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Chapter Text

Jon Targaryen dreamed of ice and wolves, and a winter storm that stretched on for eternity.

He stood at the edge of a cliff, one foot planted firmly in the white snow, the other hovering over an endless pit, black and void and beckoning him with seductive fingers.

His heart stuttered in his chest, and try as he might, he could not move his feet, could not step back from the madness onto the safety of the earth. Jon considered yelling for help, but when he looked up, all he could see were hundreds of wolves. For miles and miles, they dotted the landscape, a myriad of colours, yet all silent. All watching.

The air was still and he could taste droplets of snowflakes hanging in the mist, biting his skin and rubbing it raw. He glanced up - anywhere but the abyss before him - and saw the rolling of black clouds inching closer and closer to him, arching out forever, dark with promise, dark with secrets. Wind whistled around him, through him, licking his skin and slicing his cheeks with bitter cold.

He shivered.

“Don't be afraid,” a voice whispered in his ear, gentle and soothing. “You are home here.”

His head whipped this way and that, trying to find the source of the sound, trying to find -

“Jump!”

He snapped back to void, fear slamming into his chest like a war hammer. It was coming from there, he was sure of it! The velvet blackness seemed to swirl under his hovering foot, twirling around his ankle and reaching for him, reaching...

He recoiled, his body spasming, only to dislodge his other foot and tumble down, down, down into the darkness. Silence enthralled him in an embrace and he could no longer see the grey skies, or the army of wolves. He floated, bodiless in the dark, and so very, very alone.

Not like this! his mind cried as his lips refused to scream for help. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth and his eyes watered at his body's betrayal.

I don't want to be alone! I don't want to be forgotten!

A lone wolf cry pierced through the void.

“You're never alone,” the voice whispered in the abyss, lighting a warmth in his chest that spread to the very tips of his fingers.

“You're home, with me.”

oOo

Jon rolled out of bed and fell to the floor with a heavy thump.

Groaning, he ran a hand over his face, violently rubbing at his eyes to erase the dreams. Visions of white snow and howling wolves and black, black, black invaded his thoughts and he let out a frustrated sigh as he dragged himself to his feet. Pain pierced through his head, rattling his ears and igniting stars behind his closed eyelids. With another irritated groan, he reached blindly for a goblet at his bedside, draining it in one swallow. It burned his throat, and he winced slightly before breathing out in relief as the waves of pain ceded like the tide.

Every night, for moons now, Jon had these dreams.

And every morning, Jon would wake up with a raging headache not even his worst hangover could compete with.

He'd once considered the idea that, perhaps, they weren't just dreams but prophetic, such as the Targaryens once had. Prophecies that found it necessary to pound their way into his skull and sear themselves against the back of his eyelids. It seemed a reasonable explanation. Rhaegar was said to have had such dreams in his youth, though Jon loathed the idea of sharing this with his father.

But he'd made the mistake of once mentioning it to Aegon, who had shrieked with laughter before calling him a witch and pestering him to dream a vision of Barra the kitchen maid in his bed. That had gone on for weeks, and by the end, Jon had learned his lesson.

“They're just stupid dreams. They're just stupid dreams,” he muttered to himself repeatedly as he dressed and left his room. Saying it aloud seemed to help.

He entered the Queen's Ballroom, where his brother and sister sat conversing over half-eaten plates of toast and eggs, places notably absent by their side. There was no sign of the King and Queen, but that was hardly unusual. King Rhaegar often broke his fast alone in his solar, and Queen Elia was either tending to duties or resting, as per the Maester's orders. They rarely all ate together.

The hall was his favourite in Maegor's Holdfast, clad in beaten silver mirrors and richly carved wood. Candles were scattered around the room, dimly dancing in the breeze from the open high-arched windows that sat along the south wall. His steps echoed across the white marble floors as he approached the table; a long decadent slab of grey stone, carved with dragon heads, Valyrian runes and scribbles from the time Aegon held a butter knife in his six-year-old palm and decided to redecorate.

Jon passed by the mirrors of the northern wall and spared a glance at his reflection. He did not consider himself a vain man, but his mouth twisted at the dark circles under his eyes, a patchwork of blues and purples framing eyes of grey. His dark brown hair stuck up in tufts around his head, and he ran a quick hand through the wild strands in an effort to resemble half the prince he was supposed to be. There was nothing for the hollowness in his cheeks, and he winced at how pale his skin had become.

“Are you done primping yourself up, Jon? I'm flattered you want to look your best for me, but I'm afraid I'm a betrothed man.”

Aegon's airy voice drifted in his ears, and Jon could see his brother's amused face over his shoulder in the mirror. A smatter of jam spotted the corners of the Crown Prince's mouth, the edges quirked up in an insufferable grin plastered on a face Jon would rather walk on coals than admit he'd missed. From his brilliantly-violet eyes the colour of the sky at sunset, to the silver-white threads of his fine hair, to the casual confidence in his shoulders of a man who knew he held the world in his hand: Aegon was every bit the proud heir to their dynasty.

It had been about six moons since Aegon and Rhaenys had moved to Dragonstone to tend to their duties as its Prince and Princess, whilst Jon had remained in King's Landing to help their father, and three nights since their return to the capital in anticipation for a tourney in honour of their wedding. Though he'd never tell them, Jon had missed his brother and sister fiercely while they were away, and it was this thought that spread a smile on his lips as he turned away from the mirror to join them at the table.

“You caught me, brother,” Jon replied with false shame laced in his words, “And here I was counting on seducing you.” He took a seat opposite Aegon as the other barked with laughter.

Breakfast was brimming with choice, from the small towers of buttered toast and soft hills of pies and bacon to the baskets of glistening fruit, painting the table with countless colours. Jon felt his stomach lurch like a ship on angry waves and instead opted to grab one of the Dornish apples, his appetite little from his restless night.

A clatter of cutlery from his left drew his attention and he looked over to see Rhaenys, their eldest sibling, smirking with mirth. “After my crown, are you?” she asked with mock anger. “I always knew you wanted to be Queen, Jon.”

“Guilty. And I've been jealous of your pretty dresses.”

She grinned at him, her dark lips spreading to reveal a row of white teeth. Where Aegon shone as brightly as the sun, Rhaenys glistened like jewels in the night. She was wrapped in gold silks that kissed her bronze skin like a lover, her delicate features aquiline and soft. Her obsidian eyes were lit with humour, and he knew she hid a sharp tongue behind her gracious smile. She tossed her oiled hair over her shoulder and Jon watched the flames of the torches dance on the black ringlets like mad men in a ritual.

The three of them were as different as the elements, yet they were bound by the same blood that coursed through their veins. The blood of Old Valyria, the blood of dragons.

Not that he felt particularly reptilian that morning. His grin faded as he bit into the apple, letting the sweet juices rest on his tongue briefly before swallowing with some difficulty, his stomach still churning unpleasantly.

He felt a hand resting on his arm, and he looked up into his sister's knowing gaze.

“You aren't sleeping properly,” she said accusingly, a furrow in her brow. “You've lost weight since we left.”

Jon shifted under her intrusive stare, unused to such attention, his mind sifting through excuses. He didn't particularly feel like discussing his nightmares, not when they'd finally been reunited after the most difficult half-year he'd known. He opened his mouth to laugh her concern off when Aegon, as always, beat him to it.

“Quit being a mother hen,” his brother intruded with a snort, “He's fine, aren't you, Jon?” At his half-sibling's nod, he rubbed his hands with enthusiasm. “Brilliant! Then if you aren't feeling too fragile, perhaps a spar is in order? I've been dying for a decent fight for moons!” He sighed melodramatically, as his sister rolled her eyes at him.

Jon hardly needed a moment to consider before he chucked his half-eaten apple aside and leapt to his feet. “I'll show you just how fragile I'm feeling. Shall we?” he said with a grin.

Aegon blew Rhaenys a quick kiss goodbye before the pair raced to the training yard.

oOo

The clanging of steel sang a sweet song that echoed in his bones as Jon danced to its light rhythm.

He twirled away from Aegon's slices on the balls of his feet, swinging back in retaliation in a graceful arc that whistled in the air.

It was here, in the training yard amongst the sweat and dirt and curses that Jon felt the most free. It was in the lightness of his steps and the laughter on his lips, and more than once, he almost believed he was soaring. Above the clouds, as delicate as a feather, the kiss of steel as cold as the breeze on his cheeks, just out of reach of the claws of the palace.

It was, perhaps, the most at home he could ever feel at the Red Keep.

Trickles of sweat raced down his face as Aegon continued his onslaught, the searing sun burning into his skin and radiating a blazing heat that carved into his bones. His chest began to stretch in pain but he refused to relent, meeting every single one of his brother's strokes with his own, harder and faster. It was only when Aegon had ducked under one of his strikes that he faltered, and was rewarded with a sharp sting across his lower back that had him on his knees and gasping for breath.

“Bending the knee for me already?” Aegon jested, his words punctuated by heavy panting as he stood over Jon, a smirk slapped on his face. “I'm not King yet, but I appreciate your enthus-”

The rest of his words were swallowed by dirt as his face slammed against the sandy floor. Jon had kicked his legs out from under him, and he felt great satisfaction at watching the Crown Prince splutter indignantly, his silvery hair smattered with red dust like flecks of paint.

Jon let out a hearty laugh. “Well met, brother. It's been a while since I've had to work that hard,” he said as he dragged himself to his feet.

Aegon narrowed his eyes at Jon's offered hand, before grabbing it to yank himself up. “Fragile, indeed,” he snorted. “How’s your back? I doubt Rhaenys would be pleased if she heard I brutalized our little brother so soon.”

Jon reached out and winced when his fingers brushed against his spine. It wasn't the worst hit he'd received, but he was expecting a lovely splatter of bruising in the morning. “I'll live and I'm hardly your little brother,” he replied with good humour, as the two princes sauntered over to the weapons depot to hand their swords over to squires for cleaning. “How's your face? I doubt Rhaenys would appreciate it if I ruined your looks, since it really is all you've got going for you.”

His brother threw back his head in laughter in response.

They had just entered the Holdfast and were about to separate to their respective rooms when they saw Rhaenys walking briskly down the hall towards them, her skirts flying behind her like wings.

“You see that, Jon,” Aegon nudged him on the shoulder as they watched her approach. “So in love with me that one is, couldn't wait for me to bathe first before being all over me. Find yourself a woman like that.” He flashed him a grin before turning to his betrothed.

Rhaenys was finally upon them, and glanced in distaste at their dirt-streaked clothes. Aegon leaned in for a kiss, and she held up a hand to stop him, her nose wrinkled in disgust as a waft of their pungent stench drifted in her nose.

“Do not touch me until you have bathed. This is a new dress, I'm not having you ruin it. I'm here to give you a message,” she ordered in a clear voice, ignoring his wounded look. She straightened her shoulders and her dark eyes burned into each of theirs, her face twisted in a grimace. “I thought it best if I were the one to inform you that the King and Queen have arranged for us all to dine together tonight. Viserys and Margaery will be joining us as well. Dress appropriately.”

She sighed at her brothers' horrified expressions, and waited for their outbursts.

“I don't want to eat together! Vis puts me off my dinner and I don't want to see him-” Aegon began sullenly, but one look from his sister cut him off.

“This isn't about you, for once,” she snapped, her voice hardened with steel. It was the tone of their mother and Jon muffled a chuckle at how quickly Aegon's teeth clanked shut, with the look of an admonished child. “It's one dinner, Egg. We may not like it, but Mother is insisting on our best behavior, and I intend not to disappoint her.” Her words left no room for argument, but Jon's thoughts were already far away.

“Who is this about? Is there to be an announcement?” he asked his sister, dread settling in his heart. At Rhaenys' look of pity, it turned to lead, and the euphoria of sparring with his brother again burned into ashes in his mouth. He was no longer flying, but sinking deeper and deeper into melting stone, his breaths constricting as his lungs struggled for air.

Aegon noticed the sudden change in mood, and glanced between his two siblings. “Oh come now, it could be anything!” he insisted hesitantly. “Maybe Margaery's cunt has stopped shriveling up every time Viserys is in the room and we'll have a new hellspawn hatching in a few moons.”

Jon howled with laughter as Rhaenys smacked her betrothed on the chest in indignation.

oOo

He was back in the Queen's Ballroom that evening, but instead of open windows and fresh breezes, the curtains were drawn and the room was stifled by countless torches greedily inhaling the air in the room so he could barely breathe. The dark wooden panels he admired so much seemed black in the golden light, the mirrors mockingly reflecting the sombre faces tenfold. His fine doublet felt itchy and he resisted the urge to adjust it, keeping his hands frozen by his sides.

There was nowhere to look, so he simply stared at his plate in sullen silence.

He sat opposite Viserys and Margaery. Rhaenys was beside him, straight backed and prodding her food gently, and next to her, Aegon, seated on the King's right, and as rigid and still as Jon thought him capable. The King and Queen, as per protocol, sat on opposite ends of the table, the distance that engulfed them as endless as worlds apart.

The silence was heavy and thick as dark poison, and Jon would occasionally glance up to observe his family's reactions.

Viserys lounged in his chair as he always would, sipping wine and looking around the room with a mild distaste that was forever carved into his features. Jon wondered if he'd been raised with horseshit in his crib to look like that. His wife, Margaery, sat in perfect grace by his side, the very image of a dignified princess as she daintily bit into a boiled carrot. But Jon could see the edges of her mouth tipped ever so slightly into a frown, and the set of her shoulders screamed discomfort. He almost pitied her. He would not wish this life on anyone, but ambition was a double edged sword, and the Tyrells loved to grasp it with both hands.

The seat beside her was noticeably empty, once belonging to his aunt Daenerys. He suppressed a grimace. Dany had been unbelievably lucky when Elia had broken her betrothal to Viserys and handed her to Quentyn Martell as a sign of good faith between the Crown and Dorne, and Viserys to the Tyrells as a reward for their loyalty. Jon winced at the memories of the King and Queen's rows echoing through the palace, but even Rhaegar had relented when Jon Connington had applauded Elia for her decision.

Dorne had not recovered from the slight of Rhaegar's transgressions with the daughter of House Stark, despite their own princess crowned as Queen not even a full moon after the Rebellion. Elia had been disgraced, and Sunspear demanded compensation. Giving them Rhaegar's sister had quelled much of the fires that still burned two decades later, and Jon knew Daenerys' letters laced with happiness had Rhaegar gritting his teeth and relinquishing to his royal wife.

Jon was pleased that his aunt had found adventure and love, but part of him resented her - resented all of them - for leaving him behind.

Aegon had left him six years ago to squire at Sunspear under the brazen eye of Oberyn Martell. He'd returned not two years later, full of bawdy jokes and stories filled with women and exploits that Jon could hardly dream of experiencing. Rhaenys had kept him company in that time, and he'd grown to appreciate her quiet, graceful presence - but it was only a matter of time before she, too, would be burdened by duties as the Crown Princess, residing at Dragonstone and far too busy to devote attention to the spare brother.

The spare. His mouth twisted at that, and he gripped his fork harder for it.

“Aegon.” His father's voice rang deep and clear around the hall, and from the corner of his eye, he saw his brother grit his teeth in response.

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“You've been here for three days now,” the King continued. “There are matters you must attend to regarding the tourney and the wedding. I thought some time away at Dragonstone would cool your head, but it seems you are just as averse to your duties as ever.”

A clanging sound marked the end of the King's remark, and Jon heard Rhaenys suck in a breath as his head whipped around to its source.

Aegon had thrown his knife and fork back on his plate, and sat back to level a glare at their father, his eyes raging black and purple, the promise of summer storms. “Rather rich coming from you,” he snapped, “Rumour has it you haven't attended court in two weeks. Find a new prophecy to ruin someone's life over, Your Grace?” The last two words were growled with deep contempt.

“Aegon!” Rhaenys hissed, reaching out to grab his arm. He shook her off.

The King returned his furious stare with a cool look, a dispassionate expression in his eyes that made Jon shudder. It was worse, he thought, than seeing him angry. There was a hollowness to Rhaegar, an abyss that threatened to swallow one whole if they gazed at it enough. It made him seem almost inhuman.

Their father opened his mouth to retort, but it was the Queen's voice that was heard.

“Enough, Aegon,” Elia said softly, but with iron. “Control yourself.”

The reaction was instantaneous. Aegon's shoulders, rigid with fury, immediately slumped and he hung his head, asking for forgiveness. Rhaenys relaxed as well, and Jon heaved a quiet sigh that a disaster had been averted. There was one every time.

They resumed eating with less enthusiasm, a remarkable feat given the lack of its abundance beforehand, but by the time Jon found enough energy to lift the fork to his mouth, the King was calling his attention.

He felt everyone's eyes swivel to bore into him, and he resisted the urge to shrink. “Yes, Your Grace?”

Rhaegar simply watched him for a few moments, and Jon squirmed in his seat under his intrusive stare. He hated it when his father looked at him, there was always a trace of sadness - and yes, bitterness - that lined his exquisite features. Jon knew what, or who, he saw, and it sent a shot of pain through his body like a lightning bolt every time.

“This tourney isn't just for Aegon and Rhaenys,” Rhaegar finally said, “You've seen twenty namedays now, and I need not remind you of your duty as a Targaryen prince. Since there is none for you to marry at home, I expect to find a bride for you amongst the Houses that have received the honour of our invitation.” He sat back and waited, almost expecting a rebellion.

His heart stuttered in his chest, and Jon struggled to take deep breaths to calm his flickering nerves.

Marriage. A wife. A family. Duty, do your duty. There is nothing for you but to do your duty.

He felt his hands begin to shake with...fear? Rage? He was not sure. One quick glance around the room told him everyone was staring at him, with green and purple and black eyes, with pity and challenge and even malicious glee from Viserys. It tore at him, and he wanted to scream.

He'd been a fool to think Rhaegar would let him out of his sight. He'd gone on this long without being shackled to a betrothal he did not want, and he'd childishly believed that maybe - just maybe! - Rhaegar may have granted his one wish to travel the Kingdoms and find his own honour. Perhaps establish a name that was not burdened by the blood of thousands and the death of a Rebellion. It was a hope that helped him rise from his bed each morning and trudge through the day, trapped in this gilded red prison where he was a prince, but no better than a bastard. Forced to suffer through the barbs and the glares. The boy whose birth tore the world apart.

But that hope, that delicate bird that fluttered so gently over his heart, had been crushed and butchered and buried in grey stone.

A betrothal meant a marriage before the year was out.

A marriage meant a wife, and children, and a duty.

A duty meant never leaving the Red Keep again.

Hysteria bubbled in his chest, and he hardly heard Aegon protesting for his cause as the world began spinning around him. Just as he thought he might throw up, a sudden sharp pain slammed into his legs, and he doubled over gasping.

“Jon!” Rhaenys exclaimed next to him, a hand resting lightly on his back. He gritted his teeth and grasped his knees, feeling the throbbing fade away as quickly as it had come.

“I'm...I'm fine,” he managed to splutter, the haze of pain receding enough for him to notice everyone's shock. Heat enflamed his cheeks, and he avoided their eyes as he swayed to his feet. He felt tears begin to blur his vision. No, no, he could not cry here. Not in front of his father. He could not be seen as so weak.

“May I be excused?” he asked Rhaegar, desperately. It was considered rude to stand while the King remained seated, but at that moment, Jon could not give less of a damn for propriety.

At Rhaegar's nod, Jon whirled on his feet and bolted to the door, ignoring his brother's calls behind him. He ran past Arthur and Jaime at the door, avoiding their questioning looks as his feet pounded the marble floors towards his bedroom.

Once safely inside, he locked the doors and sank to the floor, struggling to control his breathing.

Stupid, stupid, stupid! he thought angrily. He'll never listen to you now! I cannot be such an emotional wreck every time I see him!

His shoulders shuddered as he hunched over himself, allowing waves of pity to wash over him, cool against his skin.

In a beat, he recalled the lashing pain on his knees, disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. With a frown, he removed his boots and rolled his breeches higher to see if he'd accidentally scraped anything, though he could not recall any bruises when he'd bathed earlier.

The skin was smooth and untouched. He prodded it gingerly, but nothing happened.

Just a freak moment, he thought absently, as he climbed to his feet and threw himself on the bed, fully clothed.

A flicker of a heartbeat later, he was asleep.

Chapter Text

The delicate, fragrant scent of the godswood hung suspended in the air. It twined and shivered around her ankles like grey smoky snakes, dissipating when Arya violently cut through it to hack at a tree.

Sweat beaded her forehead, despite the chill, and she gritted her teeth as she carried on the onslaught upon her imaginary enemy. A blunt training sword in one hand and fury on her tongue, she thought she could taste the tang of blood in her mouth.

It's not fair! she thought furiously. She cannot make me do this!

Her hair was sticking to her neck, and Arya grimaced in discomfort. She hadn't planned on brutalizing a tree this morning, but her mother's casual remark of Lord Umber arriving later that day - with his son in tow - had her bolting from the room as quick as a fox, without a bite to eat. Her stomach grumbled in protest, but she refused to acknowledge it. If she crawled back to the castle now searching for food, there was sure to be a trap in the kitchen waiting for her. She would not give Lady Stark the satisfaction.

She was alone in the vast expanse of nature, standing amongst the sprawl of summer flowers that swayed in the breeze in a trance. Through the gaps of the great green canopies, she glimpsed a pale blue sky with dotted clouds, the calm seas to the storms of her black thoughts.

So far, no one had come looking for her, and Arya could not decide whether she was pleased to be left alone, or wounded that no one had bothered to see how she was feeling.

Another particularly violent blow lodged her sword in the thick trunk, and with a groan, Arya struggled to pull it out. She tried pushing off the tree while grasping it, and even kicked it a few times. It refused to budge, and she suddenly found herself without a means to vent her anger, which had hardly waned despite her efforts.

With little else to do, she sank to her knees and rested against the trunk.

Leaning her head back, she let her thoughts drift like the rolling clouds above, focusing her breathing in a steady rhythm as she'd seen her father do when he had to control his temper. It worked a little, and the black curling rage slowly receded to a grey haze of bitterness.

She knew she could not escape her fate forever. Sansa had married Willas Tyrell just past her fifteenth nameday and had been betrothed for two years prior to that. Arya had seen six moons since her last nameday, and at fifteen years old, she had yet to even consider a betrothal, let alone be married to one.

Time was slipping through her fingers like wisps of mist, and she clambered to grasp at it desperately. She was at the end of the tether, she knew. Robb was expecting his child any moment now, Sansa was in the South, Bran was squiring at the Karstarks and little Rickon even had plans to leave for Riverrun soon to learn under the Blackfish.

All had plans and destinies and their life mapped out before them, clear as day, each intricate detail carved into stone. They simply surrendered to the strings of fate as they were yanked along their journey like idle puppets.

Arya did not have that. When she looked ahead, she saw nothing but blackness and uncertainty; a blank canvas before which she stood poised, brush in hand, waiting for a masterpiece that never came.

Winterfell was shrinking, and she anticipated the day when she would wake up and find she could hardly find space to breathe as the walls closed around her. She loved her home, loved it with the ferocity of wildfire, but the murmurs and hard looks at the unruly daughter of Stark were beginning to chip away at her, little by little. Soon she would be full of holes, watching her dreams pour out like wine at a feast.

She shuddered.

Arya knew what she did not want. She did not want a fat lord for a husband, with greedy eyes and grabbing hands. Who fell in love with her name and her blood, without sparing a glance at the face who owned both. Who'd cut the reins of her horse and feed her practice sword to the fire, demanding her to do her duty.

Duty. Her lips curled at that. Duty to him, but never to herself. To always be one step behind him, but never his equal. She would sell her dreams of adventure for a husband she would not care for, for a castle she would not love, for a life she would never want.

She snorted. What a trade!

The snap of twigs drew her out of her musings, and Arya twisted her head to see her father walking carefully towards her. Lord Eddard Stark looked like he belonged in the godswood, with his dark brown hair the colour of the aging trunks and his gentle smile that always reminded her of the Old Gods, in one way or another. His eyes sparkled with mirth as it caught the protruding sword above her head, and he muffled a chuckle.

“It appears the tree was victorious this round.”

Before Arya could argue, Ned had yanked the sword out with force, leaving behind splinters and bark to pour onto her head, a crown of wood chips caught in the tangled nest of her hair.

Silently, he handed it back to her and she hesitantly reached out to grab it, tucking it by her side and using her body to hide it out of sight. It was one of her most precious belongings.

With a quiet grunt, Ned lowered himself beside her, and leant against the tree, shoulder to shoulder.

They sat in companionable silence, Arya chewing her lip in deliberation and Ned simply absorbing the musical twitters of the world around them.

Soon, the anticipation grew too heavy and Arya finally bursted with, “I'm not going back. I don't want to see the Umbers, or anyone she invites.”

Her father breathed out a weary sigh, and Arya felt a pang of guilt shoot through her. She didn't mean to give him such grief, she loved him more than life itself.

“Arya, dear, what exactly do you want?”

The question took her by her surprise, and Arya found her mouth hanging open wordlessly. Ned looked at her expectantly and she realized with a heartbeat that he wasn't simply asking about the Umbers.

Her mouth snapped shut, and she pondered over her words. They were there on her tongue, light and sweet, and ready to escape into the sunlight - waiting for so long for the opportune moment to finally reveal themselves.

“I don't...want to be forgotten,” she said carefully, watching her father's face twist with surprise. “I don't want to be remembered for the man I married, or how many sons I bore him.” She shrugged and began playing idly with the strands of grass by her feet. “I want to be Arya Stark, and I want that to mean something. I just want...more.”

Her last word was whispered to the air around them like a secret, her cheeks growing warm as her father remained still beside her. She shifted uncomfortably, going over her words again and again to see if she'd said something to upset him, when she felt a warm hand on her head and a gentle finger on her chin turning her to face him.

Ned was smiling at her, and relief flooded her veins. “I know, my pup. You are a wolf in more ways than you know, and wolves are not made to be caged.” He kissed her lightly on the forehead, his lips tugging into a small frown. “But you are also a daughter and a lady - Arya, don't look at me like that, it's the truth - and you know you have a duty. We all must face it, one way or another. I did mine as your brothers and sister are doing theirs. You cannot escape it, child.”

Arya felt tears prick the edges of her eyes, and she twisted out of Ned's embrace to hastily rub them away. It stung, what he said, but they were laced with the distasteful flavours of truth and the stubborn streak in her heart refused to acquiesce.

A hand on her shoulder urged her to turn back, and she resisted for a moment, before all the fight drained from her body and she slumped against her father. She was far too tired to argue.

Ned rested his head on top of hers and stroked her hair gently. She let the warmth and love wash over her as the first fresh breath of spring after a winter storm, let it blow out the fires of her anger and bathe her thoughts with white.

He paused for a moment, before adding in a whisper, “Shall we make a deal?” His voice was low and secretive, as if afraid to disturb the delicate balance between them.

She perked up, and watched him through narrowed eyes. “I'm listening.”

He gave her a soft smile and tapped her on the nose. “I understand why you do not wish to see the Umbers, but they are our bannermen and deserve respect. Your lady mother will not offer your hand to the first lord she meets, so you need not fear a betrothal just yet. But if you return to the castle immediately and get dressed, without making a fuss. And promise to be on your very best behavior for the next few days -”

Arya crinkled her nose, but waited for him to continue.

“-then perhaps I may convince your lady mother to allow you to accompany me to the tourney at King's Landing. I know you've been quite keen to attend.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and she gazed wide-eyed at her father, afraid she had misheard. “Truly? You'll let me come with you?”

“As long as you agree to our deal, I don't see why not.”

“Can Rickon come too?”

“If Robb stays, then of course he can.”

Ned let out a surprised gasp when Arya suddenly threw her arms around his neck and he found himself buried in a thick, tangled mane of brown hair. Laughing, he squeezed her back, and Arya reveled momentarily in his sweet earthy scent.

“Consider it a deal,” she said when she finally unwrapped herself. Pecking him on the cheek with a wet kiss, she dragged herself to her feet and sprinted back to the castle; skirt in hand and hope in her heart, leaving behind a Warden staring after her fondly.

oOo

She resisted the urge to fidget.

Arya stood beside Lady Catelyn, with her father, Robb and Rickon on her mother's other side. They waited in the Great Hall, and Arya decided to glance around the room to distract her from boredom.

It was a space she'd seen everyday since she'd first arrived screaming into this world, and Arya was certain that she could build an exact replica of this hall from memory, stone by stone. Rays of sunshine poured in from the high windows, creeping along the grey granite walls like a thief, stealthy and slow. The white banners of House Stark fluttered gently with the soft breezes of the open windows, and Arya marveled at how the eyes of the direwolf followed her every movement like silent ghosts.

She was still staring at her sigil when the giant iron doors at the end of the hall swung open, allowing entry to two bearded men wrapped in furs.

Arya thought the man in front was quite possibly the largest man she'd ever seen. He was heavily muscled, with formidable eyes and a fierce stare as he approached her father. She noticed a greatsword strapped to his back, taller than Robb and wider than her entire body. Arya briefly imagined trying to wield such a weapon, and smothered a laugh at the picture of her small frame tugging at the steel monster.

Her eyes fell on the second man, one step behind, and all laughter died from her lips. Smalljon Umber, she recalled his name, was almost as large as his father and hidden behind a hornet's nest of a beard. She could hardly see his face. His hand was probably the size of her entire head, and Arya balked at the idea of being trapped under such a beast.

She stifled a cringe and pictured the tourney in her head instead to calm her nerves. Father had said she would not be betrothed today, and she desperately wanted to accompany him to the capitol. It had been a long time since such excitement had lifted her spirits, and she was determined not to disappoint him.

With an image of jousting knights and clashing swords in mind, Arya plastered on her sweetest smile as the Umbers stopped a respectable distance away.

"My lord of Stark," the Greatjon boomed, bowing his head. His son followed suit.

"My lord of Umber," her father replied, accepting the gesture with a small nod of his own. They held their poses long enough to be considered respectful, before Lord Umber's beard ripped open to reveal a boisterous smile.

Lord Stark returned his grin, and met him halfway to thump him on the back. "It's good to see you, friend," Ned said, his hand still on his shoulder. "I was beginning to think you'd never visit."

Greatjon laughed heartily at that. "As if you could keep me away." He turned to her lady mother and bowed deeply as Catelyn graciously inclined her head. "My Lady Stark, always a pleasure," he said as he reached out to kiss her hand.

Arya swallowed deeply as he exchanged words with Robb and Rickon, before finally turning to her.

"Why, if it isn't the Lady Arya!" he exclaimed kindly, appraising her with curious eyes. "My lord, I must congratulate you and your lady wife," he continued, turning to her parents with a grin. "You indeed make the most beautiful daughters." He looked back at her and she reddened at his son's intrusive stare over the Greatjon's shoulder.

Remembering her courtesies, Arya gritted her teeth and curtsied with as much grace as she could muster.

"Thank you, my-"

The rest of her words were swallowed by a sharp pain lashing across her lower back, and she sank to her knees with a loud gasp. It pierced her bones, and she struggled to inhale a deep breath to alleviate the discomfort.

Then suddenly, it vanished, and Arya was left blinking in confusion.

She realized with shock that her head was resting against...something. She dared to look up and noticed with horror that she had been leaning against the laces of Lord Umber's breeches, and the bannerman in question was staring down at her in bewilderment and shame.

Frozen, Arya could feel her mother's mortified gaze at her, frankly, obscene position burning into the side of her head. For a heartbeat, no one moved - until Robb spurred to life and yanked her to her feet.

Her hands were shaking with humiliation as she realized that every eye was trained on her in a mixture of surprise and distaste, and she furiously squeezed her eyelids shut to avoid meeting their stares.

"Are you alright?" she heard her brother whisper beside her, and she nodded mutely, unable to form words. Catelyn Stark was radiating displeasure from her side and Arya winced as it rolled off her skin and seared into hers. She did not dare look at her father.

Someone cleared their voice, and Ned's voice rang out deep and strong. "I think all pleasantries are in order. Perhaps your son and yourself would care to move our business to my solar, my lord?"

"Oh...yes, yes, that sounds about right," the Greatjon replied, recovering quickly from the scene. He turned to give the family a short bow, his eyes trained on the floor, before briskly following her father out of the room, his son trailing in his wake.

The door had hardly slammed shut when her mother whirled to face her.

"Five minutes. That's all that was required of you to behave, and you could not even manage that much!"

She peeked through her closed eyes at Catelyn's white face, and shrunk away from the fury she saw there.

"It wasn't my fault-" she began helplessly.

"Mother, I think Arya was in pain," Robb interrupted, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. She relished the warmth and comfort from his heavy touch, and it gave her a shred of confidence to stand a little straighter.

Her mother's face softened. "Is this true? Where does it hurt?" Her shoulders were still tensed with anger, but Arya felt relief that her eyes were no longer ablaze with dragon fire.

She shifted on her feet. "I-I felt something across my back," she said reluctantly.

Arya didn't want to create a fuss. It wasn't the first time she'd felt such pain, and certainly would not be the last. Probably just a freak moment. It wasn't worth a scene, and she had to remind herself several times not to argue back and set off her mother's fury again. Nothing was more important in that moment than convincing her father she was still keeping her side of the deal, and Lady Stark's temper was imperative to that.

Catelyn's face twisted with concern. "Your back? What on earth have you been doing, child, to hurt your back?"

"Are you still in pain?" Rickon asked over their mother's shoulder, peering at her curiously.

Arya swallowed as everyone watched her expectantly. "It sort of just...came and went. It doesn't hurt anymore. And I didn't do anything!" she said defensively. She hadn't! Her little excursion with the sword and tree this morning was hardly the most strenuous session she'd done, and she was certain she did not injure herself. Other than her pride, of course.

"You didn't do anything?" Catelyn repeated dryly, and Arya noticed with dread that colour was rising in Lady Stark's cheeks. "So you weren't in the godswood this morning with that infernal sword of yours?"

Her heart fluttered, and she saw her brothers' expressions turn to grimaces as they silently backed away. Rickon was already out the door in a breath, Robb close at his heels. Running to safety, no doubt, she thought bitterly.

"And if I was?" Arya retorted, raising her chin stubbornly. A voice at the back of her mind reprimanded her harshly - remember the tourney! - but she silenced it without thought. "I'm not stupid enough to hurt myself." They were alone in the hall now, and her voice bounced off the walls in shrill echoes.

"Clearly that isn't the case. You embarrassed yourself in front of your father's bannerman!"

"That wasn't my fault-"

"Aye, it most certainly was! You insist on defying me, Arya. If you hadn't been doing Gods-know-what all morning, you wouldn't have hurt your back!"

"I didn't hurt my-"

"Really, I've had quite enough of your wild ways!" Catelyn exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air. "You are banned from wielding any sword from this moment. I allowed this foolishness for this long, but you've clearly become a danger to yourself. This ends now."

Arya gaped at her, dread wrapping around her chest in a vice-like grip. No, no, no, this wasn't supposed to happen this way!

Tears pricked the edges of her eyes, and she furiously wiped them away with the back of her sleeve. "Mother, please," she pleaded desperately. It was all going so very very wrong. "Mother, I promise, I didn't do it on purpose-"

"You never do," Catelyn snapped. "Always an excuse, Arya. It matters not what you mean and what you do not, if the outcome is still the same." She turned away from her daughter and walked towards the door, a cold dismissal that cut Arya deeply.

"See Maester Luwin for your back," Lady Stark called over her shoulder. "And once you've been treated, hand your swords to Ser Rodrik and return to your room. Your father will deal with you later."

She did not spare a glance as she left the hall.

oOo

Her feet slammed against the floor as she sprinted towards the godswood, her hair whipping behind her like angry waves in a thunderstorm.

The grass crunched under her furious steps, and she felt a pang of regret as she accidentally trampled through a batch of sunflowers nesting between trees. They tore apart as she barreled through them, so she pulled to a halt to finger their withered petals lightly.

I ruin everything! she thought pitifully, as her eyes ran over the wreckage. Why must it always go so wrong?

A sob rose in her chest, and she suddenly felt the need to hide somewhere for a while, away from the prying eyes of the world where she would not witness its glare of disappointment.

Glancing up at the closest tree, she noticed the thick cluster of branches and rich canopy of leaves that wrapped around its trunk. No one would find her here.

It was difficult at first, with the layers of her skirt trapped between her legs, but a satisfying rip from the edge to her knees meant she could freely climb the bark and clamber into safety. Arya briefly considered that ruining one of her fine dresses would not earn her a soft spot in her mother's heart, but she was beyond caring as she huddled amongst the twigs and the leaves and relished the silence.

There was little use in pretending to be proper now. No doubt her father had considered their deal void, since her mother would hardly allow her to leave Winterfell now, let alone the North. Her mouth twisted at that. She hadn't even gone a morning without failing Ned Stark, and she desperately wiped her nose on her arm as the tears began to fall freely.

It wasn't fair! she fumed. So she'd fallen in front of Lord Umber. There were worse transgressions! So she'd found her face remarkably close to his manhood. It was an accident!

She winced at the memory, her cheeks flaming with humiliation at the horror on Greatjon's face. Her only consolation was that Sansa was far, far away, or she'd never hear the end of it. Robb would be far too mature to bring it up again, and Rickon would know she'd beat him with a spoon if he so much as snickered behind her back.

Mostly, she fretted over the loss of her training swords. Arya closed her eyes and rested her forehead against a branch, her chest now hiccuping with every breath. There was freedom in the wielding of a sword, a sense of anticipation as the blade waited for her to prove herself to the world. The greatest of legends were of one who carried a weapon in hand and boldness in heart. Arya always liked to think she had an abundance of the latter, and feeling the heavy weight of a sword in her palm almost had her believing she could be one of the greats. That she was more than her sex, a story that would be told for generations to come.

It was pure fantasy of course, Arya thought bitterly. But it was a lovely one. And now, she couldn't even have that.

Her mother had been waiting for a reason to strip her of her arms and place a needle in her hand instead, this Arya knew for certain. And she cursed herself for giving Catelyn the satisfaction today.

Her heart felt heavy in her chest, and as she nestled deeper into the tree - a cocoon from the Gods - she closed her eyes and prayed desperately.

It was hours later when a crunch of footsteps dragged her out of dreams, and Arya realized with a start that the sky was a midnight velvet, and she could hardly see her own two hands in front of her. Her body ached with being cramped in a tight position for so many hours, though she refused to budge as her visitor paused beneath her.

"Arya?" Ned's voice carried up, soft and gentle as a summer breeze.

She considered not answering, not wanting to give her presence away, but a sharp grumble of her stomach rang out into the clear night and she felt betrayed by her own body.

She relented. "Yes, Father, I'm here."

Peering over a branch, she could just make out the Warden of the North silhouetted by the bright moonlight, his face grave with concern.

"Arya, we've been looking for you all day. You cannot frighten your mother like that," his words were stern, but lacked the iron of true anger. She relaxed at that.

"I didn't realize she cared," she blurted bitterly. Her legs were protesting greatly now, and she shifted in discomfort.

Ned sighed, and ran a hand over his face. He looked so exhausted in the silver light, and Arya felt another pang of guilt bolt through her.

You aren't even a comfort to your own father, a cruel voice whispered. She shook it off.

"Of course she cares. Why on earth would you think otherwise?" Ned asked curiously.

"She told me I couldn't use my training swords anymore."

"She's been telling you that for years, darling, but it's never stopped you before."

Arya bit her lip. "It was different this time. She's never banned me, she just said she didn't like it." Her legs were screaming now, and her face twisted. Perhaps if she just stretched one leg a little...

She heard Ned chuckle below her. "You did create a little scene today, pup." His voice was light and pleasant, not dripping with chastisement as she had thought it would.

"It was an accident!" she exclaimed, perhaps for the hundredth time out loud. She'd managed to extend her right leg enough to soothe the discomfort, but even this brief respite was no longer enough.

"I know, Arya. Robb came to Lord Umber and myself later and said you hurt your back. He was quite adamant to assure us nothing untoward had happened. Worry not, love."

"I didn't hurt my-"

Her mouth snapped shut before she finished her sentence. Father was not angry, and Lord Umber was not insulted. There was little point in arguing now. She sent a thousand blessings to her older brother in that moment, and mentally made a note to sneak him his favourite dessert as a thank you.

But there was still one matter to consider.

"Can I still come to the tourney with you?" she asked meekly, daring to hope. She'd been so very upset at the idea of missing out on such a grand affair, and she wasn't sure if she'd ever have the opportunity again to meet someone like the Sword of the Morning, or see his greatsword Dawn.

Ned paused for a moment, but to Arya, it felt like a century.

"If you come down and return to the castle with me immediately, then of course you can, love."

A bubble of happiness bursted in her chest and filled her veins with warmth. But in her rush to climb down, Arya stepped on the hem of the torn fabric of her dress and slipped, sliding down the trunk and landing on her knees painfully.

"Arya!" her father exclaimed, rushing to help her up. She winced at the throbbing of her legs, and rubbed gingerly at the raw marks on her knees. They were sure to decorate her pale skin with a patchwork of bruises in the morning. Ned was looking at her with concern, so she grinned at him to brush his worries off, throwing her arms around his middle and squeezing tightly.

He chuckled and stroked her tangled hair lovingly. When she finally stepped back, he offered his arm gallantly. "Shall we, my lady?"

Any other time, her nose would have wrinkled at the label, but Arya was feeling as light as a feather in that moment. She laughed and curtsied gracelessly, her knees protesting, before slipping her hand in the crook of his elbow.

Together, they trudged up to the castle as a thousand stars twinkled above them.

Chapter Text

The sun soared over a sprawling maze of ramshackle buildings fighting each other for space, a network of alleyways winding around their feet like creeping vines. A towering wall encased the city, and patches of settlements scattered just outside its gates, civilians who weren't lucky enough to snatch a piece of the royal city for themselves. At the very top of the highest hill, gazing over the inhabitants like a deity, stood the immense Red Keep, blood-red and formidable. It was larger than Winterfell, but Arya thought her home was far more welcoming than this palace with towers shaped like black spikes angrily piercing the sky. She thought she'd absolutely hate to live there forever. It struck a chord of pity in her for the King and his family.

The radiant light of the afternoon sun bathed the city in deep golden hues, giving it an illusion of a romantic painting. Her nose wrinkled. It certainly didn't smell like a romantic painting should, and she stifled a gag as a particularly repulsive stench smacked her in the face.

"Father says this isn't anything like it used to be. The King's sewage system is almost finished," she heard Rickon say as he spurred his horse to trot by hers. The golden gate of the capitol stood proudly at the bottom of their hill, a mere hour away, and Arya's body thrummed with excitement.

She turned to her brother, his silhouette melding against the sapphire-kissed sky. He could be part of this painting, she mused absently, with hair as red as the stones of the palace and eyes as blue as the heavens above. Unlike her, of course. Arya didn't think she'd look particularly good in this image, with her grey eyes and plain looks. Art was beautiful, after all, and neither word was ever said about her. Those were for her siblings, who carried the summer on their shoulders, where she was winter to the bone.

And King's Landing, she thought, was truly a city of fire.

A retching sound from Rickon pulled her out of her musings, and she chuckled at her brother's miserable face. "Perhaps you ought to have a word with His Grace about his questionable system then," she suggested, and smothered another laugh at his pained expression.

He tied a cloth around his mouth and sighed in relief, before turning back to her with bright eyes. "Do you think Sansa would come? She said she'd try in her letters." Rickon's hopeful voice was light as a breeze, despite being muffled. Sansa used to be the one to tuck him into bed at night with a story and a sweet song, filling his head with dreams of princesses and knights in shining armor. Their considerable age difference meant Sansa often mothered him, quietening his fears of thunderstorms and chastising him for eating dessert before finishing his greens. He had been the most affected when their older sister had moved away, and she knew part of the reason he'd agreed in coming South was the possibility of seeing her again.

Arya gave him a sad smile. "Father said she'd be heavy with child by now. It's not safe for her to be on the road." At his disappointed look, she reached out and grasped his arm in reassurance. "But we can ask to stop by Highgarden on our way back! It's an extra few weeks on the road, but I'm sure Father wouldn't want to miss the opportunity to see her either."

Rickon reached up to remove the cloth covering his face and beamed at her, sitting a little straighter in his saddle. Arya didn't want him to be sad, she wanted him to share her happiness, and if that meant pestering her Father into going West after the tourney until he was wroth, then so be it. These next few weeks had to be absolutely perfect.

As the great gate loomed before them, her mind was soon far away, dreaming of jousts and crowds applauding and in her daydreams, they always cheered for her.

oOo

The sun trailed above him like a blazing comet, its searing rays carving into his bones and boiling his blood. He could feel the heat stroke his neck with slick fingers, slow and seductive.

He grimaced as he wiped the sweat from his forehead, pulling the reins of his horse gently to a stop to reach for the water flask strapped to his hip. Aegon paused beside him on his own steed to chug down his drink, too.

They took a moment to gaze out to the murky waters of the bay, glimpses of deep blue peeking through the strands of brown and grey filth that seeped into the sea. The waves curled and swayed under an endless blue sky, nothing more than a speck of cloud tainting its purity. Jon's eyes latched onto the horizon, and he felt the curdles of longing ache in the pit of his stomach. How easy would it be to steal a fisherman's boat and simply float away with the current? Not a care in the world but for the simple thirst to discover?

He violently shook the thoughts from his head. They were dangerous to even consider.

It had taken him three days after the disastrous dinner to work up the courage to approach the King with the intention of appealing his marriage decision. He had hardly slept in that time - a brief respite from the wolf dreams - but scarcely desired in this state. His head had been pounding, and he'd dreaded meeting his father without having his wits about him.

Jon's mouth twisted at the memory of that morning.

"I'm asking for one year, Your Grace," he had pleaded to an impassive Rhaegar. "I will accept the betrothal, but I ask for permission to see the Kingdoms before I am to be married. Perhaps be your envoy?" He had been so hopeful, thinking that acquiescing to Rhaegar's desire to find a wife during the tourney might grant him some leniency.

He should have known better.

His father had simply regarded him as one would an unruly child in the street, with mild curiosity and a hint of annoyance in twin pitiless pools of amethyst.

"I have my representatives already," he had said quietly, for his gracious King never raised his voice. A dragon did not need to roar to frighten sheep. "I see no reason why you must travel when you have everything you could possibly desire here at home. You are a prince with responsibilities and duties you cannot shackle to another to appease your wanderlust. The answer is no." The last word rang through the solar and pierced his heart like a dagger, its blade poisoning the blood around it.

He'd wanted to argue, to rage, to bitterly question why. Rhaegar had refused to let him squire away from the Red Keep when Aegon was permitted to leave for Sunspear. Aegon, the Crown Prince, when he was but the second son. Dragonstone and Summerhall were the only two places he'd been permitted to see, but one was his ancestral home and the other his birthright, so Jon hardly considered them a fair trade.

Instead, he'd bowed his head, bit his tongue so hard it bled, and turned on his heel. As he'd reached the door, he heard the King's voice call his name out.

"Yes, Your Grace?"

And that blasted hope rose from the ashes once more, only to be desecrated for the last time.

"Never ask me this again."

The sound of seagulls yanked him out of the despairing memory with a start. He blinked slowly and noticed his knuckles had whitened with pressure as he clutched his reins tightly in fury. Sighing deeply, he loosened his hold and dragged his emotions under control, letting it cede like waves on a shore. It had been weeks since that moment, there was little point in upsetting himself now.

He glanced at Aegon who was idly watching the workers mill around on the bay. It was one of their habits, riding by the coastline, an opportunity to clear their heads and grasp a moment of freedom from their responsibilities.

He bit his lip in thought as he considered sharing his exchange with Rhaegar. He hadn't told his siblings of what happened; he didn't think he could bear their twin looks of pity. There was little for them to do, anyway. They were as bound to the laws of their father as much as he was, though he struggled to see why his were so much more severe.

"Aegon," he began uncertainly, staring out to sea, "Why do you think Father doesn't want me to leave the Red Keep? It's peculiar, isn't it? It's almost as if he's afraid of something." One reason creeped into his thoughts unbidden, like a cruel, cold morning fog. He forced it away immediately, his stomach churning.

When his brother did not reply for the longest time, he looked over. Aegon seemed to be lost in his own musings so Jon prodded him on the shoulder.

"Careful not to think too hard, Egg," he said with a chuckle. "Wouldn't want you to hurt yourself. Did you hear what I asked?"

Aegon blinked in response, as if just realizing Jon existed. A frown tugged at his lips, doing little to mar his handsome face. "No, sorry, I didn't." He didn't sound particularly apologetic.

Just as Jon opened his mouth to repeat his question, Aegon suddenly blurted, "Do you think I'd be a good King?"

He was taken aback, a little annoyed at the interruption but he shrugged it off. It was a ridiculous notion anyway, to think something so sinister of his own father. For a moment, Jon considered mocking Aegon by saying he'd bankrupt the land in one night, but thought it to be distasteful. His brother looked far more serious than he'd seen him in a while, and he didn't think he'd appreciate his jest.

He furrowed his brow, and chose his words carefully. Jon had his own opinions, of course, but rarely did he voice them. There was little use in quarreling with the few friends he had. "You've been trained for this since birth, and you know your way around the laws of our land. I don't see why you wouldn't be alright."

"Alright?" his brother repeated with surprise. "I don't want to be alright, Jon, I want to be good. I want to be better than good." His voice rose in volume, passion exuding from every word. Jon hadn't seen him in such fervor since they'd discovered their first brothel in the city when he was eleven. "I want to be the best King this blasted world hasn't seen in a long time. Do you know what the people say about me in the streets? Do you, Jon?" he asked desperately.

Jon knew exactly what they said about him in the streets, but he was wise enough to shake his head.

"They say I'll never be half the King our father is. Can you believe it?" he exclaimed incredulously. He threw his hands in the air. "They actually think that useless sack of bones is the greatest shit that has ever lived-"

Jon reached over and slapped a hand over his brother's mouth, much to the indignation of the other. He peered around quickly, and only when he saw no one was within earshot, he withdrew.

"You idiot!" he hissed at him. "You can't insult the King in public! What's the matter with you? They'll be talking about you planning to usurp him next if you aren't careful. Is that what you want?" At Aegon's sad headshake, he let his anger dissipate. "What's the matter, brother?" he asked instead, concern ringing his voice. "This is not the first rumor you've heard, and it's never bothered you before. What happened?"

Aegon shifted in his saddle, avoiding his eyes. He played with the reins instead. "It's all becoming so real now," he muttered in a quiet voice, so low Jon had to lean in to catch him. "That one day I'll be sitting on the Iron Throne."

Jon narrowed his eyes. "That's just occurred to you? Where have you been for the last two and twenty years?"

"That's not what I meant." Aegon gave him a withering look. "The tourney is in two days, and in a matter of weeks, I'm going to be married, Jon. And then it's off to Dragonstone with a wife and even more expectations. I barely managed the six moons I was there!" He sighed in self-pity, a vulnerability lining his pale face he rarely allowed others to see. "I can't do this," he whispered, his words dripping with misery like candle wax.

Jon regarded his brother thoughtfully, the air filling with hearty chatter as the quayside grew busier in the blistering afternoon. The happy laughs carrying to their ears clashed greatly with Aegon's sombre expression.

