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In the past fortnight the royal party had been in Winterfell, Aemon was not without either Robb or Arya.
The latter always promised him some grand adventure, and more often than not the two of them burned the day away by playing silly games in the godswood until they were breathless and sweaty and dirty and succumbed to laughing fits, or giggling to themselves as they nick hot fresh loaves of bread or scones from the kitchens, but this day was different.
Today she led him to Winterfell’s glass gardens, and he inspected the outside of it. Panes of glass were wedged between the thick slabs of granite stone that matched the castle. Aemon had been told before that Winterfell had been built upon a system of hot springs that fed through the stone like blood pumping in a man’s body, and that seemed to be the case here as well. Moisture misted the inside of the garden, and the silhouettes of the workers within were distorted and darker shades of the green and yellow of the glass panels. Utterly unbothered by the presence of others, Arya held onto his hand and led him to the door, the glitter in her grey eyes as she looked back a little promise of adventure.
Who was he to deny his cousin on her name day?
The prince passed the threshold, and was taken with the deceptive size of the inside. Rows of assorted trees, fruits, vegetables, and flowers were sectioned off. Cherries and apples and squash, tulips and blueberries and raspberries, much and more spanned the length of the area. Cooks were tending to the vegetables in one section. Baskets of various sizes were filled with carrots and leeks and onions. They spared them a furtive glance from time to time, but generally paid them no mind.
Two things truly caught him. The first was the scent of the room itself, familiar and comforting, though this was his first tour of the gardens. It was warm and earthy, and it hit him that this was the smell that clung to Arya’s skin. Wind and water and freshly tilled earth, blended into one as if the gardens themselves formed her. He took a deep breath, briefly closing his eyes as he let his mind wander.
The second was how hot it was in here. Not hot enough to stifle one’s breathing, but warm enough for perspiration to dot his brow. But despite the sweat on his hand, Arya’s grip was still on his, tight and sure, and he continued to follow her lead.
The air was very sweet here, and they stopped before a little field of shrubs. Blackberries, he thought, his mouth watering. Did she know the fruits were his favourite? Some of the five-petaled flowers were still in bloom, while fruit bore in other spots—some pink and red, unripe and sure to be sour, while others still were fresh, dark, and ready for picking. Arya filled her hand with those, and offered them to him with a shy smile.
Aemon scooped up half with eager greed and shoveled them all into his mouth, relishing the taste. He felt the liquid dotting the seam of his lips. This is not princely, he thought, unbidden as his tongue subconsciously darted out, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Arya’s cheeks were puffed with fresh fruit and the juice was already staining her lips a deep purple, a stream threatening to escape further and down to her chin, and he wanted to laugh at the sight. It didn’t help that one of the cooks chased them off so comically, slow and lumbering, telling them that they needed those berries for the night's pies.
She wiped her mouth with the back of the hand. “I want you to see the flowers,” she declared, jutting out her chin in a stubborn pout.
He nodded his assent, his smile never leaving.
Arya led him to the section of flowers, the sweet smell mingling with earth.
“I love the smell of this place,” she confessed. “The covered bridge where you can see the whole of the yard is my second favourite spot.”
He quirked a dark brow. “You never told me that you liked flowers.”
“Why would I bring you here if I hated flowers, stupid?”
“Because you enjoy spending time with me, little cousin, isn't it obvious?” He snorted, following her as she named more. Red flowers, blue, pink and purple, the colours of the rainbow were on full display. She plucked a sweet-smelling blue flower and brought it to her nose before reaching to tuck it behind his ear. “You are holding me hostage with games and adventure because you know how impossible it is to deny you anything. I can see right through you, Arya.”
“But it's my name day!” A ghost of a smile traced her lips. “Why wouldn’t I want to show you my favourite spots?”
He ruined her hair further with a ruffle. “And that’s why I’m here, little cousin.” Though I’d still be here even if it weren’t your name day.
Aemon’s gaze travelled until he spotted a rosebush off in the distance. Now it was him leading her somewhere; he inspected the bush until he found one to his liking. Smiling, he withdrew the little blade his queen mother had gifted him and sliced it off with ease.
“What are you doing?” Curiosity littered her voice. The smile was still plastered on his face when he slanted his head.
“As thanks for the berries, allow me to make something for you.” He ran the blade down the stem, slicing a few thorns off before he looked back up at her, raising a brow. “Do you object?”
She sucked her lip between her teeth and chewed. He took her silence for acceptance, and so he continued his work.
As his fingers danced, he had launched into a tale of how the Queen Lyanna taught him the names of various flowers, and he had committed them all to memory—gillyflowers and poppies, dragon’s breaths and thistles and everything in between until she eventually plucked a red rose for him. Back then, he had taken the petals off, one by one, carefully twisting the stem to impale them on the thorns to mimic the one she wore, but then she picked another one and showed him how to make a flower crown proper. The queen’s hands were strong as she cut off the thorns and twisted and wove, feeding one and then another through the weave. By the time she had finished, there were four fat roses sturdily braided in a thick tangle of stems, one for each side.
And remember, her lilting voice softened as she put the crown on him, no one wants to be pricked by thorns, Aemon. Make sure you remove every one.
Lost in his memory, Aemon followed her old instructions until it was well-fashioned enough for him to rest it on Arya’s head, the weight making it sink in dark tufts. Instead of one on each side, he had made a crown of three roses littering in the front.
“My mother was my father’s Queen of Love and Beauty, at the tourney at Harrenhal,” he said absently. “Father says she does her duty well, but sometimes I think she prefers the first crown he gave her.”
His hand found her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. Was it just him or was she…glowing? He was caught by surprise, and he found himself watching her. Sparkling grey eyes, a pink flush to the cheeks, a rough tumble of dark hair in loose northern braids, a smile as wild as she herself…she is pretty.
Very pretty.
He broke from his thoughts with a blink and a cleared throat. “There,” he said, straightening. “Now you are my Queen of Love and Beauty.”