s an ass.”
The king couldn’t but laugh bitterly at that.
“No, my lady, he is among the best of men,” he admitted.
Arya continued to frown. “You don’t sound very happy about him.”
“I’m not,” Aegon said, before putting his heels into Embers and speeding forward.
“Don’t mind him,” he heard El say as he rode off. “Ned’s a good sort.”
By the late afternoon, Aegon had regained his composure in time for Dany’s daughter, Alarra, to convince him to attend her in the godswood. Only his affection for his little cousin could make him brave the light dusting of spring snow that had fallen sporadically throughout the day. The ruddy-haired girl showed him all her favorite places amongst the ancient trees as he hurried after her beneath a few layers of fur. At some point, Arya appeared, the septa in her wake. Though she didn’t join them, instead she kneeled before the heart tree for a time, Aegon felt her gaze on them from time to time.
“You’re good with her,” Arya told him once Alarra had been diverted by a group of servants’ children and the septa had begun to nap beside a tree.
“She’s a delight,” Aegon said, edging them closer to one of the hot springs.
“And about two handfuls,” she said fondly, before screwing up her face. “Aren’t you all sweaty and hot under all those furs?”
“Hot?” the king cried. “In this unnatural weather?”
“It’s spring!” she insisted.
“How can this be spring when there’s snow? I don’t know how you don’t all freeze to death.”
“The hot springs keep us warm,” Arya insisted.
“Why do you think I’m standing here?” he asked, nodding his head toward the bubbling water beside them.
“You’re still shivering,” Arya noted. “You ought to get closer.”
What she did next was foretold in her movements beforehand. This was no sneak attack. He could have easily blocked the attempt. Yet even while it was happening, Aegon struggled to believe it.
Arya shoved him.
As he fell, she tried to scurry out of his reach, but Aegon managed to grasp her arm and pulled her into the steaming water along with him. Despite his longing to stay warm, the abrupt heat nearly put him in a state of shock that forced him to release her.
Breaking the surface, gasping, he found Ser Robar Royce of the Kingsguard crouching beside the hot spring. The knight’s unhelmeted face was a study in perplexed concern.
Aegon laughed. “Stand down, Ser Robar. I think I’m safe.”
Just then, Arya sprang up too, sputtering. He laughed even harder.
“You stu-” she literally bit her own words back, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip. “That was unkingly.”
“That was unladylike,” he shot back.
“So is this.”
Arya jumped and kissed him lightly… only to volley a wave of hot water at him the second they parted.
This time, when she sprang away, he wasn’t fast enough to grasp her, forcing him to give chase. Slippery as an eel, she proved impossible to catch, dodging this way and that, laughing all the while. The soggy furs that now practically swaddled him, didn’t help matters. But thankfully, he had an ally.
“Caught you!” Alarra squealed, jumping Arya from behind.
The pair of them went under long enough for Aegon to catch and embrace both of them.
“I’ve caught you both,” he said, holding her tight against him.
Briefly, he considered kissing her, but the child might start asking questions.
“You could never catch me on your own!”
“Arya!” Septa Florence cried, hurrying to her feet. “I – You- Forgive me, Your Grace, but this is not proper.”
But her charge didn’t seem concerned.
“We’re only playing with Alarra,” Arya said.
Aegon disentangled himself from the embrace as casually as he could. It wouldn’t due for there to be any question that this betrothal was prompted by him compromising her.
“All the same, you will want to get out of those wet things and dress for dinner,” the septa insisted, alarm in her every feature. “Alarra will as well.”
“You ought to stay in there,” Arya said once she climbed out.
“Your Grace,” the septa hissed.
“Your Grace,” she repeated, never breaking eye contact with Aegon. “It’s even colder once you get out.”
They kissed again in the stables once El left them alone after a hunt. Neither of them said anything at first. Arya strolled over, smiling almost shyly. Once the distance between them was closed, she tilted her face up to him. Bowing his head to meet her the rest of the way was the most natural thing in the world. Mouth hungry against hers, the king soon had her against the opposite wall. Her ferver matched his own, her hands grasping at his hair and clothes. Had she been wearing a gown, the king might have had her skirts up to her waist. As it was, his hands roamed over her freely.
Arya tore her face away from his. “You ought to meet me in the godswood. Tomorrow night. The hour of the owl.”
Promptly, Aegon arrived in the castle godswood the next night and ordered Ser Robar to wait without. Arya was already there. By the light of the moon, they could scarcely make out each other’s features, yet they were upon each other in seconds, picking up right where they left off.
“Was El… right?” Arya asked, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses down his throat. “You want me … to mount something … other than your horse?”
Aegon drew back and studied her. What did she mean? And then he recalled his cousin’s jape from a few days past. “Don’t be fooled, my lady. It’s not the horse that he wants you to ride.” He shook his head.
“El was right,” he said and reclaimed Arya’s mouth.
After a moment, with great struggle, Aegon stepped back. Gods willing, they would have plenty of time for this later.
But the king struggled to find words. With a jolt, he realized that he wasn’t certain how Arya would respond to a proposal of marriage. She certainly liked him physically, but there hadn’t even been a hint at marrying. For the first time in his life, Aegon found himself completely uncertain of a positive reception of his advances.
“I spoke to my lady mother about you today,” he said.
Just that morning, he had finally confessed to Princess Elia that he couldn’t even consider leaving the North before pressing his suit for fear that her hand might already be claimed by the time he consulted with the small council.
“I have no notion how she feels or what she’ll do next,” the king had fumed. “It’s vexing! Beyond vexing.”
Mother had exchanged a look with Ser Arthur.
“She baited you with her indifference,” she said with the look of a barely concealed laugh tugging at her lips.
“Not complete indifference,” he had insisted, hoping that was true.
When Arya said nothing, he continued. “I asked her what she thought of a match between us. Between you and I. Mother thought it a good notion. Do you? Do you wish to marry me?”
The silence that stretched tore his insides to shreds.
Had she truly meant to make use of his body and then move on to wed one of his vassals? Aegon couldn’t even begin to fathom that.
“You don’t wish to marry me?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Arya said. “I like you. I more than like you. I-”
And she was kissing him again, her rough hands framing his face.
“I don’t want to leave Winterfell forever,” she said, her breath warming his lips.
Had she just agreed? The unfamiliar anxiety that had taken hold of him alleviated in an instant and he folded his arms about her waist.
“We can return from time to time,” Aegon said.
“Can I choose my own ladies and companions?”
“Some of them,” he said. “But you can’t be seen as only favoring the North.”
“Will I sit on your council and be at your side during court?” Arya asked.
Aegon could only grin against her palms. Yes, he realized as they continued to discuss terms. Arya would serve as exactly the right kind of queen he and Westeros required. He didn’t often like being wrong, but this progress had turned out to be the farthest thing from dull and while he held her close, he couldn’t even complain too fervently of the cold.