"Do you love her? Rhaenys?"

The sadness shifted into alarm. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Answer me."

Aegon scoffed. "Of course I do, you know this," he dismissed Jon with a wave of his hand. "She knows it, too."

"Have you asked her how she feels about all this?"

Aegon stared at him in bemusement. "Why would I? It's Rhaenys," he said slowly as if speaking to a stupid child. "She never worries about anything. And this isn't about her, this is about me ruling. Keep up, brother."

Jon snorted with a roll of his eyes. "And there lies your problem."

He was rewarded with another puzzled look.

Jon suppressed a sigh. He loved his brother with the intensity of the sun, but most of the time, he wished for nothing more than to throttle him. He knew better than to involve himself in the strange dynamics of his siblings' relationship, but Jon owed a great deal to Rhaenys, far more than he owed Aegon.

In the year Aegon was away squiring, it was Rhaenys that had stepped in the hole he'd left behind, soothing his bitterness with gentle words. Where Aegon was chaos and wildfire, she was the soft breeze and the summer rain. Jon had been enraged beyond belief when Rhaegar had denied his requests to squire in the North with his mother's family, and it had been Rhaenys that pulled him away when he'd stormed towards his father's solar the next day. It was the first of many moments where she'd stopped him from disgracing himself in front of the King.

It had been Rhaenys that had taught him how to channel his anger and control his tongue, saving him from many a disaster. It was Rhaenys who, at the tender age of nine, would chastise the other court ladies when they'd sneer at him and call him a bastard, who'd insisted Elia give a goodnight kiss to all three children, instead of just two.

It was Rhaenys, he knew, who would be the ruler the realm needed. The future of their dynasty.

And it was these thoughts that lead to Jon saying, "You don't appreciate what you have, brother. Rhaenys is more than what you deserve, and you don't pay her half the respect you should. If you want to be a great King, then she will help you become one."

He expected Aegon to be angry then, to lash out against the insult. Instead, the silver prince threw back his head in laughter.

"Careful, Jon," he quipped with humour, "if I was a jealous man I'd say you wanted my betrothed."

In any other situation, Jon would have japed back with a yes and a wink, but he knew Aegon's attempt to divert an unwanted conversation when he saw it.

"You know what I mean, Egg," he warned. "You still take other women to bed and you haven't spared a thought to discuss your own damn wedding with the only other person who'd understand you and your concerns. Don't you think any of that should change sometime soon?"

"Oh, don't try that moral bullshit with me," Aegon snapped suddenly, his smile disappearing and his eyes flashing with anger like warning bells. "Rhaenys is perfectly aware of who she's marrying. If she's not concerned, then neither should you be. I'm Dornish, Jon. My blood runs hotter than most, don't you know?" In a blink, his mood lifted, the dark clouds of fury dissipating into a bright sun-kissed sky at the flip of a coin. He smirked at his brother with a cocked eyebrow. "Or you would if you let me teach you a thing or two."

Jon rolled his eyes, and refused to reply. There was little point in pushing him now, not with the threat of a full-blown argument hanging over his shoulder. Instead, Jon simply spurred his horse into action and turned towards the Red Keep. Behind him, a silver prince's laughter rang out into the bleeding afternoon sky, as they galloped back to the palace together.

Chapter Text

It took a long time to finally reach the Red Keep, especially when Arya would often hold up the party to point her father towards a blacksmith with jewel-encrusted swords or a stall that sold animals carved into blocks of cheese.

Her neck ached from whipping this way and that, drinking in the throngs of people and sandstone buildings like a dying man quenching his thirst. She stared at the hordes of richly-dressed men dragged inside rooms by scantily-clad women, and when one elderly man with missing teeth winked at her with a small wave, her father had been quick to stop her from waving back and firmly told her to never trust anyone in the capitol. She had almost laughed at his seriousness.

King's Landing reminded her of the patchwork quilt Old Nan had made her when she was little. It was rather hideous, a jumble of a hundred different squares with a thousand different patterns, stitched together hazardously. Sansa had wrinkled her nose, but Arya had absolutely loved it. It was still thrown over her bed back in Winterfell, frayed at the edges and soaked in the scent of home.

The city was equally chaotic, a miasma of personalities and cultures stitched together delicately by the threads of society. It held a certain charm, seen only by one who thrived on disorder. It was not pretty or particularly clean, but Arya found it fascinating nevertheless.

After an eternity, they were at last standing before the opening gates and Arya hid a gasp behind a cough as she laid her eyes on the Red Keep in its entirety.

It was as red as blood, and she had to crane her head to see the very tip of it. The courtyard they dismounted in was lush with flowers and she counted twelve different types in this one small space alone. Behind the shrubs stood golden arches opening into wide corridors that swept along the edges of the courtyard, white marble spread across the floor like delicate clouds. If she looked up, she could see rows and rows of trellised windows, the patterns intricate and the details grander than anything in Winterfell.

Her wandering eye was interrupted by the approach of a bronze-kissed woman in gold silks which shimmered like water with her every step. She had dark hair piled on the top of her head and framed by a thin crown carved with sparkling rubies. Behind her, a small crowd of servants dutifully marched onwards, hurrying towards their carts of luggage and tending to their horses.

Their father stepped forward and bent the knee, and she followed suit with a deep curtesy. Arya peeked up to observe the woman standing before them, a bright smile spreading on her delicate face.

"My lord of Stark, please rise. We are honoured by your visit," she announced in a regal tone. This must be the Princess Rhaenys, she remembered from her lessons. Arya thought she was quite possibly one of the most beautiful people she'd ever seen in her life, and she felt sudden embarrassment at her dirty riding breeches and chaotic hair. Rising from her curtesy, she ran a surreptitious hand through her locks to smooth them down. It did little to help, so she promptly gave up.

It wasn't like the princess would speak to her anyway after this, so what was the use in impressing her?

"Your Highness, the honour is all ours," Eddard Stark responded dutifully. He gave her a small smile, before turning to his children. "If I may present my youngest son Rickon, and my youngest daughter Arya." He stepped back to allow them forward.

At their respective introductions, Rickon and Arya bowed and curtsied once more, and she felt her cheeks grow warm when she saw her boots were drenched in mud, unlike the dainty sandals the royal woman wore wrapped around her feet. At Princess Rhaenys' nod, they rose again, and Arya was sure to angle herself subtly behind Rickon so her shoes could not be seen.

The clatter of their belongings thrummed in the air around them as Princess Rhaenys beckoned over a tall, thin man with black hair and a gaunt face.

"I apologize for the light reception, my lord. You are one of our most prominent guests, and deserve a grander welcome," the golden woman said with enough regret in her eyes, Arya almost thought her flattery sincere. "I'm afraid my brothers are out riding, and the King and Queen are attending court. Randyl," she indicated to the other man, "will show you to your rooms. There will be a feast tonight, my lord, to welcome the Houses that have honoured us with their presence. You will find escorts ready for you at the time." She flashed them another warm smile, and Arya wondered if she practiced in front of a mirror every morning.

Another respectful farewell later, she found herself trudging behind Randyl through a drawbridge with walls as thick as twelve men and as high as the Broken Tower. Two men with glistening armor and white cloaks as blinding as the sun strapped to their shoulders stood on either side, staring ahead as Arya gaped up at them.

She elbowed Rickon sharply in the chest, ignoring his irritated grumble. "Kingsguard," she whispered excitedly in his ear. She'd heard a rumour that anywhere you were in the castle, a white cloak would always be around the corner. Arya wasn't sure if it was real, but she did want to find out before she left King's Landing.

"These are the royal apartments," Ned said with surprise as they walked under an immense golden arch into another grand courtyard.

Randyl bowed briefly before responding. "The Great Houses have been invited to share quarters with His Grace and his family, as a sign of respect and honour, my lord."

That and the rest of the castle is practically overrun by others, she thought with a snort.

Arya didn't care whether they stayed in a room gilded with precious metals or in a lowly tavern, although the latter would have been far easier. I wouldn't have to look so proper all the time, she mused.

Their quarters were indeed gilded with gold and rubies, shimmering in the sunlight streaming through the high windows. She was permitted her own private room where Rickon and her father had to share. The bed was wide enough to fit perhaps ten of her, and she ran her fingers delicately over the covers and marveled at their softness. The headboard and frame were carved with details of dragon heads and runes she did not understand, dark and illustrious and far more luxurious than she'd ever experienced.

The room was larger than her own in Winterfell, and her eyes glazed over the scenes painted on the white walls. A mosaic of flowers and fire-breathing demons, it set her room ablaze in an array of colours, so very different to the calm grey walls of her home. She wasn't sure how well she'd sleep with an enormous red dragon glaring at her with yellow eyes.

At some point, she grew restless with her kaleidoscope of companions, and yanked open her door. The white hallway echoed ringing sounds of her every step like bells in a sept as she padded towards her family's room across. She wondered how far it would travel, and whether the King would hear her every time she left her bedroom.

Knocking gently on the door, she hissed, "Rickon!"

There was no answer.

She pounded a little harder, and called out a little louder, "Rickon! Open the door, it's me!"

A long moment later, and her bleary-eyed brother appeared, with a ruffled tunic and unruly hair.

"What do you want, Arya?" he yawned, sleepily.

She took in his appearance with a pointed look. "Well, I thought we could explore the castle together, but clearly you have more interesting plans in mind." Her foot tapped impatiently against the floor, her body thrumming with energy that needed a release. They were in the capitol, the home of dragons! There would be plenty of time to waste away in bed later.

Rickon groaned and rubbed his eyes, looking incredibly youthful in the dim light of his darkened room. "Can we do it later? I'm exhausted." He stifled another yawn and a wave of pity washed over her.

She smiled softly, and reached up to muss his auburn hair. Rickon may be the baby of the family, but he towered over her already at only ten years of age, with little sign of slowing down. "Of course. Go rest, little brother."

As the door clicked shut softly, she spun on her heel and practically skipped down the corridor.

It was like a dream, in a way. She avoided the busiest hallways, choosing to stroll down empty passageways bathed in golden hues, the flames of the lanterns dancing along the walls. The pale red stone began looking less like blood with every step, and more like the colour of a sunset, the marble beneath her sparkling softly like stars. Her hand trailed along the walls, letting the roughness of the stone kiss the tips of her fingers as they felt the grooves and cracks of the castle's skin. It was easy to fall into a trance, here amongst the dragon paintings and the silence, the world merely around the corner but somehow, a lifetime away.

Growing a little bored of sightseeing, Arya finally began to turn back to her room. That is, until she saw a great wooden door slightly ajar at the end of the hallway.

Where the rest of the palace had intricate iron doors, it was the first she'd seen look so worn and she could not help but pull it open, and glance inside.

A steep incline of stone steps waited patiently for her, leading to a dimly lit cellar with stone walls lined unevenly on either side. If she bent down a little, she thought she could see a network of tunnels somewhere along the far wall, some submerged in total darkness.

Tunnels with an exit, perhaps? To a secret door with a secret room?

For a moment, she bit her lip and thought of her father. The feast would be starting soon, and a responsible lady would immediately slam the door shut and leave at once, putting all silly notions of adventure behind her.

Fortunately enough, 'responsible lady' was rarely said of Arya Stark.

A mischievous smirk played on her lips, and before she could think too much on it, Arya was already climbing down the stairs, leaving the door wide open behind her.

It was taller than she'd originally assumed, with a ceiling almost twice that of her bedchamber but half the width of the corridors. It curved in on the edges, bending over her like a sinister tree, threatening to cave in at any moment. There were puddles of water on the floor, the reflection of the lanterns trembling on the surface like a man possessed. Her hand reached out to touch the wall, immediately pulling back when something slimy covered her fingers, like wet scales.

She half considered going back, when a loud hiss near the far-end wall drew her attention. From a distance, she thought she could see twin orbs of flashing green glare at her from a ball of black fur, half chewed up ears sticking out at odd angles.

"Well, aren't you a pretty thing," Arya cooed at the cat, bending slightly and stretching her hand out. "You shouldn't be here, locked away like this!" She approached the animal slowly, whispering soothing words to its tensed state. "Come here, little one, I'll take you back up with me!"

The cat watched her creep closer with unblinking eyes, its hackles raised and quivering. When she was a step away, it suddenly bolted with a howl, darting towards one of the numerous tunnels lining against the wall.

Against her better judgement, Arya followed it, unwilling to leave it behind. It could belong to someone in the palace, who might think it dead instead of hopelessly lost underground! The thought made her sad. If she had her own pet, she'd want someone to wade through vile water for it too.

"I won't hurt you!" she called out to the tiny black blur as she ran after it. "Come back!" She rounded corner after corner, paying little attention to where she was going but for catching the black bastard.

At some point, her chest began to stitch and she was forced to grind to a halt. Panting, she rested her hands on her knees, noting with a pang of regret that the cat was long gone. Perhaps she ought to send word around the palace instead, so the King could send men to look for it. Poor thing was frightened to the bone.

She glanced down and sighed. The edges of her boots were thick with mud and she grimaced at the filthy water stains patterned on her riding breeches. Her hair was frizzy with sweat and humidity and plastered to her drenched forehead. She was hardly in a state to walk the long way back to her quarters now, and she silently prayed she wouldn't run into the princess again. She didn't want her to think she was a filthy creature, as well as an unkept one.

Exhaling softly, she spun on her heel to return to the cellar door-

-when a sudden gust of strong wind from the end of the tunnel struck her, and she was forced the shut her eyes to protect them against the flying dust. It licked her hair and sliced her cheeks and when she felt it die down, she opened her eyes again, and noted that there was very little change in her vision, her world still overwhelmed in blackness.

A heartbeat later, Arya realized with horror that the lanterns had blown out, and she was lost in the crushing darkness with little knowledge of how to get back.

Oh no. Oh no, no, no, this couldn't be happening!

A strike of fear pierced her heart and crept through her veins like icy snakes. Her body thrummed with hysteria and she realized that no one else knew she was down here. The blackness pressed against her, wrapping her in its bruising grip and swallowing her whole. She could hear the blood rushing to her head, the sound of its desperate waves crashing against her ears, drowning out the unbearable silence.

She had never felt more alone.

oOo

Jon trudged to his room after bidding farewell to Aegon.

They were careful to avoid the bustling corridors on their way back from the stables, not wanting their father's guests to see the royal princes in sweat-drenched tunics, in total disarray. There was an image to uphold, after all.

Jon hated how many people roamed around the royal apartments, curious lords and ladies who loved to gawk and intrude as if his family and their home was their entitlement to enjoy. He grit his teeth, remembering how he'd once found an audacious lady roaming around Aegon's bedroom when it was empty and unguarded, one piece of his brother's smallclothes crumpled tightly in her hand.

They openly stared at him, of course, with little shame. Far more than they did at Aegon or Rhaenys, like he was an exotic animal for their pleasure, and they expected him to shit gold at a moment's notice. Not to mention, the second he turned his back, the whispers would begin. Those never stopped.

He despised them all.

Lost in his dark musings, he almost missed his older sister leaning against his door, wearing an amused face under her perfectly coiled hair.

"Relaxing ride?" she asked with humour twinkling in her eyes. "You look like you want to run someone through with a sword."

"I'd like to run several people through with a sword," he quipped back, slowing to a halt, "but I fear it's frowned upon to bring harm to the King's guests."

Rhaenys' laugh tingled through the air like musical chimes. "It would certainly be distasteful," she jested. "Although they're not all bad, Jon."

He snorted. "Yes they are."

"Even the Starks?"

His body froze as his eyes burned into hers. A small smile played on Rhaenys' face as it glowed with soft understanding.

"They arrived just under an hour ago," she said to his still form, his tongue heavy and refusing to reply. "Lord Eddard Stark and two of his children. I thought I'd let you know now, in case you wished to meet them before the feast."

She reached out and grasped his shoulder in support. If the stench and the grimy dirt from his tunic bothered her, she did not show it. He was grateful for her touch, nevertheless. It was warm and safe when he felt he was submerged in ice.

"Thank you," he whispered gratefully, his heart beating wildly in his chest. "I...I'll bathe quickly and introduce myself. Where are they staying?"

"The West Wing. Last two doors of the far right corridor, the rest are their men."

When he was finally alone in his room, Jon spurred into action. Stripping quickly, he ran towards his closet and furiously searched for the outfit gifted to him by his father on his eighteenth nameday. There was a black tunic made from silk delivered from Pentos, the material rippling sensuously in the candlelight and slipping through his fingers like water. The breeches were as dark, lined with blood-red trimmings that glimmered like rubies. It was one of the few outfits he owned that carried no sigil; he didn't feel comfortable meeting his mother's family for the first time by loudly announcing himself as a dragon. He carefully laid it out on his bed before turning towards the bath waiting for him.

As he let the warm water cleanse his skin and soothe his aches, Jon let his mind wander.

Lord Eddard Stark was his mother's older brother, a man he'd heard only rumours of. When he was younger, Jon had pestered anyone under the sun who he thought had information on his Northern blood, and from the scarce replies he'd received, he'd understood that his uncle encouraged deep respect in the South, despite fighting against the crown for over a year during the Rebellion.

Jon didn't like thinking of the war. He didn't like thinking of all the men that had lost their lives because his father had loved his mother. He didn't like thinking of how much death he carried in his blood, from the murder of a grandfather and uncle he'd never know, to the atrocities carried out by a mad king.

He especially didn't like thinking of how much the Starks must despise him, the boy whose name was forever tied to their greatest defeat.

Eddard Stark lost a brother, a sister, a father, and a best friend to the war. Jon thought of Aegon and Rhaenys then, the two most important people in his life.

I'd go mad if anything happened to them, he mused.

It was Arthur Dayne that had told him of how the Quiet Wolf had risen in rebellion at Robert Baratheon's side, but only called for the safe return of his sister. His brother and his father had been brutally executed but the young Lord had demanded justice, not vengeance. To a ten-year-old Jon, it didn't seem like much of a difference, but the Kingsguard had told him it was a world apart.

He wondered what sort of man Lord Stark must be to be burdened by such loss, and yet, carry such honour on his shoulders that it impressed one such as the great Sword of the Morning. Even Rhaegar had stilled his hand from punishing the North where others were put to the sword, choosing instead to demand a heavy fine and allowing the Lord of Winterfell to return home with his dignity in one hand and the remains of his family in the other.

A glimmer of pride rose in his chest. He shared blood with a man like that. The thought made him incredibly happy. He had been surrounded by dragons his entire life, his world bleached by fire and sun. But he was not just a dragon. He was half-wolf, too. If Aegon and Rhaenys proudly embraced the wild and viper-like nature of their maternal family, then here was his chance to discover his, shrouded in night and born of winter storms.

Here was his chance to finally know his mother, a woman he'd learnt next to nothing about.

Eddard Stark might despise him now, but Jon was determined to show him that he had a wolf in him, yet.

oOo

The night had never been so beautiful; summer skies smeared with streaks of deep violet and stardust, entwining together in a masterpiece of the sky. They burned like his heart in his chest as Jon made his way towards the West Wing. He would glimpse outside as he'd pass by a window, taking courage from the dark, sacred image. A night of such loveliness could not hold such awful tidings, and he held on to that naive belief with all his might.

He tried imagining his first words to Lord Stark, like he'd done a hundred times already.

"Lord Stark," he would say with a deep bow. "It is an honour to make your acquaintance."

No, no, a prince bowing to a lord? He might think you're mocking him.

"Good evening, Lord Stark. It's a pleasure to meet you. I've looked forward to this my entire life."

Would that be too keen? I've never even sent a letter. Gods, why is this so difficult?

"Uncle Ned!"

Definitely not.

So consumed by his thoughts, Jon almost missed the mention of his name.

"Have you seen Prince Jon? Doesn't look much like a Targaryen-"

"-I hear he takes after his mother, he does. Not a single drop of dragon in him-"

He pulled to a halt, all thoughts of his uncle washing away by the tides of anger that boiled in his blood. The voices were just around the corner, high-pitched and giggling and soaked with poisonous gossip.

"-the Stark whore that birthed him? Did you hear that she was really a witch in disguise? Probably cast a spell on the King, hoping to be his mistress-"

"-they're savages they are, them Northerners. I hear they sacrifice children to their tree gods-"

"-they worship trees? How positively barbaric!"

The waves curdled into a fiery storm, and he gritted his teeth as white-hot rage scorched his skin. They were coming closer, and he was tempted to demonstrate just how dragon he truly was. Jon tolerated many vile words over the nature of his birth, but to insult a dead woman and her land - his land - with such sheer disrespect had him biting his tongue until the taste of blood pooled into his mouth.

A particularly loud and sharp laugh from one of the girls cut through his black rage like swords in the dark, giving him a moment of clarity.

He was far too angry to deal with such contemptuous ladies, and he knew he'd say something he'd come to regret later - not to mention word would spread of his temper, and he didn't need another rumour attached to his name.

But they were growing closer and closer, and Jon looked around frantically for a place to hide, lest they see him and he was forced into conversation. The doors to his left were locked shut, but to his right -

There! The cellar door was wide open, curiously, though he spared little thought to ask why. The voices were a mere breath away, so Jon quickly slipped through, dragging the door shut quietly behind him.

He released a breath when he heard the group pass by him, giggling about the size of Ser Jaime Lannister's sword. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he slumped on the step.

The raging storm had largely dissipated, but Jon drew in deep shaky breaths to control the rolling clouds, the waves simmering into a calm mirror. He thought of the new move Ser Darry had taught him earlier, of the feel of a powerful new horse beneath him, of the smell of fresh grass and sea currents. Anything and everything.

When he felt nothing but a cool breeze and saw nothing but a still pond in his mind's eye, Jon finally stood up. He was in good shape to meet Lord Stark, and if he hurried now, he could just about catch him before the feast -

An echo of a splash followed by a curse snatched his attention.

Jon cautiously climbed down the stairs and peered around the cellar. The lanterns flickered innocently, undisturbed, and no one was in sight.

"Hello?" he called out uncertainly.

There was no response.

Perhaps he'd imagined it. Frowning, he turned back to the stairs -

Another distant splash, louder this time, followed by an even more explosive curse.

Jon narrowed his eyes. It must be another stupid lord or lady who lost their way while attempting to discover the King's solar, or Aegon's smallclothes' drawer. He was tempted to leave them to their idiocy, but pity ensnared his heart. There were few fates worse than being trapped under the Red Keep, and whoever it was certainly didn't deserve it.

He couldn't place whose voice it was, but he knew where it was coming from. Approaching the far end of the wall, Jon called out again.

"Hello? Is someone in there?"

His voice echoed around the stone walls, ringing into the abyss. There was no reply. Sighing softly, he walked closer to the gaping holes. The tunnels were an oppressive black, and he craned his neck to listen for more noise.

The lack of light did not disturb him. It wasn't uncommon for the tunnels to be this dark: drafts came and went all the time, blowing out the lanterns. Aegon and him would explore the secret passages all the time when they were younger, Rhaenys rarely joining out of disgust for roaming around in sewage. One of the tunnels would come out at the end of Aegon’s High Hill, past the gate and the Kingsguard. It had been their first time to see the city properly by themselves, and Jon remembered that day fondly. Even the chastisement and month-long ban from leaving the Holdfast by the Queen had been worth it. Not that it had stopped them from revisiting countless times afterwards, of course. 

A small smile tugged on his lips at the memory, until a third splash - closer now - snapped his head up. There was no curse this time. Whoever it was knew someone was listening. He tracked the sound to the third tunnel from the left, and with a deep breath, he stepped in. If he minded his steps, perhaps he could avoid ruining his outfit.

Immediately, the darkness wrapped him in its embrace, caressing his skin and whispering into his ear. He ignored its crushing presence on his chest, choosing instead to press forward, shouting into the void over and over again with little response.

He knew the path by heart, of course, but he still kept a steady hand on the tunnel wall, his fingers stroking the cracks like old friends. When he suddenly felt air under his touch, he turned the corner. The network of passages was much like a maze, with random turnings and bends and the occasional dead-end. He prided himself in knowing them all, despite it being well over a year since he'd visited. Aegon simply didn't have the time anymore, and Jon loathed the idea of walking around here without him.

The splashes under his feet grew louder as the pools of water grew deeper, and he wrinkled his noise as his foot was entirely submerged at one point. The noise would ring through the tunnels, loud enough to wake the dead. Just as Jon opened his mouth to call out to the mysterious intruder once more, he heard a slosh right in front of him and a sharp intake of breath about two meters away.

He blinked. "Um, hello?"

There was a heavy pause, before a woman's voice replied breathlessly, "What do you want?"

Jon was taken aback, by her presence and her question. "What do I want? I'm here to help you. Are you lost, my lady?"

"No, I love wandering around underground tunnels in the pitch black. It's a pastime, really," the voice said dryly. "What do you think, stupid?"

The insolence! "Mind your manners. You're speaking to a prince," Jon snapped.

"Oh, how dreadful of me," the woman muttered, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'd curtsy, Your Grace, but to my utmost horror, you wouldn't be able to see it."

Jon rolled his eyes. She had a tongue, this one. Her voice sounded strained, however, and he wondered just how long she'd been lost here. He wanted to retort, but it didn't feel right to bicker here and now. Besides, time was passing and he still had to meet Lord Stark - if he didn't already stink of shit, that is.

"You don't have to curtsy," he offered instead. "I can help you out of here, my lady. Give me your hand."

He reached out expectantly, but when she did not move, he cleared his throat pointedly. "Please?" he stressed impatiently.

"If you're here to help, then where's your torch? Seems a little odd to be wandering around in the dark," she said loudly, with a hint of suspicion.

Jon snorted. "I could say the same for you. Where's your torch?"

"I don't have one. Isn't that obvious?" she stated patronizingly. He had a feeling if he could see her, she'd have her hands on her hips, glaring at him.

He resisted the urge to groan.

"I didn't think I'd find anyone stupid enough to be lost in the tunnels, so I didn't bring a light down with me," he bit back, patience wearing thin. "Now, if you'd be so kind as to take my hand, my lady, I'd rather not spend the rest of the evening down here." He reached his hand out again.

Instead of feeling her touch, he heard a small splash as she took a slow step back. Her breaths seemed to quicken, and confusion marred his face.

"My lady-"

"My father told me to never trust anyone in King's Landing. You expect me to believe a prince just happens to be in the tunnels underground, finding a girl alone in the dark, and offering to help her, without carrying a torch of his own so I can't see his face?" her quiet voice whispered harshly at him, fear and anger lacing her words. "How stupid do you think I am?"

He heard her nails scribble against the walls of the tunnel, struggling to find something, anything, to defend herself with. She took a few more steps away from him, and he had no doubt that if he made the slightest of movements, she'd sprint away, possibly getting even more lost than she already was.

Jon gritted his teeth and ran an exasperated hand over his face. Well, she wasn't wrong. He really could be anyone. It was a little suspicious that a son of the King would be down here before a grand feast, but he hardly had the time (or energy) to convince this paranoid woman of his very real intentions.

"Listen," he grunted in a gruff voice, "if I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn't have announced my arrival, now, would I?"

A thought struck him. "If anything, you're the suspicious one, since you never responded when I was calling out earlier! How do I know you aren't some assassin skulking around the palace? Although," he said mockingly, "with all the racket you were making, you're an awful one at that, so maybe you are just lost."

He heard a gasp of indignation. "I think I'd be fantastic, thank you very much. And I'm not an assassin! You're the creep in the dark!"

"That sounds like something a terrible assassin would say. And I'm not creepy! I take offense to that, my lady."

"Good, I meant it to be offensive. You said I'd be a terrible assassin...and don't call me a lady."

"Would you like me to call you something else?" Jon asked, pleasantly. He knew he was being childish and felt a pang of guilt at riling her up so, given how suspicious she was of him. He certainly wasn't clearing up matters, either. Although, she hadn't tried fleeing or fighting just yet, so perhaps she hadn't made up her mind about his devious intentions.

Her silence stretched on, pregnant with deliberation.

If she wouldn't listen to reason, then perhaps he could use her fear against her. "I hear they have rats as large as dogs living in these tunnels," he casually remarked, "They've developed a taste for human flesh, unfortunately, and they're rather hungry."

"You're lying," she squeaked.

"No, honestly," Jon replied with conviction, "We've lost two stableboys and three chambermaids down here. Only found a rotten leg left behind. It was a bloodbath."

"I don't believe you. Giant, flesh-eating rats don't exist," she threw back. "I'm not an idiot."

Says the lost girl refusing help.

He resisted grinding his teeth, suddenly aware of the precious seconds slipping through his fingers until it was too late to meet Lord Stark in private, and he'd be forced to do it in the public eye at the feast. Exactly what he wanted to avoid.

With that in mind, his patience snapped and he finally threw his hands in the air and exclaimed, "You know what? Stay here forever then. I was just trying to be nice, but if you won't trust me, then feel free to disprove the existence of sewer rats all by yourself. Good evening, my lady." With that, he turned his back to her and started moving towards the tunnel exit.

A moment or two later, she sucked in a sharp breath as the reality of her predicament finally slammed into her.

"Wait," he heard her call out behind him. "Wait, please!"

Smirking, he whisked around to smartly comment on her sudden change of heart to trust a supposed creep when he felt a small hand clasp around his wrist, warm and soft. It was innocent enough, until Jon felt the ground shift under his feet and a sharp pain stab him between the eyes.

And his world was suddenly bathed in white.

Chapter Text

The world spun around her, and she spun with it.

She'd only meant to stop him.

She didn't mean for everything to explode.

Her hand wrapped around his wrist, and suddenly, Arya's vision flashed blindingly white. Pain seared behind her eyes, enfolding her in its wings, and her stomach dropped and she was falling, falling...

Her heart swelled twice, thrice its size, pressing against her lungs and bursting from her chest. A high pitched ringing echoed in her ears with punishing persistence, and she wanted to shake her head, to rid herself of the irritation but she could not move, could not breathe. Her body refused to respond, her joints locking in place, frozen. She was completely and utterly helpless as she was barraged by the blankets of snow and the chimes of the bells overwhelming her senses.

She'd tried to fight back, to yell into the bright void but her tongue felt like lead, falling from her mouth and through the gaping hole of her heart. Looking down, Arya held back a scream as she stared at her (lack of) body. It was as if she'd been swallowed whole, nothing but a frightened head left behind.

Fear like nothing she'd ever known gripped her tightly, and she released a helpless sob.

Get me out of here!

Her eyes, her only freedom, roamed frantically around the abyss. Something...anything....

Arya caught it floating just at the edge of her peripheral vision; a golden thread shimmering in the air, a strand of sunlight in a sky of blazing white. It leisurely flicked this way and that, one end within her grasp, the other disappearing into the void.

Gritting her teeth, she forced her hand up with difficulty and tried reaching for it, her fingers nothing but soft wisps and her touch as fragile as smoke.

She expected her transparent hand to run right through the thread, but to her shock and relief, it wrapped around her, flaring as bright as a star. It suddenly jerked, and Arya experienced a surge of panic before she was dragged further into the white chasm.

Her blinding world began to slowly fade and Arya sucked in a breath, her pounding heart softening as she regained her sight.

The ringing had stopped, thank the Gods, but Arya had a brief moment of respite until she realized she could, in fact, see again.

I'm not in the tunnel, she noted with growing trepidation.

No, she was in a...a...crib? White bars rose in front of her, and between the gaps, she peeked at soft maroon walls painted with knights and dragons. The room was dark, and a mobile rotated slowly above her, little stars hanging off the edges and twinkling in the moonlight that streamed through the windows. She was sitting on some sort of pillow, and when Arya reached out to grasp the bars of her prison, she gasped.

Her hands were small and chubby and soft, the fingers stubby and the skin pale and untouched. She glanced down and realized with horror that her body was much the same, tiny and fragile.

Hysteria bubbled in her chest, but before she could react, she heard the door creak open softly. Snapping her head up, she saw a man quietly stumble towards her, his silver hair and ethereal face glowing in the twilight. His violet eyes were glazed and she thought she'd never seen such sadness.

The man stopped at her crib and peered at her with blank eyes. He reached out and slowly caressed her cheek with a finger. Arya wanted to cringe away from the stranger, but she found herself leaning to his touch, a gentle giggle erupting from her lips.

What am I doing? Who the hell is he? What is going on?

Feelings of intense adoration swelled in her chest as she gazed up at the silver man, and her arms reached up unbidden, quietly begging him to pick her up.

The man made no move to do so - instead, he simply stared at her with tragedy and wonder battling in his eyes. Arya let out frustrated sigh; whether at him for ignoring her or her bizarre situation, she did not know.

"You look just like her," her visitor whispered in a broken voice, "you have her eyes." He pulled his hand away, and his gaze grew harder. "You stole her beauty as you stole her life. I should hate you. I should send you away. You don't belong here," he hissed, and Arya did not need to force her child-body to cringe away from the sudden poison: it did it anyway.

"But I can't. Gods help me, I can't."

He turned around and walked away, and Arya felt tears that were not her own well in her eyes at his absence.

No, no, stop! she wanted to call out. I'm not a child! I'm Arya Stark! I didn't take anyone's life! Help me!

She wanted to yell out, to scream, but a bright light flashed and blinded her, and she was forced to squeeze her eyes shut as the world fell away around her.

Everything shifted, and when she peeked through her eyelids, it was no longer night and she was no longer trapped behind white bars. Instead, golden rays of sun poured through an open balcony and pooled into the centre of a white marbled floor, bouncing off the bright yellow walls. It illuminated a tall, graceful woman dressed in silks the colour of the halo that embraced her, dark hair cascading down her back in soft waves. She wore a glittering crown entwined in her locks.

Princess Rhaenys? Arya balked.

No, not her. This woman was taller, with sharper features and far thinner than the other woman had been. She smiled down at two children playing happily by her feet, a young girl with hair as dark as her own and a small boy with silver-white hair falling in front of his eyes, holding small figurines in their hands.

They were a little far away, and Arya felt the sudden desire to join them. She glanced down and groaned when she saw stubby little legs, though slightly longer than before. Determination gripped her, and she rolled off her rump to all fours and started crawling towards the laughing children.

The woman's head snapped towards her immediately, and Arya was forced to pause when she saw the distaste on her face. What on earth had she done? She just wanted to have fun!

She wanted to tell the woman that, but her tongue wouldn't work. It was clumsy and heavy, and all that slipped by was an incoherent babble as she lifted a plump hand and pointed at the children. Asking for permission, Arya realized with a jolt.

The golden woman's face twisted with uncertainty, and she opened her mouth to say something, when the little girl reached out and tugged on her skirts. Instantly, the woman looked down and her gaze softened.

"Can he come, Mama? Please? We want to play with our brother!" the small dark-haired girl begged pleadingly, large brown eyes widening with innocence. Her silver companion gurgled in agreement, drool sliding down his chin as he grinned toothlessly.

Brother? Was she a boy? Was this woman supposed to be her mother?

The lady looked back at her, this time with pity in her eyes. She sighed deeply, before walking over to her tiny frame and picking her up gently, and setting her down by the other children - her siblings?

A surge of happiness burst through her as she reached out to touch the small figurines scattered on the floor. The little girl beside her clapped her hands with glee, her brother imitating her excitedly.

Arya glanced up to see the golden woman - her mother? - stare at her in confusion.

Wait, no, not my mother! My mother is Catelyn Stark, not this stranger! These aren't my siblings! she wanted to yell. Take me home, please! I want to see my father!

Not a word left her lips as another flash consumed her vision.

The twitter of birds reached her ears, and when the world finally stopped spinning, Arya found herself in a garden of sorts, the taste of roses suspended in the sweet air. Throngs and throngs of lush green bushes surrounded her, leaves glistening with moisture in the blistering heat. She noticed pale cobbled stones beneath her...long legs? And...boy's body?

She was clad in a black tunic with red trimmings, a silver sword grasped tightly in one hand. Strands of dark curly hair swayed at the edge of her sight, and she blew out a frustrated sigh as she pushed them back repeatedly, noting with annoyance that they'd always fall back over her forehead. She needed to get that cut soon.

No, not mine! she jerked away from her thoughts, before she was pulled back in.

"Oi! If you're done playing with your hair like a maiden, let's get back to it, yeah?" a voice mockingly called out to her.

A grin spread on her lips, as Arya whipped around to see a boy standing behind her, a twin sword in his hand. He had long silver hair tied back in a ponytail, a playful smirk slapped on his face, and two burning eyes of violet. He cocked an eyebrow and watched her expectantly.

Arya observed his striking resemblance to the older man she'd seen earlier, though there was no trace of sadness on this boy's face, nothing short of pride and cheerfulness glowing from his young good looks.

"Ready to be beaten again?" she chuckled, raising her sword as they both assumed their fighting position. "Try making me work for it this time!"

The silver boy threw his head back in laughter as she darted forward, arching her sword in a graceful arc the other moved to block. They parried back and forth, and whilst Arya would have enjoyed it under any other circumstance, her mind was furiously turning as her body surrendered to this strange magic she could not control.

I have to get out of here, she thought frantically. I can't be stuck like this forever!

She furiously searched for the cursed golden thread again, the damned thing that dragged her into this nightmare in the first place. It was difficult to keep focus, when whoever she was inhabiting had a string of unwanted feelings and thoughts that consumed her attention. It was like trying to focus in a room full of people shouting at her.

Aha! There it was, that bloody thread!

With an internal cheer, Arya tried to grasp at it again, willing it to take her home.

This time, when the white light came, she felt ready.

I'm in a bizarre nightmare. I've knocked myself out. I'm in a bizarre nightmare. I've knocked myself out.

She repeated the mantra over and over again as she felt the ground beneath her feet shift and she tumbled into the void. Arya held onto the thread for dear life, as she twisted and twirled and weaved through the air.

When solid earth collided against her, she let a smile spread on her face-

-before it promptly froze and melted away.

She was standing in front of a pretty young girl with dark hair and blushing cheeks. Arya felt stirs of desire rumbling in her stomach as she frantically wiped her sweaty hands on her trousers. She didn't want to ruin her first kiss -

No.

A flash.

She was running through the streets of King's Landing, hot on the heels of her silver brother as their breathless laughs soared into the air -

Stop.

A flash.

"You're not a real prince," a man sneered down at her, with a pointed face and silver hair brushing his shoulders, "you're my brother's bastard. He just took pity on you. Like the rest of them. You're not one of us."

Please!

The older man from before dominated her vision, his face half-shadowed in darkness as he watched her from behind a desk.

"Never ask me this again."

Her heart shattered in her chest and despair threatened to swallow her whole.

ENOUGH!

She didn't think she could bear another second. With an angry yell, Arya tore herself away from the scene, from the thread, from the nightmarish visions of unending white with the force of a thousand howling wolves.

The backlash was immediate. The images dissolved into black, and she fell hard onto slimy stone, her sight disappearing as her chest spasmed in hysterics. Arya blinked a few times, half-expecting another strange apparition to appear. She couldn't see her hands or her body, but a quick run through her hair and gentle prodding of her face told her she was finally back. She was Arya Stark once again.

She breathed a shaky laugh of relief, pressing her hands to the side of her head to alleviate the throbbing headache beginning to rise. The stench of sewage invaded her nostrils, and Arya didn't think she'd ever been so thankful to smell it.

She was back in the tunnels again.

Her moment of respite was short-lived however, when she heard the deep, unsteady breaths of her companion, a loud splash echoing off the walls as he sunk to the ground. Fury spread through her veins like wildfire, bright and burning.

She jumped to her feet and stalked towards where she thought he'd be sitting. "What the fuck did you do to me?" she yelled in a strained voice. "What in Gods' name was all that about?"

A snort of disbelief rang out from somewhere below her. "You think I did...that? Whatever that was? You grabbed me!"

"Don't blame this on me!" she snapped, throwing her hands in the air. "I only touched you. You were begging me to hold your hand before!"

Her whole body was on fire. As her lapse of relief ebbed away, reality slithered up her skin like flaming snakes, tingling her every pore and causing her to shake violently. Her insides churned with discomfort, as if they'd been yanked out and stuffed back inside her without care. Her head still ached, and she struggled to stop it lolling from side to side. It was unbearably heavy and stifling, a thick smog grasping her senses tightly like vines.

It was...unusually full. Arya thought she could somehow feel some sort of presence at the back of her skull, but she aggressively dismissed the fanciful notion.

She'd never been so vulnerable, so utterly violated! To lose control of her body and her mind so suddenly and so easily struck a bone-shattering fear that shriveled her heart and had her cringe away from the stranger on the ground, pressing against the slimy walls.

Arya heard him scrabble to stand up, struggling to keep as much distance from her as possible in the narrow tunnel. His breaths had largely evened out, though they still came in short, shallow bursts.

"Who are you?" he managed to grit out in a strained voice, unease exuding from every word. "What are you?"

The question sent another pulse of white-hot rage through her quivering form. The audacity! As if she were a witch or some vile creature that had tried to curse him!

"I'm no one," she growled viciously. "And I'm gone." With that, she turned on her heel in the direction the man had come, and began sprinting away.

"Wait!" he called after her. She heard him beginning to chase, until a loud splash and a curse interrupted his footsteps as he slipped to the floor, and she silently thanked the Gods.

"Stay away from me!" Arya yelled over her shoulder.

She didn't know where she was going, but she knew she had to get far, far away from the stranger. Her feet pounded through the pools of water, splashing against her drenched breeches and coating her in more sewage. Arya didn't care. It was all she could think about: getting out.

I have to be close!

She rounded a bend, and almost cried in relief when she saw a glimpse of light at the end. Her chest was beginning to stitch from the strain of running so fast but she ignored it. She was almost there! She was almost free!

Arya burst into the golden light of the cellar, but refused to stop. She pushed onwards, up the stone steps, barreling through the wooden door with so much force, she briefly wondered if it would snap off its hinges.

To her horror, the corridors were thrumming with people: lords and ladies peering at her curiously and with disgust as she stormed through the Holdfast, leaving behind a trail of filthy green water in her wake. It stained the glistening purity of the white marble tiles, a tainted streak of darkness on the floating clouds. She tried to ignore the horrified faces, forcing the tears back as her face flamed with humiliation.

She was running again, desperate to get back to the safety her own room. Arya glanced over her shoulder over and over again to see if anyone was following her, though it mattered little if she didn't even know what face she should look out for. It was one such moment of peering behind her to catch a suspect when a hand reached out and grasped her shoulder tightly, and she was forced into a sudden halt.

Her head whipped around frantically, thinking he'd caught her, when she found twin pools of gentle grey watching her with shock and concern. A quick glance around told her she'd finally made it back to her family's rooms, and she felt her body relax fractionally.

"Arya, what...what happened?" Ned Stark gasped, his eyes roaming over her filthy clothes and disheveled hair. He leant in and sniffed, swallowing a retch. "And what is that smell? What have you been doing?"

Arya opened her mouth to...what? Tell the truth? That she'd been trapped in the sewers for hours, met a prince, and briefly inhabited the body of a baby boy in that time?

"I was...exploring," she ended lamely, shifting from foot to foot. Her father's face twisted with disbelief, frowning. Arya then noticed his fine doublet and trimmed beard, and almost gasped.

"The feast!" she exclaimed with a slap to her forehead. "I almost forgot! I need to get dressed!"

"You need a bath," Ned said insistently, his nose wrinkled. He didn't seem particularly wroth with her, though Arya could see the wrinkles of deep displeasure carved in his forehead, her heart sinking.

"Beth is waiting for you in your room, Arya. Ask her to help make you a bath. Then dress quickly, and come directly to the feast. I expect you sitting by my side within an hour. Is that clear?" His voice held iron and left no room for arguing.

Arya nodded meekly, rushing to her bedroom without another word. She pointedly ignored the tumbling presence at the back of her mind like a whirlwind of snowflakes, whipping this way and that.

It's just a headache, she told herself vehemently. It will pass.

oOo

Jon burst through the cellar door and frantically glanced up and down the corridor. A snarl escaped his lips when he found it empty.

Damn that blasted girl!

He ran a shaky hand through his tousled hair, his breaths scratching against his chest like broken glass. He scrunched his eyes shut tightly, stars erupting from behind his eyelids, though none so bright as the white flash that had dazzled and consumed him.

He could still hear the smoky wisps of the voices, whispering in his ear and fossilizing into his bones as the universe collapsed around him and he was lost in a blazing abyss.

Don't be afraid, they had said. You are home here.

No, no, I'm not! Where am I? Take me back!

He was taken...somewhere. A shadow of a memory, a kaleidoscope of scenes: of an auburn haired woman glaring down at him with disapproval, of her younger image sneering and calling him Horseface, of a man with eyes like glaciers and a smile like a rising sun. He'd twisted and turned and witnessed a life that was not his. He'd been a child and an adult, the world around him changing in ways that were at times drastic, and others as subtle as a whisper.

Only observing, never in control. No matter how hard he fought, how loud he yelled, he'd been a bystander, a thought, a leaf in the wind. And for Jon, that had ignited a fear so overwhelming it swallowed him whole, and he had violently pushed at everything until he was thrown back into the darkness of the sewers and into the presence of the damned girl that had imprisoned him in the first place.

As Jon made his way back to his room slowly, his feet squelching against the tiles, hot anger coursed through his blood like snakes.

She had tried to accuse him of-of whatever that was! The absurdity of it all!

His mind wracked with explanations, though he found it difficult to focus through the murky fog. It was like his head was stuffed with cotton, and he grimaced as a sharp heaviness seemed to prod him at the base of his skull, lurking like a shadow.

Was it a drug, perhaps? Did she prick him with something?

He lifted the wrist she had grabbed and inspected it gingerly. It was as smooth as ever.

Frowning, he ignored the stares of passing guests for once, too lost in his musings to care about the whispers.

A witch? He had accused her of being an assassin, though that was done more in jest. To think a witch was roaming in the tunnels tonight was a laughable idea, though Jon was growing increasingly convinced.

She didn't take any blood, a small voice whispered. Remember the stories? There's always a sacrifice.

He sighed deeply.

"Oi! There you are! I've been looking for you for ages," someone called out behind him.

Tiredly, Jon turned to see Aegon sauntering towards him, his blood-red doublet shimmering in the light and his hair glowing like the moon. He wore a bright smile on his face, until he took in Jon's appearance and it promptly disappeared.

Aghast, he asked, "The fuck happened to you? You look even more hideous than normal." He leaned in and sniffed cautiously, wrinkling his nose. "And Gods, you smell like shit.” 

Jon snorted. "Thanks, brother."

"I’m serious, you reek.” Aegon looked pointedly looked at Jon's stained breeches, "And the feast is starting now. Everyone won't be happy if you're late. All the Houses are here, and it's important that you're present."

"I know that," Jon snapped, his patience wearing thin. In all honestly, he could not care less about the feast in that moment, not when his head was threatening to split open and all he wanted to do was crawl into bed and forget about everything.

Visions of disappointed blue eyes and warm grey ones flashed before him, and he violently pushed them away.

"Just start the feast without me, I'll be there soon," he muttered dismissively, moving towards his quarters again. He was stopped by a firm hand on his arm, and he resisted the urge to shake it off.

"Jon," Aegon asked, concern swirling in his violet eyes. "You seem on edge. Did something happen? Where were you?"

For a wild moment, Jon considered telling him everything, from the mysterious girl to the inexplicable visions after. Maybe he'd have answers, maybe he could explain what Jon could not understand. He even opened his mouth and let it hang, no sound erupting from his lips.

Don't be a fool, he thought to himself angrily. Aegon wouldn't understand. He'd mock you for centuries.

"Nothing," he replied weakly, avoiding his brother's intrusive stare. "Nothing happened."

With that, he turned on his heel and fled, the dark clouds of unsettled thoughts trailing in his wake.

Chapter Text

Its brilliance was breathtaking.

The hall was suspended in climax like frozen music, a snapshot of life and its celebration, uninhibited. Red and black strung from the walls, fluttering delicately as the three-headed dragon roared with pride. Hanging around the room, starry strings of lanterns floated above the undulating sea of hundreds of people, their laughter ringing like chimes into the silent night. A sweet melody threaded through the air and ensnared guests into its rhythmic web, drawing them to the dance floor. Serving girls weaved through the numerous tables, escaping curious hands to fall into others. The smell of food and drink and unreserved cheer hung thick and smothering like a fog, and Jon felt the irresistible urge to swat it away like a bothersome fly.

A grand high table stood at the very head of the hall and overlooked the scene with elegance and subtle command. The Iron Throne glittered above in the golden light like a blacksmith's kiln, fire shimmering on the silver of its thousand swords. It loomed over them like a beast poised in anticipation.

The King sat at the centre of the table, at the feet of his throne, as immobile as the steel monstrosity behind him. His face was stony, and his eyes betrayed no secrets as they roved around the faces of his subjects. Elia was on his left, her shoulders subtly turned away in animated conversation with her daughter. Jon doubted she'd so much spared a word for her husband since the feast had started, not that Rhaegar seemed particularly bothered.

Jon made his way towards Aegon, who was doing his very best impression of stoic crown prince - the spitting image of their father - but where Rhaegar was the daunting dragon, Aegon resembled an angry lizard at most.

He fell into the empty chair beside him and nudged his side. "You look like you haven't shat in a week. Is that supposed to be your royal face?" he teased.

Aegon's face cracked and he threw Jon a sullen glance. "I'd been working on it for days," he muttered, reaching for his goblet. "Glad you finally made it. Thought you got lost again on your way here. You smell better," he chuckled into his wine.

"Hilarious," Jon said with a roll of his eyes. A server was at his side in seconds, placing slabs of meat and rice on his plate and filling his goblet with Dornish wine. It would have smelt delicious, had his stomach not been roiling.

His head was still spinning, but he no longer felt as clogged as before, the reverberations of laughter around the room slicing through the fog and dizziness like spears in winter. He'd soaked in the bathtub for ages, and somewhere amongst the gentle waves of warm water and the soft scent of lavender, Jon had convinced himself that he'd simply dreamt up everything.

It was entirely possible that he'd imagined the girl in the tunnel, and the strange white light, and every other bizarre vision that came after it. The tunnels were rather long and it wasn't unreasonable that sounds would carry, often human-like in nature. Not to mention it was filled with water, and it wouldn't have been the first time he'd slipped and banged his head. He’d always had a wild imagination. It wasn’t beyond him to envisage another life as a young girl, as peculiar as it was.

Yes, it was all an incredibly vivid dream, Jon told himself repeatedly as he picked at his food.

He ignored the tug at the back of his mind saying otherwise.

"Do you think Father's angry I missed the opening speech?" he asked Aegon instead, shaking away his doubts. They snuck a glance at the King and his fine profile, washed in an amber glow. His eyes hadn't so much flickered in Jon's direction.

"Most definitely," Aegon whispered back. Hearing his brother groan, he winked mischievously. "But when hasn't he been angry at one of us at any moment?"

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

Aegon raised his goblet mockingly. "I'm not even ashamed. It's about time it was your turn to be the disappointment. I was getting rather tired."

Jon picked up his own cup, and clanked it against his with a laugh.

Feeling marginally better, he began digging into his food with earnest. The irresistible charm of the festivity was palpable, soaking into skin and warming his chest as he dived into bantering with his brother. Aegon had decided to abandon his attempts at solemnity, openly throwing his head back in laughter that drew curious stares from the nearest tables.

As the sky grew darker outside, the sparkle of eyes and the flash of smiles burned brighter than any star. The high table even seemed to relax, Rhaegar cracking a smile with Jon Connington and the Queen glancing around fondly as the two princes took turns playing their special game, ‘Daughter or Mistress,’ on their unsuspecting subjects below.

"You've got to be joking!" Aegon exclaimed in disbelief. "That is not how you touch your daughter! She's his mistress, I'm telling you." His words were beginning to slur together as spots of pink brushed against his pale cheeks. "Ten gold dragons says I'm right!"

Jon snorted. He was feeling impossibly light as well, as if he were drifting on clouds high above the world. "If you're so keen on emptying your pockets, brother, I'll take it. She looks exactly like him, idiot, and not everyone is as perverted as you. Oh look!" Jon pointed at the lady in question, as she reached up to plant a kiss on her lord's cheek. “She’s a doting daughter as well!" He scoffed. Turning back to Aegon, he opened his hand triumphantly. "Pay up, Egg."

Aegon looked crushed, until another glance into the crowd had his face break into an insufferable smirk. He glanced at Jon, victory swirling in his violet eyes. "I think not. Check again."

Frowning, Jon looked back to see the lady locked in a furious battle of lips and tongues with her "father."

"Oh, fuck," he muttered.

"You're awful at reading signs, you know that?" Aegon replied with a chuckle. "Honestly, it would take a girl literally stripping down in front of you and begging you to fuck her before you maybe thought she might want a kiss."

Jon responded to the jab with a scowl, reaching out to grab his goblet of wine again. The red liquid sloshed against his lips and slid down his tongue in a sweet embrace and he hummed in satisfaction.

The more the night wore on, the more convinced he was that none of it was real. Here, amongst the twinkling lights and singing merriment, the idea he'd actually found a witch in the tunnel and hallucinated another life was growing more and more hysterical. He suppressed a snigger.

A nudge at his side dragged him back to reality. "The Starks are over there," Aegon whispered to him with a nod towards somewhere over Jon’s shoulder and into the crowd. "Everyone's too far in their cups to pay any attention to you, if you’re worried about an audience."

Jon's head whipped to the side to see a small group of Northerners engaged in conversation at the far right of the hall. It was difficult to catch any faces amongst the sea of lords and ladies that thrummed around them, but Jon thought he could catch a head of dark brown hair like his own.

Butterflies fluttering in his stomach, he gave Aegon a quick grateful smile as he slipped out of his seat and made his way towards the Stark table. Every step was a drumbeat that echoed in his heart, a rhythm laced with the rushing of his blood and the sweat of his palms. He ran an anxious hand through his hair, smoothing back the unruly curls and straightening his tunic surreptitiously. Around him, bodies stumbled and swayed like worshippers at a ritual, their eyes glazing over the nervous prince amongst them.

Jon's focus had not wavered from the man sitting at the centre of his tight group, dark hair tied into a bun. He wore a simple grey tunic and was speaking gently with a boy with a shock of red hair beside him. His companions were deep in their cups, laughing merrily, sparing not a glance for the Targaryen prince that approached their table with trepidation.

His mouth went dry as he stared at the back of Lord Eddard Stark's head. He thought he could feel curious eyes swivel to stare at him as he moved closer, but he keenly ignored them, instead reaching out to tap the other man softly on his shoulder.

This is it! he thought excitedly. 

His lips spread into a small smile as Lord Stark turned around-

-only for it to fade as cold water drenched his body and froze him in place.

Jon stared into a solemn face with twin chips of glacier eyes and a dark beard gracing a strong jaw.

Grey eyes that had watched him fondly as he played at his feet. A beard his hands had played with as the man behind it cooed gently at his little frame.

A face he'd called Father once upon a nightmare.

Panic swelled through his veins as an unpleasant prickly sensation swamped his mind and clouded his senses. This wasn't possible! It had all been a dream! He'd never seen Lord Stark in his life, he couldn't have imagined him, it wasn't real, it wasn't real, it wasn't -

"Your Highness? Is everything alright?" Lord Stark asked with surprise, snapping him out of his reverie.

Jon blinked stupidly, and realized with a start that he'd been staring at the Warden with his mouth hanging open. He clanked it shut and swallowed deeply, desperately dragging his emotions under control.

Get it together!

It was only when he felt a shred of calm wash over him did he finally speak.

"Lord Stark," he managed to say in a tight voice. He hoped the other man did not notice. "It is an honour to finally meet you. I've long wished to make your acquaintance." He bowed, out of respect and to avoid looking at his uncle directly.

He felt rather than saw Lord Stark rise from his seat and place a heavy hand on his shoulder. Mustering up the courage, he glanced back up and pointedly chose to focus on Lord Stark's nose than his eyes, the sea of grey threatening to swallow him whole.

The Warden of the North had a kind smile carved into his face, a crack in his icy complexion. His expression was open and bright like a full moon, and Jon felt his spirits rise despite his heart pounding in his chest without abandon.

"Last time I saw you, you were fresh of this world. You've grown much since then," Lord Stark said with a small chuckle. "It's good to see you, my prince. I trust you are well?"

He wanted to reply, but his tongue felt thick and clumsy, so Jon nodded earnestly instead. His uncle seemed to wait for another response, but when none came, he cleared his throat awkwardly.

Jon’s insides withered. This was not how he'd imagined this, but for the life of him, he could not soothe his nerves enough to think properly.

What if it had been real, the visions? What if he really had met a lost witch in the tunnels? What was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to find her again?

His mind was churning so frantically, Jon almost missed his uncle's words.

"Allow me to introduce my children, my prince. This is my son, Rickon."

The red-haired boy beside them stood up immediately, and bowed deeply. Jon noticed his clear blue eyes and shivered as another pair swam before his vision, stern and disapproving where this boy's were young and earnest.

Jon just about remembered to incline his head in acknowledgement.

"And this - Rickon, get her attention please - this is my youngest daughter, Arya."

A dark head from the opposite side of the table swiveled at her brother's touch, glancing up at him as she did.

Grey met grey, and the world imploded.

oOo

He was suspended, hovering precariously in dead space, floating as everything faded around him and he was trapped in a web of silence.

Even his heart refused to murmur and he was struck deaf. It was as if a blanket of snow had covered the universe and sent it to sleep, and he stood at the edge, watching the world lull to silence like a forgotten song waiting to be played again.

The music never came, however.

He was rooted to the spot as Lady Arya Stark's eyes locked onto his, two winter storms spinning with raging emotion. The edges of his vision crinkled with black like a tunnel caving in and threatening to collapse. In his mind's eye, a sharp pain rattled against his skull, and a bright golden thread loomed before him, reaching out, reaching towards -

Her.

It wrapped around her slight figure like soft fingers, illuminating her in its ethereal glow. Jon stared at its sunlit vines in shock, desperate to rub his eyes and the illusion away, but he could not move his arms. They hung useless by his side as he frantically struggled against the cage, only pausing when a white flash burst through his vision before fading immediately.

No, no, not again! he panicked.

He glanced at Arya Stark's face, and noticed her paling in horror, her eyes widening with fear.

...what is he doing to me...

Words, not his own, rang in his ears and rattled through his bones.

...make it stop!...

He knew that voice.

Realization swept over him like a tidal wave, throwing him against the jagged rocks of his agitated thoughts.

It was never a dream.

It was real.

It was you!

A crash of fresh alarm coursed through him, and he tried fighting harder this time, the golden thread burning brighter with every passing moment -

"My prince?"

Ned Stark's voice pierced the veil like an arrow, and the white and black and gold receded into nothing as the world rushed back to his ears.

He lurched back with a gasp, flexing his hands over and over again to allow feeling back into his numb fingers. His breaths scratched against his chest, and he greedily grasped at lungfuls of air to calm his stuttering heart.

His uncle was staring at him in mute suspicion, his eyes narrowing. Jon realized with a jolt that he'd been openly staring at Lord Stark’s daughter, grabbing the attention of everyone at the table. A hot flush rose to his cheeks under their scrutiny.

"I'm-I'm fine, my lord," he gritted out. "My apologies...it's been a long day."

Lord Stark gave a short nod of understanding, though his eyes roved over Jon’s face. He tried not to fidget, already feeling utterly humiliated in front of the man he most wanted to impress. He hadn't done much other than struggle to respond whenever his uncle tried speaking to him and then straight-up gaped at his daughter like an unabashed fool.

...what was that about...

Jon suppressed the urge to violently shake his head. The back of his mind felt laden with lead, and he thought he could almost hear the girl’s voice echoing softly around the creeping mist of his thoughts.

...I have to get out of here...

There it was again! The words were muffled and far away, as if spoken underwater. It was her voice, he knew, without the bite and sarcasm that soaked her speech in the tunnels. The knowledge sent a sharp shiver of unease down his spine.

He had the sudden urge to crawl back to the high table and to the safety of his chair where he could be far away from this blasted moment and whatever strange magic was happening here. He needed to escape, to salvage whatever shredded dignity he still had left. Jon opened his mouth to excuse himself, when a small movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention.

Lady Arya Stark was taking advantage of everyone’s diverted attention to subtly remove herself from the table, and Jon knew that so much as one step into the pandemonium of the crowd would mean he’d lose her for the rest of the evening.

She’s running from me again! he thought in irritation.

All thoughts of escaping to safety evaporated as cold determination gripped his bones.

He had to know what was happening to them, and he had to put a stop to it. Before he lost what was left of his sanity, of course.

“Would my lady like to dance?” he blurted out gracelessly. Lady Arya froze, one leg over the bench and the other still trapped under the table. Crimson creeped up her face as the Northerners’ heads whipped towards her, bright with interest. She glanced around like a wild animal caught in a trap, and for a moment, Jon thought she’d openly refuse him.

Lord Stark subtly stiffened beside him, enough for him to notice. He seemed to be locked in an unspoken argument with his daughter, and Lady Arya’s face melted immediately from one of deep suspicion to unreserved displeasure. She sighed softly, and stood up, disentangling herself from the bench and rising to face him.

An empty smile plastered on her face. “I’d like that very much, Your Highness,” she said politely, though her eyes screamed otherwise. Her expression was challenging, and Jon suddenly felt like he was in the midst of a bizarre duel.

Swallowing a pang of regret for dragging himself into this, he bowed respectfully, and moved around the table until he was facing her. His fingers twitched by his side. He’d have to touch her. Why didn’t he think of this? Last time had been less than wonderful, to say the least.

Jon muttered a small prayer to any Gods that were listening as he extended a gloved hand for hers. He didn’t think he could tolerate more unpredictable excitement tonight, his nerves were already frayed and stretched thin.

Lady Arya stood proud, back straight as a rod and her eyes leveled in a fierce glare that burned brighter than the lanterns above, utterly unaffected by how audacious she appeared. She threw a suspicious glance at him as he approached, at the brink of rejecting him once more, until she realized her father's stare was boring into her. Biting her lip, she hesitantly placed her hand in his.

Jon waited for a white flash, for a surge of pain - for anything.

He did not miss her relieved breath when it did not come.

They glided together into a clear space far from the table and the Northern men’s wandering eyes, weaving through the chaos. Her hand was warm in his, her heat blazing through the glove and scorching his fingers. She was stiff as she followed him, and when he turned back to look at her, doubt and caution were spinning in her eyes like silver coins.

Jon stepped closer, raising one arm to gently touch her waist and the other lifting the same small hand already in his grasp. He moved slowly and carefully, as if approaching a wild animal that could scamper off at the slightest movement. She certainly looked like a cornered beast, her eyes flashing as they fell into steady steps. The world swayed and twirled around them, colourful blurs of a kaleidoscope sky to their immovable mountain, rigid and somewhat awkward.

She was silently appraising him, assessing him, judging him. So he did the same.

Arya Stark was a slight thing, barely reaching the bottom of his chin, a modest dark blue dress fitting snugly against her slender figure. But what volume she lacked in stature, she made up for otherwise in spades: a hurricane of dark chestnut hair swept down her back like a tumultuous sea, twin pools of melting silver shone blazingly from a pale, heart-shaped face, and a mouth lined by laughter and scowls, with Jon facing the full blast of the latter. The fierceness of her stare was burning ice, yet her silence simmered like icy embers, and he was growing distinctly uncomfortable under her watchful gaze.

“You weren’t lying,” she blurted abruptly, her eyebrows knitting together. She looked irritated.

“About what, exactly?” Jon cocked his head in confusion. “My lady,” he added quickly.

A lady of Stark, he thought faintly. What were the odds?

“About being a prince,” Lady Arya insisted impatiently. Her voice was a low whisper to avoid catching attention, and Jon was forced to lean closer to catch her words. “It was you in the tunnels. I can’t believe you were telling the truth.”

“I do that a lot, you know,” Jon responded mildly. His neck was craning so close to her face, he could count every freckle on her nose. “If I recall, I was much more honest than you were.”

Lady Arya spluttered indignantly. “I was not dishonest!” she hissed at him. “I never claimed to be anything. You were the one that was so insistent on titles and labels.”

“Like witch, for example?”

She froze impertinently, her eyes narrowing up at him and spinning with growing rage. Jon was aware they were no longer moving as couples twirled around them, their gaiety impervious to the sudden drop in temperature between the young prince and lady standing in the middle.

“What did you do to me?” Lady Arya snapped, unbothered by concealing her volume. “I know you did something back there!” She waved towards her father’s table absently. “Is that why you asked me to dance? To accuse me again? How dare you!” Her words were growing dangerously loud, and Jon noticed a few curious looks thrown their way.

“What I did to you?” Jon exclaimed incredulously, forcing his voice into a heated whisper. “Did it look like something I wanted to happen? Why would I possibly want to do that to myself?” He resisted the urge to throw his hands in the air in frustration.

She wavered then, uncertainty creeping along her face as she bit her lip and regarded him. “You...you felt it, too?”

“Yes, whatever it is,” he muttered apprehensively. He wanted to say more, but the rising attention at the motionless pair had him quickly grasp Lady Arya’s hand once more and pull her into a graceless sway, much to her dismay.

...could he be telling the truth?...

...it can’t happen again...

...stupid thread...

An echo of her voice resonated at the back of his mind, soft and light like a summer breeze. When he looked at her, she was deep in thought, her lips tugging into a thoughtful frown. She didn’t seem aware he was listening to her thoughts.

Yes, that seemed about right, Jon mused. He had to be hearing her - her mind, her consciousness. It was the only reasonable explanation he could think of, other than a rapid descent into madness. The latter did not seem appealing in the slightest.

Gods, did that mean she could hear him, too?

He glanced down at her again in alarm, expecting her to react to his sudden fear, but she seemed oblivious to his turmoil. It did not settle the uncomfortable twitching of his nerves.

He dipped in once again to mumble in her ear, “Look, I don’t think you did it. I certainly didn’t do it. Something else is happening here.”

Lady Arya leant back to scrutinize him curiously. “You...don’t think I’m a witch? You’re not going to accuse me?”

He resisted a snort. “Of course not. I’ve read about witches, and more often than not, they’re not highborn ladies.” Jon shrugged nonchalantly. “You’re a Stark.” He said it pragmatically, as if it were the most justifiable reason that existed.

She cocked her head at him then, confusion lining her face. “And what does being a Stark have to do with this? Highborns can be as mystical as anyone else.”

“Despite what they say about the North, you’re not savages who practice dark magic. You’re just like anyone else,” Jon stated patiently. He wasn’t sure what the confusion was. Witches were foreigners or poor swamp-dwellers with nothing to live for. Not daughters of Great Houses. He’d heard the stories.

Her frown melted into a striking grin. “The North is so much more. You know nothing, Jon Targaryen,” Lady Arya said, cryptically.

It was strange, somehow, to hear his name drip from her lips. Almost familiar, though not quite right. Like a half-forgotten dream of another life, another story. He shook the feeling away.

“You’re half-Stark, aren’t you?” Lady Arya’s voice dragged him from his reverie, as she peered up at him. “Your mother was my Aunt Lyanna.”

Jon shifted uncomfortably, tearing away from her gaze to stare at the crowds over her head. The mention of his mother always had his stomach in knots. “I suppose that makes us blood,” he mused absently.

He’d never had another family, other than the row of dragons that were seated behind him at that very moment. Rhaenys and Aegon were often visited by their cousins, a slice of sun and spear to pierce through the smog when the weight of their name and their world would bear down on them. Jon was familiar with several members of the Dornish brood, even engaging in child’s play when he was younger. But it was...different. He was always the outsider. Always the stranger. And they, too, were never quite what he was looking for.

“I suppose it does,” Lady Arya replied, thoughtfully.

The music picked up, and soon the floor was overrun by excited couples swinging about jauntily like wild pendulums, narrowly avoiding trampling the pair. Sensing the imminent danger of losing Lady Arya to the crushing crowd, he grabbed her arm and dragged her to the side, only letting go when they reached a quieter space.

He glanced back around to see if anyone had noticed them slink away, before turning back and leaning down to hiss in her ear. “Something isn’t right. Whatever happened here,” he waved awkwardly between them, “isn’t natural. Now if we’ve established that neither you nor I is responsible for such, there must be another reason.”

Lady Arya’s face scrunched in bewilderment. “Do you really think it’s magic? A curse?” Her eyes widened with innocence, and he thought he could see flickers of excitement twirling in their depths.

He shrugged. “Can’t rule it out. Pissed off any witches lately?” he asked teasingly.

Lady Arya snorted gracelessly and folded her arms across her chest. “I could ask you the same thing. I think out of the two of us, you’re more likely to be cursed than me.”

“That’s rather presumptuous to think.”

“You’re a prince, stupid,” Lady Arya rolled her eyes. “That’s a little more high profile than me, don’t you think?”

Jon leaned his shoulder against the wall and mulled it over, ignoring the insult. She certainly wasn’t wrong. A son of a King, and one borne of war and turmoil certainly had many enemies. It was a strange way to enact revenge, and for the life of him, he could not see why Lady Arya would be dragged in if that were the case. He sighed deeply and gazed around their surroundings.

It was a surprisingly quiet part of the room, most of the guests trapped in an elaborate dance, allowing them some breathing space. “It doesn’t matter,” he finally said. “Whatever it is, it has to stop. We don’t know when it will flair up again, but I cannot afford this distraction during the tourney, understand?”

She nodded seriously, mimicking his stance against the wall. “I agree. So what do we do first?”

He frowned. “See if we can find out more about what’s happening, I suppose.” The wheels of his mind ground against each other, fueled by determination. He needed some time to think about who could possibly wish them harm, as well as more information on the bizarre situation they found themselves in. It seemed like a reasonable place to start. “You’re staying at the Holdfast, aren’t you? Meet me at the front courtyard after the morning meal. We might as well start at the library, see what we can dig up.”

Lady Arya opened her mouth to reply, but suddenly snapped it shut with a look of puzzlement. She reached out to press a hand against her forehead, grimacing softly. Her dark hair shimmered around her at the movement, glinting in the lantern light.

“My lady?” Jon asked with concern, “Is everything alright?” He felt dread pool in his bones, feeling he knew exactly what was happening.

He expected her to panic, as he had, but she simply shook her head. “Nothing, I’m just...tired. If we’re done here, I’d like to return to my family.” Her voice was strained, and when she looked up, her eyes seemed to be flying far away, lost in clouds of thought.

“Of course. Good evening, my lady.” He bowed deeply.

She curtsied back, and slipped from view, the edge of her blue dress trailing behind her. Before she stepped back into the madness, she threw a glance over her shoulder, a small smile on her face.

“Your Highness? Don’t call me Lady. It’s Arya. Just Arya.”

He thought he could feel a shift, somewhere in the back of his mind, a flicker of a flame. He returned her smile with a hesitant one of his own. “Arya,” he tested the word. It slid comfortably along his tongue. “Then I insist you call me Jon.”

“Well, since you insisted,” Arya laughed. “Good evening...Jon.” Her lips formed the last word softly, as if whispering a secret. It slithered into the air and carried across the chasm between them, crawling up his skin.

A breath later, she was gone.

He stared after her for a moment, watching her slight frame melt into the dancing crowd like water and disappear from his sight. He wondered briefly what Lord Stark and the Lady Arya - just Arya! he berated himself - thought of him tonight. Nothing he’d planned for, he was sure.

A sigh escaped his lips. For moons now, he’d anticipated the arrival of the Starks, for the opening of the tourney, for everything to fall into place like a puzzle. The pieces had come down, but they did not fit, and Jon was left with a deep sense of anti-climax. Lord Stark surely thought him a fool, and he’d just enlisted his daughter’s help to break a curse, of all things.

He raised a hand and pressed it against his pounding head. Gods, he needed sleep.

Spinning on his heel, Jon caught Aegon dragging Rhaenys to dance, their faces flushed brightly and their heads thrown back in laughter. He watched them fondly, chuckling as Aegon’s erratic moves had guests scurrying for cover as he spun his betrothed with the force of a violent tornado.

He felt rather than saw someone’s stare bore into him, prickling his skin. Frowning, Jon turned back to the high table and tried finding its source. To his surprise, the King’s seat was empty. He didn’t have time to dwell, as his eyes slid from one chair to the next, and froze.

Elia sat rigid in her place, her brown eyes glaring at him angrily with the fire of a thousand burning suns.

Chapter Text

She was lost.

It was the thought that rang through the endless night. With the light around her gone, she had no choice but to look up at the gaping hole above her, where a great dark expanse of sky drifted. A stillness hung suspended in the air, waiting to be filled, terrible and empty and so very lonely.

Her breaths quickened in her chest and the silence was ripped by her voiceless screams as she called for help.

The darkness flickered, untouched and aloof. In the pit, she remained still.

Something cold touched her lips. Blinking in confusion, Arya glanced up towards the shimmering clouds and saw speckles of snowflakes drifting towards her, dancing without abandon in the harsh whistling winds. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf’s howl pierced the void. It spilled into her heart like warm liquor, dripping over her frozen fear and melting into her bones. Serenity wrapped around her like a web and she clung to it desperately. There was something almost familiar about the howl, about the peace it inspired. Familiar like the grey stone walls of Winterfell, or the breathless laughter of its children running through the halls. Like home, Arya realised.

She looked up again, and her eyes latched on a figure standing at the edge of the cliff. They were a shadow, a smudge in her vision, quivering as the winds whipped angrily around them. Arya tried to climb up towards them, but her hands grasped at smooth stone. The figure was shaking, and she felt panic roll off their skin in waves. They were staring directly at her, she noticed. Above them, the clouds darkened with anger, twisting and turning with rage as they reached forward to consume the shadowy figure.

Her heart clenched. She didn’t know what was happening or where she was, but she knew with certainty that she was much safer down here than they were up there.

“Hello?” she tried calling out to the figure. “Can you hear me?”

There was no reaction. The sky warped into black fingers stretching towards the figure, the wind thrashing around them fiercely, threatening to swallow them whole. With an unpleasant jolt, Arya realised that no one could possibly survive the impending storm brewing, and that this shadowy stranger was in the line of danger.

“You have to jump!” Arya yelled desperately at them. “It’s not safe up there! Jump!”

They recoiled in panic, and before Arya could call out to them once more, her vision went black and the howling stopped.

oOo

Arya sprang up suddenly from her bed to the sound of a thud and a curse.

Her chest heaving, she frantically wiped the sweat off her face before peering over the edge to see Rickon sprawled on the floor, warily looking up at her.

“Why are you in my room?” Arya asked suspiciously, watching her brother drag himself up and straighten his tunic.

He ran a hand through his tousled hair first before responding, “Father asked me to fetch you for breakfast. I didn’t think waking you up would be so...violent. Then again, it is you.” He ignored her narrowed eyes. “What were you dreaming about anyway?”

A flash of wolves and storms and darkness spun through her mind, and she shook it away with determination. “Nothing. Can’t remember,” she said shortly. She shifted under his gaze in discomfort. “Well, I’m up now,” Arya insisted, giving him a pointed look. “Your job is done. Now shoo.” She waved him off.

Rickon snorted, rolling his eyes. “Alright Your Grace, I’m going. But be quick about it.” He spun on his heel and started walking towards the door. “The melee’s starting soon and Father said we can’t go until we’ve all eaten, so hurry up!” he called over his shoulder.

A moment later, she was left alone with her simmering thoughts.

Throwing back the covers, Arya stood on her toes and reached for the ceiling, feeling the cracks in her back pop satisfyingly. She closed her eyes and took three deep breaths to settle her thoughts. It was just a dream. Nothing more. Opening her eyes, her vision was filled with red and fire, the painted dragons around the room glaring down mercilessly at her. It sparked memories of a different sort of dragon staring at her last night, curiosity brewing in his grey eyes. Grey like Father’s, like hers, she realised with a frown.

Jon Targaryen was nothing like she’d expected. If a single drop of Rhaegar’s blood existed in him, it did not show. Why, he looked more Stark than her siblings! A wolf in dragon’s clothing, Arya mused absently.

A ticklish sensation flickered at the back of her head, the golden thread tingling as it reached into the fog in her mind’s eye. She didn’t dare try and follow it, for she knew where it led and didn’t think he’d appreciate the intrusion. She wasn't even entirely sure he wasn't watching her right now either, as disconcerting of a thought that was. Arya grimaced softly, remembering the onslaught of Jon’s thoughts at the feast. It was overwhelming, to say the least, and she’d been quick to excuse herself from the prince and her father to rush back to her chambers and climb under the covers. As if the cocoon could protect her from the jarring situation, from the absurdity of it all.

Jon’s thoughts had faded the more distance she’d put between them, but his quiet, brewing presence like soft snowfall still lingered at the back of her mind, a whisper of a shadow. Arya sighed, and hurried to dress in her least restrictive dress, avoiding the eyes of the dragons on the walls. She didn’t think she could bear their ensnaring company a moment longer.

When she finally walked into her father’s quarters, Lord Stark and her brother were already more than halfway through eating. “Good of you to finally join us,” Ned smiled gently at her. “I trust you slept well?”

Arya forced a smile in return, and cleared her throat. “Of course. The room is wonderful,” she lied, reaching for an apple in a bowl of fruit. Her eyes wandered up as she bit into it. “Though the royal family has a peculiar choice in decoration, if I may say so,” she added, observing the dancing golden dragon on the ceiling.

Ned let out a hearty laugh. “That they do. A little unsettling to sleep under.” He picked up his goblet of water to take a sip, Arya mirroring him with her own.

Rickon paused between shovelling piles of eggs in his mouth to grin cheekily at Arya. “Thought you’d love all the dragon stuff, after a taste of it last night. How is the prince?” He winked at her.

The air was filled with the sounds of choking as Ned spluttered into his drink and Arya pounded at her chest, coughing. She whipped around to give Rickon a dirty glare. “And what is that supposed to mean, you little-"

“Arya,” Ned managed to mutter, “we do not curse our brothers at the breakfast table.” He gave her a pointed look, which had her biting her tongue and sitting back in her seat, glaring at Rickon instead. “I believe he simply meant to ask how your dance went with His Grace. You left not too long after.” His eyebrows furrowed on concern. “Was everything alright?”

Did he do anything to you?  was unspoken, but very much lingering in her father’s eyes.

Arya stopped mid-chew to hurriedly assure him. “It was fine, honestly!” she said, her mouth full of apple. “I was just, um, tired. It had been a long day, truly.” She managed to swallow and give her father a half-convincing smile.

It was the understatement of the century. Arya could hardly believe it had only been a day since she’d rode in, her mind full of jousts and melees and the chanting of crowds. A day since she’d walked over the threshold of the city and let the sights and the sounds wash over her, letting them fuel her fantasies of glory. 

Now, she was stuck with a dragon wandering through her head and the inexplicable need to break something. 

This just didn't seem fair! Why was she stuck with some stupid curse with a prince? This was the sort of thing Sansa would have loved. She'd have simmered and batted her eyelashes and sighed that it was oh so romantic, they were meant to be! 

Arya struggled to stop herself from retching. 

All she'd wanted to do was enjoy the tourney, and bask in the brief respite from the haggling of her mother. And now, instead of spending her day with everyone else watching the melee, she'd be trapped in some dusty library with -

Jon.

Her eyes widened with shock as her chewing ground to a halt. She had told him she’d meet him after breakfast, and it was almost noon now!

“I have to go,” she said suddenly, interrupting her father and Rickon’s conversation. They turned to look at her in surprise.

“Well, if you’ve finished eating, we can make our way down for the melee now-" Ned began.

“Oh, um, about that,” Arya began uncertainly. Gods, what was she going to say? She couldn’t very well tell them she’d be with Prince Jon at the library without raising some sort of concern from her father. “I...I think I might not go. I’m not, uh, feeling well.” She gave a pitiful moan and rested the back of her hand against her head dramatically. "It must be the weather, I simply cannot handle the heat."

Rickon balked. “But...but it’s the first day of the tourney! You haven’t shut up about it for moons, Arya! Can’t you just suck it up and come?” He gave her a pleading look. 

Ned scrutinised her closely, and she resisted the urge to bite her lip and wither under his stare. He’d know immediately she was lying then. "Are you quite certain?" he asked, leaning in. "Would you like me to stay here with you, and give you some company?"

"Oh no!" she exclaimed suddenly, and cursed inwardly when Ned narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Too fast, bring it in, Arya. "I mean, I wouldn't want to ruin the tourney for you, Father. Really, it'll be such a bore to stay here. I'll just be asleep. No, no, you both go on." She pretended to muster up the strength to give them a feeble smile. 

"Weak," Rickon muttered under his breath, and she resisted the urge to kick him. 

Her father watched her for a few moments more with a frown, before finally saying, "Very well. Get some rest. If you need anything, Jory won't be too far away and he'll fetch me immediately." He reached over and patted her hand gently. 

A swell of guilt rose in her. She despised lying to her father, but she did give her word to Jon. "Thank you, Father." 

oOo

She heard his thoughts before she saw him, the soft snowfall of his presence growing steadily stronger until it sliced through her mind like winter winds. 

...been waiting for an hour...

...should have just gone to the melee...

Rounding the corner, Arya caught sight of the dragon prince lounging against a column, staring into the courtyard. His face was still like the pools in a godswood, and he was wrapped in dark silks that gave him a striking profile against the backdrop of the blood-red castle walls. He seemed to be particularly fascinated by a small bush of blue flowers growing near him, glaring at it with such determination she half-wondered if it would burst into flames. 

Quietly stepping towards him, she cleared her throat surreptitiously. 

He sprang away from the column immediately and whipped around to face her, his surprised expression melting into a guarded blank canvas. "Lady Arya," he muttered, giving her a short bow. "How kind of you to grace me with your presence." His voice dripped with sarcasm. 

Arya's mouth had opened to draw out a string of apologies, but the tone of his words had her snapping it shut and scoffing instead. After all, he did say to meet after the morning meal. It wasn't her fault the dragons woke up so bloody early. 

"Yes, well," she started, folding her arms over her chest, "I slept in a little," she confessed. 

The irritated twist of his mouth relaxed until he let out a breath. "Understandable. You had a long day, I'm sure. Shall we?" He made a motion towards a corridor on her left, lined with white marble and rich vermilion stone. 

They walked in silence mostly, the prince staring straight ahead and Arya falling one step behind his long legs. Growing bored, she entertained herself by observing the artwork painted on the walls around her. It was mostly dragons, unsurprisingly, but occasionally she'd see a mural of the heavens, of the sun riding a chariot across a glimmering blue sky, of a moon locked in an embrace with the stars. She wondered if there were legends behind each piece, if there was a story behind each stroke of the brush, hidden in the colours. 

"Gods, do you ever stop thinking so much?" Jon said suddenly, incredulous. "It's exhausting listening to you."

Arya bristled at that. "Well, stop listening then!" she snapped. "I'm not listening to any of your thoughts." And it was true, after their initial interaction earlier, she'd heard hardly a whisper from the prince, just a subtle murmur under the depths as if she was submerged underwater. It was certainly curious. 

"Maybe if you quietened down once in a while, you would," he laughed back. "Though I confess, I'd much rather you didn't." 

"Have something to hide, do you?" Arya teased with a smirk. 

His smile vanished and he turned back to stare ahead. "No one needs to know everything about a person. Some things are best left unsaid," he said simply. 

His words evoked an image of a silver-haired man staring at her from across a desk, disapproval in his violet eyes as they locked onto her. 

Never ask me this again. 

A shiver involuntarily ran down her spine, and she glanced at the boy walking beside her. Neither had mentioned what each had seen in the tunnels, and she had little doubt he saw as much of her life as she saw his. Curiosity burned in her gut to know which part of her had been revealed to him, which memories, which nightmares. But she was almost afraid to ask, not wanting to see the judgement coursing through his eyes as it coursed through everyone else's. Perhaps he felt much the same as her, though Arya preferred not to dwell on what she'd seen. It didn't seem right, somehow. As if she were betraying his secrets just by thinking about it. Maybe she was, if he could see into her mind. She only hoped he'd offer her the same courtesy. 

They marched on further, not a whisper of a word uttered aloud, but a thousand whirling in her head. 

oOo

The world fell to silence as soon as they stepped over the threshold, and Arya dared not breathe in case she disturbed it.

The library was, in a word, spectacular. It was possibly as large as the Great Hall in Winterfell, lined with shelves and shelves of volumes spanning the walls like painted canvas. Thick as bricks and thin as silk, every colour, every shade glittering like rainbows under the sunlight pouring in from high-arching windows. A maze of bookcases towered before her, the tops hardly visible; lost in the heavens like stars in daylight. The gentle smell of ink and old parchment wafted in her nose, and she breathed it in with a sigh.

Arya always had a special relationship with libraries. Her childhood had been spent hiding in them from her Septa or her mother, or even for a moment of escape if ever the world was too loud. She loved that moment of perfect tranquility when she stepped into its space, that taste in the air of a million hidden stories waiting to be told. Sometimes she even dared imagine having one written about her, one day. Of her victories and her legends and the Noble Arya Stark. The thought brought a smile to her face.

A snort interrupted her musings, and she turned to see Jon biting his lip to contain his laughter.

“Something funny?” she asked suspiciously.

“Oh no,” he said quickly, his lips spreading into an arrogant grin. “Nothing at all. So, um, will you be slaying dragons and saving maidens in this book of your legendary, noble exploits?” He smile grew wider, and Arya felt the sudden urge to smack it off his face.

“The only dragon that needs slaying is you,” she snapped. She felt her face redden and her cheeks engulf themselves in flames as she whipped around and stalked towards a random aisle. She heard him snicker and race to catch up, but she refused to turn around.

Stupid, stupid! She never told anyone about her dreams and now this stupid prince knew because of this stupid magic spell or whatever and oh, Gods, could the ground just swallow her whole?

A hand on her shoulder slowed her to a halt, and she pointedly stared at a book - The Bizarre Bumblings of Beric Banefort - pretending to find it more interesting than his ridiculous face.

“Hey, look, I’m sorry I laughed,” Jon said quietly, his voice sombre. “If it’s any consolation, I won’t tell anyone. You have my word, my lady.”

The thread shimmered in her mind’s eye, and Arya felt the honesty emanating off its golden sheen like a heatwave. It was disconcerting to see through him with such clarity, but it did make her feel better.

With a sigh, she turned back to look up at him. “Fine. And don’t call me lady again.”

“As you wish,” Jon replied with a wink, moving in front of her to tread deeper into the throes of a thousand books. “It’s amazing, isn’t it?” His voice drifted in her ears like a whispering wind. He was gazing around the room in wonder. “Apparently the one in the Citadel is even grander. Can you imagine it?”

She really couldn’t. “Do you spend a lot of time here, then?” she asked instead as she followed him through the narrow aisles, her hand running over the spines of the nearest books delicately.

Jon shrugged. “Sometimes,” he said shortly.

Would spend more if the damned fool wasn’t in here all the time instead of in court like he should be.

The thought burst through Arya’s mind before Jon could stop himself, and he ground to a sudden halt to turn towards her in shock.

“Did you hear that?” he whispered, his eyes worried and wide.

Arya shifted from foot to foot. There was no use in lying, since he’d sense that too. “Yes,” she said awkwardly. “But I won’t tell anyone, I promise!” she reassured him.

Jon sighed and ran a hand over his face. “I guess we’re both keeping secrets,” he muttered with a tired smile, more to himself than her, before whipping on his heel and pressing forward. She hurried after him, carefully ignoring the tumultuous waves of his thoughts shimmering in her head. They walked in silence after that, weaving through the aisles like snakes in grass. She wasn’t sure where he was going, but decided not to ask. Jon certainly didn’t seem to be in the mood for more conversation.

He finally slowed down just as they passed a plaque on a wall with ‘MAGIC SPELLS AND CURSES’, engraved in gold. Two bookcases stood tall in the far corner of the library, tucked in the dark away from the glare of the sunlight. Arya ran a finger over part of the shelf and grimaced when it came away with a thick layer of dirt.

“We don’t come here much,” Jon said apologetically, handing her a handkerchief to clean her hand, “Neither do the servants, clearly. But it’s a good place to start.” He moved towards one shelf and grabbed multiple books, chucking them towards a small circular table sitting in front of the bookcases.

Arya gave him back his handkerchief with a grateful smile and leaned over to peer at the titles.

“So You’ve Been Turned Into a Beetle?" she read aloud with a snort. “Are you sure we’ll find what we need here?” she asked him, skeptical.

Jon gave her a pained look over the stack of books in his arms. “Got a better idea?”

“Not really.”

“Then better get cracking on the beetle book, then, huh?”

Rolling her eyes, Arya dropped into a chair, picked up the nearest volume and started reading.

oOo

It was well into the afternoon when Jon finally slammed a book shut (Clara and Her Cat Gustavus), and threw his head down on the table. “I can’t do it anymore,” he moaned dejectedly, “I can’t read another word more of some sod somewhere in a swamp trying to find the secret to eternal life and accidentally turning their cat into a damn frog in the process. It’s too much.”

Arya giggled from behind her own book, A Witch’s Monologue, setting it down so she could see him better. His face was entirely hidden, nothing but a spring of brown curls slumped against the dark oak table opposite her. “How do you accidentally turn a cat into a frog?”

“The same way you accidentally meet a lady in an underground tunnel, I imagine,” the response came, muffled by the table.

She bit back a smile. “Fair.”

He dragged in a deep sigh and lifted his head tiredly. “Find anything good?”

Arya hummed and fingered the page absently. “If you don’t count a scandalous recounting of how a witch turned a Lannister Lord’s cock into a snake that bit his ass, then I’ve got nothing.”

Jon raised his eyebrow. “A cock into a snake? Why not just cut it off?”

Arya shrugged. “Poetic justice? He did try to force himself on her.”

“But a snake could bite you as much as him. It’s an awful vengeance.”

“More original than just cutting it off. Use your imagination.”

“Why be creative when you can just be efficient?”

“You’d be a terrible witch.”

Jon threw his head back in laughter, his body shaking with mirth. Arya found herself enjoying the sound of it. It was...musical, in a way. Deep and strong and pleasant to the -

Shut up! she hissed at herself. He can hear you, stupid! What is the matter with you? 

Arya surreptitiously cleared her throat, noting in relief that Jon hadn’t made any sign that he’d heard her. Quietly chastising herself, she picked up the next book and absently flicked through the pages, letting her eyes wander blankly over the words. A rustling from the opposite end of the table told her that Jon was doing the same. A companionable silence settled on their shoulders as they read, oddly comfortable like a well-worn blanket, soft and familiar. Once or twice, Arya felt her eyelids droop, until she violently shook herself awake. Rickon and Father must still be at the melee, she mused. Oh, how she envied them. No doubt it was a spectacular event! With swords and hammers and crowds and cheering and -

Wait.

Her eyes roved over the words once, twice, thrice, hardly daring to believe it.

“Jon,” she whispered excitedly, reaching out to grab his arm without thinking. “Jon, I think I’ve found something!”

The dragon prince rose immediately and dragged his chair beside her until he was peering over her shoulder to read the passage under her finger:

‘We art did bind in flesh, he and I. We art lock'd in one anoth'r, trapp'd in a prison of our spirits. At which hour that he hath fury, I burneth with rage. At which hour that he hath sadness, I taste his drops of sorrow. He asks me to breaketh these chains, but I cannot. This is beyond mine own control.’

They finished together, Arya raising her eyes to meet her mirror in Jon’s. “Do you think it’s referring to what’s happening with us?” she asked in a hushed whisper, as if telling him a secret.

He frowned, his mouth twisting to the side. “I’m not sure. Could just be talking about some shitty marriage. Let’s see what it says next.”

'Is it magic? I doth not knoweth. T'is none that I has't cometh across. The gods has't fashioned us for chaos and love, but this is something more. I share his dreams, his thoughts, his memories. He hath undone me for other men, for I seek him amongst those folk and cometh hence disappointed. This thread that binds us hath becometh a noose around mine neck...'

In her elation, she smacked him on the shoulder. "The thread! She mentioned the thread!" her voice increasing in volume. "And look! Thoughts and memories. This is it, Jon, I can't - what's the matter?"

She turned, expecting him to share her enthusiasm, but instead was met with a wary expression. 

"Nothing.” The corners of his mouth were struggling not to quirk upwards as he rubbed his shoulder. 

Arya's frown of concern melted into an unladylike snort. "Don't be a baby, I hardly touched you. I was just trying to get your attention," she insisted. 

"That's a very violent way to flirt. I can't tell if I like it or not." 

"I wasn't flirting-" she spluttered indignantly. 

"Wait, look at this." He dragged her attention towards a faded scribble, frantically scrawled at the bottom of the page. It was haphazard and desperate, as if the words were threatening to escape from the prison of the page, compared to the neat, elegant strokes of the writing before. Arya narrowed her eyes and peered closer, scrunching her nose as she tried deciphering it.

The pressing heat on her side did not help. Jon was squished close to her, his arm pressed against hers as he concentrated on the page before him. Gods, the boy really did have fire in his blood. He radiated warmth in waves, crashing into her over and over again, more and more intense each time. She struggled to breathe, like a drowning sailor fighting for her life. With every inhale, a crisp scent would waft into her nose, salty and fresh, like rolling hills of grass by the seaside, scattered with flowers and all things sweet. She thought she'd known every flower south of the Neck, stopping each time to smell a new one on her journey down, but she'd never known this. Oh, but she did like it. Did he always smell like this?

Jon suddenly cleared his throat, dragging her from her reverie. He ran a hand through his curls, pushing them away from his eyes before returning to the page. 

Arya, you fool, shut up! her rational mind hissed at her. He's most definitely heard you! 

She felt her cheeks redden, and she tried moving away subtly without alarming him. To her dismay, the further she lent away, the closer he seemed to be, the heat and the scent of the sea and flowers threatening to overwhelm her. At the back of her mind, the thread glowed impossibly bright, and she could see it twining around them like snakes, subtle and slow, around their wrists and their arms and their necks. Drawing them closer together. 

A noose, indeed. 

Jon hadn't seemed to notice, for when he glanced up to say something, he paused to take in her undignified gape. 

"Is...everything alright?" he asked cautiously, quirking an eyebrow. 

His voice jarred through her thoughts, until the thread vanished into falling stars and she was left blinking stupidly at him. "Um, yes," she muttered shortly, feeling her cheeks grow even warmer, if that were possible. Gods, she wished the ground would swallow her whole. He must think she'd never been near a boy in her life! How preposterous! 

"Well then," he continued, "what do you think?" 

She hadn't even read the passage. "Sounds interesting."

"Interesting?" he repeated incredulously. "Arya, whoever wrote this found a way to severe the connection! That's more than interesting!" he exclaimed excitedly. "Listen to this: We didst't. I can no longer heareth him, no longer taste him. He doest not haunt mine dreams as I haunt his. I am alone in mine thoughts, in mine memories. We art no longer one, but two. There's a way of cutting this off!" 

Arya frowned in confusion. "It doesn't say why it happened. Why them? Why us? What's so special about us?" 

Jon's smile faded, and he sighed in disappointment. "I don't know," he confessed in annoyance. "But if we can get rid of it, frankly, I don't care. Turn the page, let's see if it tells us how." 

She flicked the aged paper over, her stomach rumbling with anticipation, when - 

"It's...missing," Jon said, slowly.

"I can see that." 

The jagged remnants of a ripped page glared up at them mockingly. Arya ran her finger over it softly, wishing for it to grow and reveal its secrets. 

"Why is it missing?" Jon's voice was frantic. He grabbed the book from her and turned every page desperately, growing more and more agitated as he realised it was empty. The missing page was the end of the book. He pushed it away in a burst of anger, and Arya watched the reflections of the lanterns on the wall play over the blank canvases, like dancers in the desert. 

She felt him slump in his chair dejectedly, his hands tangled in the dark sea of his hair. "It's all useless. We didn't learn anything."

"That's not true," Arya said delicately. "We know it's not some special curse on us, if it's happened before. And more importantly, we know it can be broken. That's a start, don't you think?" 

Jon slowly removed his hands from his face to stare at her in confusion. "I...guess so," he agreed cautiously. "But we've gone through every damn book here, and it would take us years to go through the rest of the library," he complained, moving his hands back over his face and slumping lower in his chair. 

Arya sighed in annoyance, and reached up to pull his hands away so he would look at her.

The contact of skin to skin was like a burst of wildfire. It snapped at her fingers and inflamed her blood, the heat wrapping around her like silk, melting into her until she could no longer tell where she began and it ended. She expected a bright flash and an onslaught of Gods-know-what but as suddenly as it began, it vanished, and she was left with her hands still covering his and twin pools of grey staring at her in shock. 

Jon reacted immediately, snatching his hands and pushing himself away until the table stood between them. Their breaths were heavy, sweat beading their foreheads as if they'd run a mile a minute. With shaky fingers, the prince undid the collar of his tunic, sighing in relief as he swallowed deeply. 

"That was different," she finally said, breaking the awkward silence.

He gave her a withering look. 

"It was!" she insisted, crossing her arms over her chest. "You remember what happened last time. There's nothing normal about this, we have no idea what to expect. And I don't think we're going to find our answer in a book." 

Jon jumped up and started pacing, his hands clenching repeatedly as he breathed in deeply. She could feel his agitation rolling over his skin and through the thread, his fearful thoughts ringing through her head like bells. 

"Jon, we'll figure this out-" she began. 

"How?" He whipped towards her, helpless. "The wedding is in a month, and then you leave King's Landing. What if we can't cut this off by then? What, we spend the rest of our lives just stuck together like this? What about when you get married, and when I get married? Gods, I hadn't thought about the bedding -"

Arya certainly didn't want to think about any sort of bedding, so did the one thing she knew would catch his attention. 

She stood up and punched his shoulder. Hard. 

"Hey!" he exclaimed, his ramble cut short to grab his shoulder with a wince. "What did you do that for?" 

"Flirting, obviously," she replied drily. She put her hands on her hip and stared up at him, challenging. "Now if you'd shut up for a moment, and stop freaking out, we can think through this properly. We know it's happened to people before. We know that it can be broken. And we know that it changes. It's always a little different every time we meet, and I'm confident that as two competent individuals, we can figure this out. But I need you to not be stupid and freak out. Is that too much to ask?"

He gaped at her for a moment, before shaking his head slowly. 

She flashed him a brilliant smile, "Good." 

He was looking at her properly now, his hazy grey eyes boring into hers. They were so like hers, the same icy shade, but his were somehow more. Unconsciously, she leaned in further, fascinated. They were grey like the clouds before a thunderstorm, grey like the steel fresh off the blacksmith's hammer. They were the seas and the skies and everything in between, trapped in eternal winter.

They were...standing too close, a distinct cough made her realise. Her eyes widening in surprise, she peeked around Jon to find Ser Jaime Lannister standing awkwardly some feet away, his glistening armour shimmering in the afternoon light. 

"I hope I am not disturbing anything, my prince," the Kingsguard said lightly with a smirk.

It took an eternity, or a split second, for Jon to clear his throat and reply. "No, no, of course not, Ser Jaime," he waved nonchalantly, stepping around Arya to fiddle with the books sprawled across the table. "Is there something you need?" 

The other man looked decidedly unconvinced. "Your armour fitting, my prince, for the joust. Unless of course, my prince is otherwise engaged?" He raised a blonde eyebrow, the corners of his full lips quirking upwards in the hints of a smile. 

"Oh shit, is that now?" Jon dropped a book in shock. "I completely forgot! No, no, I'm coming." he flustered, straightening his tunic. He moved past her to take a step towards the Kingsguard, before pausing and turning to her. "Thank you for your time, my lady," he said, with a short formal bow. "I hope you enjoyed the library, and that you find the book you're looking for. Perhaps I shall be graced by your presence soon?" 

Tomorrow. Meet me in the courtyard. Same time?  Jon's voice whispered in her head. 

Noticing the curious stare of the golden man, Arya forced a polite smile on her face and returned a curtsy. "I am grateful for His Grace taking the time to help me," she replied in her most lady-like voice. "And I look forward to the next time we meet." 

I'll be there, she whispered back. 

With a grin, Jon disappeared into the sea of shelves, the faint scent of salt and flowers lingering in his wake. Arya turned to pick up the book they had been reading, flicking back to the missing page with a sigh. 

"Ah, The Diary of Cassandra Reed, I assume," Ser Jaime's voice drifted towards her, saturated in humour. She turned with a jolt, thinking she had been alone. 

He pointed at the book in her hands. Arya turned it over to see the words Cassandra Reed engraved in gold on the velvet black cover, thinning with age. She looked back at the Kingsguard in surprise. 

"Fascinating read, is it not?" he continued idly, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. "My sister and I certainly enjoyed it. Very...informative." He smirked at her, like a proud cat with a mouse trapped in its jaws. It crawled up her skin, settling against it like mildew. He bowed curtly to her. "Good evening, my lady." 

With that, he turned and followed his dragon prince, Arya staring after him in bemusement. 

Chapter Text

The rising sun crept through the corridor windows, melting away the lingering darkness and painting his every step with the fiery colours of the morning sky.

“Look at it shine! Isn’t it the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?”

He looked over at Aegon turning over a sword in his hands repeatedly in admiration. It was fresh off the blacksmith’s block, not unlike his own currently sheathed at his waist. In a rare moment of generosity, their father had gifted them new armor and weapons for the tourney: dignified suits of red and black, and blades of Valyrian steel, tempered and hammered by the finest blacksmiths from Essos. Jon had accepted both with grace, but the appreciation rang hollow within. They were just tokens: gilded treats to placate them, or perhaps a shallow symbol of Rhaegar's affection. But the knowledge of an impending unwanted betrothal by the end of the tourney weighed on Jon, and not even a shiny new toy could lighten the heaviness in his heart.

Aegon, however, was ecstatic. The sword hadn’t so much as left his hand since he’d received it yesterday. Breakfast was spent excruciatingly watching him slice his fruit with his new blade, and Jon had wondered if it had shared his bed last night, too.

“It’s almost as pretty as you,” Jon commented with a grin.

Aegon raised an eyebrow. “I’m going to pretend you think I’m breathtakingly handsome, in which case, I couldn’t agree more, brother,” he laughed. “But truly, I don’t even think Father’s sword is this fine! Can you believe it’s real Valyrian steel?” He lightly swung it in one hand. “We’ll be the envy of all Seven Kingdoms!”

Jon snorted. “Aye, because prancing around like peacocks is just what the realm needs to see,” he grumbled. “Can’t wait.”

He felt his brother’s hand on his elbow, pulling them to a stop. With a resigned sigh, he turned to face him.

Aegon gave him a pointed look. “Jon, with all due respect, quit raining on my parade and lighten up.”

”Easy for you to say,” Jon muttered petulantly. 

“You aren’t betrothed yet,” his brother stressed. “There’s still time. Rhaenys will try and convince Mother to postpone any betrothal, and I’ll work on Father to let you leave King’s Landing.” He flashed an encouraging smile and clapped him on the back. “Fear not, little brother, everything will work out! And there are far more pressing concerns at hand, you know.”

A rush of appreciation shot through him, and he felt himself relax fractionally. Maybe his siblings could get through to their parents where he could not. Rhaenys was incredibly persuasive when she wished to be, and Aegon was currently the favoured son as the guest of honour, the royal groom, and the Crown Prince dolled up in one. He had a reasonable shot at convincing Rhaegar. Jon felt a small stirring of hope in his gut, glowing dim as an ember. 

In a lighter mood, he quirked an eyebrow at his brother and folded his arms. “Pressing concerns, you say?” he asked mockingly. “Enlighten me.”

Raising the sword higher until it was level with his head, Aegon pouted, “The silver clashes horribly with my hair. They're obviously not the same shade. Do you think I could get it dyed?”

Jon’s mouth dropped open. He considered responding, thought twice, and turned on his heel to stalk away.

“Oi, I’m joking!” Aegon called after him, running to catch up. “Gods, man, you’re as dry as Pycelle,” he snickered. “If you’re not careful, you’ll start smelling like dead cats, too.”

That made Jon smile, and he knocked his brother’s shoulder in good nature. “I should hope I’m a prettier sight.”

Aegon’s laughter rang bright and clear like wind chimes through the corridor. “Only barely, brother.”

Chuckling to themselves, they rounded the corner towards the courtyard. Jon felt a small tug at the back of his head, and the grin died on his lips as a familiar rush blazing brightly as the sun surged through him. “Speaking of pretty sights,” he distantly heard Aegon whistle, drawing to a stop. Jon followed his gaze towards the courtyard centre, where a small figure twirled around with a stick, stabbing at imaginary enemies. Her dark hair was tied loosely back, Jon already knowing the face before it spun into view.

Arya caught his eye just as she slashed through the air, and she pulled to a sudden halt. A small smile tugged at her lips as she reached up to wave him over. She was clad in riding breeches and a dark grey tunic. Innocent enough, except for the fabric stretching fittingly over her hips and thighs, providing a generous view of her lithe figure. Jon heard Aegon release an appreciative hum, and he groaned inwardly. “It would be rude to ignore a lady’s call,” Aegon declared, already moving forward. “Let’s say hello, shall we?”

His mouth twisted as as a charming smile planted itself on Aegon’s lips, white and proud and aware of its beauty. He had no shame. His brother flocked to pretty girls like bees to honey, and not even Jon’s advice two days ago had deterred the Crown Prince from his pursuits. If anything, he’d only hardened Aegon’s resolve to do exactly the opposite. Damned fool. And now, he’d not only have to witness his brother’s blatant disrespect of his betrothed, but tolerate Arya’s simpering as well. No lady had resisted his brother, yet. Jon swallowed a sigh, his mood blackening.

“My lady,” Aegon said silkily, giving an exaggerated bow. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. I’d remember meeting such an exquisite creature such as yourself.” He flashed her his signature smirk while Jon rolled his eyes. Reaching out to gently clasp her hand, he lowered his head to kiss it. “I am Prince Aeg-"

“Yes, I know who you are, Your Grace,” Arya interrupted quickly, slipping her hand from his grasp before his lips could touch her fingers. Her nose wrinkled softly in distaste, before she masked it with an awkward curtsy. “Pleasure. I'm Arya Stark.”

Aegon quirked a surprised eyebrow. “Stark? I should have noticed the similarity.” He placed a hand on Jon’s shoulder and turned back to grin at Arya. “Jon failed to mention how beautiful his cousin was. Clearly it does not run in the family.” He laughed then, but it quickly dissipated when he realized Arya had not joined him. In fact, a frown had carved itself into her face, much to Jon’s interest. His brother cleared his throat, and tried a different avenue. “How is my lady finding the castle? The Red Keep has much to offer, and I’m sure it must be incredibly exciting compared to the North,” he chortled.

A flicker of irritation, light as a spring breeze and not his own, tickled the back of his head. “It’s alright,” Arya replied tightly.

Aegon seemed oblivious to the growing chill in the air, happily gesturing to the long stick in her hand. “I see we’ve caught you in the middle of something. Do ladies in the North often play around when no one is watching?” He winked at her, his tone teasing. 

Arya shuffled her feet and hid the piece of wood behind her back. “I wasn’t playing,” she muttered, indignant. “I was practicing. There’s a difference.” 

His brother chuckled as Jon cocked his head to watch her curiously. “Practicing what?” Jon asked. 

She deliberated, wavering on whether he’d mock her or not. “Um, swordfighting,” a small voice mumbled finally, crimson creeping up her cheeks. “Mother didn’t let me bring my training swords to the tourney, so I’m improvising,” she shrugged. 

Jon’s mouth quirked upwards as an image fluttered into view in his head. It was of Arya, bounding around the woods with a blunt sword in hand, hacking away at trees and imaginary foes. It came with a rush of excitement, unyielding and wild like a wolf’s howl. Like a song sung by steel as it sliced through the air, a melodic chorus chanting just for you. Like every chain of sorrow holding you to the ground shattered and you were free, for a single, stunning moment. 

Like everything that set Jon’s blood on fire when he swung his own sword; something just for him, something no one could take away because of its sacred place in his heart. It didn’t matter what the world expected from him, so long as he had this.

It was freedom.

You understand.

He looked up to find her staring at him, something he could not quite name swirling in her eyes like mist. The thread binding them together shimmered softly, and he blinked to find it twining around her hair, crowning her in a halo of golden light. It was mesmerizing. 

A short snort broke his attention and he dragged his eyes towards his brother. The vines faded into nothing, and Arya was left blinking curiously up at him, ignoring the prince in front of her.

”You train with a sword?” Aegon asked incredulously. “As in, actual steel? And Lord Stark gives you permission?” He was staring at her in shock. 

It took a moment for Arya to realize he was talking to her, but when she did, she was deeply unimpressed. “Is that a problem, Your Grace?” She folded her arms across her chest and glared up at him challengingly. 

Egg, you tread on dangerous ground, Jon wanted to say. 

Egg, instead, trampled through as gracefully as a rampaging elephant. “No, of course not,” he assured patronizingly, “Just odd is all. My cousins in Dorne were trained from a young age, but that has been the case for generations.” He shrugged. “I was unaware Lord Stark was as open-minded.” He reached out to pick her hand up again, and covered it with his own. “It’s wonderful to see Dorne’s influence has such an impact on your people! Perhaps the next tradition you adopt could be flaunting your women a little more, instead of hiding such beauty away.” He waggled his eyebrows at her in jest. “I certainly wouldn’t mind seeing it more frequently in the future.” 

Jon inhaled sharply when he felt the wave of rage emerge from Arya, a tsunami of fury threatening to slam into him. He took a subtle step away from his brother and out of the line of fire. 

Arya’s frown deepened into a scowl as she snatched her hand back aggressively. “The North doesn’t need to adopt any of your traditions. It’s perfectly fine as it is,” she snapped, her voice biting.

Jon bit his lip to stop himself from sniggering at Aegon’s stricken face. “I wasn’t implying as such, my lady,” he began apologetically, “I was just-“

“-perpetuating the stereotype that Northern traditions are backwards and less advanced than those of the South,” she finished angrily. “You should know that Northern women are warriors and leaders and can wield a sword and ride better than any man. They’re far more free than you give them credit for, and they are not made to be ogled at, but respected.”

“I never said-“

“No, but that’s what you meant.” Arya interrupted, wry contempt painted on her face. “I’m well aware of what the South thinks of my home, Your Grace, but I expect more from someone who shares blood with a son of the North and who will one day be our King as well.” 

The last part sent a thrill through Jon, warming his heart. Son of the North. He liked the sound of that, indeed. 

Beside him, Aegon was gaping openly at Arya, looking less like a silver dragon and more like a stunned lizard. Jon had never actually seen his brother’s advances turned down, and he had a feeling Egg hadn't either. It was a distinctly uncomfortable sight, he decided, and one he’d rather they not be present for any longer. "If you'll pardon me, my lady," Jon quickly said, grabbing Aegon's arm, "My brother and I need to have a word. Good day." 

Before she could respond, Jon had dragged Aegon away from the courtyard, down a random corridor, and into a shadowed alcove around the corner.

He spun around to see his brother blinking stupidly at him. Small rays of light filtering from a nearby window illuminated a handsome face marred with confusion. "I think I blanked out. What just happened?" he muttered, slightly dazed.

"You were rejected," Jon stated bluntly, resting against the wall. "And practically called a bigot." 

Aegon frowned, growing even more puzzled. "I could have sworn I was complimenting her.“ 

”You certainly have an odd way of going about it,” Jon snorted. “Good luck trying to get her into bed after all that.” He was lying, of course. Sharing the same headspace as someone bedding his brother was quite possibly one of the worst nightmares Jon could imagine, and he prayed to every God that he never had to experience it.  

Aegon’s face melted into one of surprise, looking seemingly younger in the soft sunlight. “Why on earth would you think I’d try and bed her? Is that how little you think of me?” he asked, visibly affronted.

It was Jon’s turn to be confused. “Am I missing something here? I didn’t realize you took my feelings into consideration.” 

“She’s your blood,” his brother slowly stressed each word, as if it were the most obvious explanation in the world. “And you’re mine. I wouldn’t disrespect you like that. I was harmlessly flirting but I’d never act on it.” He shrugged nonchalantly.  

Jon gaped at him, hardly believing it. 

“I know,” Aegon continued, sighing with false modesty. “I’m a wonderful brother, you need not say it. I understand.” Clapping him on the shoulder, he graced him with an insufferable smile. 

The physical touch was all that was needed to jolt Jon awake, and he pulled away from the wall to step closer. “You...absolute idiot,” he fumed, pushing his brother’s hand away. “I can’t tell if you’re the world’s worst hypocrite or just a moron.” 

Egg’s smile began to fade and he folded his arms across his chest. “Come again?” he asked, his eyes narrowing with annoyance. The sunlight danced on his silvery hair, like an ethereal crown made of moonglow. He was the dragon prince once more, but Jon was unperturbed. Such was said of him, too. 

“You dare not touch a cousin I hardly know out of loyalty to me,” Jon snapped, “But you’ll happily bed any other cunt and disrespect your sister and bride-to-be without a second thought! Does that not sound remarkably inconsistent to you?” 

The Crown Prince’s stare hardened, violet melting into an endless black. “We’re not having this discussion again. I have to get to the melee,” he said simply, swiveling on his heel to stalk away. Jon didn’t bother trying to stop him. He paused halfway down the corridor to yell over his shoulder. “Gods, I was trying to be nice! What is it with the Northerners and being so damn incapable of taking a compliment?” 

“It isn’t a compliment if there’s a hidden insult behind it, you knob!” Jon called back, but his brother had already walked away. 

Unbelievable, he thought, a frustrated sigh escaping his lips. Of all the damned fools, his brother was surely already their king. Anger swelled in his chest, brimming like turbulent tides, but under the surface, there was fear.

Yes, Jon was afraid. Once, Aegon’s recklessness had been endearing, but now it held the potential of ruin. Jon dreaded the day a noblewoman showed up on the steps of the palace with a bastard in one hand, and her father in the other. He need not refer to a history book to know of the disaster it could evoke: he was a living example of how disloyalty in a marriage - particularly one of royalty - could tear a realm apart. 

It was a sobering thought. His existence had damaged any lingering feelings the King and Queen may have shared once, no matter how often Rhaenys told him there was little love to begin with. Aegon never held it against him, but once or twice, Jon had caught him wistfully watching lords laughing with their wives, or holding hands when they thought no one was watching. 

He could have that, Jon fumed as he wandered down the corridor, falling deeper in his muses. He has a betrothed who loves him for everything he is, and he risks losing it for a good fuck. 

He wasn’t sure how Rhaenys truly felt of their brother’s indiscretions. Jon could never read her properly, guarded as she was with her emotions. But she couldn’t tolerate it for much longer, could she? Aegon professed to love her, but if a man truly cared for a woman, he wouldn’t hurt her so. At least, that was what Jon believed happened when one was in love. He’d had no experience of it, however.  

I still wouldn’t, he thought fiercely. He didn’t know if he’d ever love a woman he never wanted to marry, but he’d never disrespect her. No, he wouldn’t repeat the mistakes of his predecessors. He’d seen first hand how much it still hurt Elia to this day, and he wouldn’t wish such pain on anyone else.

His birth was bred from disloyalty, but his future need not be defined by it. Love could grow from the unlikeliest of places. Though love was something he hadn’t quite considered. It had done nothing for his parents, and little for his siblings, after all. 

He sighed in resignation. 

He had little time to brood any further, for a split second later, he was suddenly overcome by a vision of a red-haired woman glaring down at him in frustration. 

‘Really, I've had quite enough of your wild ways!’ the woman cried, throwing her hands in the air. Jon felt himself inadvertently shrink away from the anger on her face. ‘You are banned from wielding any sword from this moment. I allowed this foolishness for this long, but you've clearly become a danger to yourself. This ends now.’ 

It vanished a blink later, replaced by gut-wrenching disappointment that Jon knew was not his own. He looked up to realize he’d returned to the courtyard, where Arya had resumed hacking away at thin air, with a little more aggression behind every swing. He considered giving her privacy for her thoughts, but she seemed so utterly miserable, Jon couldn’t quite bring himself to walk away. 

“Imagining someone in particular?” he asked loudly as he sauntered closer. “I hope it’s not my brother you’re stabbing. That could be treasonous,” he joked.

She froze in midair, and turned to narrow her eyes at him. “Then maybe your stupid brother shouldn’t make himself my target,” she snapped, resuming her ministrations and pointedly ignoring him. 

Jon leaned against a pillar and surveyed her, ignoring her comment. “You weren’t being entirely truthful with us, were you? It seems the North isn’t as keen on training their women as you’d have us believe.” At her shock, he tapped the side of his head with an apologetic smile. “You can’t lie to me. Not when I can see everything up here.”

Arya wavered, and bit her lip. “I mean, there’s Bear Island, ruled by House Mormont,” she explained eagerly, the stick sword hanging by her side. “Their women are trained in every weapon the moment they can walk, and the line of succession doesn’t care for what’s between your legs. Women have as much influence as men there. It’s incredible.”

“And Winterfell?” 

She scruffed her feet against the marble floor, peeking up at him through her thick eyelashes. “Not quite the same,” she admitted ruefully. “Mother hates it. Father tolerates it. They’d much prefer I did something else more fitting of a lady, like needlework.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not very good at that.”

”Perhaps it isn’t the right type of needlework, then,” Jon offered, inspiring a bright smile in response. “I see nothing wrong in a lady picking up a sword. Everyone should learn how to fight.” He shrugged. “It’s the world we live in, unfortunately. Women would fare a great deal better, I’m sure.”

Arya snorted and gave him a dark look. “Gods forbid a lady be able to defend herself. Apparently husbands don’t like that in a wife,” she scoffed, picking at the stick in her hands. She avoided his eyes.

”Then those husbands are fools and aren’t worth your time,” Jon responded lightly. Arya perked up and beamed at him, the dark clouds of her thoughts dissipating until the bright light he’d come to associate with her presence shined once more. 

“Is that your sword?” she suddenly asked excitedly, pointing at the hilt on his belt. He’d almost forgotten he was carrying it. 

“A recent gift from my father,” he replied, unsheathing it so she could see it better. He had to agree with Aegon, it was fine work. His brother’s hilt was entirely encased with red rubies, the pommel carved into a roaring dragon’s head. An ostentatious artwork for a Crown Prince. Their father, however, knew how little Jon cared for sparkling stones, so had requested a simple engraved pattern on darkened silver. The pommel was a dragon’s head much like his brother’s, but with deep blue stones instead of red rubies. In the light, it almost seemed like winter was trapped in the depths of its eyes, a souvenir of the North always held in his hand. Whilst he was dissatisfied with the ways his father showed his affection, Jon had been touched all the same. 

Arya bounded up to him, and peered closer with awe etched on her face. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, eyes widened. “Is it Valyrian steel?” 

“It is,” Jon said, surprised. “How did you know?” 

She shrugged. “Father lets me sit next to him when he sharpens Ice, our ancestral sword. That’s made of Valyrian steel as well, except it’s too big for me to hold. It’s even bigger than my brothers!” she giggled.

Jon cracked a smile. “Do you want to hold this one instead?” he asked, kindly. 

He almost bowled over at the sudden excitement slamming into him with the force of a hurricane. “Yes please!” Arya exclaimed, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“Alright, settle down,” he laughed, handing her the hilt gently. She grasped it with both hands carefully, thrumming with anticipation. “It might be too heavy for you, so be careful,” he warned, letting go.

With surprising strength, she held it up and stared at it in wonder. Her eyes were lit up impossibly, and he felt a flicker of fear she’d break her face with how wide she was smiling. Through their bond, her happiness shimmered like a sea of stars, and Jon chuckled quietly at the sight. She was contagious, apparently, and he felt his own spirits lift alongside her.

”Gods, I’d love to have one of these,” Arya muttered wistfully, her fingers gently running over the carved dragon.

“Would Lord Stark deny you if you requested it?” Jon asked curiously.

She bit her lip and shrugged. “He already worries I’ll hurt myself. I’ve asked him every year since I was nine. I doubt this year will be any different.” She frowned, and her radiance dimmed until it was no brighter than a lantern, Jon’s mood fading with it. With a resigned sigh, she handed back the sword and gave him a grateful smile. “So...are we moving on to the next stage of our thread-breaking adventure?” she jested, changing the topic suddenly.

He sheathed it quietly, and leaned back against the pillar once more, staring at the square expanse of sky above. “Gods, I don’t even know what to do next with that.” Their library session yesterday had been lukewarm at best in helping them, and Jon felt at a total loss.

“Neither do I,” Arya agreed, crestfallen. “And I’m not sure I can keep meeting like this.” She moved to rest her shoulder against the neighbor pillar, facing him. “Father and Rickon left for the melee earlier to see the city, and I hate missing out on the fun. That, and I doubt I can convince my father I’m ill for any longer.” 

“It’s difficult for me, too,” Jon admitted ruefully. “I excused myself yesterday by saying I was helping you in the library, but the King expects my presence today.”

”Then what will we do? We have to figure something out. I’m not telling my father the truth, it’s far too absurd,” she said, shaking her head. 

He pondered for a moment. “We could meet at night?” he offered. “After hours. We’ll have to be quiet, but we’re less likely to rouse suspicion.” 

Arya straightened up. “And I can attend the tourney properly!” she exclaimed happily. “Consider it a deal!” She grinned at him, before suddenly breaking into a run towards the south corridor, the stick sword and dragon prince left forgotten in her wake. 

“Oi, wait!” Jon called after her, pushing himself off the pillar. She ground to a halt at the edge of the courtyard and swiveled back to him impatiently. “Where are you going?” Jon asked, bemused. 

“To the stables,” Arya explained pointedly. “I’m not sticking around here any longer than I have to.” She began turning away from him, so he called her attention again.

“You can’t go alone,” he exclaimed in shock. “The melee is just outside the city! You have to ride through King’s Landing, and that isn’t safe for a lady by herself.”

”Come on, then! We can go together if you’re so concerned,” Arya huffed, beckoning him. In a flash, she was sprinting again, the echoes of her footsteps and laughter trailing after her like shooting stars.

“I meant with guards!” he yelled, jogging out of the courtyard, but she was already out of reach. He could still feel her, however, weaving through the castle as if hounds from hell were at her feet. 

Will you hurry up? her voice suddenly filled his head. You’re slower than my Old Nan, and she’s at least a hundred years old. 

She sent an image of a wizened old woman hunched over and hobbling across a room with a cane. Except her face was replaced with his, which had Jon burst out in laughter. 

The thread between them glimmered, her presence glowing brightly as the rising sun once more. Jon couldn’t help but shine with her, the rays of her excitement filtering into his head and melting the darkness until there was only light. 

We’ll see about that, he shot back, as he ran after her.

Chapter Text

The sun’s rays bloomed across the city, setting it alight with its fiery petals. The golden god itself sat proudly in its chariot as it galloped across the blue sky, trails of clouds whispering in its wake like gentle breaths. Below, King’s Landing relished under its might. From the bellows of blacksmiths to the delighted screams of children, the city was alive and flourishing. Jon took a moment to absorb it all as they paused at the entrance of the Red Keep.

Arya sat saddled beside him, her grey horse whining softly at the frantic crowds bustling before them. Jon had never sympathised so greatly with an animal. He regarded the endless sea of people with trepidation. “Are you sure about this?” he asked her for the millionth time. “It’s not too late to take a litter, you know. It’s a lot busier than it normally is.” 

Arya snorted and shot the prince a disdainful look. “Oh please, you aren’t forcing me into that dreadful contraption. It’s a prison cell on wheels,” she protested with a shiver. “You’re welcome to ride in one yourself, Your Grace.” His title dripped sarcastically from her lips and she smirked at him with mirth. “I’ll protect you.” 

“A simple no would suffice,” Jon muttered instead, as she laughed. He was about to urge his horse forward, when a clear drawl rang loudly from behind, freezing him in place.

”Going somewhere, Your Grace?” 

They both turned around to see Ser Jaime standing at the threshold, his hands resting on his hips. With his golden armour and blonde hair, he seemed to be sculpted from sunlight itself. 

And currently, Jon was at the brunt of his searing gaze. “To the melee,” he stated, causing the knight’s eyebrows to rise. “I’m accompanying Lady Arya here.”

Jaime regarded him coolly. “And who is accompanying you, Your Grace? King’s Landing is not a fit for a prince and a lady alone. You should know that by now.” The edges of his mouth quirked upwards. “There are other ways to impress a lady, Your Grace, that do not compromise your safety.” 

Gods, he made Jon feel like an admonished child! Through the bond, he could feel the whiplash of Arya’s irritation at the Lannister’s insolence, mirroring his own. “I did not see the need to trouble the Kingsguard,” Jon said icily with a frown. “I am more than capable of handling a threat, Ser Jaime, I assure you.”

The knight sighed in exasperation, and gave Jon’s sword a pointed look. “With all due respect,” he declared, stepping closer to give the prince a hard stare, “using a sword in a friendly spar with your brother is distinctly different to swinging at an enemy, and I do not intend for you to discover that today. Please remain here. I’ll get my horse.” He turned towards Arya then, and raked his eyes over her mare dubiously. "And a litter. This is not Winterfell, my lady, and these streets are unfriendly at best." Without waiting for a protest, Jaime swivelled on his heel and stalked towards the stables. 

Jon felt crimson crawl up his face as he watched the knight walk away, his mouth twisting into a scowl. He knew how to use a sword! He’d been holding one since he could barely walk! He was hardly a novice, and Aegon, too, would certainly question just how friendly their training sessions truly were. Simmering in indignant anger, Jon released the reins with a huff, and slouched. 

...but hesitation creeped in, however, like a slithering fog. Perhaps the Lannister was right. Perhaps he was being absurdly irresponsible to ride into the city with little in the way of protection, particularly with a highborn lady at his side. His father would certainly never allow it. Gods, he hoped Jaime wouldn’t tell him. Rhaegar would probably inform Lord Stark, and the Warden of the North would be furious that he'd risk his daughter's safety so casually. He shuddered softly at the thought with sigh.

The daughter in question, who had been gaping after Jaime, must have heard his thoughts since she whipped around to give him an astounded look. “Are you seriously agreeing with him? Don’t you think he’s overreacting a little bit?”

Jon shrugged. "He's sworn to protect. He's just doing what he thinks is right," he reasoned to her. 

Arya scoffed, her nose wrinkling in displeasure. "Well, I don't think he's right. We're not children, and I'm certainly not riding in any damn litter, thank you very much." With a huff, she grabbed her reins and spurred her horse into motion, leaving a gaping prince in her wake for the second time that morning. 

"Hey!" he yelled after her. "You can't just -  oh, for fuck's sake." Seeing little signs of her slowing down, Jon propelled his own steed forward with a curse. He'd deal with Jaime Lannister later. 

He caught up to her just as they left the limits of the castle, moving onto the path towards the King’s Gate. "Stop leaving without me," he grumbled to her as he drew level. "We're going to get in trouble for this, you know." 

Arya beamed at him, her eyes dancing with audacious glee. "There's no harm in a little rule-breaking now and then. It's good for your health, actually."

Jon simply snorted in response, to her amusement. 

The crowd immediately parted for them, a few muttering and pointing at him with awe-struck eyes. Jon tried not to shift around in his saddle, not wanting them to see how uncomfortable he felt. Others seemed unperturbed, preferring to lose themselves to the madness of the city. 

And what a madness it was: from the blacksmith to the alchemist, the cobbled road was swarming with a patchwork of personalities. Shops and houses and brothels and more, glowing golden in the morning light embellished either side. The cacophony of noises carried through the air like windpipes, saturated in laughter and endless chatter. Everywhere Jon looked, a face would either be peering curiously at him or enthralled in conversation, but the crowd seemed to be moving like the tide towards one place in particular. 

“Where are they all going?” Arya leant over and asked in his ear, her eyes following the bustle to a road somewhere to their left. “To the melee?”

”Fishmonger’s Square, I imagine,” Jon guessed. "It’s popular with everyone in the city.” 

“Have you ever been there?” she quizzed, her head cocking to the side. Her hair had fallen out of the loose braid she'd kept it in, tumbling freely down her back in dark waves. “Is it always so busy? Is it true you can buy a dragon’s egg in the city? Can I get one there?” Her voice grew more animated with each syllable, until she was practically vibrating with excitement. 

He paused briefly, attempting to process her rapid questions. Gods, she was a curious one. “I don’t know much about it. I doubt it’s that exciting, probably just a marketplace to sell fish and the like,” he confessed with a shrug. “And dragons don’t exist anymore. You can’t just buy a dragon’s egg. What an absurd idea.” He chuckled to himself, shaking his head at her. 

The bloom of disappointment that erupted through the bond faded his smile instantly. He looked over to see Arya frowning, looking back at the crowds with lackluster enthusiasm. Accidentally slipping into her thoughts, he caught a glimpse of a black dragon soaring through the skies with a roar before it vanished with a sigh. 

“Keen on dragons, are you?” he asked, his voice amicable. Feeling a pang of guilt for ridiculing her, he tried lightening the mood. “They don’t make for very good pets, you know. Fire risk and all that.” 

She cracked a smile, and a surge of triumph rose in him. “I think I’d prefer a wolf if I had to choose, but I’ve always wanted to see a dragon,” she said wistfully. 

He drew himself up and exaggeratedly held his head high. “You’re looking at one right now. Am I not reptilian enough for you?” He gasped in mock indignation.

Arya burst into heaps of laughter, catching the attention of passerbys who curiously observed the pair. “You’re not just a dragon, stupid,” she giggled. “You’re a wolf. Like me,” she beamed at him.

He twisted towards her, bemused. "You really think that?" he inquired, hardly believing it. "I've never even seen the North. How exactly am I wolf?" 

She shot him an exasperated look, as if he couldn't have asked a more asinine question. "Just because you didn't grow up with your pack doesn't mean you don't have one," she explained patiently, turning back to look ahead. 

The words rose a grin unbidden to his lips. Pack. He thought he might love that word. It was difficult to imagine ever being lonely again, when one had such a thing. Something of his very own, something no one else in his family had. Except his mother, of course.

“Tell me about the North,” he asked suddenly, almost desperately. 

If Arya was surprised, she did not show it. “What do you want to know?” 

He deliberated. Anything and everything, he wanted to say. When he thought of the North, it was a blank canvas; a snapshot of silence and darkness in front of which he stood waiting. For what, he could not say. But alone he stood, reaching out to trace the barrier that stood between him and a world beyond. A masterpiece existed, he could almost feel it under the surface, but he had no way of revealing it. He had the colours, with little idea of what he was supposed to paint. And so, he started with the most basic question he could think of. 

“Is it as cold as they say?” 

She pondered for a moment, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. It was a stupid question, he realised with annoyance. Of all the things to ask! He sounded as ignorant as Aegon, Gods help him. 

Arya offered him a soft smile. "It's not stupid," she reassured him, and he groaned silently that she’d bear witness to his ramblings. "And I don't think so. King's Landing is just unbearably hot." She fanned herself to emphasise, sweat beading her forehead like water droplets. 

He had to laugh. 

"It isn't the warmest," Arya continued admittedly, "but you can't feel it within the walls of Winterfell. Water runs through the walls, so it's as warm as a summer's day, no matter what it's like outside. You know you're safe from whatever’s out there," she finished in an almost melancholic voice. Her eyes had lit up when she'd first started speaking, but the light slowly faded, darkening the grey until they simmered like winter storms. 

I don't want to leave it. 

The thought was a whisper, and Jon almost missed it. Frowning, he regarded her curiously, the question sitting on his tongue. 

Just as he was about to ask, Arya pulled her horse to a halt. 

“Can we stop for a moment?” she urged at his uncertain expression, “I want to look around. Please? Just for a minute?” 

Jon regarded her pleading face and deliberated. It couldn't hurt to spend a few minutes browsing, and the melee had a while before starting. “Fine. But stay close to me. It isn’t-“

”Safe, yes, everyone has made that abundantly clear,” Arya muttered, rolling her eyes. 

They moved their horses to the side, and dismounted. Jon took the reins of Arya's horse as well as his own, and tied it to a nearby post. "We can't go too far," he instructed her, tightening the knot. "We have to stay near the horses. I don't trust anyone not to rob us when we aren't looking." As if to make his point, he narrowed his eyes suspiciously at a pair of men watching them nearby with interest.

Arya shook her head, her hair bouncing with the movement. "Gods, you're paranoid."

"I'm cautious. There's a difference." 

She didn't reply, since she was already wandering over to a stall on their left. An assortment of crudely carved animals sat stacked in piles, from mermaids to lions to dragons. At least, that's what Jon assumed them to be. Arya picked up one that looked seemingly like a griffin, and peered at it closely. "My brother Rickon collects these," she informed Jon as he joined her, turning the statue in her hands. "I don't think he has this one, though." 

As if on cue, a wizened old woman hunched at the waist suddenly appeared, grinning a toothless smile at the pair. "That'll be seven silver stags, my dear," she croaked. 

"What? That's ridiculous!" Jon exclaimed, stopping Arya from digging for her purse. "It's not that great. It looks like something a child could make!" 

Arya nudged him with her elbow. "Don't be rude," she chastised. "She has to make a living somehow."

"Clearly not an honest living," he responded drily, raising an eyebrow. "This is just outright theft."

"I wasn't aware you knew so much about the prices of such commodities. Shop much here, Your Grace?" 

"It's just common sense, Arya. Any blind fool could see they were being robbed."

The woman sneered at their exchange. "It seems His Royal Highness is as generous with his words as he is with his purse," she jeered.

Jon bristled at the insult. "I'm far more generous to those I feel aren't trying to steal from an innocent lady," he shot back, folding his arms.

Beady black eyes narrowed at him and she huffed in irritation. "Very well, Your Grace. Special price for our beloved prince. Five silver stags. I won't go lower," she said stubbornly. 

Another insult. He sighed tiredly. How he hated shopping.

Just as he was about to respond - five silver stags was still ridiculous - something barrelled into him, almost knocking him to the ground. "What the - careful!" he admonished the small boy standing in front of him. The child looked up with wide, innocent eyes framed by a dirt-smudged face, and nodded frantically before sprinting away. 

Scoffing to himself as the boy disappeared into the thickening crowd, he turned back to the saleswoman. "As I was about to say, I still find your price unreasonable, but this isn't for me. Arya, what do you think?" he asked, turning around to - 

To thin air. Jon’s mouth fell open. She’d just been right beside him! He frantically whipped this way and that, but she was nowhere to be seen. "Arya!" he called her name, but it was lost amongst the chaos of the streets. "Where did she go?" he swivelled to face the old woman, who was watching him with barely concealed glee. "The lady I was with, where did she go?"

She shrugged nonchalantly, satisfaction swirling in her eyes. "I was speaking to you, Your Grace. I saw no lady." The smirk playing on her lips set Jon's blood on fire.

Grinding his teeth, he snapped, "I know your game, and I'll play it. Three silver stags, you tell me where she went." 

"Make it five and I'll help you find her." 

With a frustrated groan, he reached into his pocket. 

And came away empty-handed.

No. No, no, no. 

"Where did it go?" he gasped, patting his breeches. "It was here, I know it was. Where the hell did my money go?" 

"Oh, no!" the woman cried in mock sympathy. "Such a pity. Best of luck with your search, Your Grace." Her pout melted into a cackle as she left him alone to his agitation and confusion. 

How could it have - ?

The boy! Jon cursed loudly. Bloody thieves, the whole lot of them. 

But he had far greater concerns. 

"Arya!" he called out again, moving through the crowd. The air was filled with such volume, he struggled to hear his own voice, let alone her reply. He kept repeating it regardless, desperation creeping into his tone. Passerbys stopped and watched him curiously as he shoved his way through the mayhem, spinning around in a frenzy, hoping to catch a glimpse of a dark head or stormy eyes. 

Oh Gods, what if someone had grabbed her and he hadn’t noticed? He’d been so caught up with the damn woman and everything was so ridiculously loud, he might not have heard her scream.

“Arya!” he bellowed once more, to no avail. Almost everyone had paused to stare, yet no one stepped forward to offer help. There was still no sign of her. Hysteria bubbled in his chest. What was he going to do? He could find the City Guard and command them to search for her. But that would raise alarms and Lord Stark would hear of it. How would he ever be able to stand in front of the Warden of the North and tell him he’d lost his daughter? Jon's insides withered at the thought. 

And Rhaegar would be ashamed and furious, to say the least. Gods, what if he couldn't find her? Would they blame him? Would he be arrested? Fear sunk its claws into his heart and dragged it down through his stomach until it lay like lead in its pit. No, no, Jon had to look for her, and he had to find her now. He had his sword, what was the worst that could happen? He knew how to fight, damn whatever Jaime said. 

He found a wall to lean against, and tried frantically to control his breathing. He wouldn't be arrested, oh no. Lord Stark would have his head, if his father wouldn't hand it to him first. So much for earning the respect he desperately craved from both of them - he couldn’t even look after a petite girl for five bloody minutes!

What if she'd left willingly?

He gritted his teeth, fresh irritation coursing through his veins. Jon couldn't decide which was worse, her being abducted or her wilfully ignoring his specific instructions to stay close. Couldn't she feel how panicked he was? 

Wait.

Straightening up, Jon took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Yes, he could feel her presence, the rumbling embers and radiating warmth glowing at the back of his mind. It was distant, but strong enough to almost touch. And just beyond, twisting carelessly and hovering in suspension, the golden thread.

Show me where she is, he asked it, uncertainly. Please.

It flickered here and there mockingly, a snake writhing lazily in the sun.

I need to find Arya. Take me to her. 

Nothing happened again. Clearly being rude didn't work. Resisting the urge to grind his teeth again, Jon instead tried reaching out in his mind’s eye, hesitantly moving closer to the fog and the thin strand of sunlight. Like shimmering water, the fog began to dissipate, a blurry image coming into view. Jon’s breaths quickened as the sound of music filled his thoughts, and a young blonde girl with flowers tied in her hair stumbled into view.

“Come on, my lady! Let me show you how it’s done!”

He felt rather than heard Arya’s laugh as she reached out to grab the other girl’s hand.

With a jolt, Jon was thrown back into his own head, and his head snapped back to slam into the wall. It left him dizzy and clogged, as if someone had poured water directly into his skull. A distinct pounding erupted where he’d hit his head, and he reached up to feel the bump with a groan. Blearily opening his eyes, he resisted a yelp of surprise.

Twining above the cobbled floor, around the ankles of civilians, and down an alley across the street was a bright golden thread, sparkling gently like a slice of the stars themselves. He rubbed his eyes a few times. Maybe he had hit his head harder than he thought. When the thread was still there, he hesitantly walked forward, stretching his fingers out to run it through its shimmering surface. His hand passed through thin air, and he waved it around repeatedly to be sure. Odd, but then again, what was normal about any of this?

Taking another breath and squaring his shoulders, he entered the wave of people once more, his eyes locked on the slim strand dancing in the air as if suspended underwater. With every step, it seemingly grew brighter, encouraging him onwards. 

This is insane, he thought to himself as he traced the thread down winding narrow streets, past groups of fishermen and playing children that all stopped to gape at the dragon prince in their midst. But I have no other choice. Please let this work. He sent a prayer to every god he knew. 

Turning a corner, the thread suddenly erupted into a burst of stars.

Jon looked up, and his mouth dropped open.

He found himself in a massive courtyard, but where he'd expected to see fish markets stood large poles decorated with coloured flags. Above, strung from one end to another, were a series of colourful streamers, fluttering in the wind, caught in the same dance that possessed the crowds below it. In the corner, Jon glimpsed a band of musicians strumming their instruments to a jaunty melody that had the entire square on its feet and whirling in chaos. The atmosphere was soaked in good cheer and merriment, a thousand smiling faces swaying under the sun. 

A familiar laugh rang louder than the rest, and Jon's attention snapped towards the centre, where a circle of scantily-clad women spun carelessly. He immediately caught the blonde woman he'd seen earlier, her arms entwined a dark-haired girl with grey eyes. She was dancing with them, Jon realised, swaying their bodies like flames entranced by the wind. The girl who had Arya in her grasp twirled on the balls of her feet, the she-wolf attempting to mirror her but stumbling over instead. She huffed in frustration for a moment, before giggling wildly. A crown of wild flowers sat tangled in her locks, similar to the other girl, a string of nature’s loveliness embedded in the black moonlight of her hair. Spots of red brushed her cheeks and her smile bright as the evening star, Jon was overwhelmed by the burst of joy emanating through their connection like a sunshine made of diamonds. It seared through all his frantic thoughts, warm and welcoming and taking his breath away for a moment.

Sensing his presence, Arya suddenly stopped and turned to catch his eye. Her hair was dishevelled and tangled around her face like a nest. Grey eyes brightened impossibly when it landed on him, and she burst through the circle to run towards him.

“You found me! I was wondering where you were,” she gushed, her voice light as a breeze.

“Where I was?” Jon repeated in disbelief. “You’re the one that ditched me. What on earth were you thinking?”

Her smile dimmed, and she gave him a puzzled look. “But I did tell you. I asked if you wanted to come explore with me. It’s not my fault you didn’t listen.”

“I never heard you ask. You didn’t wait for an answer?” he questioned incredulously.

“I did,” Arya huffed. “You were so busy arguing with that woman, you ignored me. So I got bored.”

“Bored?” Jon exclaimed in a strained voice. “My lady, you can’t just abandon your escort because I wasn’t entertaining enough. It isn’t safe, and you shouldn’t be here alone with a bunch of whores.” He hissed the last part so the women wouldn’t overhear.

Arya’s eyes had narrowed at his use of her proper title, her mouth twisting with distaste. “Don’t call me a lady. And so what if they’re whores? They’ve been perfectly lovely, and we were having fun. That’s hardly wrong, is it?”

Jon fidgeted uncomfortably. “It’s not proper. You’re a highborn lady, you shouldn’t be fraternising with-“

“-with lowborns?” Arya finished with scorn. “By the Gods, Jon, they’re far better company than any noble I’ve met.”

“Your father would be scandalised-“

“My father isn’t here. What are you going to do, tell on me?” she taunted, quirking an eyebrow. The petals of the flower crown shifted softly as she cocked her head at him.

Jon scoffed and folded his arms over his chest. “Maybe I will.”

“Then you can also explain why you left the Red Keep without any guards, and managed to lose me in the crowd so I ended up with a bunch of whores in the first place. I’m sure Father would love that story. Or better yet, the King himself, for surely he’d find out, too.”

Jon opened his mouth, but no sound came out. She had him there. Snapping it shut, he narrowed his eyes at her triumphant expression. She giggled at his irritation, and lightly smacked him on the shoulder.

“Oh, lighten up! It’s just a little fun!”

Without warning, she spun and bounded back towards the group, growing increasingly larger by the second.

Jon called after her in protest. “No, Arya, the melee-“

“-isn’t starting for a while yet,” she yelled back over her shoulder. Turning around to face him, she spread her arms wide as if in offering, laughter pouring from her lips like fine wine. “Gods, Jon, live a little!”

He stood frozen, watching her float in the sea of her jubilation, her hair twirling around her like the night sky. The flower crown fluttered gently like shimmering stars as she shrieked in delight, the sight inspiring the corners of his mouth to flicker upwards. 

“Come on, Jon,” Arya paused briefly to grab his elbow and drag him into the circle with her, ignoring his reluctance. “Can’t you stop being a prince for one minute?”

“They’re not mutually exclusive, you know. I can be a prince and have fun,” he stubbornly muttered, his words lost in the whirling waves of music and chatter. There were more people joining them in their circle, bodies jumping around like puppets on a string, and Jon had to narrowly avoid being crushed.

“Arya!” he called again, shoving his way back to her. “We really have to-“

“Your Grace!” he heard a voice say tentatively. “Won’t you dance with us?”

He turned to see the blonde girl previously dancing with Arya stare at him with wide blue eyes. She stretched her hand towards him, the excitement of their surroundings making her bold, though fear still lingered in the depths of her face.

“What?” he repeated blankly, looking at her curiously.

Arya appeared at his side and gave him a hard punch to his shoulder. “She asked you to dance, stupid.” Amidst his thoughts so the girl wouldn’t hear, she muttered, Don't hurt her feelings! Bessa is incredibly lovely, and she's the one that stopped me getting lost. She leaned back and smiled widely at him, before raising her arms and spinning as fast she could, those in her vicinity ducking to avoid being hit.

It was intoxicating, her happiness. He could somehow taste it as it flooded his mind, sweet like Arbor wine and radiating with the joy of youth and life and its potential. In this infinite moment, under the glory of the sun and immersed in her carefree world; he felt invincible. 

A grin rose unbidden to his lips, and he allowed himself to succumb to her blazing presence. Just for a moment.

He’d waited too long, for the girl started withdrawing in shame. The look of disappointment on her face had him reach out and snatch her hand.

“I’d be honoured, my lady,” he said quickly, giving her a short bow. She giggled, blushing madly as she returned a small curtsy. He pulled her towards him and they swayed to the music, his hand resting politely on her waist while she clutched his shoulder in awe. She was donned in the classic dress of the courtesans, sheer and wrapped tightly around her figure, with a slit across one leg to reveal an expanse of smooth skin. The blonde hair was piled on her head per the fashion, but under the coils was a youthful face, far younger than Arya, it seemed. Too young to be a courtesan, Jon noted with a pang.

They’re children, Arya whispered sadly to him. They’re not dangerous, they’re desperate. 

Is there anything I can do for them? he replied, unsettled. This isn’t right.

You’re already doing so much. Just look at her!

Glancing down at his partner, he was taken back by the almost worshipful expression on her face. She was smiling so hard at him, he felt mild concern she’d hurt herself.

“Oi, Bessa! Don’t keep ‘im all to yourself!” a voice yelled over his shoulder.

Bessa startled in surprise, and reluctantly let go of him to curtsy clumsily. “Thank you for the dance, Your Grace,” she said shyly, scampering off before he could reply.

Before he could blink, another taller girl had replaced her. She grinned toothily at him and pulled him too close, so he could smell the cheap lavender scent clinging to her skin. Not knowing what else to do, he lightly grasped her waist and gave her a smile.

He lost count of how many girls he’d had to dance with, some only briefly while others made sure to hold onto him as long as possible. Once or twice, he even had his ass pinched and had to cover his shock with a pained smile. Arya had enjoyed it particularly, egging him on in his head. She had stopped dancing a while ago, preferring to stand on the side and watch everyone else with a small smile fluttering on her face. When at last the song came to an end, and he - with some difficulty - disentangled himself from a young brunette girl’s vice-like grip, he strolled over to her.

“Thought you’d never stop,” Arya teased as he drew close. “You’ve danced with every girl in King’s Landing by now. I reckon half are in love with you.”

“I have that effect,” he jested with a smirk, melting into a broad grin at her unimpressed face. “But I haven’t danced with every girl. Come on, it’s your turn.” As if on cue, the musician plucked a slower melody, which had swarms of couples pulling one another to the centre. 

Arya frowned at his outstretched hand. “Oh no, I’m an awful dancer. I almost took out Bessa’s eye.” She nodded her head towards the petite blonde he’d first danced with, who sat some feet away, pressing a wet cloth against her right eyelid. She waved enthusiastically when she saw them look her way.

Wincing, Arya turned back. Jon bit his lip to contain his laughter. “I’m sure I’ll be fine," he reassured her. "You can’t hit me harder than Aegon has in training,” He reached out again and she gave him another petulant look. “Oh, come now,” he pleaded with an exaggerated pout. “You can’t drag me into this and reject me in front of everyone. How will that look? Have a heart.”

Arya snorted, but her chuckle quickly faded. Biting her lip, she gazed warily at his hand. With a pang, he realised what she was worried about, and in his rush, he’d almost forgotten himself. His hand was naked, as was hers, and there was no telling what could happen if they touched.

Arya sensed his hesitation and helped him make a decision. Standing up to brush the dirt off her breeches, she patted him on the arm. “Maybe next time?” she said instead, with a small smile.

Something strangely akin to regret spun through him, but he quickly stifled it to give her a flourished bow. “Next time,” he promised.

Her eyes swirled with humour and Jon marvelled at how similar her grey was to his, and yet, was so utterly different. Her grey shimmered like powdered silver; moonglow trapped in the twin orbs. They shined impossibly bright, lighting her entire face up like soft stardust.

A face that was scrunched up in confusion and waving a hand in front of his. “Hello? Jon? Can you hear me in there?”

He blinked stupidly, a blush rising in his cheeks. “Uh, what?” Oh Gods, he hoped she hadn't heard him. The very thought of it was mortifying, to say the least. 

She snorted, but there was no other reaction. Jon sent a quick thank you to the heavens. “You were ignoring me again,” she pointed out. "The melee’s starting soon, so we should head back." 

Nodding, he followed her out of the square, the songs and laughter following their footsteps like magic in the wind. 

They had just rounded the corner when Arya whipped towards him, a mischievous glimmer in her eyes Jon was beginning to recognise. 

"I'm not going to like what you're about to say, am I?" Jon probed with trepidation. 

"Fancy a race? It's a long way back otherwise," she offered with a grin. Her cheeks were brushed with crimson, the excitement of the festivities still simmering in her bones.

The lightness hadn't quite left his heart yet either, and Jon found himself acquiescing. "Fine. But there has to be a prize," he teased. 

Arya frowned. "I don't have anything to give." She pondered for a moment, before snapping her fingers cheerfully. "I know!" She reached up and gently touched the crown sitting on her head, fingering the white petals. "You win, you get this. I win, I get to keep it. Deal?"

Jon smirked at her. "Very well. But don't get angry at me when I end up looking better than you in it," he taunted her. 

The she-wolf snorted, before turning back to the path. "That's not something new," she mumbled under her breath.

If Jon hadn't been paying attention, he'd certainly have missed it, though he couldn't quite fathom what she said. Frowning, he was about to interject when she suddenly launched herself forward, leaving a pile of dust that smacked him in the face. 

He coughed and groaned, "How am I always left behind?" before sprinting after the daughter of the North. 

They weaved through the streets, laughing like children as they almost collided with bystanders who were forced to jump out of their way. Jon hadn't done this since he was eleven years old, trailing after Aegon as they explored the capitol together. He'd missed this spark of life and chaos that launched him into a sky of a thousand stars. Here, he soared, boundless and weightless and surrounded by inexplicable magic. This, like his sword, was freedom, he realised. And at the back of his mind, he felt Arya recognise it too. 

Just as they rounded their last corner and sprinted down the alleyway, he pulled in front of her. Raising his fist in the air in victory, he pulled to a stop just at the corridor's exit, the main street bustling in front of them. They rested against opposite walls, desperately drawing air back into their tired lungs. Jon was the first to straighten, shooting Arya a triumphant look. 

She sighed in conceded defeat, reaching up to disentangle the flowers on her head. "It's a little crushed," she confessed apologetically, handing it to him, "but a prize is a prize. You'll be the prettiest prince in all of King's Landing," she teased. 

"Have you seen my brother?" Jon jested. "Unlikely." He turned the crown over in his hand, his eyes raking over the small white blossoms lying delicately amongst his fingers. On closer inspection, there seemed to be streaks of blue painted across the petals, reminding him of moonstones, somehow. He glanced up to see Arya watching him, her face framed by a wild and frantic mane of dark hair. He could still see the soft indenture of where the crown had been sitting, locked in a fierce embrace with the dark tangles. It had suited her, he thought, the speckles of the moon and stars lost amidst a sea of night. 

"You know what? Keep it," he found himself saying, stretching to hand it back to her. 

She was puzzled. "No, it was a prize," Arya insisted. "You won it fair and square." 

"If I wear this riding into the melee, Aegon will never let me hear the end of it," he half-confessed. 

She still seemed unconvinced, so Jon reached out and gently placed the crown back on her head instead. It seemed to almost sparkle in the sunlight, like a real crown carved by nature instead of silver. Arya stood motionless as he did, staring at him with bemusement swirling in her eyes. He wasn't sure what to say, so he simply smiled at her, and she tentatively grinned back. 

"I hate to ruin such a lovely moment, but it's time to go," an arrogant voice sliced through the air, jolting Jon to take a step back. He hadn't realised they'd ended up so close. He glanced up quickly to see a disgruntled Jaime Lannister glaring down at them from atop a white horse. 

Jon opened his mouth to respond, when his eye caught a horde of gold cloaks swarming around his and Arya's horse on the opposite side of the street. 

"Ah yes," Jaime continued, following his gaze. "I had to call them when I found two rather familiar horses without their riders. I naturally assumed the worst. I'm glad to see you and my lady are safe, Your Grace." He did not sound particularly glad. The knight, usually so composed, was dishevelled and pale, his voice straining from barely contained anger. A pang of guilt shot through Jon at the sight. He hadn't thought that the Kingsguard would follow him, let alone how he'd react if he'd found his steed abandoned on the side of a busy road. 

"Ser Jaime," he began apologetically, "I'm so sorry, I didn't realise you were looking for us. Nothing happened. Lady Arya and I were just-"

"There is no reason to explain to me, Your Grace, I am just the man in charge of your protection," the Lannister interrupted with a scowl. "I am relieved you are safe. I ask that you both accompany me to the melee immediately, however." He waved over the guards, who stopped the pedestrian traffic to bring their horses over. 

Jon sighed softly as he clambered up, his good mood suddenly dissolving under the gravity of the City Watch's presence. If Ser Jaime had felt the need to alert the gold cloaks, he could be assured word would eventually reach his father, and possibly even Lord Stark. He groaned inwardly at the thought. 

He peeked at Arya then, who had wisely decided to stay silent. He could see regret and guilt swimming through her head, and as if sensing he was watching, her eyes turned towards his. 

I'm sorry, this is my fault, she sent to him. I didn't mean to cause so much trouble. 

On the one hand, Jon agreed wholeheartedly with her. If she hadn't run off on her own, they would probably have already been at the melee by now, Lord Stark and the King none the wiser. It would have been safe and stress-free, and exactly what he should have done. 

On the other, it had been a long time since Jon had had such a ridiculous amount of fun, and he struggled to regret any of it, regardless of the consequences. Arya was unharmed, and so was he. There was little to be concerned about, truly. 

Don't worry about it, he replied. I'll take care of it.

She smiled gratefully.

"Ser Jaime?" Jon asked out loud. The knight was a few feet ahead, his straightened back facing him, so Jon urged his horse forward until they were level. 

"Yes, Your Grace?" Jaime responded, tiredly. 

The prince cleared his throat awkwardly. "Do you think this could remain strictly between us? Lady Arya and I are fine. We were just, uh, taking a walk through the city. Nothing to alarm our fathers about, don't you agree?" He flashed him his most charming smile. When that didn't illicit a response, he tried a different tactic. "I mean, it would call your service into question, given you had a team of gold cloaks at hand and still couldn't find us. Rather disappointing, if you ask me." 

Ser Jaime shot him a withering look. "You're far too much like your brother, you know that? I'd expect foul play from him, Your Grace, but never you." 

Jon grinned at him, aware of his victory. "I suppose you don't have me quite figured out yet."

The knight raised an eyebrow, and glanced towards Arya, who was busying herself by watching the world around them. "I think I have a decent idea," Jaime muttered with a smirk. 

oOo

The rest of the journey to the melee was uneventful, and when they finally arrived, Jon noticed that almost all the seats had been filled. He heard a soft gasp from behind, and turned to see Arya gazing around the stands and fighting ring with wonder filling her eyes. They were magnificent grounds, he had to admit, with the Targaryen flag soaring high above it all, the proud three-headed dragon flying in the wind. Beneath the banner sat the King on a gilded throne, his eyes idly running over his realm chattering animatedly below. Beside him, Elia perched on her own seat, looking increasingly bored though she masked it well enough. Aegon had his sword in his hands and was observing it closely, ignoring everyone around him. Rhaenys caught Jon's eye, and enthusiastically waved him over to the empty chair next to her. 

"I'll escort the lady to her family," Jaime told him, dismounting his horse. "I believe yours are waiting for you, Your Grace." 

Passing the reins of his horse to the approaching squire, Jon climbed the steps up towards the raised platform. Hurrying to his seat, he first spoke to Rhaegar. "I'm sorry I'm late, had a little distraction in the city," he confessed. When his father didn't reply, his eyes fixated on something rather intently, Jon frowned and turned to Rhaenys. "Did I miss anything?"

"Only Aegon discovering something he loves more than himself," Rhaenys laughed. She gave him a once-over, her smile dissolving into titters. "Why do you look so messy, brother?" she criticised, straightening his tunic and ruffling his hair. "It wouldn't hurt to comb that mane of yours once in a while. We're representing our House." 

Jon batted away her hands, to her exasperation. "I look fine. I was just, uh, dancing," he muttered hesitantly. 

"I'm sorry, did you say you were dancing?" 

"Something like that." 

Rhaenys glanced at him suspiciously, and Jon had to fight back a grin. He turned towards the crowd, his eyes unconsciously scanning for one face in particular. He found her, sitting amongst her brother and father, the crown still on her head. Her brother seemed to say something amusing, for she broke out in peals of laughter, and Jon could still feel her radiant energy blaze through the bond, despite the distance. The wildflowers looked rather lovely on her, he mused absently, highlighting the blush on her cheeks. It was strangely difficult to look away, he thought.

'No, don't be absurd. She'll notice you staring, and then it'll be weird.' Tearing his eyes away, Jon instead turned to Rhaenys and let her idle chatter distract him until the melee started. 

He hadn't noticed that, just beyond his sister, a King and Queen sat fixated on the exact vision he’d been watching, blood draining from their faces. 

Chapter Text

“Did you see how fine Andar Royce was today?” Elinor Tyrell simpered, taking a delicate sip of her tea. “He was the best fighter in the pit, if you ask me.”

“Why, Elinor!” Margaery chastised, “Yesterday you said the very same of Alyn Ambrose! Do make up your mind, cousin.”

A blush spread across the younger lady’s cheeks as the room erupted in giggles. Rhaenys gave a soft smile, and reached for her own cup, her mind wandering away from the idle chatter.

She was expected to host a small group of highborn ladies for most of the tourney, particularly those entertaining close relations with her family. Amongst those rewarded with the honour was Lady Elinor Tyrell, though Rhaenys suspected her presence was mostly to appease Margaery. She had known the girl for some moons now, and Rhaenys found her amicable at best and rather dull at worst.

The other, to her reluctance, was Lady Jeyne Mallister whose family had earned their social standing with the King through their role in decimating the Greyjoy rebellion. It wasn’t that Rhaenys particularly disliked the girl, but the calculating glint in her blue-grey eyes had her wary, nevertheless. She was certainly pretty, with sleek brown hair and laugh lines carved around a fine mouth, but Rhaenys found something akin to disrespect in her subtle stares when she thought the Princess was not looking.

A quiet sigh escaped her lips. She had hoped her Dornish relatives would visit, offering respite from the tediousness of such occasions, but her uncle Doran’s illness had forced Arianne to remain in Sunspear with her brothers to manage affairs, and a royal invitation was not extended to her bastard cousins. It was disappointing, to say the least. Born of sin or born of duty, they were her blood and she ought to be allowed to celebrate with her own family, if she so wished.

I shall invite them all to Dragonstone, Rhaenys decided. Gods know, the place could use a little sun and laughter. As could I.

In particular, it was Arianne's absence that she felt most glaringly. Elia had made sure to forge a relationship when they were hardly out of the crib, and for that, Rhaenys was grateful. She loved her brothers truly, and Daenerys had been a wonderful companion - but none of them understood what Arianne did. One day, they would be ruling from a throne of sun and a throne of fire; submerged in a world held in the hands of men, waiting to see if they would burn. Arianne was the heir to the Dornish title, but her fears of her brothers stealing her birthright simmered beneath the surface. Rhaenys had no fear of losing her crown. No, it was the loss of something far more precious that gripped her heart these days.

“Your Grace, what do you think?”

Pulling her out of her muses, Rhaenys looked to her left to see the eager face of Lady Myrcella Baratheon. She had found herself enjoying the young girl’s company as of late, and had insisted she be seated as close as possible without causing offense to her good-aunt, who sat on her right.

A thing of delicate beauty, she reminded her of some of the more exotic flowers growing in the gardens of the Red Keep. Long, golden hair spun with sunlight and eyes that blazed as bright as wildfire, she bloomed radiantly in the soft lantern light. She had a sweet disposition, the sort of quiet loveliness one would find in a rose amidst a forest of thorns. If not for the classic features of Lannister and the dry humour of her father, Rhaenys would never have believed her to belong to Stannis and Cersei. From what she heard, ‘sweet’ was rarely spoken of them.

Outwardly, she gave her an apologetic smile. “Forgive me, Lady Myrcella, my head was in the clouds. What did you ask?”

The golden girl opened her mouth to speak, but her words were snatched by the wry voice of Lady Jeyne. “She was asking about the joust next week, Your Grace, and who you believe would be crowned champion.” A wistful smile swept her lips, a dreamy sparkle in her eyes, “I think it will be His Grace, Prince Aegon. He seems to be a fine warrior.”

The collective murmurs in agreement spread through the women, and Rhaenys resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She was well aware that the joust was merely a farce: no knight nor lord would dare try and unseat a prince during his own celebratory tourney. Aegon had not thought of this, seeing it as an opportunity to earn his share of glory separate to the crown. He had bothered their father for almost a month to grant him permission to participate. The King had acquiesced, to everyone’s peace of mind, though Rhaenys strongly suspected he had done so knowing Aegon was guaranteed victory. A false one, but a victory nevertheless.

Instead, she nodded graciously and lifted her tea to her lips. “Indeed, my brother is fearless. I wish him the greatest of fortunes,” she said, taking a sip. It was not a lie, after all. Many things could be said of Aegon, but a coward was not one of them.

“What of your other brother, Your Grace?” Myrcella’s gentle voice echoed around the solar, her wide green eyes curious. “Is he jousting, too?”

Rhaenys gently placed her cup on the table. “Naturally, my lady,” she chuckled fondly. “My brothers are inseparable, as I have come to learn. Whatever one does, the other is not far behind.” Margaery hummed in agreement.

The young Baratheon blushed lightly, her eyes dropping shyly to stare at the plates scattered around. “He looks to be quite the warrior himself, if you don’t mind me saying. He might win, too,” she giggled.

Rhaenys quirked an eyebrow in amusement. She moved to respond when a derisive snort caught her attention. Holding back a sigh, she turned to regard the Lady of Mallister with a plastered expression of polite interest. “Is something the matter, Lady Jeyne?” she asked sweetly.

“Oh no, Your Grace,” the other lady responded, blinking innocently. “It truly is wonderful to hear that both princes are jousting, though I fear for His Grace Prince Aegon's safety. He is the Crown Prince after all." She gave a false chuckle, picking up her cup. "Of course, if they were to compete against one another, I'm sure Prince Jon would never let any harm befall his brother." With a smirk, she took a sip.

Margaery arched a high eyebrow at Jeyne, but wisely remained silent. Rhaenys, however, narrowed her eyes at the Riverlander. The quiet insinuation behind the comment stewed in the air. There had once been rumours amidst the court that Rhaegar would crown the son of the woman he loved. Her father had never made any sort of indication of such and the whispers had generally dwindled, largely in part due to Elia. She had been so young when Jon was brought home, but she remembered the violent arguments between her parents when Rhaegar had legitimised him as a Targaryen. She hadn't understood then what all the bother was about, she had simply been ecstatic she had another playmate. In hindsight however, she was stunned by her father's audacity.

She adored Jon with all her heart and she could not imagine a world without him as her brother, but he had been a threat to Aegon. If Jon ever sought the throne, he would have the might of the North shielding him from Dorne's wrath, and summer and winter would collide to devastate an already broken land. Her mother must have known this, Rhaenys was certain. In the beginning, she had been reluctant to allow Jon in, to accept him as a dragon in truth. Rhaenys had pushed in her stubbornness to play with the one her father told her was her brother, and when Elia had acquiesced, Rhaenys had little doubt it was her victory.

It was a victory, but hardly won by her childish insistence. The three of them had grown up as blood, and there was little doubt that Jon would ever betray his brother now. Sunspear had warmed to the wolf prince when it saw his loyalty, and turbulent tides of a potential war ceded away. Elia had played the games of the heart to her advantage and sealed her son's birthright in stone, without anyone suspecting her of pulling the strings. The very games that had disgraced her in the first place.

Dragons do not fall to the venom of snakes, but all dragons kneel before the sun.

For Jeyne Mallister to think any differently had Rhaenys harden her stare, and clear her throat pointedly. “Whilst I do appreciate your concern on the matter,” she began, icily, “I assure you, Lady Jeyne, that you may rest easy with the knowledge that Prince Aegon is more than capable of holding his own, and should my brothers find themselves as opponents, then I only fear they shall laugh themselves off their horses before a victor can be declared.” She finished with a bright smile, that was reluctantly reciprocated by the other.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Margaery exclaimed with a clap of her hands, moving quickly to defuse the tension. “Well said, Your Grace! I, for one, cannot wait for the joust to begin! Certainly makes for rather excellent entertainment,” she winked cheekily at the table.

“Oh yes,” Elinor perked up with an excited squeal. “All these knights and lords need favours as well, of course. Is it truly so terrible to give more than one?"

Margaery burst out in laughter, and the rest of the room followed suit, albeit hesitantly at first. The conversation moved towards trivial matters, mostly surrounding knights and lords and other scandalised ladies. Rhaenys struggled to join in, growing weary of the company. She was about to quietly suggest to her good-aunt to move the party elsewhere, when there was a sharp knock on the door. With an inward sigh of relief, Rhaenys called her permission to enter.

Ser Jaime Lannister strolled in, donned in his glistening armour, and stopped to give her and the room a deep bow. Lady Elinor giggled softly as her eyes raked over the Kingsguard with appreciation.

Rhaenys smiled brightly at him. “Ser Jaime,” she exclaimed pleasantly. “To what do I owe the honour?”

“Your Grace, the queen wishes to see you,” Jaime said. "I am here to escort you, if you are ready." His eyes flickered over the group of women at the table, all who were watching him with a glimmer of interest.

"Yes, of course," Rhaenys replied, smothering her eagerness. She turned towards the rest of the room and forced a pleasant smile. "Forgive me, my ladies, but I must attend to my mother. I leave you in Princess Margaery's capable hands." With a nod towards her good-aunt and the murmurs of farewell, she gathered her skirts, and moved towards the door, the Kingsguard one step behind her.

As soon as they were out of earshot, the straightness of Jaime's shoulders relaxed and he stepped closer until they were almost level, smirking at her. “I hope I wasn’t interrupting a stimulating conversation, Your Grace,” he inquired lightly.

Rhaenys gave an unladylike snort. “Only if you consider a heated debate on the girth of Lord Harry Hardyng’s sword as stimulating,” she muttered with disdain.

Jaime’s blonde eyebrows rose to his hairline. “I imagine the sword in question was not the one made by a blacksmith.”

She shot him a withering look, which had him chuckling under his breath. “I must say, your timing was impeccable, good Ser,” she jested, “I truly appreciate the Kingsguard in such moments.”

“That is what I train for, Your Grace,” Jaime responded drily. “Protecting the King from harm and saving princesses from insufferable teatime conversations. My lord father is incredibly proud.”

Rhaenys threw her head back in laughter. Jaime Lannister had always been her favourite amongst her father’s sworn shields. He had a cutting wit that she found refreshing amidst a sea of blind obedience and bland conversations. She could never understand why her brothers found him disrespectful, chalking it up to their fragile egos incapable of keeping up with the man. Moreover, Jaime had always been the youngest of the Kingsguard, just over a decade older than her. As a child, he was far less frightening than the others, slipping her sweets when no one was looking, and sometimes engaging in her games when the others were too busy. She held fond memories close to heart of him pretending to be Balerion the Black Dread and letting her sit on his shoulders and shriek in delight as he soared around the gardens. He would always pretend she wasn't yanking his hair too hard.

“Does my mother truly wish to see me, or was this all a ruse?” Rhaenys asked with amusement, as they rounded the corner towards nowhere in particular.

He grinned at her. “If she does, I was not made aware of it, Your Grace. But I did notice Lady Mallister had been in your company for over two hours and I thought it to be more than enough. Was I right?"

Rhaenys hummed in agreement. "You have no idea." She glanced around and recognised the maroon tapestries adorning the walls, the golden threads dancing in the light of a dying summer sun. "Since we seem to already be at Mother's quarters, I suppose I'll drop by anyway. I do miss our afternoon talks," she mused wistfully.

With a bow from Jaime, they turned a corner and headed towards the gilded doors of the Queen's solar. Rhaenys' spirits rose the closer they approached, looking forward to the tongue lashing she knew her mother always had prepared for Lady Mallister's audacity. Standing guard was her great-uncle, Ser Lewyn, his steely composure cracking into a kind smile as she drew near.

"Uncle," she greeted brightly, leaning forward to plant a soft kiss on his dry cheek. "Is Mother awake?"

"My princess," Lewyn began gently, "perhaps now is not the best time." He nodded subtly towards the door with a raise of his eyebrows. Distinctly, she heard her mother's voice raising in volume, soaked in irritation. With a frown, she was about to retreat when something snapped her attention.

"My queen, if I may be so bold to suggest you could be overreacting," Lord Jon Connington sighed in exasperation, "and perhaps are projecting your anger at the King onto his son."

Aegon? Rhaenys thought curiously, leaning in. She ignored her great-uncle's disapproved tittering, though he did little to turn her away.

"Do not be presumptuous with me, my lord, I have little patience for your foolish worship of my husband," Elia snapped. "I am not angry at the boy. I am afraid for him. It is Lyanna and Rhaegar all over again. You think I do not know of the bond they shared?"

She heard the Hand's sharp intake of breath at the Stark daughter's name, as if a hand had reached out and squeezed his heart mercilessly. "That was...unfortunate, my queen," he murmured, almost too quietly for her to hear. "But what does that have to do with the girl and Prince Jon? Lyanna is gone, my queen. Whatever transpired between her and the King does not matter anymore."

Jon, they were discussing Jon. She leaned in further, her curiosity piquing higher, but almost jumped in surprise at the sudden sound of something slamming on a surface. She assumed it was her mother's hands on her desk. "This has everything to do with Jon and the girl," Elia hissed.

What girl?

"You have not been watching them, my lord. You did not see them at the opening feast. There is something between them, and I fear for what it could be. It is Harrenhal all over again. I saw the same look on Jon's face as I saw on Rhaegar's at the feast of that damned tourney. I will never forget it."

"They are blood, Your Grace. Perhaps you mistook a familial look?" Lord Connington tiredly offered.

"That does little to assure me. Blood and family have different connotations to Targaryens. My children are marrying each other, for Gods' sake."

Rhaenys winced at the bitterness in her voice. Her mother had never wholeheartedly approved of her betrothal to Aegon, but it was a matter Rhaegar refused to ever acquiesce. The Queen rarely voiced her disapproval now, so hearing it so blatantly was astounding. In her discomfort, she missed Connington's remark, only catching the end of her mother's urging. "Eddard Stark's presence at the tourney is already more than I had ever hoped for. The North is finally at peace with us, we cannot afford to risk this fragile alliance."

"The girl is unbetrothed, is she not?" the Hand said, lightly. "If you fear they are bonded, then we can-"

Elia snorted, unkindly. "Tell me, my lord, how you think Lord Stark shall react to that? My husband's dalliance with Lyanna cost the man his entire family. I doubt very much he'd be willing to give away his youngest daughter to the ones responsible, especially not one with a resemblance to his dead sister," she continued, wryly.

"Lord Stark will do as his King commands. The marriage would be advantageous on all fronts: we could strengthen our ties to Winterfell, secure the Northern loyalty, and Jon is allowed to marry as his heart desires. Your fears of her ruining your House are put to rest."

"Oh please, Rhaegar's never given the boy anything his heart has desired, so that is hardly a reason," Elia dismissed. "You speak of advantageous matches and political gains, but the North is already bound to the crown. Jon is Lord Stark's kin, after all, and we have more pressing alliances we must strengthen. But there are other deeper concerns."

Her voice grew colder than Rhaenys could ever imagine possible. "Rhaegar does not intend for his son to live anywhere but at the Red Keep, and there is little that can be done to change his mind. Whoever Jon marries will remain here alongside him. Think, my lord, of the implications of such. Lyanna's ghost constantly around the King, the man who started a war for her pretty face. Or if Jon should disobey Rhaegar and take her elsewhere, like his father before him, the North could rise once more to bring their daughter back. Either way, she must not be involved with any of them. I do not fear for what the girl will do, for it was not Lyanna that tore this realm apart, not truly. I fear for the madness of a Targaryen bonded to the one he cannot have. Whether it is the King or his son remains to be seen."

She heard the scraping of a chair, and imagined Lord Connington pacing on his feet. "His Grace is not some debased lunatic," he exclaimed, anger creeping into his voice. "He'd never lay a hand on the girl! My queen, how could you even think -"

"When he abandoned his pregnant wife to run away with another man's betrothed," her mother responded coolly. "That's how."

There was no response from the Hand, and Rhaenys' heart ached deeply with every beat of silence.

Finally, a desperate whisper escaped from the man. "What do you suggest our next course of action be? If the Prince and the Lady have already met, then they may already be aware of their bond."

What bond?

"Aware of it, but perhaps there is a chance to stop it growing stronger," her mother mused. "I must find a match for Jon immediately, and secure him to another House." Her tone grew darker. "If the Gods are kind to us, this blasted tourney will be over without incident, and she can return home and live her life free from the taint of dragons."

She heard the rustle of cloth and hesitant steps approach the door slowly, before pausing. "Jon has always done his duty," Lord Connington said, gently. "He is a good boy, my queen. Perhaps you need not fear for him as you do."

The last thing Rhaenys heard before she slipped away into the shadows, Jaime on her heels, was the melancholic mutter of her mother, "Love is the death of duty, my lord, and even the most noble of men have fallen to their hearts."

oOo

The solemn night wrapped a blanket of silence around the castle, but for the distant laughter of cold stars sparkling in the darkness. The moon rode across the sky in a chariot of pearls, its luminous blossoms attempting to brighten her heavy heart with little success. She watched it from the windows as she strolled slowly through the empty corridors, listening to the soft stillness of moonlight.

She had dismissed Ser Jaime over an hour ago, wishing to be left alone with her thoughts. The knight had been reluctant, but agreed nevertheless, to her relief. 

A pang of guilt crept its way through her heart. She hadn't meant to intrude on her mother's private conversations - although another part of her, buried deep where she allowed her more fanciful self to reside, simmered in frustration. 

Jon had only ever expressed one desire in his almost one-and-twenty years of existence: to travel beyond the Red Keep. It was a simple wish, unproblematic and hardly unique. Many princes and kings before him had sailed from east to west, had slept under the stars and lived off the land. Even Aegon had travelled around Dorne with nothing but a sword and a horse, carving his name into the desert sands. Jon was young and unmarried and lacked the weight of a prospective crown. If ever he should follow his dreams, it was now. 

What should have been a small obstacle standing in his way, was instead the King himself. Rhaenys had surmised years ago that Rhaegar's reluctance to let Jon out of his sight stemmed from the peculiar fear of losing what he had left of Lyanna. She always caught his wistful expression when Jon was not looking, and the sheen of sadness coating the violet eyes that followed her brother wherever he went. It inspired deep resentment in her heart, and she often was forced to bite her tongue to stop herself from snapping at the King. 

Jon must know of it, too, though resisted voicing it aloud. She did not blame him. Who could live with the knowledge their father saw a ghost instead of a person? That he was bound to his side forever, or risked taking away that which Rhaegar held most dear? Rhaenys grew steadily weary of the day their father would push Jon beyond his limits, where he no longer cared for such questions nor of the weight of his existence. If that day came, she had little doubt her brother would board a boat and never return, ironically fulfilling both her father's fears and her own. She could not bear the thought of losing her brother, and Aegon would be devastated, deepening the chasm between himself and the King even more. The fragile threads that bound their disjointed family would crumble like wilted petals, and she dreaded what few pieces would remain to stitch it back together. 

But the petals were already beginning to blacken. With her mother's decision to secure a betrothal sooner than later, it seemed Jon's fate was sealed in stone. It was not Lyanna's ghost she saw in Jon, but Rhaegar. But not just the man himself - the part of him that betrayed his duty for love and started a war. The absurdity of it all had her snort without humour. She knew of Lyanna and Rhaegar's story, and to think her pragmatic brother could somehow make the same mistakes of their father was ludicrous to her. What on earth was a bond anyway? To think one even could be bonded to another was a ridiculous notion best left to the fantastical songs of knights and lady loves.

Moreover, Lyanna and Rhaegar had been selfish. Lyanna and Rhaegar had not cared for the consequences. Jon was not like that. Jon could never be like that. To insinuate otherwise was a deep misunderstanding of just who Jon was. 

You fear him abandoning you for his heart already. How is this any different?  a cruel voice whispered in her head. 

It was different. Travelling the Free Cities would not raise the banners of the North against her family. Jon would never risk his House's security, this Rhaenys was certain of. Her mother must be exaggerating. She simply had to. 

She ignored the niggling whispers at the back of her skull saying otherwise. 

Lost in her muses, she walked by an alcove and almost missed the small figure curled on the window seat. Rhaenys paused in bemusement that another would be around this late in the evening, but a quick look at the side of the girl's face had her swallow her words immediately. 

The gods certainly have their japes. 

Arya Stark had her forehead pressed against the glass, staring out in wonder at the city below. She was still dressed in the breeches and tunic Rhaenys had seen her in at the melee today, her wild curls falling in tangles down her back. Her eyes were turned away from the princess, and she deliberated at whether to interrupt her or not. 

This is the girl my mother fears for so. The burning curiosity was simply too much to bear. 

"My lady," she said gently, so as not to startle the other.

The girl whipped around suddenly, and Rhaenys was struck by how large her grey eyes were. "Your Grace!" Lady Arya exclaimed with surprise, stumbling off the ledge to clumsily curtsy.

The princess acknowledged her with a nod, and tried to smother her interest with a cool tone. "It's quite late. Struggling to sleep, my lady?"

Lady Arya shifted from foot to foot, biting her lip. "Not really," she admitted with a shrug. "I like the view from here is all. The city looks pretty at night." 

"That it does," Rhaenys agreed. A thought spun in her head. "Perhaps I may join you? We can enjoy it together." She flashed her an encouraging smile. 

Bemusement shone on Lady Arya's face, her lack of a mask painfully clear to the princess. "I...uh, alright," she said hesitantly, moving back towards the ledge.

She curled up to the side, allowing Rhaenys to perch delicately beside her, resting against the frame of the window. They sat in silence for a short while, watching the heart of the city beat below them. The Stark daughter had been right - King's Landing was a beauty in the darkness. A thousand lights spotted the landscape like a flurry of fallen stars, illuminating the long streets and pale yellow faces of its buildings, blank expressions flickering in the flames of its lanterns. Behind the window, the city was seemingly silent, a snapshot of heaven on earth filled with a myriad of souls she could not see. In truth, a harmony of voices rose above the landscape, filled with laughter and idle chatter that never ebbed away. King's Landing was a city of life, and sleep was for the dead or dying. It was breathtaking, if one stopped to consider it. 

"It's so big," Lady Arya murmured absently next to her. "There's nothing in the North that comes even close to this size." 

Rhaenys smiled softly at her wonder. "I suppose that is endearing in its own way. It is easy to be lost in a city this immense. You are one of half a million, after all." 

Lady Arya shrugged. "That doesn't seem as bad as it sounds. It means the world's never too small, and that you'll find a place in it, somehow." Her voice was distant, immersed in her thoughts. 

The princess used her distraction to observe the girl closely. She was pretty thing with pleasant features and soft curves, though Rhaenys had seen greater beauties. But there was something rather enchanting about her appearance that made it difficult to simply look away - perhaps in the wildness of her hair or the vibrant life thrumming in her stormy eyes. She reminded her of the stories of the forest and river nymphs: maidens crafted by nature by the breath of gods, who carried remnants of another world on their shoulders and in their souls. Creatures that did not belong in silk dresses, but in the wilderness with laughter on their lips instead of court gossip on their tongue. 

Lyanna Stark looked like her. 

For a heartbeat, she thought she understood what drew her father in the first place. 

"Your Grace?" 

She jolted awake to realise the nymph in question was watching her curiously, head cocked to one side. 

"I beg your pardon, my lady, my thoughts were far away," she quickly explained with a chuckle.

Lady Arya's nose wrinkled softly at her words. "You can just call me Arya, Your Grace. There's no need for Lady." 

"Arya," Rhaenys tested on her tongue, smiling. "Then you must call me Rhaenys - I insist!" she exclaimed, raising her hand to stop the other's protests. "I'd like us very much to be friends."

The Stark girl's face melted into one of shock, and she blurted out gracelessly, "But why?" Her eyes widened, mortified at the audacious question. 

Rhaenys quickly cut in, attempting to smother the awkwardness. "You are kin to my brother, and I'd love to know his family more," she explained, with partial honesty. 

And what has my mother and Lord Connington so afraid for you. 

Arya said nothing in response, frowning gently before turning back to the window. Just as it had before, silence settled and hovered between them, eloquent and oddly comforting. It gave Rhaenys the opportunity to dwell a little longer on the girl sitting beside her. She had not noticed many interactions between Jon and her, but she hadn't been paying close enough attention. Jon hadn't mentioned the girl yet either, though she wondered if he was more likely to confide in Aegon than her. She hoped not. Her eyes roved over the side of Arya's face, tracing the outline of her nose and jaw with burning curiosity. 

The face that tore the realm apart. 

"Have you ever been in the city at night?" Arya mused, gazing at nowhere in particular. "Without a litter, just walking around the streets?" 

Rhaenys was startled by the question. "Of course not," she muttered with a frown. "The worst of the city crawls out at this hour. It's hardly safe in the morning as it is." 

"It's not that bad," Arya defended, her lips quirking upwards. "I met some incredibly lovely people today, and they weren't dangerous at all." 

"You were in the city today?" Rhaenys asked, surprised. "Sightseeing?"

The subtle smile spread into a wide grin, lighting her face up like the lanterns floating outside. "Dancing, more like." Biting her lip to contain a giggle, she looked back out at the city. 

The echo of a similar response from earlier that day rang through Rhaenys' head like bells in a citadel, and she narrowed her eyes suspiciously at the other girl. "How wonderful," she muttered, her thoughts flitting about like butterflies in spring. She joined Arya in looking out the window once more, but her eyes remained unfocused on the landscape, the twinkling lights melting into a golden sea. She stared at it absently, letting her mother's words wash over her like icy tides. 

Love is the death of duty, my lord, and even the most noble of men have fallen to their hearts.

Perhaps it was time to start paying attention. 

Chapter Text

"I must beg your leave, my la- Arya, I'm afraid it's rather late," the Princess said finally, standing up from the window sill.

Arya bolted up immediately and fell into a quick curtsy. "Of course," she agreed, hoping the relief in her voice was not too evident. "Goodnight, Your Gra- Rhaenys."

The princess peered at her curiously, and she tried not to fidget under her intrusive gaze. "Are you not heading to bed yourself, Arya?” she asked innocuously, though there was suspicion simmering beneath the pleasant tone. "I'd be happy to escort you, your quarters are not too far from mine."

Arya was, in fact, not heading to bed any time soon. Rather, there was a dragon prince waiting for her somewhere in the castle, and she could feel his growing irritation at her tardiness creep inside her head like vines. Or a bothersome fly. The urge to shake her head to rid herself of the discomfort was overwhelming, but she swallowed it to plaster an expression of sincere wonder on her face. "Perhaps later. I think I'd like to sit here and see the city for a little longer," she said.

She found herself a little irritated that she was lying to a woman who, only moments earlier, extended a hand of friendship. It was not often that highborn ladies, let alone princesses, wanted her company, and Arya desperately didn't want to screw it up. She inwardly cursed the stupid bond and her promise to Jon to try breaking it tonight. It was inconvenient, to say the least.

Rhaenys arched a perfect black eyebrow, but seemed far too courteous to question her further. "Very well. I bid you goodnight." With a nod of her head, she gathered her skirts and disappeared around the corner, silks brushing against the marble floor like a whisper of a breath.

The faint scent of elderflower and bluebells lingered in the air, simple yet more delicate than the sweet summer that clung to Jon. Arya idly remembered how, earlier in the day, his fresh fragrance had announced his presence before he did, dancing under her nose like the crowds around them. It followed him around like a shadow, and she wondered if he doused himself in oils every morning to make it so strong. That certainly explained it.

When a new bout of irritation burst through her head from the object of her muses and startled her, Arya chided herself for thinking of such absurdity. Rolling her eyes at Jon's impatience, she crept quietly out of the alcove and peered around. Once she saw the coast was clear, she ran lightly down the corridor towards the courtyard, wincing at the pattering of her feet echoing around the blood-red walls. She threw a glance over her shoulder to check if any guard was following the commotion, when she was suddenly colliding with something solid and incredibly warm.

The force of the impact knocked them both off their feet, and Arya lifted her head with a string of apologies on her lips to catch the exasperated expression of Jon Targaryen glancing down at her.

"Maybe look where you're going next time?" he offered with a raised eyebrow, rubbing the back of his head that smacked the ground with a wince.

"I was looking," she huffed in embarrassment. "I just didn't hear you walk around the corner."

"No wonder," Jon snorted, "you were so loud, the entire castle's probably awake by now."

Arya opened her mouth to retort, when she quickly realised she was still lying on top of him, spread out on the floor. Warmth reddened her cheeks, and she scurried off gracelessly, putting as much distance between them as she could manage. Jon arched another eyebrow at her flustered face in an expression remarkably similar to the Princess, pulling himself up effortlessly and brushing dust off his tunic. A small smirk played on his lips, before disappearing as he asked, "Are you always going to be this late? I've been here for half an hour."

She shrugged. “I was waiting for your sister to leave first.”

“My sister?” Jon repeated in surprise. “What were you doing with my sister?”

The genuine shock in his voice rubbed her the wrong way, and Arya found herself growing defensive. Jutting out her chin, she glared up at him, “We were just talking. She wants to be my friend. Is that so hard to believe?”

Jon said nothing for a while, though Arya could sense his thoughts rattling about, debating on whether she was telling the truth or not. “I suppose not,” he finally muttered. “She’s always been curious about the Starks.”

Arya smiled. “I think she’s nice. I like her.”

“So do I,” Jon grinned. He glanced around the empty corridor before turning back to her. “We’re too exposed here, anyone can find us. I suggest we find somewhere quiet and relatively isolated from the castle.” His mouth quirked upwards in secret laughter, and he winked at her. “I think I know just the place.” 

oOo

”Very funny,” she muttered as they climbed down the steps. The cellar was much as it had been the first night, musky stale smells and flaming red torches casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. The floor was spotted with murky brown water, quivering at their disturbance as if awakened from a long sleep. At the end, she glanced at the tunnels, black and taunting. 

“As much as I know you love wandering around in the pitch darkness,” Jon jested, “I suggest we stay where there’s light.”

With a snort, Arya walked over to a spot near the centre and plonked herself down, little care for the dirty streaks smearing against her breeches. Crossing her legs, she looked over expectantly at Jon. He glanced dubiously at the wet floor, wrinkling his nose at the muddy pools.

"Must we sit?" he asked warily. "I'm pretty sure the water's infested."

She rolled her eyes. "This was your suggestion. You're welcome to stand, if you're so fussed." Under her breath, she muttered something along the lines of pampered princes, loud enough for him to hear.

Visibly affronted, he heaved a dramatic sigh and plopped himself down reluctantly in front of her, his face wrinkled in disgust. "Very well," he declared, straightening his back to assert his dignity as brown water stained his fine breeches. "Shall we begin?"

"We shall," Arya nodded with determination. "What do we know so far about this...um, thing between us?" She waved ambiguously between them. "Cassandra Reed's book mentioned sharing dreams, thoughts, and memories. I'm not sure about the former, but we've definitely experienced the latter. And it seems to come alive whenever we touch." Arya lifted her hand and glared at it accusingly, as if it somehow were betraying her.

Jon tapped a finger thoughtfully against his chin, his eyes locked on the flickering flames throwing the room in amber light. Distinctly, she could hear his gentle murmurs of 'I should tell her' drifting through the back of her mind.

Just as she was about to pester him to elaborate, he suddenly said, "It led me to you." His voice was quiet, almost disbelieving.

"What?"

His icy eyes shifted until they were boring into her own, bright with intensity. "Today, when I couldn't find you. I...I asked it to show me where you were," he continued, hesitantly.

Arya was still confused. "You asked what exactly?"

"The thread!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "I was desperate, I had no idea where you were, and I figured if we were somehow connected...it has to be useful for something," Jon explained, his cheeks growing crimson in embarrassment. He was looking anywhere but at her. ‘It was a stupid idea,’ came his quiet thoughts.

"It's not stupid," Arya said loudly, causing him to flick his eyes up in surprise. "It worked, didn't it? So it's not stupid." He smiled in appreciation at her - a nice smile, she thought, though it obviously had nothing to do with the sudden heat all over her face and neck. It was warm in the cellar, after all. Clearing her throat to mask her inane musings, she continued, "And it gives us something more to work with. Maybe this thread thing is what we should focus on? It seems to be at the very core of what binds us."

Jon hummed in interest. "It's always around whenever we're together. If we can cut the thread, we cut the connection."

He wasn't exaggerating. Even now, in the midst of conversation, Arya could still somehow sense the strand of sunlight shimmering at the periphery of her consciousness, glowing soft enough not to draw attention, but bright enough to remind her of its presence. It grew stronger if she focused, but evaded her grasp whenever she mentally reached for it, slithering towards Jon lazily but with purpose. No matter how hard she tried to pull it back, it was drawn towards him like a moth to a flame.

"Always a little different," she mumbled under her breath, transfixed by the sight.

The prince leaned in, confusion marring his face. "What?"

She did not hear him, so focused was she on the dancing thread inching closer and closer to Jon in her vision.

“Arya, don’t do anything stupid,” Jon warned, staring at her in concern. “Tell me what’s happening.”

“It wants me to follow it.”

”Follow it?” Jon repeated, bemused. “Follow it where?”

With a sigh, she tore her attention away to look at him properly. “To you, apparently.”

He hesitated, leaning further away from her as if physical distance could somehow deter the connection. “I don’t like the sound of that. Let’s do something else. Maybe go back to the library.” 

She rolled her eyes. “We’ve agreed the thread is the core of it all. Don’t you want to know more about it?”

“I do, but-”

Arya ignored the rest of his sentence, choosing to turn back to the slithering thread. Something was going to come out of this, she knew for sure, far more than whatever a book could tell them. Tentatively, she reached out again, a madman chasing the sun, imagining her hand wrapping around its gold silk. 

Immediately, she was plunged into uncertainty. Caught between the peculiar feeling of both freezing and burning, Arya opened her eyes to find herself locked in an empty landscape, a vast expanse in which she stood alone. The world around her glowed snow white, stretching out eternally on either side; an icy desert holding the entire universe in its grasp. 

Looking around, Arya had another unpleasant surprise.

Instead of being locked in her own body, she found herself staring at it from the other side. She could see herself cross legged, eyes closed, frozen in time. 

What are you doing here? a frantic voice came from....everywhere.

Winding through her sight, the golden thread burned in triumph.

“Jon?” she whispered, glancing about.

No, Azor Ahai. Who else do you think it is? the voice snapped. Would you kindly remove yourself from my head please? It’s highly unpleasant.

“Okay, okay, I’m going,” she muttered. She closed her eyes and willed herself back into her body, opening them to see...

White.

Huffing in frustration, she tried again, this time mentally pushing herself away, much like she did back in the tunnels that very first time. When she felt no different, Arya peeked through her eyelashes about her surroundings, groaning in disappointment as the thread stretched above her tauntingly, bright as a star. “I don’t know how to,” she finally confessed in a small voice. 

I’m sorry, what? You mean you happily burrowed your way in here with no idea how to leave? Are you kidding me?

”I was just following the thread!“ she exclaimed defensively into the abyss. “Like you did!” 

That was entirely different. I was looking for you! You’re just being intrusive. I told you to stop following it. That’s it, I’m getting you out. 

Arya waited patiently as he fell into silence. She didn’t want to be here anymore than he did. All this white, all this emptiness, she felt unbearably alone. Gods, was this really what it was like inside his head? No wonder he was always grumpy. 

She was dwelling on what her head would look like when Jon released a defeated groan.

It’s not working. I think it’s the blasted connection, it’s stopping me.

”So what, I’m trapped here?“ Arya cried, throwing her metaphorical hands in the air. “I don’t want to be stuck here, it’s horrible!”

My head is not horrible, thank you very much, came Jon’s affronted voice. I happen to enjoy spending time here.

“No wonder you’re a ball of fun,“ Arya muttered beneath her breath. 

I heard that.

She was about to quip in return when her words were swallowed by a blinding burst from the thread above. Arya stared at in mute awe as it spasmed, possessed by unseen demons. It writhed in the air like a snake, flashing with golden light.  

What’s it doing? Make it stop! Jon anxiously yelled at her. 

She couldn’t if she tried. The thread was suddenly around her, inside her, wrapping itself around her body tightly. Embraced by sunlight, Arya could do nothing but struggle feebly in panic, with little success. As hysteria bubbled in her chest, a final burst of light overwhelmed her vision with gold and white. 

And just as quickly as it came, everything vanished. From the void, a petulant voice jeered, “You’re not a real dragon!”

Tentatively opening her eyes, Arya muffled a yelp when she found herself suddenly surrounded by a small circle of people. On her one side stood a much younger Prince Aegon, perhaps no older than ten. In front of her, the King’s brother, Prince Viserys, whom she remembered seeing at the opening feast - but she had seen a man, where this was a boy in his teens. He had a sneer carved into his fine features, glaring at her with contempt swimming in his lilac eyes. When she glanced down, she groaned inwardly when she saw the body of a young boy. She was inside one of Jon’s memories again. Oh Gods.

They were standing in the palace gardens, blooming flowers sprinkled around like shattered fragments of a rainbow. Above, the sky was painted in sapphire blue, streaks of white clouds brushed against the canvas. The sun sat in the middle like a drop of golden paint, the final touch of a masterpiece. It was unbearably warm, and Arya could feel the beads of sweat at the back of her - at the back of Jon’s neck. 

“Shut up, Vis,” Aegon snapped in a childish voice next to her, glaring angrily at his uncle. “No one cares what you think.” 

Prince Viserys scoffed. “You know I’m right. Rhaegar took pity and legitimized him, but he’s not any better than a bastard.” 

“Shut up! I’m not a bastard!” a cry suddenly escaped from Arya’s, no, Jon’s lips. She could feel his resentment bubbling in his chest, burning as the fiery sun above. Under it, however, simmered a fear like an endless ocean, threatening to consume her. She cringed away from it. 

“Yes, you are,” Viserys insisted cruelly. “You’re the reason the kingdoms went to war in the first place. Your whore of a mother just couldn’t keep her legs closed-“

The rest of his words were swallowed in a screech as he was knocked to the ground by a fury in the form of an eight-year old prince. Arya watched helplessly as Jon flung his fists at his uncle, hitting him wherever he could. In the background, she heard Aegon yelling encouragement, throwing in the occasional kick where he saw fit. 

The last thing Arya saw before the scene dissipated was a whirl of red silk skirts striding quickly towards them.

She blinked, and found herself in a solar of sorts, a room engulfed in flames. The walls were patterned with blazing orange suns seared into blood-red wood. Arya didn’t like it - she was a child of moons and starry nights, not burning skies and ambitious suns. Jon, she could feel, was distinctly uncomfortable as he shifted from foot to foot. To her left stood Aegon, his face white as he stared stubbornly at a spot on the floor. 

“How could you be so stupid?” a regal voice demanded. She followed the sound to a tall, graceful woman with soft dark hair in ringlets falling down her back, sitting behind a large oak desk. Queen Elia looked so much like her daughter, Arya balked for a moment in confusion. But unlike Rhaenys, whose face was kind last time she’d seen it, the Queen was looking at both boys with unreserved anger. 

“Attacking your uncle in the middle of the palace gardens,” Elia continued, glancing between them. “What possessed you to act like such savages?” 

“He was mocking Jon,” Aegon’s mumbled meekly. “He called him a bastard, and his mother a whore.” 

Jon started nodding in agreement, but quickly stopped when Elia rebutted, “Then you should have come to me immediately. I would have dealt with him accordingly. But engaging in violence means I am forced to punish the both of you as well. I should inform your father of this. Viserys certainly will.” 

The princes snapped up in horror, and Arya shuddered at the shot of fear that prickled down her (Jon’s) spine. His heart was pounding against his chest, and she could hear his frantic panicked thoughts whirling around her.

‘He fears the King’s wrath,’ Arya observed with shock. She’d heard Jon criticize his father, but she never thought he was afraid of him. Arya could not imagine fearing one’s father - Ned Stark’s temper was cold and daunting, but she’d never seen it directed at her. Why, she could count on the fingers of one hand the times she’d even seen her father angry in the first place!

There was a small pause, before the silver prince stepped forward and pleaded with his mother, “Viserys will just lie as he always does, and Father will blow it out of proportion. Can’t we keep this from him? Please?” He stared at her imploringly as a swell of desperate hope thrummed through Jon.

Elia sighed deeply and closed her eyes, rubbing her forehead. A pang of guilt shot through Jon, and Arya distantly heard him think of the Queen’s health. 

Finally, she drew a deep breath and regarded the princes with a stern gaze. “I won’t inform the King and I’ll keep Viserys away, but remember I grant you this leniency once, and once only. You are hereby confined to your chambers until I say otherwise. I suggest you take this time to dwell on your actions, for I will not be kind a second time. Is that understood?”

Their heads nodded so violently, Arya briefly wondered if they’d snap their necks off. As they turned on their heel, the Queen’s voice rang out one more, stopping them in their tracks. “Jon, remain behind.” 

Aegon whipped around and frowned at his mother. “Why? I hit Vis, too,” he said quickly. “It’s not just Jon’s fault.” 

Elia regarded him almost fondly then, the edge of her mouth quirking faintly upwards. “Fear not, child. There’s something else I wish to discuss.” 

Arya saw Jon’s hand quickly grab onto his brother’s wrist when the silver prince moved to protest again. “Go,” he whispered, “I’ll tell you about it later.” 

With a regretful look, Aegon turned on his heel and stomped out the solar. 

Jon’s heart was stuttering in his chest, and Arya felt waves of anxiety roll of his skin. She was confused. Why was he left behind? It wasn’t Jon’s fault! What was there left to say? 

“Take a seat, Jon,” the Queen offered, waving her hand towards a chair on the other side of the desk. Once he’d hesitantly lowered himself down, her eyes softened and she watched him for a minute. “Jon,” she chided softly, “I expected better. Engaging in violence is very unlike you.” 

Jon had no response, but Arya sensed his turbulent thoughts. He seemed to hate disappointing her. “I’m sorry, Your Grace,” he mumbled, staring at his hands on his lap, but they curled into fists as he angrily remembered his uncle’s remarks. “He insulted my mother.” 

“That was unacceptable, and I shall speak to him immediately,” Elia promised, a hint of disgust lining her voice. “That boy lacks manners. But you cannot let him affect you so. You know his words to be false.” 

Jon’s mouth twisted, and he stubbornly stared at his hands in contempt. “He’s not the only one,” he sullenly confessed. “I’ve heard other people call me a bastard, too.” Tiny tears pricked the edges of his eyes and he furiously brushed them away.

“Look at me,” Elia’s gentle voice murmured. “Jon.”

Reluctantly, he took a deep breath and raised his head to meet brown eyes watching him sympathetically. 

“Children are damaged most by the actions of their parents,” she mused sadly. “We forget how fragile you are, how easily you crack and shatter, until it’s too late and we’re left to pick up the pieces.”

Jon stared at her, bemused. “I don’t understand.” 

The Queen reached over and gently clasped his cheek, looking intently into his eyes. “There is only so much I or your father can shield you from, but the world is far crueler to you than they are to your brother or sister. It’s true, I’m afraid,” she added at his protest. “It’s nothing against you personally, Jon, it’s nothing you’ve done. It’s just...” she trailed off hesitantly.

“Because of the war,” Jon finished for her emotionlessly, sounding oddly mature.

“I tell you this not to add weight to your shoulders, but so you may armour yourself with it. You cannot lash out every time. It will inspire far more vicious insults. Hold back and protect yourself with courtesy as your shield. Know your worth, and they can never hurt you,” Elia advised, before granting him a smile that did not reach her eyes. “It is what I do, and I am no stranger to court gossip.”

Jon pondered for a moment, a deep frown setting on his young face. After a moment’s silence, he finally asked, “Will it ever stop? The names and...and all of it?” 

Elia regarded him regretfully, her gaze drifting to somewhere beyond. “No,” she said simply, sadness lining her tired face. “No, it never goes away.”

Before Arya could even begin to process the Queen’s words, she was violently yanked away, watching the scene vanish into nothingness like a breathless sigh. The backlash of the motion snapped her head against a very hard wall, and she blearily opened her eyes to see an older Jon glaring angrily at her from across the cellar. 

Her head pounded like a thousand war drums, and she grasped at it, groaning.

”You shouldn’t have seen that,” Jon said quietly, his voice thrumming with fury and...shame? Yes, she could feel the buds of embarrassment blooming across his thoughts. His eyes flashed with emotion, spinning like thunderstorms in summer. 

“I’m sorry!” Arya offered quickly - for either trespassing, or for the cruelty of men, or perhaps both. She hoped he could sense her sincerity through the connection. “I never meant to intrude like that, really. I won’t tell anyone, I swear.” 

It had taken her by surprise, learning that a prince had to suffer through barbs and insults. Especially someone like Jon. Arya hadn’t met many princes in her life before Jon - none, in fact - but she had always imagined they’d be much like the stupid songs Sansa would always sing: gallant, arrogant idiots with more muscle than sense, who looked for damsels in distress to save and fawn over. 

But Jon was...different. Like the songs, he gallantly saved helpless ladies from darkened tunnels and dancing crowds, but he wasn’t a complete stupid. At least, not all the time, Arya had to admit. He could be fun, too.

If someone like him could face such viciousness from the world - well, where did that leave someone like her?

Jon’s face was white with annoyance as he responded tightly, “It doesn’t really matter what you meant to do or not, if someone still gets hurt anyway. I asked you to stop following the thread, but you refused. Everything could have been avoided if you’d just listened.”

His words struck a nerve in her heart, one that had been hammered ruthlessly for years by her mother, until it was stretched and fragile to the touch. So she scrambled to her feet and blurted out the first thing that came to mind, “Don’t flip this on me. I said I was sorry. Your idea was to go back to the stupid library so no, I didn’t listen. You’re overreacting.” 

Jon snorted unkindly, and dragged himself up to be at her level. “Overreacting?” he repeated in disbelief. “How would you feel if a stranger learnt of your humiliation?”

“It wasn’t that bad-“ she started, hesitantly.

He moved so close, Arya could count the dark speckles floating in his stormy eyes, like crows flying in the wind. “Maybe not for you,” he interrupted, bitterly. “I wouldn’t expect a daughter of Ned Stark to understand what it’s like to be looked down by people in her own family. So spare me your pity, my lady.” With that, he took a step back and Arya found space to breathe once more. 

She found her own ire, too. A humourless laugh escaped her lips, drawing Jon to a halt on his way towards the cellar steps. He looked over his shoulder to glance at her in question.

”You’re quick to accuse me, but you have no idea who I am,” she snapped at him. 

Jon’s mouth twisted hesitantly, but he stubbornly insisted, “It’s not the same.” 

“Fine,” she said simply. “Then let’s make ourselves even, shall we?” Striding towards him with purpose, she conjured up one of the memories she had locked away, a moment that she kept from creeping into her heart, lest it fester in the still-open wound that always lingered. 

“What are you doing?” Jon asked in alarm as she approached, backing away. Arya sent a quick prayer that this would work, leaning forward to snatch Jon’s wrist with her bare hand. 

Blinding white light washed over them as she forced the memory to surface. 

”Horseface, Horseface, Arya has a Horseface!” Jeyne Poole chanted at her from behind a smug Sansa. “No one wants to marry a Horseface, you know.” 

Arya scrunched her nose up stubbornly, hoping they couldn’t see her tears. “I don’t care! I won’t marry anyone!”

”You can have Hodor,” Sansa smirked. “He’s ugly and hairy like you are. Besides, he’s probably the only one that’ll take you,” she taunted. “I heard Mother say no respectable lord would ever want someone like you. No one wants a savage as their wife. They’ll just get a dog instead. It’ll bite less.” 

“You’re lying!” Arya squeaked, though her heart sank like an anchor, filled with doubt. She didn’t particularly want to get married, but she liked to think the rejection would be on her side, not his.

“I heard it,” the redhead continued, a triumphant smile on her face. “You’re such a burden on Mother and Father, you know. Everything would be easier if you didn’t exist.”

The scene dissolved just as her younger self pushed her sister into a pool of mud with an angry yell. 

A whirlwind of crystals shimmered in the air, piecing together to reveal an elegant stone chamber, at the centre of which stood a graceful woman with long, red hair. The spitting image of her sister. Sitting on the edge of the grand bed, his chin resting tiredly on hands, sat the Lord of Winterfell. A crack in their chamber door allowed a small Arya to peek through without notice. 

“I can’t do this anymore, Ned,” her mother confessed in exasperation, pacing worriedly in front of her husband. “Arya is the most difficult of trials. I fear the day she comes of age and we must find a betrothal - what man would tolerate such behaviour?”

Her father sighed softly, and a pang of guilt shot through her small frame. “Cat, she’s a child. Let her be, she’ll grow up soon enough.”

“She attacked her sister!” her mother cried, throwing her hands in the air. “She’s hardly a child anymore, Ned. We can’t keep excusing her any longer!” Arya watched as she plopped down in defeat beside Lord Stark, and rested her head on his shoulder. “Why can’t she be more like Sansa?” she moaned. “Gods, I wish she was. Maybe then everything wouldn’t be so difficult.” 

Ned patted her hand sympathetically, and Arya bolted from the room to hide somewhere until supper, tears brimming in her eyes and spilling down her cheeks.

Jon snatched his hand back with a gasp and recoiled sharply from her, resting against the opposite wall. Panting, his eyes snapped up at her, wide and clear like crystal dewdrops. He was staring at her openly, and Arya caught snippets of his confused thoughts attempting to process what he’d just seen. 

She had the sudden urge to flee, much like she had in the memory. To find somewhere to hide where she didn’t feel so vulnerable anymore, somewhere she could lick her freshly opened wounds. There was something intrusive in Jon’s watchful gaze that had her shifting uncomfortably where she stood. 

“It’s late,” she said suddenly, choosing to look at a dripping spot on the ceiling than see any hints of sympathy on the stupid prince’s face. “I guess we’re done here. Good evening, Your Grace,” she muttered stiffly, walking past him to climb the steps. He said nothing as she slipped through the door, his thoughts murky like a fog at the back of her head, turbulent but indistinct. 

The golden thread shimmered through the mist, however, painfully bright and unabashed for all the trouble it had caused. She wanted to throw something at it, but given that impossibility, she chose to mentally glare at it instead.

And for a moment, Arya could have sworn it felt triumphant.  

Chapter Text

The rose afternoon sky melted into an inky black, streaks of red and blue fading into deeper shades of night. The wind rustled Jon's hair with a sigh of exhilaration; a cool breeze against a sore neck that had sat stiff for over two hours. Music blared into the summer evening, weaving through the crowd as they cheered in celebration. The melee had finally drawn to an end, Dickon Tarly gaining a narrow victory over Harry Hardyng, to the delight of many ladies in the audience. 

Sitting in the shrouded privacy of the royal stands, Jon watched the champion strut through the makeshift grounds, head held comically high as he winked and waved at fawning fans. At one point, he even leaned down to plant a kiss on the forehead of an offered baby. Jon rolled his eyes as Aegon groaned derisively beside him. "Gods, have you ever seen a bigger wanker?" his brother muttered to him under his breath, shaking his head. He stopped when he caught Jon's pointed look and nudged him with his shoulder. "Shut up, I'm not that bad," he protested. 

Jon snorted, a smile playing on his lips. "Oh no, you're a million times worse. Admit it, you're just irritated Tarly's getting more attention than you today. Your betrothed seems to be enjoying the sight." 

The brothers leaned forward to look across the dais at their sister. Rhaenys eyes were fixed unblinkingly on Dickon Tarly, raking over his figure in appreciation. 

Aegon huffed in disbelief and threw himself back in his seat dramatically. "The melee isn't that difficult," he grumbled. "Any sod with a sword and a pinch of skill could win. The joust is what people are actually here for, you know." 

"Well, in that case," Jon responded with a playful knock on his shoulder, "you may as well grow used to watching the victor from the shadows, brother, since you're never going to win the joust. Not while I'm in it, anyway." 

The silver prince shot him a feral smirk, amusement dancing in the violets of his eyes. "Is that a bet, I hear? If I sweep the floor with everyone, you owe me twenty gold dragons say." 

"I’ll give you fifty if you get to the final round." 

"One hundred if you make it past the semi-final round." 

"Tell you what. Let’s raise it to two hundred. Take it or leave it." 

Aegon's eyes widened. "You're mad." He pondered for a moment, before sticking his hand out. "But who am I to get in the way of a man so desperate to empty his pockets? Consider it a deal." 

Jon beamed, soaking in the image of his best friend grinning wildly at him, excitement and cheer hanging around him like dew drops. He'd shorn off most of his hair before the tourney started, leaving silvery strands barely brushing the nape of his neck and his forehead. It made him look impossibly younger. For a moment, Jon could imagine he was three-and-ten, freshly discovering the world and all its possibilities, instead of two-and-twenty with an impending family of his own. 

Sometimes he wondered how alarmingly calm Rhaenys and Aegon seemed to be about their wedding, but he'd never dare voice it aloud. He had no intention of tickling a sleeping dragon. Or two, in this case. 

Ignoring his dawdling thoughts, Jon's smile grew into a short burst of laughter. "I'll be a rich man by the end of this tourney, at your courtesy." 

Aegon stuck his tongue out childishly at him as they stood to follow the rest of their family down the dais, quickly schooling his face when the Queen shot a disapproving look at his antics. Jon chuckled under his breath again. Two hundred gold dragons would easily buy him the sword he'd been eyeing at Tobho Mott's shop some moons ago, but had been unwilling to spend the money for. It would be, by far, the easiest bet he'd ever win against his brother. Jon knew there was no possibility he could beat the Crown Prince in a joust, not with the whole world watching. It was never a question of skill, but appearance. The crowds were here to watch Aegon win, not the spare prince they had no love for. At least he'd get another new sword out of it, with change to spare.

They were the last pair to descend the steps of the dais. Aegon shoved his hands deep in his pockets as he sauntered to the ground. "You know, Jon, it's been forever since we've had a little wicked fun," he said over his shoulder. "What do you say we celebrate today properly? You, me, the other lads, and the finest institute the city has to offer!" At the foot of the steps, he whipped around and opened his arms theatrically, as if offering the world. 

Jon paused, still at the top of the steps, and narrowed his eyes at the smiling man below. "Are we speaking of your definition of a fine institute, or something appealing to anyone with an ounce of self-respect?" 

His brother shot him an exasperated look. "Well, given your preferred form of entertainment is sulking in a corner and pouting about the tragedy of your existence, my definition won't bore everyone to tears."

Jon remained standing on the dais, narrowing his eyes at the prince. The 'fine institute' in question was Chataya's, the upscale brothel that sat proudly on Rhaenys' Hill: a rose that flaunted in the sunlight, but with roots entrenched in shadow and mystery. Popular with the wealthy and the wanton, Jon had only ever visited once when he'd slipped into the city through the sewers with Aegon. That had been almost seven years ago, and the wide-eyed and naive child he'd been had assumed it was a fancy inn run by pretty girls. 

It had been a shock when he'd learned otherwise. 

"Egg, we're not going to a brothel." 

The smile slipped from Aegon's face suddenly. "Why not?" he whined petulantly. 

Jon sighed. "Because I'm not spending our first proper evening out in over six moons with you abandoning me for a whore," he proclaimed fiercely, crossing his arms over his chest. "You know that's what will happen." 

His brother pouted at him, before shrugging in acquiescence. "If you insist. We'll head towards our old spot on Rhaenys' Hill with some bottles of wine." 

Jon blinked in surprise. He hadn't expected him to relent so easily. 

"And then we'll visit the brothel!" 

There it was. 

Aegon grinned up at Jon before turning on his heel. "Meet me at the King's Gate in fifteen minutes! And bring anyone you find!" he called back, whistling as he strolled away. Two Kingsguards trailed in his wake, the wave of lords and ladies shuffling back to the city parting at the seams to let him through. 

He considered excusing himself, but it was a half-hearted thought at best. Aegon was right - it had been too long since they'd properly spent time as brothers. As loathed as he was to share his company with courtesans and other lords, it was better than not seeing him at all. At the very least, part of the evening would be spent in good company and fine wine. Gods knew he needed a good break, particularly after recent events. 

The reminder of his still incredibly-present problem throbbed like a thorn at his side. He lifted his head to peer around the crowd, searching for the source of his troubles. It had been three days since Arya had stormed away, leaving him alone in the basement gaping after her. Immediately after their disastrous encounter, Jon had felt like an absolute idiot. He knew, deep down, it hadn't been her fault that she'd seen one of his most private memories. He had been stupidly defensive, still so unsettled about their connection and needing a reason to lash out. After the sensitive scene she had shown him, Jon had felt even worse. 

It had never occurred to him that Arya would have had any issues fitting in, least not with her own family. There was a magnetism about her, in her raw honesty of who she was, that captured the attention of anyone standing near her. Jon had imagined she formed friendships as easily as breathing, something he'd never quite managed himself. He remembered the day they'd danced in the square, when she'd been surrounded by all the different patchworks of society: belonging, as if she were simply the missing thread binding them together. It was enviable but admirable, and he'd never spared a consideration that anyone would see any differently. 

It was naive of him to assume anything about her. Arya was anything but predictable. He'd wanted to apologise the following morning, but she had seen fit to ignore him at every turn. It was obvious she was avoiding him, and with the final days of the melee, his attention was diverted towards his family and other duties. There hadn't been many opportunities to seek her out and fix his mistake. He had even tried reaching through the connection, as ridiculous as that felt, muttering apologies to the whispering presence with no idea if she could hear him or not.

What he received from his efforts was complete silence, albeit a flicker of consciousness shimmering incessantly at the back of his skull. 

But after three days, Jon was growing tense. They had learned next to nothing about how to solve their predicament, and with the joust beginning in a couple days, their time together was running out. He didn't want to think about what would happen if she left King's Landing without breaking the bond. 

Idly, he glanced over the moving crowds, letting his eyes wander. Almost immediately, he found himself drawn to a lithe figure wrapped in grey breeches walking along the edge of the arena, a familiar sweep of dark hair brushing down her shoulders. Arya's long face was lit with humour as she chattered eagerly with her red-haired brother. Jon couldn't help but let his attention linger. She laughed easily, carelessly, utterly ignorant - or uncaring - of how inelegant it may appear. And she certainly attracted several disdainful looks as she bent over, breathlessly giggling and clutching at the other Stark. Jon didn't know many ladies who were so generous with their emotions. Elia and Rhaenys were perfectly restrained in public, and graceful and controlled in private, much like most of the women he'd known growing up. 

It made Arya an intriguing sight, like a sunset sky: a blaze of colour and warmth, a thousand different strokes waiting to be discovered, if one only looked long enough.

"Your Grace?"

With a jolt, Jon tore his eyes away from the Stark girl to see Jaime Lannister watching him from the bottom step. One blonde eyebrow was cocked knowingly, a smirk playing on his lips. "I hope I wasn't disturbing you, Your Grace, but Prince Aegon sent me to ensure you were escorted promptly to the King's Gate." 

A blush rose in his cheeks, and Jon hoped the other man hadn't seen him gawking at Arya so blatantly. Jaime was already far too perceptive for his own good, always acting as if he knew something that no one else had quite figured out yet. It annoyed Jon more than it should. 

"I'm fine," he quickly said, descending down the steps, "just...surveying the crowds." He cleared his throat, gathered himself up and plastered a smile to hide his awkwardness. "I suppose my brother is worried I'll abandon him this evening. Wouldn't want to leave him fretting for too long." Turning on his heel, he started walking briskly away, his face in flames. 

oOo

King's Landing stretched out below them like an endless sea of mosaics and stars. On the surface, it rippled with life, a sea of colours and stories under one's fingertips. An alluring facade that cloaked its blackened heart and dying embers, enticing the world around it with temptations of glory. Some, it simply swallowed whole; others it drowned slowly and agonisingly; a few it favoured and rode them high on its waves of fortune - until they, too, were taken under its inky darkness.

Jon idly wondered which fate had befallen him, whether he was sinking deeper into its depth, or still somehow floating above in a deteriorating lifeboat. Either way, he ended up at the bottom of the sea. It was a morbid idea, more than he was normally accustomed to. He frowned into his goblet. Perhaps the wine was stronger than he thought. 

He leaned back to rest on his elbows and stretch his legs on the grass. A small fire sat blazing in the centre of their little gathering, throwing shadows across the faces of the lords lounging around it. It was one of Jon's favourite spots - along the slope of Rhaenys' Hill with a cloister of trees and rocks at their back hiding them from the main path. With the stars above and the city below, it was easy to imagine yourself lost in another world, suspended between planes. He'd discovered it years ago with Aegon during one of their trips, and it had become their spot ever since, though Aegon slowly stopped coming, long before his move to Dragonstone. Jon still came, however: his own personal refuge when he needed a break from the Red Keep. 

"Oh, come off it, Harry. Quit being a sore loser. It was a fair fight and you know it!" came the boisterous voice of Dickon Tarly, catching Jon's attention. He glanced over to his right to see the heir to Horn Hill flaunting his feathers at the sour-faced Hardyng sitting beside him.

Harry glared daggers at Dickon's dimpled smile. "You kicked me in the nuts, you wanker," he hissed back. "That's an illegal move!" 

"I did no such thing. Your nuts got in the way of my foot. That's hardly my fault." 

"Your face is about to get in the way of my foot, you cheating son of a-"

"That's quite enough, lads," Aegon cut in loudly from his sprawled position on the grass, one hand wrapped around an entire bottle of wine, the other propping his head up. He arched a pale silvery eyebrow at Dickon and Harry. "I have no desire to hear you two bicker for the rest of the night. Settle it on the jousting grounds if you must, but you're boring me at the moment so do shut up." 

The jaws of both lords snapped shut with an audible click. 

"Damn, I was hoping Harry would sock Dickon's face off," Edric whispered in disappointment beside him, taking a swing from his glass. "The pompous prick has been irritating me all night." 

Jon snickered. 

Out of all the lords whose company Jon could tolerate, it was Edric Dayne who came close enough to call friend. The nephew of the esteemed Ser Arthur Dayne, he looked almost identical to his famous relative: brilliant smiles under a thick mane of almost Targaryen-white hair, with more honour in their little finger than half of the royal court put together. Aegon found him as stimulating as a plank of wood but endured him for the sake of the King's friendship with his uncle.

Jon, however, enjoyed his presence. He was far more fastidious than other lords, finding more pleasure with a sword in his hand than a woman in his bed, and it was because of such that their own friendship was born. There was an authenticity to the Dornishman that Jon appreciated, a kind heart that hid no malice for others. Too simple for his brother, but a welcome change from the snakes at court for Jon. 

Edric's neat blonde hair was tousled over his forehead, spots of red painted across his cheeks as he finished off his glass in one chug. Reaching for more alcohol, his white tunic slipped upwards from his breeches, crumpling as he lounged back against a rock. A far cry from the poised knight he often strived to be. 

The group sat in companionable silence, draining the Dornish wine as they watched the glittering lights in the distance. Jon had considered getting roaring drunk at the start, but Arya's presence fluttering about in his head had reluctantly changed his mind. Drinking always loosened his tongue and his thoughts, and having someone privy to the latter took the appeal right out of it. So he'd sipped at the same glass of wine for the last hour, while everyone sought to drown themselves in drink. 

"I say, how long has it been anyway? Since we've all been together?" Edric suddenly asked aloud in a slurred voice, drawing their attention. "Feels like bloody years."

Harry idly scratched his cheek as he pondered. "Probably. Dickon's finally grown into his ears so you know it's been a long time." He smirked cheekily at the other man.  

"I've grown into more than that," Dickon responded, ignoring the barb and grinning around the fire. "Got married about three moons ago. She's already with child." 

Aegon spluttered into his cup and rolled until he was sitting on his haunches, gaping unabashedly at the Tarly boy. "You're going to be a father? Aren't you absolutely shitting yourself?" he blurted in horror.

"Not really," Dickon rebuffed with a blush. "I feel...ready, in a way. Because of her. I want to start a family with her." A dreamy smile graced his pale face. "I miss her when she isn't around. She's really the only one that knows me better than anyone. It's - well, it's rather nice to have an other half." 

There was a collective groan around the group. "If you break into song, I will kick you in the nuts," muttered Harry with disdain. Dickon shoved his shoulder. 

Aegon peered at Tarly with an almost detached curiosity dancing in his eyes. Jon would have asked him more about it had he not been lost in his own thoughts. 

The news of Dickon's recent nuptials nor impending fatherhood hadn't really fazed him. If anything, it inspired an uncomfortable lump in his stomach at the thought. 

He hadn't forgotten his father's promise to find him a bride by the end of the tourney. With all the drama with the bond and the melee, Jon could almost have ignored it - but the panic raised its ugly head in his chest again. 

An other half. Someone who would know him better than anyone else. It seemed so far-fetched an idea, Jon was tempted to laugh if it wasn't so tragic. For surely, if this other half knew him so well, she'd know just how intensely repelled he was at the very notion of being trapped. In the Red Keep, in a marriage he wasn't ready for, in a life he did not want. And if she knew, well then, would she simply tolerate it? Would she still try to love him anyway, knowing a part of him would always begrudge her for being his chain? Would she resent him as much as he'd resent her? 

Jon hoped it would never come to the latter. He'd never admitted it to anyone, but he'd always maintained a sliver of hope that he could have a loving marriage. He'd always known he'd have to marry one day, and when he was younger, he'd dreamed that she'd be beautiful and highborn and her eyes would be filled with laughter. It was a stupid dream, but he still remembered it from time to time.

A glimmer of life from the back of his head reminded him he wasn't alone. His rambling thoughts quickly dissipated, smoothing into a blank canvas. The reminder that she quite possibly had heard all his musings had him cringing into his cup. So much for not getting drunk and embarrassing himself. 

"What about you, Your Grace?" Edric voice dragged him from his reverie, and he glanced over to see the Dornishman watching Aegon curiously. 

His brother paused, bottle almost at his lips, and narrowed his eyes. "What about me?" he asked, his voice lined with irritation. 

Edric shifted uncomfortably under the prince's intense gaze. "I-I just wanted to ask how you feel about your wedding?" he stammered. "Nervous?" 

Aegon threw back his head and finished the rest of the wine in one swig. With a grimace, he shrugged nonchalantly. "It's a formality," he muttered, his eyes trained on the dancing flames. "Rhaenys is hardly a stranger, and we already live together. There are no surprises. I doubt a wedding will change very much." He moved to lie on his back and stare at the sky. 

Jon frowned at his words. He opened his mouth to suggest otherwise when he found himself the centre of everyone's attention. 

"What?" he asked, bemused. 

Edric grinned at him, his lithe Dornish accent stronger in his intoxication. "You're the ladies' last chance at being a princess, mate. I'm surprised you haven't already been tackled by a Frey yet. Everyone knows how desperate they are for a little royal attention." 

"Bet you like that sort of thing," Harry winked at Jon, who responded with an eye-roll. "It's always the quiet ones that are the strangest in bed. Jon probably has the wildest stories out of all of us." 

"Please. He's never met a girl he likes better than his own hair," Aegon snorted, reaching for the next bottle. "If my darling brother loses his maidenhood before his wedding night, I'll throw a celebration across all seven kingdoms." 

Jon narrowed his eyes at the chuckling men. "I'm glad my sex life provides you with such entertainment," he grumbled, filling his glass. If he had to tolerate these wankers, he needed more wine, bond be damned. 

"Non-existant," his brother corrected lightly. Jon lobbed a wine corker at his smiling face. 

The light mood lingered around the five men, threading through their idle conversations and bright laughter. Their cheeks were flushed, their hair was tousled, and the deep blues of the evening sky stole into the inky darkness of night. It was an easy distraction, a momentary relief from the world that Jon had missed. But it wasn't enough.

That lump in his stomach from the all the marriage talk had grown into a stifling weight that he felt in his bones. He was sinking into one of his 'Jon-moods' as Rhaenys had named it, where he'd wander off in his own head for sometimes hours at a time. It usually culminated in Aegon bursting into his room and throwing pillows at him until he told him he felt better, or Rhaenys strolling in calmly with a plate of his favourite desserts. While they were at Dragonstone, however, Jon tended to either take his frustrations out on the training dummy with his sword or by falling asleep until he forgot what it was he was supposed to be fretting about. The latter seemed most appealing at the moment. 

"By the Gods, have we been here this long?" Harry exclaimed, looking up at the darkened sky. "Do we open another bottle? Or shall we start heading towards Chataya's? All that talk of weddings and marriage does increase a man's appetite for debauchery." 

Well, he supposed that was his cue. 

"I think this is it for me," Jon announced quietly, setting his goblet down and moving to his feet. "I'll just head back to the palace." 

Aegon looked up sharply and stared at Jon's face. He shifted under the attention. "It's still early," his brother protested. "We can stay here as long as you want, and forget about Chataya's." His eyes were scrutinising him, reading his thoughts. There was an unspoken question of are you alright? Jon was touched he'd sacrifice whoring on his behalf, but he didn't want to drag the entire party down because of his own moods. They already thought he was the boring prince, anyway. 

He shook his head, giving Aegon a tight smile. "I'm just tired," he half-lied, rubbing a hand over his face for emphasis. "I'll hardly be any fun in this state. Enjoy the rest of your evening." He walked away, their murmurs of goodnight a shadow in his step. 

Jon had almost reached his horse when his arm was grabbed in a firm grip. He turned to see Aegon's concerned face. In the darkness, the violets of his eyes slipped into twin pools of black, making his face even more pale under the moonlight. 

"You're not happy," he said. It wasn't a question. 

Jon's mouth twisted, and he shrugged. "I'm fine, Egg. Just want to crawl into bed. Nothing to worry about. Go on, have fun with the others." 

Aegon rocked back on his heels and regarded him suspiciously. "Aren't you supposed to lecture me? Encouraging me to enjoy my whoring is very unlike you, brother mine." 

"Then I hope you get your cock trapped in your breeches and disappoint everyone with your lacklustre performance." 

"There it is," the silver prince grinned. A beat later, his smiled disappeared and concern graced his elegant features once more. "I don't mind going home with you, if there's something on your mind. We'll sneak some dessert from the kitchens and hide away on the roof. Like the good old times." 

Tendrils of affection unfurled in Jon's chest at his words, warming his heart. He was painfully reminded of how much he was going to miss his older brother and best friend when he was gone. 

He shot a genuine smile at Aegon, and shook his head. As much as he'd love to revisit their glory days, the exhaustion from the day was settling in. "And have you mother hen me all night?" he jested. "Perish the thought. I'll see you in the morning. Do be sure to remember all your drunken idiocies and tell me about it later." 

Aegon frowned briefly, before acquiescing with a nod and a grin. "As if I could keep anything hidden from you, brother." 

oOo 

Jon had barely registered he'd reached his chambers until he'd half-haphazardly discarded all his clothes and thrown himself on the bed. With a sigh, he rolled on his back and stared at the ceiling. 

He'd always loved his room. It was his space, his refuge. He found solace in its sparsity, an immediate relief from the chaos of the rest of the palace. Instead of angry maroon and snarling dragons, his bedroom enraptured a quieter spirit, something straight from the heart of winter. The walls were a soft charcoal grey, the shade of thunderstorms and ashes: light, ready to be blown towards a salty sea. The furnishings were pale marble and white silks, like clouds drifting through a darkening sky. It was the North captured in colours, ice and wolves howling in every stroke. 

It reminded him that he was part of something else, something wilder and untamed and so very far from the Red Keep. His eyes traced idly over the blank walls, finding patterns in the paint that shifted with every blink. Rhaenys and Aegon found the barrenness oppressive, their own chambers dazzled in reds and suns and dragons. How they slept under such mayhem was beyond him. 

His thoughts shifted fondly towards his brother. For all their arguments, Aegon had always helped him through his 'Jon-moods,' ever since they were children. He hadn't forgotten the first time he'd found himself trapped in despairing thoughts at the tender age of seven, locked in his room and panicking about one thing or another. Aegon had stormed in like a whirlwind of stubbornness and barely-contained energy, dragging him off to the training grounds to whack at a post with sticks. After that, they'd crept into the kitchens and stolen entire plates of strawberry tarts prepared for the Tyrell visiting party later that evening. As he recalled, they'd never ended up attending, spending hours guzzling down the desserts and hiding away at the top of the palace. The Queen had sent three Kingsguards to look for them and had been out of her mind with worry when no one could find them. They'd only been discovered when Aegon threw up over the side of the roof from all the tarts he'd eaten, hitting Mace Tyrell squarely on the head as he walked out the gates. They were both banned from desserts for an entire moon. 

Jon laughed quietly to himself at the memory, remembering Lord Tyrell's horrified face at the red-tinged mess caking his head. It lightened the pit in his stomach indefinitely. 

'Is that Mace Tyrell? He looks like a sack of potatoes.'

Her voice was so loud and clear in his head, Jon jolted up to stare around his room in shock. Realising he was alone, he sighed softly. 

'Arya,' he sent to her, 'shouldn't you be asleep? It's late.'

He could practically hear the snort vibrating through the connection. 

'I would, if you were quieter,' she threw back. 'It's so hard trying to ignore you.'

Jon grimaced. He'd been so engrossed in his own thoughts, he'd forgotten she was there. A flash of horror shot through him. Bollocks, how long had she been listening? 

There was a dead silence from the other side, and Jon could feel her hesitating before confessing, 'All evening.' Her voice quickly turned defensive. 'But I didn't mean to, I swear! You were just so loud and I tried not to think either so I wouldn't disturb you and -'

'Arya.' 

'- honestly, it's absolute murder trying to be quiet in your own head. I mean, how do you even -' 

'Arya!' 

She trailed off sheepishly at his yell, or, well, as much of a yell as a mental voice could get, really. Jon hadn't quite figured out the logistics of this method of communication yet, so he treated it much as he would if she were standing before him. It seemed to work so far. 

'I'm not mad,' he told her quietly, realising it was true. He wasn't. It was his mistake to let his mind roam so freely, not hers. She couldn't control how much passed through the connection as much he could. There was little point dwelling on the embarrassment of it all. 

'I...really?' she asked incredulously, unsure. 

'Yes, really. Just...forget what you heard. I'll shut up now, I promise.' With that, he threw back the covers of his bed and crawled in, cocooning himself in its warmth. Exhaustion weighed in his bones like lead, and he wanted nothing more than to throw the duvet over his head and forget the world for a few blissful hours. 

Arya, it seemed, had other plans. Her presence still flickered in his skull, agitated and bright like flames. She was thinking hard, he could feel it, and it was niggling at her as incessantly as it was him. 

With a suffering sigh, he took the bait. 'What's wrong now?'  

'I never considered that boys would be afraid of being married as well,' she said bluntly with a hint of embarrassment. 'I thought...I thought it was just girls that had to give up everything.' 

His mouth twisted, and he opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling. There was genuine surprise radiating from her, as if the whole concept simply baffled her. 

'Yes, well, now you know,' he replied shortly. When she didn't respond immediately, he took that to mean she'd finished the conversation. Jon rolled over and pressed his face against the pillow, trying incredibly hard to avoid falling down the empty pit tearing his insides open. 

Seconds or minutes or hours seem to tick by before Arya shattered the silence. Her deliberations had been quiet but unrelenting, as if she were waging an internal battle to say something or not. Jon could just about grasp what it was she was fretting about, until she finally whispered, 'I don't want to be married, either. I'm...terrified of it, actually.' 

Jon was lost, his mind blank as snow. Arya's words threw him off-balance by the sincere honesty behind them, and he wasn't sure how she wanted him to respond. It was a matter of trust, and she was testing the waters. Somehow, he really did not wish to disappoint her, so he edged carefully forward with, 'Why?' 

She gave a humourless laugh. 'For the same reasons as you. I don't want a cage. I don't want to sit at home and birth a thousand children and just do my duty. It's a horrible way to live.' 

'A thousand children does seem a little excessive. That's your own personal army right there.' 

Arya giggled, and it bloomed across the connection like doves in spring. 'When you put it that way, it doesn't seem so bad. Having my own army would mean I could do whatever I want.' 

'Should I be alerting the King that we have a possible insurgent on our hands?' he teased. 'Arya Stark and her thousand wolf pups, threatening our centuries-old dynasty. You did want to be remembered for slaying a dragon, as I recall, though there are worse ways to go than being smothered by a thousand children aiming for your nuts.'  

Jon grinned into the darkness as her soft giggles melted into unreserved laughter. The lump in his stomach seemed to shrink with every moment swept in her mirth, and he felt he could breathe a little more freely, the weight no longer pressing down on him so relentlessly. 

Their chuckles faded slowly, until a comforting quietness stretched out between them. For the first time, Jon didn't mind not being alone in his head. It was easier to jest with her and distract himself from his black thoughts than it usually was with Rhaenys or Aegon. Perhaps it was the night sky spilling through his window, weaving an intimate web that felt unbreakable under the moonlight. In the darkness, it was difficult to raise his barriers, particularly when she could see right through them anyway. Maybe this was why the vice of men was so prominent at night. It was a time for secrets, and the lack thereof. 

He was seized by a moment of madness, lulled into security by the comfort of his bed and in the stillness of the world, blurting out, 'Would you ever run away? Just...leave everything behind and go on all the adventures you've dreamed about?' 

Arya was quiet - too quiet, her thoughts shifting too quickly for him to make out - so Jon waited with bated breath. With every heartbeat, the weight of her answer grew heavier, saturating the air between them. He was on the cusp of apologising for asking such a ridiculous question when she finally responded, 'No.' 

He released a sigh, surprised by the disappointment spreading in his chest. A part of him was hoping she'd validate his quietest, darkest dream - that he wasn't terrible for thinking it.

Apparently I am, he thought morosely. 

'I mean...I couldn't just walk away like that,' she hurriedly explained, sensing his chagrin. He could feel her floundering for words, her thoughts jumbled in flashes of her family's faces and an overwhelming fear of failing them. Lord Stark's face was the most prominent, his kind grey eyes appraising her with a warm smile. A moment later, the noble face of the Warden shrivelled in pain, regret sinking into his silver eyes until it was almost unbearable to look at. 'I couldn't do that to him,' Arya added finally, with a touch of ferocity. 'The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. I can't just abandon everyone and everything.' 

'You'd sacrifice your dreams for your family? For duty?' 

'I'd find a way to make them see, to make them understand,' she threw back, passion filling her voice. There was doubt there, too, lining her words with a touch of fear. 'They're my family, my pack. They...they'd want me to be happy. Right?' 

She ended on a question, for which Jon had no clear answer. He fell silent, staring at abstract shapes in the blank paint of his ceiling. 

'You're not terrible for thinking about it,' Arya whispered to him, comfortingly. 'I...I've sometimes thought about it, too.'

'Then maybe we're both just terrible people,' he lamented, prompting a burst of laughter from her. He waited until she'd stopped before finally saying the words he'd been waiting to tell her for over three days. 'Arya, I'm sorry I was angry at you before. I was embarrassed and I lashed out-'

'-No, I was the idiot. I shouldn't have just barged my way into your head like that-'

'-Really, it was an accident. Neither of us could have realised-'

'-And then I shoved my own memories down your throat and Gods, I'm so sorry, Jon -'

'Alright, let's just say we were both wrong, and we're both sorry,' Jon interrupted with a grin, which he felt her mirror. 'Truce?' 

'Truce,' she agreed. 

He could feel her drift through the thread, her consciousness flickering in and out of sleep. Suppressing a yawn himself, he let his own thoughts dwindle and sweep the spiderwebs away, the blissful wave of dreams threatening to steal him under. 

'Jon?' 

He gave her an undignified grunt, already half-gone. 

'We're friends, aren't we?' Arya asked quietly, almost afraid of shattering the fragility taut between them. 

He struggled back to lucidity, taken by surprise for the second time that night. 'Are we?' he questioned, bemused. 

'Well, I figured when two people find themselves trapped in a connection that shares their every thought and emotion, it's at the very least a grounds for some sort of friendship. Wouldn't you agree?'  It was a jest, but under it all lay the echoes of insecurity, as if she were expecting him to rebuff her any moment now. 

As if he ever could. Her presence filtered unobstructed all through his head, illuminating the lingering shadows and flooding his thoughts with warmth. A smile unknowingly fluttered across his face. 'I'd say I do. Friends it is.' 

He imagined her beaming at him, the happy twist of her consciousness weaving their way through the thread to fill his bones. It was his last thought when sleep claimed him fully at last. 

Chapter Text

Lyanna. 

There was a time when pure love struck his heart at the name, a bolt of lightening with a force of a thousand suns. It would sear his skin, blazing through his blood, setting everything aflame. It had been destructive and overwhelming but soft and beautiful and entirely for her. 

Gods, had he burned for her. It was as if all the bright colours had become one, and he'd been lost in its spectrum, endlessly spinning in her eternal light until she was all he could feel. One touch, one word, one look, and everything had melted away. He remembered the lines blurring, of where he had begun and she had ended, until they disappeared altogether. She'd been a part of him, as vital as the heart that still beat tiredly in his chest when hers had stopped long ago. 

She had been his and he had been hers, tied together by an infinite bond.  

But everything can be broken. 

Now the name was an empty husk, a mockery of the masterpiece. It was just a word, without the bold and utterly captivating spirit that brought it to life. She'd left him alone in a world devoid of colour with a hole that deepened every day, until it had consumed all he had to offer. He sometimes touched his chest absently, mildly curious that he'd feel an abyss where his heart should be. It was always a surprise - and a little disappointment - that he was very much here, and very much alive. 

It was incomparable to the overpowering loneliness he felt in his own head, however. That was a pain that never receded. 

Rhaegar dragged in a shuddering breath and ran his hands through his hair. He could feel the grief surround him, a daunting maze in which he'd forgotten how to escape; it grew tighter, smaller, with every mistaken turn until it was all he could see, all he could feel. It was stifling and paralysing and utterly terrifying. 

It hadn't been this crippling in years. He'd grown quite good at pushing everything down, at locking it away in a tower in Dorne, only to be visited in the most desperate of moments. It had numbed him, stripping away the sorrow. There was no isolating the pain - no, like Lyanna, it had pervaded every drop of blood in his body. If he shut out the pain, he shut out everything else. He'd had to, for the good of the realm, for the sake of his family. A King trapped in his own past was no true King of the present. History had taught him that much. 

But his walls were crumbling, and that age-old mourning was threatening to flare up again. Rhaegar gritted his teeth and braced his hands against his desk, drawing in deep breaths through his nose. He could control it. He wouldn't - he couldn't - fall apart again. It had taken him a year after Lyanna's death to pull himself together enough to start rebuilding the realm after the war. He could not afford to lose a single day now, however. 

A knock on his door pulled him out of his thoughts for a blissful moment. He raised his head from where it rested against the table, briefly wondering if he could ignore it. Another insistent knock told him who exactly stood outside his solar, and there was little he could do to turn her away. 

"Enter!" he called out. 

Elia glided in quietly, closing the door behind her. A slice of sunlight, golden silks enveloped her thin frame, trailing after her like a whisper as she slowly walked further into the room. Her head was held regally high as she cast a critical eye around her. 

Rhaegar spared an idle glance around the room as well. The walls were painted in deep red, bare save for the bookcases of his own private collection. The shelves were stacked with old scrolls and scribbles from an idealistic time when he'd filled his head with prophecies and dreams. It was all for nought, of course, but since Lyanna had found it so absurdly hilarious, he'd never quite brought himself to throw any of it away. The furniture was simple and black, fine quality but hardly decorative. He'd never had much of a taste for the overbearing work of the Red Keep, preferring a blank canvas where he could properly hide from the world. 

"I never much liked this room," Elia casually said aloud, as a way of greeting. "I remember thinking on our wedding night that it was awfully dull. I had hoped then, that the same would not be said of our marriage." 

Rhaegar gave a tired, humourless smile. "And now?" he asked, a tinge of sarcasm lining his voice. 

She paused, turning towards him at last. "I think I'd have been rather happy if it was dull," she admitted, with a sad smile. 

He had no response to that. 

The Queen moved towards the empty chair in front of his desk, folding herself into it gracefully. It was an odd sight, seeing his wife under the moonlight in his solar. Not that he really saw her in the morning, but this was almost intimate. It was reminiscent of the early years of their marriage, when he'd been one instead of two. But that was a lifetime ago. 

"I assume you aren't here to tell me to decorate," he commented, raising an eyebrow. 

Elia's jaw clenched, staring intently at the corner of his desk. A moment passed in silence before she finally asked in a low voice, "Did you forget something this evening?" 

He frowned, trying to decipher her blank expression. "...No? Was there a speech I was supposed to give? Oh." His eyebrows raised to his hairline. "Lord Tarly." 

His wife sighed heavily, as if he were a particularly difficult child. "You were supposed to congratulate him on his son's victory. Fortunately, Lord Connington had the foresight to send him to me before the man thought something was amiss." 

"Then I fail to see what the issue is. He's not threatening war over it, is he?" He cracked a smile.

"Your humour is not appreciated in this moment, Your Grace," Elia informed him, icily. "You're forgetting another obligation you had this evening. One, I believe, that was far more pressing." 

He blinked at her in confusion, before realisation rushed through him. With a groan, Rhaegar dropped his head into hands. "Rhaenys," he muttered in resignation. "Is she wroth with me? Why did she not come find me?" 

Elia's eyes softened, as they always did when they spoke of their children. "She thought you'd forgotten amidst your work, and did not wish to interrupt. She did not appear to be upset, but I know her far too well. Rhaenys holds her heart closer than most." She glanced up, her gaze hardening. "Six moons you have not properly spoken to your daughter, Rhaegar. Soon, she will be gone for even longer. One dinner was all that was required of you as a father. I can excuse your absence in matters of court, but I will not tolerate your shortcomings for our children. They deserve your attention." 

He closed his eyes, regret washing over him like ice water in winter. He'd been looking forward to their private dinner for days. It had been a tradition of sorts, a monthly ritual when his daughter still lived at the palace. One evening when he'd clear his schedule and command that no one would bother him while Rhaenys was in his company. She'd pretend to be exasperated at all the fuss, but he knew she secretly enjoyed feeling special. 

Rhaegar never professed to be the most expressive of fathers, but a jolt of pride shot through him when he thought of his daughter. His sons had always been difficult, always resistant - but Rhaenys, oh, she had always been precious. She reminded him of his own mother in her quiet strength, and Rhaegar adored her fiercely for it. He often fondly remembered those moments when she'd hardly been more than a wisp of a girl, toddling to his desk to fuss over his tired eyes and sad smiles.

It was her face that had weighed on his mind in those months with Lyanna, the guilt at abandoning his firstborn tainting the blissful days. It still chipped away at him at times when she was the only one of his three children that sought his company and advice. He'd felt her absence keenly in those months she'd been away, particularly when Jon saw fit to avoid him as much as possible. 

With a heavy sigh, he lifted his face from his hands. "I'll make it up to her," he promised. "I'll cancel my meetings for tomorrow. We'll spend the day together." 

Elia nodded, seemingly reassured though her eyes darted around his face in disturbance. His fingers twitched as she smoothed her silks repeatedly, agitation plain in every action. 

Something akin to dread pooled in the pit of his stomach. Elia never sought him out if she could help it, not unless it was urgent. He waited for her to speak, his foot tapping restlessly against the floor. 

"It's come back, hasn't it?" she asked quietly, her voice barely louder than a whisper.

Rhaegar inhaled deeply, and ran a hand through his hair quickly. "I...don't know what you mean," he responded lamely, avoiding her eyes. 

A snort drew his attention. "Oh please, Rhaegar," she rebuffed disdainfully. "It's been twenty years. I know when you're sinking into your grief, and I know what has triggered it. You've seen the girl." 

He had, indeed. It had been a fleeting moment, a single glance at the crowd that ground everything around him to a halt. At first, he'd dismissed it as a delusion, a piece of his past clawing its way to the surface. It wouldn't have been the first time Rhaegar had seen Lyanna in the world she no longer inhabited. In those months after she'd left him, he'd seen her in every face, around every corner, within every shadow. It had been years since he'd seen her whole under the sunlight, however. 

At least, that was what he'd believed - that he'd gone mad again. But then the ghost of his love had turned and laughed with another boy - impossible, her smiles had always been just for him - and affectionately grasped at the arm of Ned Stark. Rhaegar blinked, and the apparition had melted into a living, breathing girl with dancing grey eyes and a wild mane of hair. It was if Lyanna had returned, but a shadow had been sent in her place; one that wore her face and smile, but nothing of the soul that had enraptured him. 

"Arya Stark," Elia continued, watching his expression with narrowed eyes. "Youngest daughter of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn." Her lips quirked in a sardonic smile. "Remarkable resemblance, wouldn't you agree?" 

Rhaegar frowned, exhaling heavily through his nose. "She's not Lyanna," he said simply. "I'd know her anywhere. I'd recognise her in death, in life, at the end of this world. This girl just wears her face." He dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

"Then why has it upset you so, Your Grace? One would draw rather unsavoury conclusions from your reaction." 

The insulting insinuation simmered in the air between them, raising the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck.

The very notion Lyanna was replaceable set his teeth on edge. Elia couldn't understand - no one could. There could never be anyone else. They'd been crafted from the same star, the final piece in the other's jagged puzzle of a soul. Bitterness rose in his throat like bile and he resisted the urge to snap at her viciously. "I knew you thought little of me, wife, but this is a new low. Even for you. I did not care for Lyanna because of her beauty. It was more than that, it has always been more than that. This child is pretty, but she is not Lyanna." He almost spat his last words. 

Rhaegar half-expected Elia to rebuff him, to argue, to throw his betrayal back at his face as she'd done so many times before. He waited for her face to twist in contempt and resentment as it always did when he spoke of his heart. 

He waited for an outburst that never came. 

Instead, something akin to regret flashed across her face, her shoulders sagging under the weight of unspoken grief. "What is it like?" Her brown eyes flicked upwards, surprising Rhaegar from his anger with the intensity in its dark depths. 

Minutes dragged on, the abyss in his chest widening. He knew what she spoke of. "Why do you ask?" he managed to respond, struggling to keep his voice light. "You've never cared before." 

She watched him while she deliberated her words, before finally releasing a deep sigh. She tipped her head towards the wine and two cups sitting idly on his desk. "May I?" she asked. 

Bemused, he nodded. 

She poured them both a heavy amount, pushing one towards him while grabbing her own. Swirling the cup idly between her thin fingers, she studied him under her thick eyelashes. There was sadness dwelling in the black sea of her irises, life ceasing to exist in its sorrow. "In Dorne, we do not believe the dead are truly gone. They carry on as ghosts within us. As long as you are remembered, you live on endlessly." The corner of her lips twitched upwards in a faint wishful smile. "I used to love that idea, you know. I thought it all terribly romantic." 

"Used to?" Rhaegar quietly echoed. 

Elia drew in a small breath, gazing down at her cup. "Then you did what you did, and I was trapped with the memory of a dead girl I wanted nothing more than to forget. So I tried. I thought if I never so much as whispered her name in the dark, then she'd simply fade away. I was foolish, of course. For all my efforts, I have immortalised her. We create the ghosts that haunt us, and mine have not left me yet. As she has not left you. Arya Stark has not inspired our grief from dust, Rhaegar. She has revealed it in its entirety." 

It was a statement more than an accusation, as if she were simply remarking on the weather. 

There was little point in denying it, so clearly she could see through him. "Yes," whispered Rhaegar. "Yes, she has." 

They took a moment to drain their cups, wincing at the burn at the back of their throats. A dull throb emerged in his head, pounding against his tired eyelids. Elia's face seemed thinner in the dim candles and pale moonlight, her skin an ethereal amber. There was a heaviness in the air that pressed against his chest, his breaths oddly loud in the stillness. 

Elia shattered the silence with a humourless laugh, closing her eyes warily. "What is it like? To love and be loved so infinitely?" she asked again in a hoarse voice. 

Rhaegar let out a sigh he hadn't realised he'd been holding. His bones were made of lead, and he felt as if he hadn't slept in years. He fiddled with his empty cup, words elusive on his tongue but screaming in his mind and heart.

What is it like to be bonded with another? 

It is everything and nothing and all the worlds in between.

"No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear, or that fear was so like love," Rhaegar began, staring at a space beyond her head. "It feels so similar: the dread in your stomach, the weight on your chest - and the torturous nightmare of that which lies beyond your reach: be it peace, or safety, or your heart's desire. It was bliss for a moment, but now it is...unforgiving. I can never escape her, not her presence, nor her absence." 

"Is it something you'd wish for your children?" She fixed her eyes on him closely. 

He looked at the woman sat in front of him - really, truly, looked at her - for the first time in what seemed like years. Rhaegar could never pinpoint when exactly they'd grown older, when the edges of their hairlines speckled with grey and the bones in their body started to creak. The lines had deepened into her skin, but Elia's eyes were lit aflame as they had done in her youth. For a moment, her face burned with an intensity he had not witnessed in a long time. 

It took an eternity for him to find his answer. 

"No," he said simply, to her surprise. 

He thought of Aegon, with his easy smiles and breathless laughter. Of Jon and his quiet humour and gentle heart. Of Rhaenys and the ferocity of her love for her family. His hands curled around the arms of his chair. It would change them irrevocably, as it changed me. 

"If we were ordinary people, then perhaps," he continued. "There is no greater joy than to be with the one you were made for. It is happiness in its truest form." He glanced up at her, his gaze hardening. "But my children are not ordinary, Elia. They are dragons, the leaders of a new world, the future of House Targaryen. Love is the death of duty, and they have a duty to the realm. It must be their first priority, now and always. I-I chose one over the other and the world suffered. It was a...struggle for me to deal with the fallout. Lyanna was gone and Seven Kingdoms could not fill the hole she left behind. Not the throne, not three children, nothing." 

Elia shuddered softly at the last word, looking away quickly. "Would you do it again?" she asked. There was a trace of hope in her voice which Rhaegar had believed had burned away long ago. "You abandoned your duty for love once. What would you choose, if you had the chance?" 

This time, he only needed a heartbeat. 

"Her," he said regretfully in a soft voice. "I'd choose her every time. Once you know what it means to have a soulmate, Elia, there is never another choice to make. It is my greatest glory, and my greatest tragedy. So long as my children never know the former, they shall be spared from the latter. Gods willing." 

She winced, as if his words sliced at her heart. A pang of remorse shot through him, and he stifled it. She had asked, after all, though Rhaegar was still at a loss for why. 

"I fear it is too late for that." 

It was a slap in the face, and his heart stuttered to a stop. Rhaegar gaped at her in horror. "No," he whispered in disbelief. "Who?" 

Elia took a soft breath. "Jon." 

He blinked, the wheels in his head turning furiously. Jon, Jon - quiet, pensive Jon, lost in his daydreams of glory and honour, who always preferred his own company, was bonded to another - 

"Who is it?" he asked quickly, apprehension crawling in his stomach. He thought he already knew, but he prayed he was wrong. It was impossible. It had to be. The gods would not make such cruel of a jape. 

"You know who, Rhaegar," the Queen murmured, reaching for more wine and pouring the rest of its contents into her cup. "It seems he is more your son than he cares to admit." She snorted into her cup. 

A strangled noise erupted from his lips. "How do you know of this?" he demanded, his eyes widening. "By the Gods, he hasn't dishonoured her already, has he?" 

"Relax, Your Grace," Elia drawled, wine staining the edges of her mouth. "Jon has far more restraint than you, thank the Gods. As it were, Lord Stark has not stormed in and the North has yet to declare war on us, so I assume the children are being careful." She took another deep swig of her cup. 

He ignored the barb and waited for her to continue. 

"As to how I know - I've made it my business to know what happens within the walls of this palace. Someone has to. I had a feeling Jon and the Lady Arya had discovered their...connection at the opening feast, but it had yet to be confirmed. There is little doubt in my mind now, however. Here's your proof." 

From within her silks, she produced a small, aged journal with a velvet black cover. Throwing it on his desk, Rhaegar made out a name carved in faded gold letters across the front. The Diary of Cassandra Reed. 

His heart dropped. 

"Jaime Lannister found them in the library with this book, amongst others. He also tells me they've been spending an inordinate amount of time together. Lord Connington has dismissed it as familial affection, but the man is a fool when it comes to affairs of the heart." 

Rhaegar turned the book in his hand absently, glancing up sharply at her words. "Connington knows?" 

Elia cocked an eyebrow. "Of course. I needed someone to keep an eye on you and the girl. How else do you think you haven't run into her yet?"

"I don't need to be looked after, Elia," he scoffed. "I can handle myself perfectly fine around her." 

"Wonderful," she cooed sarcastically, placing her cup on his desk. She folded her arms across her chest and levelled a hard stare at him. "Which leads me onto my next question. What exactly do you plan on doing about this?" 

Rhaegar groaned and tossed the book back on his desk, dropping his face into his hands again. "What choice do I have?" he lamented. Rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palms, he continued, "If they're aware of what their bond means and he takes her to bed - then there's nothing more to be done. They'll have to be married and the girl will reside here at the palace. Lord Stark will not accept anything less." 

He did not have to look up to see Elia's troubled expression. He felt it cross his own face. If only it were so simple. Had it been anyone but a Stark, there would have been little doubt in Rhaegar's mind on their next course of action. Had it been anyone but a girl with the face that had torn the realm in half, then there would never have been a question of why but why not. 

It had taken years for the whispers of Lyanna's name and the hard stares to dwindle in court whenever he was present. Rhaegar had been a fool once, but he knew the unsettled tides of discontent that stewed beneath the surface across his kingdoms. Unfaithful. Irresponsible. The Mad King's son. Deny his heart's desire and watch the realm burn. 

It was only a glimpse at what was said of him behind closed doors. Lyanna's memory had fared worse. Whore. Opportunist. The wolf bitch. A sea of corpses in payment for what lay between her thighs. 

The consequences had been disastrous, to say the least. Half the lords of the Great Houses had all been put to sword for their rebellion. Dorne had barely stayed their hand in a declaration of war. The mother of his child, his heart and soul, had vanished beyond the veil. Rhaegar had swapped his honour and duty for the golden touch of love, and had been left with a handful of dust and blood and sorrow. And the realm had never truly forgiven him for it. Oh, he'd stitched the world back together as best as he could. Filled the necessary coffers with coin and grain, appeased the people that needed to be appeased - but he was always a single mistake away from unravelling it all. It was as if he were stood at the edge of a plank, one foot hovering in the air over an unforgiving ocean. The slightest push, and he'd fall into the endless depths of chaos and disgrace. 

If Arya Stark were to remain in the Red Keep, if the ghost of Lyanna roamed the halls of the palace untethered, the court would be aflame with scandal. It would only be a matter of time before the rumours would spread, of the weakness of a king or the loose morals of a young girl. Lord Stark would be outraged and Jon - Gods, he did not wish to think of what that would do to his son. 

No, it could not come to pass.

"I see we've come to the same conclusion," Elia's lithe voice drew him from his reverie. He looked up to see a wry expression written across her face, her mouth twisted. "She cannot stay here, Rhaegar," she said bluntly. "There is only so much this family can take." 

"What do you suggest then?" Rhaegar whipped back, agitation threaded through his words. He ran a hand through his silver hair, breathing heavily. "This is serious, Elia. These bonds they...they rob a man of his senses. Jon has always been more sensible than most, but even he will not resist its call if he listens long enough. If that happens," he warned. "I fear what he will do next. He does not have the security of a crown that Aegon or Rhaenys do. The world watches him far more closely and his transgressions will not be so easily overlooked." 

"Then there are only two options left," she responded vehemently, leaning forward. "If they have not consolidated this bond yet, as you say, there is still time. They may not be aware of what this bond truly means, and they'll be separated before they're given a chance to find out. Arya Stark leaves King's Landing, goes back North, and Jon is spared. We find him a wife and he forgets the whole thing." 

Rhaegar pondered, uncertain. "And the other option?" 

Elia drew in a deep breath. She leaned back in her chair to regard him carefully. "You let Jon go, and he takes her far away from the Red Keep." 

"No." The answer was automatic; short, blunt and unyielding. 

"Rhaegar, he is twenty years old. You cannot keep him by your side forever-" 

"You know why, Elia," he snapped, clutched at his desk in sudden irritation. "As I recall, you supported my decision to keep him from squiring at Winterfell-" 

"That was different!" she countered, bristling. "He was a child! We could not afford to send him deep in the North at such a young age. Gods know, they could have used him against my son, and I would never let that happen, Rhaegar. But he is a man grown now, and a brother to my children. You risk pushing him away with your own stupidity!" She threw her hands in the air in exasperation. 

"Do not tell me how to handle my son, Elia," Rhaegar said coldly, his voice low. "He is not yours to say or do with as you wish. You cannot decide he is a threat to Aegon in one breath, and a brother in the next. I let you play your games to ease your mind of this supposed danger to Aegon's crown, but when it comes to Jon's safety, there is no question of what must be done." 

Her jaw clenched at his words, her eyes narrowing until they became twin pitiless pools of black. "You are not protecting him by keeping him here," Elia bit back. "You think the court has been so forgiving? You think the boy has been spared from the consequences of his birth because his father is here and is the King? You cannot be so ignorant." 

"Better barbs and insults than a vengeful sword in his heart," he retorted simply. "He will always be safe here, Elia, and that is my only priority. How he feels about the matter is not my concern." Rhaegar waved his hands absently in the air. "He is a child. He thinks he'll find glory and honour out there, but all that's left is a barely-healed wound that always rips at the edges if I so much as look away for a moment. Nothing good comes from a Targaryen leaving his home, Elia. My father proved that at Duskendale. There are far too many men out there that would want to hurt him, to hurt me. I can't let that happen. I won't let that happen." 

"Your stubbornness is pushing him away as it is, Rhaegar," Elia argued, her voice raising in insistence. "There may come a day when Jon leaves with or without your blessing. What will you do then? What if he takes the girl with him? That would destroy this family. We cannot afford another Northern insurgency! They won't see it as love or him as Lyanna's boy, they'll see it as another kidnapping by your son! No one will believe they're soulmates. That magic was thought to have died out a long time ago. There are still many who believe you took Lyanna against her will." 

"Then what are you proposing?" Rhaegar demanded angrily, his hands slamming against the desk as he pulled himself to his feet. "We let them elope? To give Jon my blessing to play at knights and heroes in a darkened world until he's run through with a sword the moment he turns his back? That's what you've wanted all along, isn't it?" he hissed unkindly. "You're afraid he's still a threat to Aegon and want him gone from under your roof!" 

Elia released a frustrated sigh and rose to her feet as well, raising her chin defiantly. "Don't you dare, Rhaegar!" she snapped at him with ire. "You know - you know how I feel about Jon. You gave me a motherless child, a trophy of your betrayal, and you locked yourself in these rooms and left us both alone to deal with a world carved by your mistakes. And I raised that boy alongside my own children. I sang him lullabies to sleep and nursed him to health when he was ill. You say I have no right in how to deal with him, but where you were given that right by the Gods, I have earned it!" 

They fell into silence then, both breathless from the passion and fury in their speeches. Staring impassively at one another, it struck Rhaegar that it was the first time since his sister Daenerys had left for Dorne that they'd fought. His anger began ebbing away, leaving a throbbing headache in its wake. Once, perhaps, they both had the energy to push and pull at each other until dawn, but they were older now. He glanced at Elia and saw her brush a hand against her forehead in exhaustion. 

He took three deep breaths to calm himself, before pleading quietly but firmly, "Elia, I am not letting Jon go. I'm sorry, but that is my decision." His eyes stared at a mark on his desk, and he could feel her narrowed glare on him like the kiss of steel. "I swore to Lyanna that I would keep him safe, and so long as he is with me, I won't fail her. So I now ask of you - what do we do about Jon and Lady Arya?" He raised his head to look at her. 

Her face was twisted in disapproval, but she saw the resigned set of his jaw and sighed in acquiescence. "If she cannot stay here, and he cannot take her elsewhere, what other choice do we have? I think we both know the answer." 

Rhaegar nodded tiredly. "We'll secure a betrothal within the next three days. That should, at the very least, remind him of his duty."

"Are you sure about this, Rhaegar?" Elia asked dubiously, fidgeting with the edges of her sleeves. "You said it yourself: when one knows what it means to have a soulmate, there is never another choice to make." 

"And I have lived with the consequences of my decision everyday," he replied softly. He looked at her pointedly, letting his unspoken words sink in. 

Elia inhaled a shuddering breath, and turned on her heel towards the door. With one hand on the knob, she glanced back over her shoulder to look at him one last time. "Jon will never forgive us, if he finds out. We'd lose him forever." 

The King's mouth twisted and he felt his heart crumble into dust in his chest. "I know." 

oOo 

On the other side of the door, a figure moved away into the shadows. 

Chapter Text

"For the last bloody time, can you please pass the oranges?" 

Arya blinked, realising Rickon was staring at her in exasperation. He tilted his head pointedly at the fruit sitting beside her. 

"Oh," she murmured distractedly, giving him the plate over the breakfast table. "Sorry." 

She ignored his taunting remark, sliding back into mulling over her own thoughts. She'd awoken that morning to gentle skies: soft blues brushed by the occasional cloud, pink as a flamingo feather. It was tranquil and peaceful and a completely wrong backdrop to the chaotic whirlwind inside her. The conversation with Jon last night came rushing back the moment she'd gained her bearings, and she wasn't sure if she was pleased that she'd made a new friend or aghast at what she'd confessed to him. 

Arya had never fully disclosed her fears over marriage to anyone but her father, and there she'd been, blathering endlessly to a prince. It was, well, it was - 

So very easy. 

And that was what surprised her so. 

There was a serenity to Jon, in his quiet composure and his comfort in silence, that reminded her of the godswood back in Winterfell. His very presence at the back of her head was calm like still water. It radiated tranquillity, a cool breeze against the wildfire of her constantly churning thoughts. She supposed that was it: Arya, for all her inability to remain silent, often sought it as a solace. Wrapped in silence, she could be herself, by herself. There was no need to think of anybody or anything else when everything fell quiet. The world would shrink until it was just her and the stillness. It was freedom to be whoever she was and never be judged for it. 

Jon was a little like that, she realised. For all his jests and his irritations, he was as solemn and poised as a weirwood tree. Arya didn't feel as if he judged her, especially not last night. When she spoke, he'd simply...listened. 

She thought she liked that very much. 

Something wet smacked her nose and she recoiled with disgust. 

"Rickon!" she chastised, wiping away the orange juice with a grimace.

"You're ignoring me," her brother complained sullenly, a red curl drooping in front of his eyes. "What are you thinking about?" 

"Nothing! It's none of your business." She hoped the warmth in her cheeks wasn't showing. 

Unfortunately, the youngest Stark was far more perceptive than most gave him credit for. His Tully-blue eyes widened in bewilderment as his nose crinkled in distaste. "Gods, I've seen that look on Sansa before. You're not thinking of a boy, are you?" 

Arya didn't know which was more mortifying, the fact Rickon had compared her to her lovesick sister or had actually read her thoughts. But before she could properly voice her indignation, their father joined them at the table. 

Smiling at the both of them, Ned Stark took his place at the head. "How are we today?" he asked pleasantly, reaching for the eggs.

She opened her mouth to answer when Rickon beat her to it. 

"Arya's in loooove!" he practically sang, glee dancing on his face. The grin quickly disappeared when he bent over to rub at his knee, throwing a baleful eye at Arya and her foot. 

"I am not," Arya hissed back. "Shut up, stupid!" 

"No fighting over breakfast," Ned said automatically. He took a bite of his eggs and munched in silence for a moment before pausing and blinking at her. It seemed his brain had just worked its way through what he'd heard. "In love?" he repeated, surprised. Swallowing, he turned towards her and attempted a humorous smile. "Is this something I should be worried about?" he tried teasing, though Arya could see the flicker of horror behind his grey eyes. Pity swelled in her. Affairs of the heart were rarely something Ned Stark willingly involved himself in, especially when it came to his own children. 

She reached out and patted his hand sympathetically. "Oh, Father, Rickon was just being a little -"

"It's the prince, isn't it?" Rickon chirped up, muffled with his mouth full of breakfast. He waggled his eyebrows at her. "The one you danced with at the feast!"

"I said, shut up, Rickon." 

Ned cleared his throat suddenly, frowning at them. "No fighting over breakfast," he stressed again, before turning to Arya. He blinked at her twice before hesitantly adding, "Prince Jon?" An unreadable shadow passed across his face. 

It occurred to Arya that she'd rather be taken by the Night King than endure another moment of this conversation. "Father, please," she protested in exasperation. "There's absolutely nothing going on between -" 

"Have you been dreaming about him, sister? With his pretty hair and his pretty eyes and -" 

Her brother ducked dramatically as Arya lobbed a handful of large peeled oranges at his head. They smashed against a tapestry hanging on the back wall, smearing its ancient colours with pulp and juice. The roaring dragon's face was reduced to a messy blob of fruit, the brilliant white of its carnivorous smile stained brown. Arya thought it was an improvement. 

There was a pause while Ned turned an icy stare towards his children. They offered him wide, innocent smiles back. 

A few tense heartbeats passed, before he sighed tiredly and spooned some more eggs in his mouth without a word. Arya glanced back at Rickon who mimicked a kissing face at her. 

Impassively, she ran a thumb across her neck and pointed at him. His grin faded quickly after that. 

oOo

"I cannot believe Father made us wash that stupid tapestry ourselves," Arya exclaimed, stomping through the Red Keep. "I mean, it's not like anyone would notice the stain. They'd be too busy marvelling over how utterly hideous it was to begin with." She threw her hands in the air with an exasperated groan as Rickon jogged to catch up with her relentless speed. "It's sunset already!" 

"Well, we'd have finished a lot faster if you hadn't tried drowning me in the bucket," her brother casually added, running a hand through his damp curls.

She snorted as they rounded the corner towards the gardens. "As if you didn't deserve it." 

They both carried a large stick in their hands, carved to look like a crude sword. With the melee over and the joust officially starting in two days, everyone was granted a brief respite from the celebrations to discover the palace and the city. Arya had immediately roped Rickon into sharing a sparring session with her that evening. At Winterfell, she often had to bribe her brothers with promises of sneaking their favourite desserts if she wanted them to gamble with Lady Stark's wrath at discovering her sons whacking away at her little girl. She was given a modicum of freedom here at King's Landing, and Arya had every intention of exploiting the opportunity. 

The gardens were a maze of enclosed courtyards arranged around a silver dragon fountain breathing water through its snout. Small groups of lords and ladies strolled around the flowers, conversing quietly as they marvelled at nature's loveliness. Arya and Rickon ducked into a quiet secluded corner, far away from wandering eyes. The courtyard was small, but bursting with colour: roses of red and white bloomed from the foliage, the final touches of the setting sun painting the petals in amber and gold. 

There was a veil of sweetness hanging in the air, dangling lightly under their noses. Above, the sky melted into deep hues of violet, a sprinkle of stars emerging from the mist like dewdrops. Arya breathed it all in with a pleased sigh. There was something about gardens that always lifted her spirits, surrounding herself with the gentle touch of the wild. 

"Are you done drooling over the flowers?" Rickon asked, breaking her little bubble. He smirked at her mischievously, "Or are you dreaming about the pretty prince giving you some?" 

"Why, you little-" 

He jumped away from her frustrated swing with a burst of laughter and stuck his tongue out at her. She made a face back at him and spun on one foot to slash at him again, cutting through air as he dodged under it. They kept at it for almost half an hour, hacking at each other and dancing about with a smile on their lips. At some point, the stick swords lay discarded on the grass as Arya chased her youngest brother around the courtyard, her hair pulling free from her braid. 

"Arya and Jon, sitting in a tree," sang Rickon with glee, "K-I-S-S-I-N-oof!" 

The rest of the lyrics were swallowed in a gasp for air as Arya tackled him by wrapping her arms around his stomach and dragging him to the ground. They struggled on the grass, pulling on hairs and whacking at each other, until it ended with Arya sitting victoriously on his chest, prodding his nose with a finger. 

"Say you're sorry," she demanded. 

"I'm sorry," Rickon wheezed, trying to push her off unsuccessfully. 

"Who's a big stupid?" 

"Arya," he grunted through gritted teeth. 

"Wrong answer," she grinned, pressing down on him. "Try again." 

"I am! I'm a big stupid!" Rickon cried, his legs flailing about as he tried shoving her again. 

With a laugh, she rolled off of him and he sat up, glaring at her. His red hair stuck up in tufts around his face, blades of grass trapped in his curls. Brilliant blue eyes appraised her. "You know, sister," he started conversationally, brushing his tunic. "I don't think princes like ladies that beat up their little brothers." 

Arya snorted as she pushed herself to her feet. "Why would I care about what princes like?" She walked over to her makeshift sword and picked it up. 

"You tell me," Rickon mumbled under his breath, crossing his legs. 

She turned around and narrowed her eyes at him. "There's nothing going on between Prince Jon and me," she declared hotly. "I've already told you. Quit being stupid." 

"Is that why you've been spending time with him?" her brother asked her innocuously. 

At her face, he sighed and continued, "That first day of the melee, you lied to Father about being ill. Prince Jon wasn't at the melee either. Then the next day, you arrived together. And then I also saw both of you walk out of the cellars later that night." He peered at her suspiciously. "What were you doing alone with him in there?" 

Arya gaped, warmth flooding her cheeks. "What were you doing wandering around the palace at night?" she deflected. 

"I couldn't sleep so I went to your room and you were missing," Rickon defended, standing up. "You're lucky I didn't tell Father or call a guard!" 

"And why didn't you?" Arya demanded. 

He glanced away quickly, seeming incredibly young in the early moonlight. "I didn't want you to get in trouble, so I went looking for you instead to make sure you were okay." 

Arya softened immediately, biting her lip. She moved closer to him and rested a hand on his shoulder. "Rickon, it's...it's not like that," she began hesitantly. "We're not having some sordid love affair, I swear." 

"Then what were you doing in the cellar?" he asked insistently. "You walked out pretty upset." 

Getting trapped in his head, witnessing some of his most upsetting memories, showing him my own, and then yelling at each other about it. 

"Chasing his cat. I almost had the stupid thing and it tried scratching me. It was very frustrating." 

Rickon narrowed his eyes. She smiled back. 

"Mother said I had to look after you," her brother said fiercely, his eyes blazing as bright as summer skies. "If the prince tries anything with you, I'll make him regret it." 

His young face was scrunched up threateningly, like a snarling wolf cub. She bit back a grin, reaching over to ruffle his hair affectionately. "I promise you, brother," she said gently. "Jon isn't like that at all. Besides, he’s not interested in me like that." 

He relaxed a little, and gave a relieved smile. "Good. Because I really don't want to fight a prince just yet." 

"Just yet?" Arya repeated with a raised brow. 

Rickon shrugged. "Give it another year with Ser Rodrik and I could take him." 

Arya threw her head back in laughter, enveloping him in a hug. He squeezed her back, resting his chin on her shoulder. "You'd tell me, wouldn't you? If something was going on between you and him?" he asked quietly, his voice muffled in her hair. 

She swallowed. "Of course. Like I said, nothing happened," she lied. 

Rickon pulled back and shot her a wide smile. She returned it with less enthusiasm, guilt gnawing at her gut. 

Part of her was desperate to blurt out the truth, to share the burden with someone else. Another part - loud and rational - stilled her tongue. This wasn't just her secret to share, and Rickon could hardly help her anyway. It would ruin the tourney for him and he'd inadvertently give her away to their father. She wasn't sure how Ned Stark would react to the news, but she couldn't imagine any good arising from it other than spectacular chaos - that is, if they believed her. 

She swallowed a sigh. It was best to deal with it quickly and quietly and move on, her family none the wiser. 

"I'm going to go see if I can grab a snack from the kitchens before supper," Rickon said, walking towards the edge of the courtyard. "Want to come?" 

"I think I'll stay out here a little longer," Arya replied, gripping her sword. "I'm not quite done with practice." 

Her brother nodded and turned away, when she suddenly called his name out. He glanced over his shoulder, bemused. 

"Don't tell Father," she said, looking at him imploringly. "That Jon and I are...friends. He'll read too much into it, or he'll tell Mother and she'll overreact. You know how it is." She offered a half-smile. 

Rickon narrowed his eyes, a frown setting on his lips. "I thought you said there's nothing to hide." 

"There isn't!" Arya said too quickly. She cleared her throat. "I just want to enjoy the tourney without Father fretting over my virtue like an old crone." 

Her brother watched her closely, suspicion growing in his eyes. 

She heaved a sigh. "And I'll sneak you strawberry tarts for a month." 

Rickon grinned. "Make it two, and you've got yourself a deal." 

He pranced away before she could argue. 

With a roll of her eyes, she raised her sword once more. Taking a deep breath, her thoughts curling like breaking waves, she exhaled slowly. The background chatter of the gardens around her shifted until it fell quiet, and she was left standing on the precipice, swaying to the rhythm of her heart. Her moments alone with a sword in her hand and the world at her fingertips were some of her favourite. She revelled in the stillness, in the harmony of movement that almost felt like a dance. She spun with the wind, twirling on her toes as she struck at ghostly enemies and dodged their invisible blows, losing herself to her imagination. 

"You should bend your knees." 

Arya froze but did not turn around. She was already aware of who stood behind her, sensing his presence in her head the moment he stepped foot in the gardens. "I don't know what you mean," she muttered, pointedly staring at the rose bushes. 

She watched Jon stroll closer from the edge of her vision and swallowed the urge to fold into herself. Last night's conversation came rushing back like a wave, and she suddenly found herself unable to look at him properly. It had been so much easier opening up to him in her head, when he was far away and she was wrapped in darkness in the safety of her bed. It was almost as if she'd been talking to herself. 

But having him physically near - and very real - inspired a swell of shyness she'd never experienced coursing through her. 

He stopped when he was standing in front of her, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Your stance," he elaborated, waving a hand towards her. "It's too rigid. You'll be easily knocked over. Try bending your knees a little." 

Frowning, she followed his instruction, still not quite looking at him. 

"Wait, no," Jon interjected, taking another step forward. "You need to widen your feet first so you centre your weight. Not that wide!" he laughed when she pushed her legs further apart. "You're not riding a dragon. I, uh...may I?" 

Arya finally glanced up at him in surprise, noticing his hands outstretched towards her. He pointed towards her feet and looked back at her. Biting her lip, she nodded hesitantly.

Jon moved in front of her, gently wrapping his hands around her shoulders. She hoped he didn't feel her body jolt as if lightening spread from his fingers. 

"Sparring is more than just dancing around with your sword," Jon explained, his breath warm against her forehead. "It's as much about footwork as it is about actual skill. The idea is to have control over your balance so you're light on your feet but your opponent can't knock you down easily either. See, with your feet so wide apart, you can't shift your stance fast enough and you're stuck in the same position for a moment too long." He suddenly poked her on the side with a finger, causing her to flinch away with a giggle. "Stab, you're dead," he teased. 

"No fair," Arya protested, turning her head towards him. "I wasn't looking!" 

"The enemy isn't just going to wait for you to see him," Jon pointed out, raising an eyebrow. "Or her," he added thoughtfully. "Women are just as capable of murder." 

"And in far more creative ways," Arya laughed in response, and he grinned back at her. His hands had resumed their position, resting on her upper arms now, though her tunic still separated their touch. With one foot, Jon nudged her legs together, pressing a little closer to do so. She found herself blindingly distracted by the sudden warmth radiating against her front, his presence seeping into her skin and knitting stars into her bones. There was a tingle down her spine, a strange sensation of almost but not quite dancing in the small space between them. The golden thread loomed in her consciousness, burning brightly as it wrapped them closer together, mesmerising in its gentle movement. 

Arya was lost in the abyss of her head, tangled in the cool tranquillity of Jon's thoughts: currently filled with wordless admiration. 

She looked up at him in confusion and felt her breath hitch in her chest. 

His grey eyes were as dark as the skies above and she found herself transfixed by their infinity. The black was consuming, flooded with a rich warmth that had her frozen where she stood. Around them weaved their string of sunlight, illuminating the world in a soft golden glow. She leaned closer to count the myriad of colours she imagined were trapped in his gaze, her mind uncharacteristically blank. 

Across the connection, a single thought pierced the pleasant buzz: What a lovely sight. 

She wasn't sure whose it was. 

The fragile moment was shattered, however. Crimson flooded Jon's face and he leapt away from her as if she'd just caught fire. Arya felt heat rise in her own cheeks, suddenly aware of how close they had been standing. Mortified, she surreptitiously cleared her throat and feigned nonchalance.  

Jon mimicked her, scuffing his feet on the ground and pointedly looking anywhere but at her. Even from a distance, she marvelled at the deep shade of red painted across his face and neck. His thoughts were too chaotic to properly discern, but she caught the occasional, 'Oh Gods,' and, 'Say something you fool or it'll only get worse.' 

A few minutes dragged on painfully until Arya finally interrupted the silence, taking pity on him. "Well, um, thank you for showing me the right posture for fighting." She offered an awkward lopsided smile.

Jon groaned and hid his face in his hands. "I hate this stupid connection," he mumbled through his fingers.

He looked so horrified, Arya bit her lip and wondered if this meant he didn't want to be friends with her anymore. A bubble of disappointment rose in her chest. She didn't have many friends that were boys and weren't one of her brothers. When she had flowered a few years ago, her father had put an end to her associations with the stable and kitchen boys, calling it indecent. Later on, the boys her parents did permit her to meet were entirely too interested in wedding her name instead of seeking her friendship, which wasn't very fun at all. 

So she'd been rather pleased when Jon had said they were friends, and now, he didn't even want to stand near her. Arya tried not the sting hurt her too much. 

"That's not true," Jon protested, making her look up. His hands had lowered from his face and he was watching her with a furrowed brow. There was still a fierce blush across his cheeks, but he now stood looking utterly bemused. 

Arya blinked at him. "What's not true?" 

He tapped the side of his head and raised a brow. Her eyes widened and she groaned, realising he'd heard everything. 

Stupid connection. 

"Why would you think I wouldn't want to be friends anymore? That's ridiculous. I just thought that, well..." he hesitated, running a hand through his hair, "...perhaps I was a little too forward earlier. I'm sorry if I was indecent or...or something." He trailed off, his expression pained. 

A wave of relief - and something else - flooded Arya, and she cracked a wide smile. Leaning down, she grabbed the stick Rickon left behind and strolled over to the prince. "Well," she began as she drew closer, "if I'm not bothered then you shouldn't be either. Spar with me instead?" She pushed the makeshift sword into his hand. 

Jon glanced down in alarm. "I don't want to fight you."

"Why?" teased Arya with a smirk. "Afraid to lose to a girl?"

He shot her an incredulous look. "Please, I've known my way around a sword since I was three years old. Truth is," he winked, "I was taught princes shouldn't humiliate little ladies." 

His laughter was cut short when he was forced to duck Arya's swing. Her lips spread in a feral grin. "Good thing I'm not a lady," she said, raising her sword at him. 

She saw the remnants of Jon's doubt dissipate in his eyes as he shifted into a sparring stance. "Well, if you insist," he shrugged with a smile. "Watch a true master at work." 

"Oh, is your brother joining us?" Arya asked innocently. 

Jon gave an exaggerated gasp in indignation, clutching his chest. She bit back a giggle.

And they began. Jon parried every strike she tried landing on him, remaining purely on the defensive no matter how much she goaded him into attacking her first. He was all elegance and lean muscle, spinning on the balls of his feet as he dodged her increasingly chaotic swings. It reminded her of their day in the city, when she'd stood at the fringes of the laughing crowd, watching him dance. Jon had moved as if he walked on water, not unlike the way he fought. There was grace and poise in his every step, a deadly performance of beauty that had her unable to look away. 

Arya wondered if she'd ever be able to move like he did. Elegant and dangerous weren't words used to describe her, but she did like the sound of it. 

"If that's what you want, then you should try water dancing," Jon said as he side-stepped her thrust. 

She froze, and turned to glare at him. "Stop listening to my thoughts. That's cheating!" 

"It's not something I can turn off," he argued, straightening. The sword hung idly at his side. 

Arya lowered her own wooden stick as well, struggling to catch her breath. To her annoyance, Jon had barely broken a sweat. 

He smirked at her. "Told you I'd win." 

She rolled her eyes, refusing to entertain him with a response. Instead, she asked curiously, "What's water dancing?" 

"A special style of sword fighting in Braavos," Jon explained. "Legend has it that true masters of the art can fight and kill on a pool of water without so much as disturbing the surface." 

Arya scoffed, folding her arms over her chest. "That's impossible." 

Jon played with the stick sword in his hands, shrugging lightly at her. "I wouldn't say that. My father had a master brought from the Free Cities to train Aegon and myself for a year when we were younger. I wouldn't have believed it myself if I hadn't seen that man fight up close." 

In her mind's eye, Arya caught a glimpse of a slender bald man with a pointed face twirling across the training ground as if he were crafted from the wind itself. Jon's memories stretched out in front of her like an old dream, visions of himself and another young silver-haired boy balancing on beams and spinning with blindfolds as they giggled mercilessly. 

A wave of wistfulness washed over her as she watched them, and she released a small sigh. Oh, what she'd give to train like they had. Arya hadn't realised she'd shut her eyes until she'd opened them to see a contemplative prince looking at her. 

"You know," he began hesitantly, "if you're keen to learn, my old teacher visits the Red Keep from time to time. He's due for another visit next month. I could ask him to stay at Winterfell and teach you, if you'd like. " 

She gasped softly, her eyes widening. "Really?" she breathed. "You'd do that? He wouldn't mind teaching a girl?" 

Jon lifted a shoulder and rubbed the back of his head nonchalantly. "Sure, I mean, it's no big deal." He glanced at her and reddened softly. "And Syrio isn't like any master at Westeros. He doesn't care for the conventional, only who you are with a sword in your hand." 

An unbidden grin rose to her face, stretching widely across her lips. Clasping her hands together, she jumped on the balls of her feet. "That sounds amazing! You're the best, Jon!" she exclaimed, beaming up at him.

He flushed even darker and smiled softly at her. 

A water dancing master! At Winterfell! 

Just for her! 

For once, she wouldn't have to hide behind a pillar and eavesdrop on her brothers' training sessions. Or sneak away after dinner to steal one of their weapons and hack away at a dummy. She would be able to learn out in the open, with a true swordsman who wouldn't care for what's between her legs. 

Arya let out a thrilled squeal and spun around the gardens, her barely contained excitement stopping her from standing still for too long. "Do you think he'd teach me how to fight on water?" she gushed at Jon as she raised her sword in the air as if ready to strike. "Would I get my own sword? Would it be Braavosi? What do Braavosi swords even look like?" 

Jon laughed heartily, strolling over to where she was attempting to balance on one foot as she'd seen him do in his memories with his master. "I don't know if Syrio would give you your own sword," he admitted, "but I think Lord Stark wouldn't mind crafting something for you." 

At the mention of her father, Arya lost her balance and dropped her other foot with a sigh. In the haze of her enthusiasm, she'd almost forgotten about what her parents would say. "Think again," she muttered, her mood faltering. "Father doesn't mind me playing with toys so long as I don't hurt myself, but my mother would never allow him to give me real steel." Her heart dropped. "I'm not even sure she'd let me have a water dancing master, either." 

Suddenly, that bubble of light that had filled her to her fingertips burst inwards, and she felt her joy fade along with it. The memory of her mother - this ends now! - fluttered behind her eyelids, and she resisted the urge to curl into herself. With a sniff, Arya dropped her makeshift sword and plopped down on the grass, wrapping her arms around her knees. 

She heard Jon hesitate briefly before sinking down beside her, rubbing a hand at the back of his head as he appraised her. "I'm...sorry to hear that," he offered uncertainly. "Would talking to her about it honestly make any difference?" 

Arya shook her head and buried her face into the crook of her arms, letting a wave of pity wash over her. 

"I could always get my father or brother to issue a royal order," the prince mused absently. Arya glanced up in alarm to see him gaze off in the distance thoughtfully, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards. "In the name of the king, she'd have to let you train." 

She snorted. "Isn't that an abuse of your power?" 

"I like to think of it as me fulfilling my duties according to the songs." 

Arya raised an eyebrow. 

"You know," Jon continued with a wave of his hand, "the pretty lady is in trouble and held against her will. Handsome prince swoops in and frees her. Or in this case, advocates for the pretty lady to learn how to murder someone, but semantics. I'm sure a song exists about it somewhere." 

He grinned cheekily at her, leaning back on his hands. Arya found herself blushing under his gaze and she quickly looked away. 

Did he just call me pretty? 

Ridiculous. Only her father called her pretty and meant it, and he had to because that's what fathers did. 

That didn't stop her biting back a smile that crept on her face. 

"I think I've heard of this song," she teased, masking her reaction. She tapped a finger against her chin and pretended to think. "Doesn't the handsome prince get himself captured by an evil witch and the lady has to defeat a dozen enemies to save him?" 

Jon frowned. "That's not like any song I've heard." 

"Then you haven't heard the right one yet," Arya said lightly, turning to look at the glittering stars above. 

She missed his soft response. "I've just started listening." 

Chapter Text

Jaime Lannister leaned against the column and watched the bustle of the Red Keep with a bored expression. 

He rolled his eyes as a gaggle of ladies swarmed past, huddled together like a pack of hyenas as they appraised him, approval dancing on their snooty faces. He sneered as their vapid giggles wafted towards him from the end of the corridor.

Shifting uncomfortably, irritation simmered underneath as summer beat relentlessly against his thick, golden armour. The afternoon heat had soaked through the castle walls and burrowed its way deep within his skin. Sweat spotted the edges of his hairline and he was repeatedly forced to run a hand over his face to stop it dripping into his eyes. A disgruntled sigh escaped his lips as he pulled another strand of plastered blonde hair off his forehead. 

"You know, Your Grace," he began conversationally with a grimace, "your father ought to invest in armour for his Kingsguard that doesn't bake us alive. Consider it in his best interest, as I'd find it a lot easier to protect you all if I wasn't on fire." 

Rhaenys raised an eyebrow. "It's not that bad. I can hardly feel the heat!" 

He turned to throw a pointed look at her thin silk dress hanging precariously off her shoulders, leaving her arms bare. "Perhaps we should swap. I'll wear the dress and you the armour," he remarked drily. 

"Absolutely not. What would people say if they knew my guards looked better in my clothes than I did?" 

Jaime smirked and gave her a wink, prompting a burst of laughter. 

They waited at the entrance to the royal gardens, the Princess perching on the stone balustrade as he kept watch beside her. Her elegant form was framed by a periwinkle blue sky, powdered with soft sunlight. The air smelled of flowers and mildew, the satin-green grass rippling gently in the light summer breeze. A tinkle of laughter from the roaming lords and ladies rang through the air like chimes, and Rhaenys glanced towards them almost wistfully. 

Seeing the flickers of disappointment play across her face, Jaime moved to sit beside her. "The King will be here soon, Your Grace," he assured. "I'm sure he's just been held up for a moment." 

Her lips twisted and she looked at him, sceptically. "He forgot about our dinner last night. He's probably forgotten me again." 

"Last night was an exception," Jaime said quickly. "When I saw him this morning, he seemed rather keen on seeing you later. I would not worry just yet, Your Grace." 

Rhaenys sighed, her fingers twisting through her burgundy silks. "You must think me so childish," she muttered, her eyes downcast. "Still seeking my father's attention as if I were not four-and-twenty. Women my age are long-married and have left their father's home for years, and here I am, whining because mine is a few minutes late!" She shook her head with a disbelieving laugh. 

Jaime reached over and patted her arm gently. "You're never too old to want your father," he said quietly. "He misses you dearly when you're not here. If I know my King, he is as impatient to see you as you are him." 

The Princess beamed at him, giving his hand a quick squeeze. He smiled at her in return. 

They sat quietly for a moment, enjoying the soothing silence of companionship, before she broke it by turning towards him again. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but...where is Lord Tywin? Did he not receive our invitation?" 

"Oh, he received it alright." 

"I see," Rhaenys frowned. "I wasn't aware he responded. Was there an issue at Casterley Rock he had to attend to?" 

Jaime's eyes narrowed and he bit back a scowl. "Something like that." 

The issue, of course, were Tywin's sons: the dwarf forbidden from gaining authority over their castle, and the heir that turned his back on the Lannister name. When word of the impending tourney first spread, Jaime had been hopeful that he'd see his father or brother again. Other than a brief stay by Tyrion nearly a decade ago, Jaime had not laid eyes on his family in almost twenty years. Indeed, the last he'd seen of Lord Tywin was at the end of a heated argument years ago. Rhaegar had offered him a chance to be released from his vows after the Rebellion, as a token of good faith for the Lannister support, and Jaime had turned it down immediately - to Tywin's everlasting dismay. 

There were few memories Jaime kept close to heart, knowing them to be those that he wanted to see before he finally left this world, and his father's face when he'd told him his decision was one of them. He'd promised his life to the Kingsguard, and he had every intention of seeing it through. Jaime Lannister was now Ser Jaime, amongst the likes of the honourable Ser Arthur Dayne, the beginnings of a legend tracing his footsteps. It was all he'd ever dreamed of, instead of the shackles of becoming another lord with another castle. 

Tywin had called him a fool, a disgrace to their noble House and a shame upon the ghost of his mother. It was nothing he hadn't said before. 

But it had not been the anger nor the disappointment on the Great Lion's face that had carved a piece out of Jaime, for he'd seen it a dozen times. Oh, it had been the anguish. That had been the first, and the very last. There was a weakness on Tywin's face, a moment of fragility that Jaime had thought erased a long time ago, and it had stunned him to witness it. 

I did not think he cared so much, a wistful voice whispered. 

It was not you he cared for, but the legacy of his name, a crueller one whispered back. 

Tywin had stormed out of the Red Keep, Cersei on his heels, wildfire burning in their twin pools of emerald for the boy that had abandoned them for the final time. 

The memory sent a hollow pang through his chest, as it always did. 

Rhaenys was watching him impassively, as if glimpsing into his thoughts. When she caught his eye, she smiled sympathetically, reaching out to grasp his hand. He'd never disclosed the truth of his estrangement from his family, but he imagined the Princess had noticed enough through his stilted conversations and the glaring absence of visiting relatives. 

"Fathers are strange, aren't they?" Rhaenys mused, releasing his hand to absently fix her skirts. "They're these infallible heroes one day, but unbearably human in the next. I can't say when it happens, but it's always rather jarring to witness." 

She did not offer empty words of comfort nor assurances of he loves you, and for that, he was impossibly grateful. 

The edges of his lips quirked upwards and he regarded her with a hint of sadness. "And once they've fallen from grace, they're never quite the same hero you remember," he added softly. 

"No, I suppose you're right. It seems the change is a little more permanent each time," the Princess murmured, an unreadable expression flickering in her dark eyes like a flame. She cocked her head at him, choosing a different approach. "At least your niece is here," she offered, attempting a smile. "Myrcella is a sweet darling. Have you spoken to her yet?" 

Jaime shrugged lightly, leaning back against the column to face her. "Once or twice," he admitted. "I should like to get to know her more, however." 

Myrcella had sought him out almost immediately upon her arrival. He'd been stunned at the sight of her at first and thought he'd been hallucinating - blonde hair like my own, like hers, and oh, the eyes, she's come back to haunt me - but a voice had excitedly called, "Uncle Jaime!" and the illusion had crumbled. 

She had all her mother's beauty and none of her nature, and for that Jaime was thankful. The thought of Cersei's ghost haunting him for weeks during the tourney was unbearable.

At least, not again. He'd managed to erase her from his soul almost twenty years ago, when he'd made his final decision and destroyed their delicate bond. Erasing her from his heart and mind had taken a little longer. 

"Oh, she is a delight!" Rhaenys exclaimed, clasping her hands together. "Although I very much wish I could have met her mother. I confess I have always wondered about the Lady Cersei. Her reputation precedes her." She raised her eyebrows at him, and Jaime looked away immediately. "I was a little disappointed that she'd chosen not to attend the tourney." 

An image of a radiant girl with sun-kissed hair flashed across his eyes and Jaime lost his breath. 

For a moment, he forgot the sweltering heat and the layers of armour and fabric that separated his skin from the air. For a moment, he felt almost transparent as he surrendered to the hurricane of memories battering within him, blazing and bare to the elements. 

It reminded him of another kind of burning, born of green eyes and black rage. Cersei had bore witness to every crack of his heart, every fragment of his soul. She'd been there when he'd first opened his eyes and drawn his first breath, her presence raging across his mind like an unyielding storm. She had always been a whirlwind, and for years, Jaime had been thrown with the current, lost in the chaos of the one the Gods had pledged his life to. He could not remember ever knowing silence as a child, his quietest moments filled with the near-constant turmoil of everything that Cersei was made of. 

After he'd freed his soul from hers however, Jaime had learnt that silence still had a sound - and it was deafening and sweet all at once. 

"Are you alright?" a soft voice drifted through the haze. "Was it something I said?" 

Jaime turned and his raked over Rhaenys' face: at her inquisitive expression, at the youthful life thrumming in her eyes, at the heart that only beat for one instead of two. A pang of envy shot through him. 

"Nothing like that," he replied in a low voice, avoiding her stare. "My family is...complicated, I'm afraid." 

Rhaenys was frowning, her obsidian eyes flickering with undecipherable emotion. He tried not to shift under her stare, but there was something terribly sad about the way she was regarding him. 

"May I ask you something, Ser Jaime? And you must promise to answer honestly. Not as my guard, but as my friend." 

Jaime glanced up in alarm. "Of course, my princess." 

She turned away then, idly looking over the myriad of flowers peppering the gardens like water droplets. "Mother always said that love is the death of duty," she said quietly, her words a melodic whisper threading between them. Jaime dared not breathe in case he disturbed the delicate strands. "For so long, I thought it to be the words of a cynic. I have always done my duty, and I have always done it gladly. Out of love for those I do it for. Mother had it all wrong, I thought." Her mouth twisted. "I'm not so sure anymore." 

The Lannister regarded her carefully, narrowing his eyes at her as he deliberated his response. "What troubles you, Your Grace?" he tentatively asked. 

A flicker of life danced across her face, and she suddenly whipped towards him. Her eyes simmered like a dark storm and Jaime found himself unconsciously leaning away from their intensity. "Do you regret the choices you made?" 

"My what?" 

"Your decision to stay with the Kingsguard," she pressed insistently. "To go against the desires of your family. Do you regret it? 

Jaime blinked at her in mute shock. An automatic response of denial danced on his tongue, but he pulled it back before it leapt into the air. 

Did he regret it? 

He thought of his father, with his arrogant smiles and pride shining through his eyes as he gazed at his eldest son. It was a look that had only ever been for him. 

It always had to be you to carry the weight of our good name. You are a Lannister before you are Jaime. A lion before a man. 

He thought of Cersei, with her gold-spun hair and her radiant smiles. He thought of her laughing with him, at him, always just him. 

He thought of her rage, of the tendrils of madness enthralling her as she shrieked, Jaime Jaime Jaime, we belong together, don't you see? You are nothing without me. We are two parts of a whole. You are mine, now and forever. Mine mine mine. What is your life if I am not in it?

Not yours. It is mine. To do with as I please, however I wish. I am Jaime Lannister, and I will choose what that means. 

"No," he said aloud, more ferociously than he'd planned. "I don't. I found freedom in my vows that I'd never had before. I could never give that up." 

Rhaenys furrowed her brow at him, visibly confused. "But you chose this over love. You are bound by duty, whether you like it or not. Where is the freedom in that?" 

He shrugged. "One man's freedom is another man's prison. You simplify it too much, Your Grace." The corner of his mouth quirked up as he looked at the open naivety painted across her face. "You see family and you think of love, not duty. It is admirable, but you are an exception. Family is a duty, Your Grace. To think otherwise is a luxury not afforded to many. I did not choose duty over love. I made a decision between the duty I wanted and the duty I did not. That is the difference: I chose." 

"And what of love? You've lost your family and they have lost you," Rhaenys said softly, eyes averted. "Does that not bother you? To lose the ones who loved you?" 

Jaime's jaw clenched as he stared at a spot on the floor. The silence beat on mercilessly against his chest, every pang shooting a spasm of pain through his body. He licked his dry lips and inhaled deeply. 

Father loved the Heir to Casterley Rock, the future of House Lannister. 

Cersei loved her other half, the fragment of her soul. 

Neither wanted the boy underneath. Not truly. 

"Of course it bothers me," he said in sudden irritation. Later, he'd be aghast at the tone he'd used before his princess, but in that moment, Jaime did not care. She had ripped open a carefully placed bandage over his heart, its wounds exposed to the air. 

"They are the blood of my blood. My House, my home." He lifted his eyes towards her, through her, at the faces of his father and his sister, twisted as they were on their last day together. "But with them, I was always a part of something else, but never my own man. It was not a life I was satisfied with.” 

“I don’t understand. You joined the Kingsguard. You’re still part of a whole. How is it any different?” Rhaenys countered with a frown. 

Jaime smiled sadly at her. “We are our choices, Your Grace. I chose to be here, and in that, I am complete.” 

She regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, her face closed off. There was an odd sheen in her eyes, and Rhaenys turned away suddenly, swallowing. “But the ones you left behind are not,” she said simply, almost too quiet for him to hear. 

The Lannister knight was still staring blankly at her when the echoes of two pairs of feet rang sharply in the air. He glanced up, hurriedly rushing to his feet when he caught sight of the King strolling down the corridor towards them, Arthur Dayne in his step. 

He hid his unsettled face with a deep bow, schooling his expression into something more neutral before looking up. Rhaegar shot him a nod of acknowledgement before turning to his daughter, who smiled at him prettily with a curtsy. Jaime almost snorted at the ease with which she slipped into her role. 

"My dear, forgive an old man for his tardiness," Rhaegar began, reaching out to grasp Rhaenys' hand. "I had a matter to discuss with Lord Connington and the time slipped past me. I hope you were not waiting for too long." He kissed her hand gently. 

Rhaenys patted his arm. "No, no, Father," she lied smoothly, "I only just arrived myself. Duty comes first, I know. Shall we?" 

The King's face wrinkled into a soft smile as he looped her hand through his arm. Behind him, Arthur nodded at Jaime, who found himself standing a little straighter for it. Together, father and daughter stepped into the dying sunlight, their white cloaked shadows trailing behind them. 

oOo

The alcove they dined in was a small but richly decorated room tucked into the outskirts of the garden. The circular walls were a deep blue that looked almost green in the sunset, as if one had dipped their brush in the ocean and painted the canvas with its droplets. Golden dragons swam delicately on the ceiling, sunlight shining off their eyes, filling them with fire. A small table stood in the centre, laden with an assortment of desserts and treats, splashed with a rainbow of colours and filling the air with the sweet smell of baking. 

Rhaegar and Rhaenys sat together, their plates haphazardly stacked with a dozen different tarts with a single bite. Upon entering the room, the King, with a twinkle in his eye, had challenged his daughter to find the strangest combination of flavours she could. The results had been entertaining to watch, and even Arthur had cracked a smile over the course of the evening. 

The Princess let out a satisfied moan as she chewed, a blueberry tart in one hand and a ginger biscuit topped with cranberry sauce in the other. "It shouldn't work, but it does," she mumbled through a mouthful of food. Jaime grimaced subtly standing in the shadows beside her. 

Rhaegar frowned as she handed him both foods. Tentatively, he took a bite from both and spit it out immediately. "Clearly you didn't inherit good taste from me," he complained, washing his mouth out with wine with a wince. "Hand me some chocolate before I lose my appetite." 

His daughter passed the plate of éclairs, triumphantly. "Does that mean I win?"

The King pretended to deliberate, hiding a smile. "Very well. I crown you the Queen of Tarts - oh." He winced. "Don't tell your mother I called you that." 

Rhaenys suddenly released an undignified snort, throwing her head back to howl with laughter. Her hair came loose from the intricate braids piled on her head, and she accidentally smeared some whipped cream on her elbow when she rested it on a plate without looking.

Jaime smiled softly at the small snapshot of Rhaenys unreserved and blissfully imperfect. In these rare glimpses of vulnerability, he thought he could almost see the precocious child that once followed him around, begging to be carried on his shoulders. 

The King seemed to think the same, as his own mirth faded as he watched her wistfully. When her laughter winded down, he reached over and grasped her hand resting on the table. "I have missed you," he said quietly. 

Dark eyes softened and Rhaenys covered his hand with her own, her face spread in a beaming smile. "I missed you, too, Father." 

Rhaegar opened his mouth to say something, but decided otherwise. Clearing his throat, he picked up his wine goblet and sat back in his seat, looking around the room idly. "Rhaenys, there is a special favour I must ask of you," he said instead. 

The Princess froze, a wide smile still on her lips. "A favour?" she repeated, giggling hesitatingly. She mimicked his motion and leaned back in her chair to survey him carefully. 

"You understand that I am looking for a bride for Jon, and I need some help." 

It was as if a candle had been blown out, the light from her amusement fading immediately as her face fell. In its place, the mask Jaime had watched her refine for years settled into place. "I am aware, yes," she said steadily. "Why would you come to me?" 

"I know that you and Aegon disapprove of my intentions to provide Jon with a betrothal as soon as possible. Aegon, in particular, has made himself rather vocally clear of what he thinks." 

Jaime resisted the urge to snort. The young prince had stormed his father's solar while he had been stationed outside, demanding to know why the King sought to torment his children. It had all been rather dramatic, and it had taken Jaime the good part of an hour to wrestle Aegon back to his room and lecture him on the perks of knocking. 

"Oh...well, I...we...." the Princess released his hand with a start, glancing downwards as a blush spread across her cheeks, "I...I have my concerns, it's true. It all seems, well...rather sudden." She tucked a wayward strand behind her ear slowly, visibly uncomfortable. "I know you want what's best for Jon, but he isn't ready for marriage yet. He dreams of finding his way in the world, and it wouldn't hurt anyone to let him go for a little while. Won't you reconsider?" 

The King's amethyst eyes swung to regard her. Jaime could see a glimpse of hollowness in his gaze and he swallowed a shiver. "Tell me, my darling, what are the words of House Tully?" 

Rhaenys blanched. "Why is that relevant?" 

"Humour me." 

She paused. "Family. Duty. Honour." 

Rhaegar spun the goblet in his hand, pretending to observe the gold detail along its rim. "Fascinating, isn't it? The creed of one's House speaks so much of what one values most. I must admit," he mused, "I have always envied House Tully's. It seems they understand that which many have not." 

"And what's that?" Rhaenys asked curiously. 

His eyes flickered up and caught hers with a breath. "Family must always come first. Without it, a House crumbles from within. Duty and honour lead us on a straight path - a path promising strength and unity. Without either, we lose our way of life and we lose ourselves. Do you understand?" 

Rhaenys seemed to have forgotten to breathe. Her chest hitched and she swallowed hastily. "I do, but-" 

"We all have our duty. You, my darling," he reached over and ran a finger down her cheek, "will be Queen one day. You and your brothers will lead House Targaryen into a new golden age, and you will do it together. A marriage is not an ending, but the beginning of the next step of your lives. It shall prepare all of you for what comes after." 

"But Jon-" 

"Jon is young, and young men are often ruled by their hearts. History has shown us the perils of dragons wandering too far from their den. Our House is built on family, Rhaenys, not on the whims of our heart's desires. Without each other, we cease to exist."

An uncomfortable pit swelled in Jaime's gut, and he struggled to ignore its pressing weight. He could not decide if it was sympathy, or guilt, or a strange mixture of both. 

"He'd come back," Rhaenys whispered fervently, shaking her head in disbelief. "Jon...he'd-he'd come back. I know it. I-I believe it. He knows his duty to our House. He'd never abandon it." 

"Unless he finds another he prefers. What then?" 

Rhaenys suddenly glanced at Jaime, her dark eyes burning bright. The Kingsguard found himself trapped in her stare, the world around them falling to obscurity. 

You did not choose duty over love. You made a decision between the duty you wanted and the duty you did not. 

But your family paid for your choice. You left them behind.

Her face hardened. 

And that is too high a price I am willing to pay. 

"Myrcella Baratheon," she said finally, her voice breathless. 

Rhaegar's eyebrows shot up and he frowned at her. "Lord Stannis and Lady Cersei’s daughter?" 

”I’ve always enjoyed her," the Princess murmured, looking down to stare at her plate. "She is sweet and intelligent, and she already holds a candle for Jon from what I’ve seen. I think they might like one another.” 

The King pondered for a moment, nodding. “A union between a Targaryen and a Baratheon would send the right message after the Rebellion. It’s a good match." He turned towards the Dornish guard. "Arthur, Lord Stannis is here at the tourney, is he not?” 

“Yes, Your Grace.” 

“Excellent. Remind me to set a meeting with him on the morrow. I should think he'd be rather honoured by the suggestion." With a smile, he reached for another lemon tart, oblivious that his daughter remained frozen in her seat. Chewing thoughtfully, he turned to the Lannister. "Lady Myrcella is your niece, Ser Jaime?” 

It took a heartbeat for Jaime to register that he was being spoken to, tearing his eyes from the dejected princess. “My sister’s daughter, yes, Your Grace," he replied shortly. 

“Their children shall be your kin as well as mine, then," Rhaegar exclaimed jovially, with a grin. "Wouldn't that be lovely, to have a family here in the Red Keep!” 

A sudden vision flashed before Jaime’s eyes: a horde of tiny dark-haired beasts with green eyes, moping sullenly in the corner or causing mayhem somewhere in the palace. And himself in the centre, holding a squawking baby yelling, “Uncle Jaime!” before it threw up and cried about its existence. 

“I can hardly contain my excitement, Your Grace,” Jaime said drily, inspiring a round of laughter from the King. 

He noticed Rhaenys had barely cracked a smile.  

Chapter Text

The dream exploded around him like firecrackers; everything was ablaze, too bright, too burning. 

He spun again and again, the abyss yawning underneath like the jaws of a wolf as the storm stretched out above him. This time, as so many times before, fear curled inside his stomach, knotting through his veins as he balanced precariously on the precipice. 

You're not alone. 

Flash.

White light blinded him. 

You're home, a familiar voice whispered from below, with me-

Where are you? I can't see you! 

Whichever way he turned, however hard his mind raged, all he saw was black, black, black. Searing pain shattered through his head, imprinting itself in his skull, and he was lost under the turbulent clouds. They reached out, talons at the ready to tear at him. A single wild thought: I'm not alone, Arya, Arya, she - 

The night howled and he was powerless as it raced towards him, unrelenting, unforgiving-

Jon woke from the nightmare with a half-stifled cry and found himself in a bright room, his mind clouded and agitated. His chambers, he was home, he was safe. With every breath of sunlight pouring in through the windows, reality flooded back. Jon bent his head between his knees and drew deep breaths though his nose. There was no headache, for once, but his heart pounded in his chest as if he'd run endlessly through the night. 

'Are you alright?' a telepathic voice jolted him, shocking as a spark.

Instinctively, his head snapped up to glance around the room. When he realised where it was coming from, he released a soft sigh. 'Did I wake you?' 

'No, I've been up for hours,' she lied too quickly, and he threw himself back amongst the pillows with a groan.

'Sorry,' he mumbled at her, rubbing his eyes tiredly. 'It was...just a bad dream.' 

Part of him knew that. Logic told him that it was nothing to worry about. His heart whispered something might be. 

'I know, I could feel it.' A pause. 'Do you want to talk about it? That can help sometimes.'  

The darkness, the storm, the fear. The loneliness crushing down on him - and a voice, the voice, her voice, threading through the black with its brilliance, keeping the abyss at bay - 

'Tell me a story?' he asked suddenly. 'Anything at all.' 

When Jon was a child and had the occasional nightmare about some demon trying to eat him, he'd often went running to Rhaenys' room to crawl in her bed. There had always been something comforting about being with his older sister, as if she'd give those demons a stern glare and they'd leave him alone forever. She never complained and would always tell him a story to distract him: tales of krakens in the sea or the noblewoman running away with the blacksmith or monsters made of ice hiding beneath the snow. Fantastical or otherwise, they were a comfort. 

It had been years since Jon had hid in anyone's bed, but he still missed the stories. 

He felt Arya's understanding thrum through the connection and Jon felt a swell of appreciation that he did not need to explain. 

'Have I told you about the time my brother Robb hid in the crypts, and pretended to be a ghost to frighten all of us?' 

'No, but I'd like you to.' 

Arya launched into the tale, filling his head with visions of children with curling red hair, running through a crypt while a tall boy covered head to toe in flour chased after them. Jon stared at the ceiling as she spoke, his mind uncharacteristically blank as the roiling in his stomach ceded like the tide. 

She switched to another story, one of snowball fights with a sister as they sped around the Winterfell grounds, leaving footsteps in the snow as they laughed without reservation. Jon closed his eyes and behind his lids, he caught a scene of winter dreams, of snowflakes kissing his lips as a castle of stone and ice loomed above. Giggles drifted towards him, and he turned to glimpse a dark girl sprinting past him, her wild hair flying behind her as another red-headed girl chased her. Pure, unadulterated joy filled the air with sweetness, and lying in his bed a thousand miles away, Jon could almost taste it. 

Taste her. Like the tides below the palace, Arya's presence crashed into him over and over again, and he rose and fell with every crest. He let himself soar with her currents, the sound of her voice trembling in his ears, washing away the cobwebs and shadows that infested his nightmares. 

There was something about not being alone, not having to think so much to fill that unbearable silence in his head. It was a relief to simply surrender for a moment, and be carried away with Arya and her memories. 

She was warm and dazzling with light, and like a moth, he was drawn to her. Her voice spilled into the hollow crevices, pouring over the fear like fine wine until all he could sense was everything she was made of. 

I heard you in my dreams, he mused quietly, unnoticed by Arya as she babbled on happily. In the midst of the storm, the darkness at his feet - once so frightening - felt so safe, felt like home. The abyss had been speaking to him for months, calling his name, never giving its own. 

And now, he finally had it.

You were there. I couldn't see you, but you were there. Perhaps as you always have been. 

But it was just a dream. 

Wasn't it? 

oOo 

'That's impossible,' Jon snorted as he laced his boots. 

'I'm telling the truth!' Arya laughed. 'Old Nan says an ice dragon sleeps beneath Winterfell. Open your mind to the possibilities! When you visit, we should try and find it together! Maybe you'll have some strange magical Targaryen sense or something. The blood of the dragon and all that.' 

‘That’s not how it works-'

Jon's hands and thoughts froze while he buttoned his tunic, his breaths beating low and rhythmically in his ears. A slow smile spread on his lips and he resumed his ministrations, hope erupting in his chest in a dozen pinpricks of exploding stars. 

'Is...is that something you'd like to do?' Arya asked hesitantly, misreading his reaction. 'I mean, it's a stupid idea, if you'd rather do something else-' 

He thought of Winterfell, as he'd seen through her eyes, of its jagged stone walls clawing through the snow like the hand of a drowning man. Its brutal beauty wrapped in a pale icy mist, a delicate blanket that bathed the castle in soft blues and whites, like something carved straight from the heart of winter. 

He thought of standing at its threshold, alone and unsure, not knowing if he truly belonged or if he was a stranger like any other. As he always did when he imagined what his first visit would be like. 

And of Arya, running past him with breathless laughter in her wake. She would glance over her shoulder and chide him for being too slow, beckoning him with a taunting remark. 

What are you waiting for? We have a dragon to find! 

He thought of grinning at her, at the thrill of the chase, as he took a step forward. 

Jon blinked and he was standing in his room again, Arya hovering in his head, filled with doubt.

'I think it sounds perfect,' he said. 

oOo 

‘When I was five, I thought I could fly. Father kept calling all of us dragons, so Egg and I assumed he meant literally and we leapt off one of the balconies, thinking we’d finally grow wings.'

He showed her a picture of that moment, so many years ago. Jon stood perched on top of the banister, peering hesitantly at the green foliage below. Beside him, a small and wiry Aegon scrunched his face in contemplation. 

"It's awfully far..." Jon mumbled softly, fear seizing him suddenly. Maybe he should step down and find Rhaenys and ask her for a story. That wasn't frightening in the least. 

"If we fall, we'll land on the bushes. It won't hurt," his brother reasoned with all his seven-year-old wisdom. 

Jon chewed his lip, faltering. "Do you think it'll work?" 

"Of course it will! We're dragons. Father said so and dragons are supposed to fly, so we're supposed to fly." Aegon spread his arms wide dramatically, as if he'd already spouted wings. The move brought him tethering dangerously close to the edge. 

Jon grinned at him, trusting his older brother implicitly. The logic made perfect sense, of course. With an assured nod, the two princes took a deep breath, and jumped. 

Arya gasped, as if she'd taken the fall herself. ‘How did you both survive?’ 

Jon, twenty-years old and very much alive, calmly spooned porridge into his mouth.

‘Jaime Lannister caught us from below. Then chained us to our beds until supper. He never told the King and Queen. I think he wanted to spare them both a heart attack.’ 

‘Of course. No parent wants to know the fruit of their loins are two idiots with a death wish.' 

Jon choked on his food. His eyes watered as he coughed, Aegon pounding on his back until he spat out chewed up oats. Grabbing the offered glass of orange juice from his sister, he hid his laughter as he sipped it slowly, ignoring the curious glances of his siblings. 

'To this day, I don't think Aegon and I are over our heartbreak that we were just two simple children after all.' 

Across their mind-link, something bloomed: soft and pure and fleeting. 

'There's nothing simple about you, Jon Targaryen,' she said.  

oOo 

When Jon returned to his chambers after breakfast, he felt a stab of disappointment at the silence waiting for him. 

The room was empty, of course, as was expected. But that wasn't it. 

No, it was entirely what was happening - or rather, what was not happening - in his head. 

Arya had been called away to breakfast with her family, which demanded more attention than she could give whilst chatting away with him. Jon found himself feeling surprisingly disgruntled that their conversation had drawn to an end, and the blazing halo of her presence had dwindled to a soft candle the moment she'd turned away. 

He supposed he should think that a good thing, that their strange bond could be controlled in some manner. 

He should be considering how they could use it to break the connection - something they hadn't really focused on in a few days, admittedly. 

Instead, Jon was less than pleased. He really was enjoying that conversation, and her happy ramblings that morning had lifted his spirits higher than he could imagine was possible after a night terror. 

You're being a child, he chastised himself. This can't last. None of this is normal and you shouldn't get used to it. 

His mouth twisted and he ignored the swell of something in his chest at the thought. 

Jon shook his head firmly: such thoughts were dangerous to imagine. Turning towards the door, perhaps to seek his brother out for a friendly spar on the training grounds, his eye caught a piece of parchment tucked away in a corner of his desk. Frowning, he moved to pick it up. 

Aegon, it read. 

The tourney and your wedding is no excuse to neglect your responsibilities as Crown Prince. 

Uncle Aemon has written to me once again about the state of the Night’s Watch. The wildling attacks have increased in frequency and the Watch is ill-prepared. I have sent more resources and food, but our cells are empty. He asks for more men, better men, men that I cannot give. 

The Night’s Watch will be one of your most important responsibilities as King. You must never neglect their requests. They are our shield from dangers we are blessed to never see, and should be treated with respect.

We need to provide them with more recruits. I have written to the Great Houses requesting the transfer of their prisoners to the Wall, but I am concerned it will not be enough. 

I entrust this task to you as it will be one of many that will be presented to you once you are King. Draft a viable new solution for our increasing lack of recruits. Sending those rotting away in their cells is no longer sufficient, and we must look for new and more inspiring avenues. 

No later than two weeks. 

Signed, 

King Rhaegar I 

Jon dropped the paper with a snort. Aegon had clearly left it behind when he’d stormed in complaining loudly about their father giving him work to do during the celebrations, and promptly forgot about it. 

That had been two weeks ago. 

Which meant the King expected it today. 

With a sudden rush of irritation, Jon thumped a fist against the top of his desk. Irresponsible fool, he thought angrily. For all their heartache over their father, Jon always believed that Rhaegar was exactly the sort of ruler that Aegon should aspire to be. Their father always put the realm first, and while that had deepened the chasm between his heart and his family, Jon could not deny that it was what made him a great King. And here he was, practically holding his idiot of a son's hand through it all - and yet still, his brother could not deliver. 

With a long-suffering sigh, Jon dropped down in his chair and reached for some fresh parchment and ink. If the King expected a plan today, he would have one. 

You owe me for this, Egg. I’m saving your ass once again. 

It always sent a shot of worry through Jon whenever Aegon stumbled, for it reminded him how much his brother would always need someone in the shadows to catch him. 

For fifteen years, that someone had always been Jon. 

He wondered if it would be for fifteen more, and the fifteen after that.

Is this to be the rest of my life? 

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly. There was little time for another crisis of existence. He had to focus. The plan would hardly be worthy of any sort of approval, given Jon now had a handful of hours instead of two weeks. But it may be enough that his brother would be spared from the King's anger. 

Even after seeing over twenty years of life, Rhaegar's displeasure still sent a sliver of fear down the princes' spines. Not that they would ever admit it out loud, of course. 

He wracked his brain to remember what he knew of the Night’s Watch and its vows from his lessons. The supposed 'sword in the darkness' or 'the light that brings the dawn' or some other rubbish. 

More like a bunch of thieves and murderers standing around on a block of ice freezing their pricks off, Jon chuckled to himself. 

‘That's not true,’ a voice snapped in indignation. ‘My uncle Benjen is a ranger in the Watch and he happens to be brilliant, thank you very much.' 

He barely reacted to Arya’s lithe presence boldly shimmering through the thread, save for a small flip of his stomach. 

‘And my great-great-uncle is a maester. So they have a couple good eggs, I'm glad to hear it. But that doesn’t stop them being mostly made up of the worst society has to offer,’ Jon argued. ‘Honestly, what does the King expect? What madman would forsake everything to join? And willingly, at that?’ 

‘My uncle says there’s honour to be found in protecting the realm,’ Arya countered stubbornly. ‘It’s only become a haven of criminals because people only send criminals. The Starks have been part of the Watch for thousands of years, and it’s never been this bad before. Uncle Benjen says people used to clamour to join once, but now it’s become the choice marginally better than being executed.’ 

Jon imagined that if she were in front of him, she’d be glaring at him with her hands on her hips. 

'They’re vows for life, Arya. In the coldest part of the world with little in the way of comfort and luxury. Can you blame men for realising that they have better alternatives than shivering balls for the rest of their days?’ 

‘Like what?’ she retorted hotly. ‘Tell me, Jon, how is life any better in the slums of King’s Landing? Are they not suffering as well?' 

She sent him a memory of their dalliance in the city, dancing amongst the whores and the butchers and the rest of the unseen class Jon had little opportunity to ever meet. Except, instead of the ringing laughter that he remembered, Arya showed him those he had not noticed that day. Little boys scurrying about gathering scraps of food from the rubbish strewn across the streets. Girls no older than ten dressed as women grown, slipping away from the claws of old men clutching at their skirts. Despair naked in the eyes as the air filled with music and cheer, the rotten corpse of society's forgotten beneath the too-sweet scent of prosperity. 

He caught a sight of Bessa, the young courtesan he'd first danced with. 

"Desperate, not dangerous," Arya had told him. Children seeking to survive in a world not made for childhood. 

'The Night's Watch is an ancient organisation. You find your brothers in black and a sense of purpose, instead of wasting away on some street corner somewhere,' Arya's words drifted over the scene, growing increasingly passionate. 'Uncle Benjen says they train all the young recruits. If you send them as boys now, they could grow to be great rangers someday. The Night's Watch would be great again, too.'  

The picture of Bessa's smiling face burned into the back of Jon's eyes. 'It's only for men. It won't help people like her,' he pointed out, a rush of disappointment coursing through him. He'd liked the dynamic girl, brave enough to ask a prince to dance. It stung that he felt so helpless, despite supposedly having the world's resources at his disposal. 

Arya deflated immediately when she saw where - or who - his thoughts dwelled on. 'I hate that rule,' she proclaimed fiercely. 'Women are more than capable of defending the realm, and can fight as well as any man if given the opportunity.' 

Jon smiled at the volatility of her fury, like a volcanic sea brimming with barely-contained energy. 'I don't doubt it,' he agreed, almost affectionately. 'They just need fifty northern ladies who challenge grown men to sword fights and races through the city. The wildings and whatever ice monsters out there would never know what hit them.'  

He felt her laughter through their connection, vibrating deep in his bones like the thrumming of an old instrument. 'Or a Targaryen prince who saves northern ladies from dark tunnels and dancing crowds,'  she teased. 'I bet they'd make you Lord Commander for being such an honourable hero.' 

Lord Commander of the Night's Watch certainly had a ring to it, Jon mused, and felt almost fitting. Perhaps if the world had been a little different, it might have come to pass. 

Pushing his fanciful thoughts away, he turned his attention back to the blank parchment and the northern lady hovering in his head. 'We can't force innocents to join the Watch,' he told her. 'You might hate it, but the people see them as little more than a brotherhood of criminals. Many will not wish to be associated with them. That won't change overnight.' 

'They need an incentive,' Arya began. He could almost see the wheels turning as she pondered. 'No one does anything for the good of others unless there's something in it for themselves.' 

Jon tapped his quill against the parchment thoughtfully. 'Every man looks to secure two things in his life: bread and gold. For him or for his family: it's always the primary concern. Promise a man lavish shares of both, and he'll do anything you ask of him.' 

They froze. 

When the pin dropped, both of them rushed to speak at once. 

'If you promise them compensation or a reward for their service -' 

'- an assurance that their families will be taken care of in their absence -'

'-the children wouldn't have to work to support themselves -'

'-we could get them off the streets. We could build their lives and the Night's Watch at the same time!' 

'Jon, you're fantastic,' Arya breathed excitedly, admiration flooding from her presence like a river of gold. 

The prince's face grew warm and he sent a silent prayer of thanks that she could not see him flush. 'I couldn't have done it without you,' he said simply. 'You're brilliant as well, you know.' 

Like the awakening of spring, the golden thread bloomed in a spectrum of colour, dazzling like a thousand flowers in blossom. As if he'd walked into half a dream, Arya's delight moved across his consciousness in a slow grace that swallowed his attention until everything fell into shadow. Until his senses extended no further than her feather-light touch and he was lost in this moment of wonder. 

I dreamed of you last night. 

And every night before that. 

Has it always been you? 

'Arya, I-' 

Jon wasn't sure what he was about to say - and he was spared from saying it - when Arya's focus was immediately turned away. Curious, and a little annoyed, he prodded deeper to see who had stolen her attention. 

"Rickon!" Arya hissed at a tall red-headed boy standing in the doorway of her chambers. "Don't you knock?" 

"I've been knocking for ages!" her brother whined with a stomp of his foot. "Why didn't you answer? And what are you doing all cooped up in here?" He glanced around suspiciously, as if looking for some nefarious lover stashed under the bed. Jon chuckled to himself. 

"None of your business!" came the strained reply, her voice unusually high. "Rickon, what do you want? I'm...I'm, uh, resting." 

Rickon shot her an incredulous look. "You're never resting," he replied, puzzled. "Are you ill? Does this mean you don't want to explore the Red Keep with me today?" His face fell and he looked incredibly young in his disappointment. 

At the thought of sneaking around the palace with her little brother, Arya half-tumbled out of bed in her enthusiasm. "Oh, would you look at that?" she exclaimed, jumping unstably to her feet. "I'm all rested! Come on, then!" Haphazardly grabbing her boots by the dresser, Arya sent Jon an apology, 'I-well, we're sort of on a mission to see the entire Red Keep, and Rickon and I - but I can still try and help if you need me to-

'You've helped me enough,' he interrupted with a smile. 'I just need to write it up. Go on, but try not to accidentally damage something priceless again.' 

'Again?' 

'Interesting new addition to the dragon tapestry in the east wing. The orange juice really brings out its eyes.' 

Arya huffed, pulling on her shoes with a sharp tug. 'Your ancestors have terrible taste in decorating. I did you all a favour.' 

Jon almost spilled ink across his desk when he erupted in laughter. 

oOo

He rose from his desk almost two hours later, parchment in hand, feeling rather pleased with himself. 

The plan he’d drafted for the King was far from perfect, but it was his first legislative proposal and one he found himself hoping would come to pass. Arya had implanted all sorts of ideas in his head - quite literally - that seemed to burst with potential the more he considered it.

He didn’t think anyone could be so passionate about the bloody Night’s Watch, yet there Arya was.

She cares so much, he pondered idly as he strolled towards his door, stuffing the parchment in his pocket. She cares for so much. If the lords carried but half of her heart or her passion, how different would our world be? 

Better. The world would be better with more people like her in it. Of that, Jon was certain. 

He was contemplating, as Jon often did, the fate of the realm’s future when he stepped out of his chambers - and stopped short. 

Jaime Lannister turned from his position by the door to look at him. "Something wrong, Your Grace?" he asked innocently. 

"Why are you outside my door?" Jon blurted out without thinking. "I never have Kingsguard outside my door. The King's orders. And where is Ser Oswell?" he asked suspiciously, looking around. "He's usually my guard. Why aren't you with my sister?"  

Ser Jaime did not blink at the onslaught of questions, a wry expression on his face as if dealing with a particularly petulant child. "As I recall, Your Grace. You were rather insistent about guards at your door," he replied patiently. "Ser Oswell is not well at the moment, and I have replaced his duties while Ser Lewyn takes my place by the Princess Rhaenys." He levelled a hard stare at the prince. "As I am your guard for the day, I have little care for hiding from you around corners because you dislike the terrible burden of our protection. My sympathies, Your Grace. It must be difficult for you." 

Jon narrowed his eyes. Jaime Lannister had always been his least favourite member of the Kingsguard. The insolent prick. Aegon and he could never understood what it was that the King or Queen - and their sister, especially - saw in the Lannister. He chalked it up to blind favouritism and Jaime holding his snark in check when he was around them. They adored his humour, unfortunately. Jon wrinkled his nose. 

Perhaps he is still wroth with me about abandoning him at the palace gates before the melee. 

"You know, I think I'd prefer to deal with an assassin than have you around all day," Jon said casually, turning to walk down the corridor.  

He'd always hated being shadowed by guards wherever he went. Jon understood why, of course, but it reminded him a little too much of being a prisoner. Always being escorted, always being watched: he'd finally had enough almost a year ago and demanded some privacy. Thankfully, the King acquiesced, perhaps understanding the need for young men to have their space. 

Jaime Lannister seemed to have missed the message. Or simply didn't care. The latter was more likely. 

His guard fell into step behind him. "I'm just as ecstatic about this as you, Your Grace. Your presence brings such joy to my world, being the cheerful type you are." 

Jon shot him a look of pure venom and opened his mouth to retort -

- when a wave of silent rage crashed into him with a sudden thrust. Impossibly vivid and immeasurably cold, he was momentarily frozen as it whirled above him, around him, through him. 

And just as quickly as it came, it was gone. 

Arya.  

Ignoring Jaime's inquisitive look, Jon turned automatically down another corridor on his left. Pressing forward, he thought little of where he was going or how he knew where to go: simply that there was somewhere he needed to be. 

'Arya?'  he hesitatingly prodded. 'Arya, what's happened?' 

She did not answer, but he could feel the curling tendrils of anger roiling off her presence like heat. It was a fury of a different sort, one not made of agitated seas but simmering embers: dark and sinuous, slinking across the connection like a starless night. Something old and steadfast, sinking deeper into every crack and crevice. 

'Arya, I know something's wrong.' 

There was still no answer. Frustrated, Jon picked up his pace, Jaime at his heels. 

He almost pushed his way through the bond to see what was happening for himself - when a sudden screech filled the air, bringing the two men to a halt. 

"Oh, you wretched thing! Get away from me!" a hysterical voice screamed. 

There was a sharp yowl. 

"Stop it! You're going to hurt him!" yelled Arya, fear saturating her words.

The sheer emotion in her voice set Jon in motion again. 

Gods, is someone hurting Rickon?  he thought frantically. 

'Arya, what in the bloody hell is-' 

He rounded a corner and stopped to stare blankly. 

"I don't know what I expected," Jaime said, bewildered. 

It was utter chaos. 

A lady was running in circles in the middle of the corridor, shrieking loudly as she desperately tried kicking at something clutching the edge of her skirts. Jon peered closer to see something large and black ripping viciously at the fabric. On her hands and knees, crawling behind the screaming woman, was Arya. She was making desperate attempts to grab the animal and avoid getting hit, her hands reaching through empty air as she pleaded not to hurt it. Jon looked to the side to see Rickon and another lady standing dumbfounded away from the commotion, their mouths hanging open. 

Not unlike the prince and the Kingsguard watching. 

Jaime spurred to life before Jon did, striding forward to pull Arya to her feet. She started struggling immediately, still shouting, "I didn't mean for him to attack her! Let me go! She's going to hurt him!" 

The yowling had evolved into a scathing hiss, and the lady cursed in pain as her ankle was caught by the black beast's claws. "Gods, I'm going to murder you!" she shrilled, resuming her stomping with more fervour, to Arya's outrage. 

"It's not his fault, you cow!" she yelled back. "He's scared and you're making it worse!" 

"I don't care! Get this stupid creature off me!" 

"Enough!" 

Men, women, and animal turned in shock towards the prince. 

Jon glared at all of them for a heartbeat, before storming ahead and hauling the black beast away. With a loud rip, its claws ripped clean of the expensive dress, and Jon managed to take a proper look at the eye of the madness. 

"Balerion?" he exclaimed incredulously, holding the cat up. "Bloody hell, you're still alive?" 

The cat immediately began purring. With a grin, Jon drew him close against his chest and scratched him behind the ears. The purring grew louder. "You little bastard, running away like that. Where have you been?" he cooed softly with a chuckle. 

"That-that thing tried to kill me!" seethed the lady, her breath in pants. She pointed at Arya. "And she set it on me, the miserable girl!" 

The smile on Jon's face vanished. 

"Lady Mallister," Jaime began calmly, in that patronising tone he'd used earlier. Jon didn't think he'd ever enjoy seeing it used on another so much. "Forgive me, but I don't believe domesticated cats are capable of murder." 

"That's not a cat, it's some sort of hell-demon sent by the Gods." 

"Perhaps, but he still looks like a cat, my lady." 

Mallister? 

Ah, the infamous Jeyne Mallister that inspired many heated rants in his sister. 

Jon was beginning to understand why. 

"I didn't set him on you!" Arya snapped, stepping forward to stand beside Jon. "You scared him and he attacked. You ought to apologise for frightening him so." 

Lady Jeyne glared at the Northern girl. Her face held such distaste that it wasn't pretty at all, with her large eyes scrunched in ire and her mouth puckered. "I will do no such thing! You ought to have better control over your filthy animals! My prince," her voice dripped with sickening sweetness, "forgive our disturbance. I was simply engaging in conversation with the Lady Roslin, when Lady Stark set her beast on us. Completely unprovoked! It was most distressing." She placed a delicate hand on her breast and sighed dramatically. "Isn't that right, Lady Roslin?" 

Behind him, the small, mouse-haired woman blinked in surprise at the mention of her name. She glanced at Jon with wide eyes, and then Arya, her face paling. "I-well, it all happened so quickly, I-I didn't see-" 

"Unprovoked?" Rickon interjected scathingly, popping around. "You insulted her!" 

"She insulted me first! I will not tolerate such savagery from a child," Lady Jeyne bit back with a sneer. 

Perhaps it was the way the words fell from her lips like drops of poison, or the distasteful contempt in her eyes as she regarded the boy, but Jon was suddenly very keen to see Lady Mallister somewhere far, far away from him. Balerion released a low, threatening growl as he eyed her. 

"Lady Jeyne," he declared in his most authoritative voice, hoping he looked regal with a fat cat nestled against his chest, "you would do well to remember that you are speaking to the blood of your liege lord. Lady Arya and Lord Rickon demand your respect. I care not for the manner in which this absurdity began, but it ends now. I will see to it that you and Lady Roslin are escorted to your quarters, where you may rest after your...ordeal." He shot her a pained smile, which she reciprocated with even less enthusiasm. "Ser Jaime." He turned to the Kingsguard, his grin growing genuine. "Would you be so kind as to walk with these, uh, lovely women? I'm afraid I must return Balerion to my sister." 

"Your sister?" Lady Jeyne repeated, surprised. 

"Oh, yes," Jon said cheerfully. "Balerion is Princess Rhaenys' cat. She was most heartbroken when he disappeared. I suspect you'll see far more of him now that they're to be reunited." 

Satisfaction rippled through him when he watched her face fall. 

"Your Grace," Jaime grumbled, failing to keep his tone light, "I am your guard. I cannot abandon you for Lady Mallister." His voice dropped low in his ear. "I don't want to be abandoned with Lady Mallister." 

"It'll only take a few minutes. And it's a direct order," Jon whispered back insistently, smirking. 

Two birds with one stone. 

Jaime glared at him fiercely. "You're my least favourite prince," he said bluntly. 

Jon gave a mock gasp. "Even less than Viserys?" 

A pause. "You're my second least favourite prince." 

"Two out of three? I can live with that." 

The Kingsguard released a disgruntled snort, turning to bow at the two ladies watching him from a distance. "Shall we, my ladies?" he said, offering his arms for each of them to grasp. The lines around his cheerful smile were strained. Jon had a feeling he'd make him pay for this soon, somehow. 

When the trio rounded the corner out of sight, he released a breath of relief. Balerion resumed his purring. 

"Where's Arya?" 

Jon whipped around to see Rickon standing alone, looking about him in confusion. Arya was nowhere to be seen. Startled, Jon reached out. 

'Arya? Where are you? Are you alright?' 

'I want to be alone. Please don't let Rickon follow me,' came the monotonous reply.

He frowned. He could feel the connection seething like hot tar, an anguish that seeped into the air and hung there. 

Had Lady Jeyne bothered her that much? 

"Rickon," Jon said suddenly, forgetting formalities in the moment, "see if she's in her chambers. If not, then I suggest waiting for her there. She'll turn up, soon." 

The redhead paused in deliberation, before nodding. There was a suspicious glint in his eyes as he appraised him, but Jon did not care to dwell on it.

There was somewhere he needed to be. 

Chapter Text

The cellar door was illuminated in golden light. In his mind's eye, the thread tugged at him, pulling almost urgently.

Closer, closer, it seemed to whisper, she needs you, she needs you.

Drawn forward like a moth to a distant moon, without stopping to question, Jon pulled the door open and peered into the darkness.

"Arya?" he called out.

Closer...closer...

Somewhere down the steps, he heard a sniffle. "I told you I wanted to be left alone."

"You can't lie to me, remember?" he said softly.

She inhaled a shuddering breath and did not reply.

Jon closed the door behind him and descended the stone steps. All but a single torch had blown out, the lone flame twitching to unseen winds. The cellar stretched out before him, cold and still. A thin, curling evening mist poured from the tunnels, twirling around his legs and dampening his breeches. In his arms, Balerion growled unhappily and nuzzled deeper into his neck to escape the chill.

His eyes wandered through the dim light, catching a small hunched form against the wall.

Carefully, Jon picked his way through the muddy pools of water, holding Balerion away from droplets of water falling from the ceiling. Arya did not react when he dropped down beside her. He shifted the cat to snuggle in his lap and started stroking its spine the way he remembered as a child. The silence of the cellar was soon filled with purring, the old cat closing its eyes in contentment.

They sat together quietly. For how long, Jon could not say. Her thoughts were a miasma of memories: a torrent of hurricanes and chaotic seas crashing against each other, over and over again. He watched from the periphery, a spectator of nature revealing its fierce and wild beauty. The skies stretched on, spinning endlessly like coins: anger and sorrow and pain and fear and -

He lost track, and rode through the storm.

When, at last, a patch of unmarred blue shimmered through the murky grey clouds, Jon finally spoke.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Arya buried her head in her arms. A muffled voice emerged, "Not really."

"Did she say something to you?" he insisted.

She responded with more sniffles.

Jon decided not to press her further, but irritation coursed through his veins suddenly. He wasn't sure what had happened between them, but he should have forced the stupid lady to apologise, instead of simply sending her away. Then perhaps, Arya wouldn't be so upset.

'That's not it,' a small voice whispered telepathically. 'I'll be alright. I'm being an idiot. You don't need to be here. Please just go.'

'It's not stupid if you're this upset,' he shot back. 'I want to help.'

'Why?'

It was a scathing question, but without any sort of malice. She was looking at him with curious intensity, as if at any moment, the mask would slip. Instead, Jon shrugged. 'Is that not what friends are for?'

It was odd, speaking to her without words but with thoughts as they sat together, side by side. But words seemed almost crude, as if speaking out loud would shatter the fragility of the moment. Jon could not help but find it all rather fitting. 

For without their connection, he'd never have seen how his words shifted Arya off her axis as she stared at him in bewilderment. Her eyes were swimming with tears, the grey glinting silver in the fading light of the torch. Twin spots of red dotted her flushed cheeks, and her lips were swollen from biting. It was a sight Jon had so rarely witnessed - to see another so exposed and unravelled. In a pristine world of false courtesies and veiled sincerity, a vision so undeniably raw caught his breath. 

A single thought ran through his head: she's lovely. 

A thousand emotions danced through hers, singing: he cares.

Something warm bloomed in his chest, unfolding like gardens in season and filling him with sweetness. 

'Of course, I care,' he told her, almost shyly. 'We're friends.'

Arya blinked at him, her mouth quirking upwards in a small smile. Looking away, she stretched out from her hunched position, her hands falling loosely in her lap.

'You did the right thing, not forcing her to apologise. I don't think she'd have taken it very well. Her father is one of my uncle's strongest bannermen. I don't want to cause any trouble for him.'

Jon snorted. 'Perhaps Lord Mallister ought to teach his children better manners before we consider his feelings on the matter,' he thought to her angrily. 'My sister is constantly complaining about her lack of respect.'

"I hate her! I hate all of them!" Arya suddenly exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air. Jon winced as the silence shattered like brittle glass and woke the startled cat snoozing on his lap. He grabbed onto Balerion firmly, whispering soothingly to calm him down. Arya sent him an apologetic look, reaching out to scratch the cat behind the ears.

"What do you mean?" Jon said in alarm. "What did she say? Who are you talking about?"

'It doesn't matter. It's stupid, anyway. Please just go.'

"Arya. Look at me."

She stubbornly stared at a puddle.

"Please?"

Drawing in a deep breath, she raised her head. And let out a surprised 'oh!' when she found herself with a handful of fur. Balerion nuzzled against her cheek, bumping his head against her jaw as his purrs echoed around the cellar walls. Arya's face broke into a bright grin as she snuggled closer to the black beast, holding him to her chest.

"I didn't know he was yours," she breathed in delight, running a finger along his nose. Balerion's eyes closed immediately.

"He isn't. He belongs to my sister, but he went missing years ago and we assumed he was dead. How did you find him?"

Arya's smile grew impossibly wider. "He's been living in the cellars!" she chirped happily, her black mood lifting. "Rickon and I found him hiding behind the door and grabbed him before he could make a run for it. Actually," her brow furrowed and looked at the cat in contemplation, "I was chasing him the night of the feast, when you found me in the tunnels. I was trying to save him from being lost."

"So my sister's demon cat is the one to blame for this mess we've found ourselves in," Jon said drily, peering at the demon in question with an exaggerated frown. "I always knew he was trouble."

"Hush, he's no demon. Don't be mean," chided Arya, pulling the cat away from him. She planted a kiss on his forehead and stroked his spine.

Jon grinned as she lavished affection on Balerion, the stormy clouds wrapped around her slowly dissipating until her warmth radiated through their bond. He felt his own spirits lift alongside hers, darkened as they had become trapped in her sorrow. 

'I know what you're doing,' she sent him, her voice tinged with good humour. 'You're trying to distract me with something cute.'

'It's working, isn't it?'

She smiled softly. His stomach flipped at the sight. 'Perhaps.'

Feeling oddly proud of himself, Jon leaned back against the wall and watched her.

Arya had untied the ribbon from her braid and was holding it over the cat, laughing as he jumped up to catch it. She glanced at him, her eyes swollen but glittering, and Jon could see his reflection framed in their depths like a promise. At the edge of his consciousness, the golden thread blossomed, bathing them in a dozen kisses of light.

Time was suspended, a snapshot of a moment stretching on for eternity. As he stared at her, his mind uncommonly serene, Jon was content to construct this memory as nothing more than a girl and a boy sat together, playing with a cat. There was something natural about this, something uncomplicated and exhilarating.

Like the first sip of water after long, hot day. Or the feel of clean silk after a long bath. Or the first touch of spring after a cold and bitter winter.

It felt right.

'We really are friends, aren't we?' a softened voice broke his musings. 

 Arya was looking at him again, but this time, her eyes were filled with wonder.

'I wouldn't be here if we weren't.' 

The smile was instantaneous, blinding in its radiance. Jon felt warm all over again, and he smiled back. 

And just like that, it was gone again. 'Do you really want to know what happened?'

'Yes,' he said quickly, sitting up straighter. 

She bit her lip and glanced down again, her dark eyelashes brushing her cheeks. 'I don't want you to be hurt, either.' 

Jon blinked in surprise. He inched closer to her, until their elbows almost touched, and bent his head until he drew level with her. 'I won't be,' he promised. 

'Maybe I should just forget the whole thing-'

'Arya.' He was so close now he could count every eyelash, every shadow of a star in her eyes. 'Lady Mallister will tell everyone her side of the story. I don't care about that. I want to hear yours, because I know you're honest.'  

'And how could you possibly know that?' 

'I'm in your head, Arya. What better way is there to get to know someone?' he said drily. 'So show me what happened...please.' 

With a breathless chuckle, she sniffed once more and shut her eyes. 

Through their link, he felt her reach for him, a memory shimmering into view behind her. Jon caught sight of the corridor and the blurry face of Rickon Stark - 

oOo

"Do you think Father will let us keep it?"

"You want to take that thing back to Winterfell?" Rickon turned to her incredulously. "Are you mad?"

"It needs a home!" Arya protested, clutching the cat to her chest as they walked down the corridor. It had fought her initially, but after a few good scratches behind the ear, it languished in her arms in contentment. Arya was already in love. She placed a loud kiss between its eyes and hummed in delight. "You can sleep with me tonight," she cooed sweetly. "We're going to have so much fun together! Aren't we, Nymeria?"

Her brother wrinkled his nose. "I can't believe you've already named it. And isn't Nymeria a girl's name? What if it's a boy?"

Arya rolled her eyes at him. "It's a cat, stupid. I doubt it'll be offended," she pointed out. "Nymeria suits her perfectly! She was a warrior queen, you know, and a survivor - just like this little one!"

"Trust you to name your first pet after some legendary witch queen," Rickon jested affectionately.

She stuck her tongue out at him, making him laugh.

Together, they strolled towards their quarters, chattering happily away about all sorts of things they could train the new pet of House Stark, when a condescending voice drifted from the adjacent corridor.

"Can you believe they're giving the bastard prince the right to compete in the tourney? It's a disgrace, I tell you. It seems our royal family has grown a little too Dornish over time. They never had much shame."

"Hush, Jeyne," another hissed frantically. "Someone might hear you!"

"There's no one around, Roslin," the first woman sighed. "Must you be so nervous all the time?"

Skidding to a halt, Arya whipped her head to the source of the sound, her breath catching.

Rickon looked back at her in puzzlement. "What's wrong?"

"She's talking about Jon," Arya whispered heatedly. "She called him a bastard!"

"So?"

Arya gave him a hard look. "So, it's horrible to say such things. He deserves her respect."

"Where are you going?" Rickon hissed, grabbing her wrist. "You can't start a fight with strangers!"

"Jon is my friend," she proclaimed fiercely, tearing her arm away in irritation. "I'm not just going to stand here while they insult him."

Before he could say otherwise, Arya stormed around the corner, her blood aflame.

Her eyes latched onto two women walking idly towards her, arm in arm. She seized the brief moment to scrutinise them. The smaller of the two stood timidly as she cast worried glances around her surroundings. Her companion was tall and graceful. Bearing the classic pale face of a Riverland highborn, with slanting high cheekbones and bladed eyes, her sullen pout only added to her appeal.

Pretty, and all too aware of it, Arya decided.

Summoning her courage - and her fury - she drew a deep breath, hugged the cat once, and walked right up to them.

Be nice, she reminded herself, Mother says courtesy can be as cutting as a blade. And that I should be kind to strangers.

"Truly," the woman continued, oblivious to the irate she-wolf some feet away, "I fear for the Crown Prince! Could you imagine if some sort of accident should befall him in the joust? Why, we'd have a bastard as our King one day! There would be riots on the streets, I tell you."

Well, Mother wasn't around, was she?

"He's not a bastard!" Arya suddenly snapped, her voice echoing around the empty courtyard. "Stop spreading lies about him!"

Silence droned on perilously as the women turned towards her. The shy lady shot her a look of surprise while the other - Jeyne, she thought her name was - cast a disapproving look at her wrinkled breeches and tunic. “Careful, servant girl. You ought to show better manners to your superiors," she demanded in irritation.

"I'm not a servant," Arya rebuked with a frown. "I'm Arya Stark of Winterfell." She raised her chin and returned her stare with determination.

Jeyne raised a perfect eyebrow, curiosity dancing on her pretty face. "Lady Stark, a pleasure to meet you," she said with a smile, her voice sweetening like soiled honey. "I've heard so much about you. You've earned quite a reputation this tourney."

Roslin coughed to mask a giggle and the two shared a knowing look.

Arya maintained her glower, but a small part of her withered. There was something in Jeyne’s dismissive eyes that reminded her so much of her older sister, so much of all the ladies in Winterfell, that the age-old insecurities raised their ugly heads and she had to force them down to prevent them lodging in her throat.

In her arms, the cat growled unhappily, staring at the two girls without blinking. Arya took a deep breath and drew her strength. They were just stupid ladies, after all. She was a wolf and wolves don't cower.

"I don't care about that," she said fiercely. "I care that you're insulting the prince. You're being terrible to him by spreading such baseless lies. Jon's actually rather wonderful if you get to know him."

She didn't mean for the last part to slip out - but slip out it did, and she wished the ground would swallow her whole. Behind her, she could feel Rickon's eyes digging into the back of her head.

Jeyne's eyes glinted like a sword in sunlight. "Jon?" she latched on, her smile curving like a scythe. “Quite informal of you, Lady Stark. Has His Grace granted you permission to be so?"

"That's none of your business," Arya shot back too quickly, reddening. "He's my friend, if you must know. So enough with your gossip. It's - it's not right. And if you don't stop, I'll-I'll..." she faltered, floundering for something dramatic, "I'll tell the King."

She winced immediately. Tell the King? she chastised herself. Now I sound like Sansa, Gods help me.

"How frightening," Jeyne replied drily. "Very well, my lady, since it upsets you so very much and I fear the King's wrath bearing down on poor old me, I shall sing nought but praises for our darling prince. The truest Targaryen to ever Targaryen. The noblest man in all our lands...or whatever." She waved a hand disdainfully with a roll of her eyes. "May Lady Roslin and I return to our private conversation, please?"

"Come on," Rickon whispered urgently in her ear, grabbing her elbow. "You've said what you needed to say. Don't make a scene."

Reluctantly, Arya nodded, throwing a dirty look at the two ladies as she turned to follow her brother. Even the cat released a low thrum of discontent, hissing quietly against her chest.

They had barely moved ten feet when a quiet voice whispered, “Is that the girl they’re calling Lyanna Stark reborn? I thought she was supposed to be bewitchingly beautiful! She’s rather ordinary, isn’t she?”

The other woman snorted. "Exaggerated tales, I’m sure. There's no accounting for taste, clearly, for a Targaryen whore. I thought she was a servant at first.” Her voice dropped low conspiringly, though still loud enough to overhear. “The prince must be spectacular in bed to earn that sort of loyalty. I heard that bastards are especially sinful in the dark. I’m almost envious!”

An uncomfortable prickling sensation stirred in her heart, as if a dozen pins had been stabbed into it. Rickon froze next to her, his breath hitching. Her ears filled with the sound of rushing blood, the light twitters of the world around them receding until it was all she could hear.

She turned back towards the two ladies laughing quietly with their heads bent together, rage brewing beneath the surface like hot lava.

"Arya, please don't," Rickon pleaded and pulled at her elbow desperately. "They're not worth it. Father told us not to get in trouble."

"To hell with that," Arya hissed, snatching her arm back so aggressively, she almost dislodged the cat. "And to hell with her, too."

Loudly, she announced, "You're an absolute bitch, you know that?"

Roslin's head snapped towards her, her jaw dropping in horror. One hand rested delicately on her heart, and she glanced quickly at her companion.

Lady Jeyne stood perfectly still, a smile frozen on her pale face. "I beg your pardon?" she whispered.

"I'm not anyone’s whore and neither was Lyanna," Arya continued viciously. “But you - you're a vapid, horrid woman...and a liar."

"Arya-" her brother interjected in warning. She ignored him, anger driving her tongue forward and dissolving any sense of control.

She barely noticed the thread twisting at the edge of her consciousness, burning brighter with every lash of rage.

"That’s all people like you care about. Gossiping and lying and making others feel awful about themselves, because you think it makes up for having no real personality. It’s pathetic."

"No real personality?" Jeyne repeated incredulously, her composure cracking. "And I suppose you believe interrupting a stranger’s conversation and insulting them before even asking their name makes for an interesting character?”

“Only if you consider slander a conversation,” Arya pointed out with a humourless smile.

"Passionate about bastards, are we?"

“He isn't a bastard," she repeated for the thousandth time. "And he deserves better than to have people like you speaking ill of him. Jon has ten times the personality you do.”

A heartbeat, and she cursed herself for her carelessness again.

The older woman took a step forward, her pretty face scrunching into something ruthless and twisted. “Oh, Jon does, does he? You’re awfully familiar with the prince for someone who claims not to be his whore.”

“I told you, we’re friends,” Arya shot back scathingly.

“Friends?" she repeated, incredulous. "Is that what Northerners call shacking up with a prince to gain royal favour? You're an ambitious lot, I'll give you that."

Fresh irritation coursed her veins, and to her horror, Arya found her eyes beginning to prickle. “That's not who I am,” she snapped.

But Jeyne had seen that flash of vulnerability, and her smile was predatory. “Come now, darling,” she cooed patronisingly, “you cannot possibly be this dense. We all know what happened the last time a Stark decided to be...friends with a prince." She looked at her with false pity, eyeing her smudged breeches and the tangles in her hair. "Perhaps you hope he'll marry you but...well, you're rather lacking, aren't you? He expects a princess, not a wild dog, no matter how willing it is to spread its legs."

Arya opened her mouth to respond but the pins had grown into daggers and her heart felt hollow.

Jeyne took another step forward, and bent down until their faces were close. The proximity frightened the animal against Arya’s chest, and it writhed as the older woman sneered down at the two of them.

“Your loyalty is admirable but misplaced. Consider this advice in good faith: men like him do not want girls like you as wives or the mothers of their children, but for a good fuck and a story to tell his friends around a fire. You may see me as shallow or vapid, but at least I understand the rules. Think about that before you throw your insults, Lady Stark. It may save you a great deal of trouble.”

The world fell into shadow, as if all the light had been stolen from the air. For a moment or a century, no one knew what to say. Arya stood frozen, silent and unseeing, not quite sure what to think or say as doubt shredded her from the inside.

Then, a sharp yowling, followed by a scream.

The cat had jumped from Arya’s arms when her grip had slackened and latched on to the fine blue silk of Lady Jeyne’s dress. Its claws sunk into her leg and she lurched back violently, attempting to kick the animal with her other foot.

The sight spurred Arya into motion. With widened eyes, she lunged to grab at the cat and missed, landing on her hands and knees. Jeyne was spinning wildly, a buzz of black fur trailing after the ruined silk behind her, narrowly avoiding her stomps. Desperately, Arya tried grabbing the cat again, following the pair in a bizarre dance.

“Stop it!” she cried, “You’re going to hurt him!”

Moments later, she was suddenly dragged to her feet by a golden Kingsguard, glimpsing at Jon’s startled face in the background.

The scene vanished into darkness, like a candle blown in the wind, Jeyne Mallister’s screeches echoing into the distance.

Chapter Text

When Arya opened her eyes, it was not the cracking cellar walls nor the murky puddles she expected - but brushed blue skies and twisted trees of lavish greenery stretching into the distance. Blades of grass swayed softly by her feet, bright flowers peppering around her like drops of paint. A deep, earthy scent danced under her nose, tinged with something sweet and old. Through the trunks, she glimpsed a large pool, a fragile mist hanging delicately above the surface.

The scene was so familiar, it was carved into her soul. 

Is this a memory? she asked herself. It rang through her head like chimes and she winced. And why are my thoughts so bloody loud?

She glanced down and saw her own body, dressed in the tunic and breeches she was wearing that day. Lifting her hands up, she prodded her face gingerly. She was herself and in control, a welcome relief. 

Arya looked over her shoulder to see Jon some feet away. He was standing with his back turned towards her, staring at a giant stone castle emerging from the horizon. It loomed over them, still and silent as a ghost, bathed in sunlight.

"Winterfell?” she muttered, stepping forward. 

Jon glanced back to look at her in mild panic. “Did you mean to bring us here?” 

Shaking her head, she replied helplessly, “I-I don’t think so. At least, not on purpose."

"I don't understand," Jon frowned, kneeling down to touch the ground. "Is this a dream?"

Arya bent down to pick a small flower, sniffing it gently as she turned around. The smell felt crisp, like the first day of spring. It’s all so real, she marvelled, I can almost taste it. A light wind rustled through her hair, picking at her brown strands. "Or something else. I was thinking about how much I missed the godswood, before you showed up. About how much I’d give anything to be here right now.” 

"It is beautiful," Jon said honestly, standing up as his eyes roved over the landscape in awed wonder. 

“It is, isn't it? Sometimes, whenever things become too much, or if I’m angry or upset, I come here and hide for a little while. It makes me feel better, like I belong. Everything just fades away. Like nothing else matters but where I am.” She peeked at him through her eyelashes, shyly. "It's where I feel safest." 

Jon's eyebrows furrowed. "Maybe that's why we're here."  

She looked to her side and reached out, her hand brushing the rough bark. Closing her eyes, she could feel every groove, every bump along the skin of her fingertips. The woods felt alive, thrumming with an energy that rang through her bones, washing away the bitter taste of resentment left by Jeyne Mallister. The echoes of her sneers faded away, replaced by nature’s sweet melody, filling her heart with warmth. The trees were ancient, beyond time and comprehension. It seemed futile to think of such trivial matters, here in the presence of history, rooted deep in the earth.

“I didn’t mean to drag you here,” she said apologetically, opening her eyes to look at him. 

”It’s not your fault,” Jon shrugged, squinting at the sky. "That, on the other hand, is a different story."  

A thin golden thread spanned across the blue haze, sparkling golden. It flared up at the acknowledgement, as if in laughter. Arya could feel a barrier form around her, invisible chains holding them to this imaginary place. No matter which way she turned, how hard she fought back, they were locked in. 

She narrowed her eyes. "It won't let us wake up." 

“That’s not deeply unsettling at all,” came the dry response. "We need to get back." 

Arya considered, casting a look around the meadow. Wildflowers danced amongst the green, dappled in shadow. Coils of mist lazily wrapped around the trees like snakes, a whisper in the piercing silence of the godswood. She looked up at the clear blue sky spanning endlessly, and if she listened hard enough, she thought she could hear the distant rumbles of a storm brewing. There were no painted faces leering down at her, no blood-red walls or coy smiles dripping with gossip. This was home: a pierce of her heart crafted from bark and petals and a forest song. 

"Not yet. I want to stay here a little longer." 

Jon blanched. "What do you mean? Arya, this isn't real-"

"I don't care!" she cried, turning towards him. "It's a hell of a lot better than seeing people out there." She waved her hand indistinctly at the sky, hoping he couldn't hear her voice cracking. 

He inhaled sharply, realising what she meant. Not wanting to see the pity on his face, Arya dropped her eyes to spin the flower between her fingers. 

“I’m sorry,” the prince whispered. “I'm so sorry." His voice grew darker. "I’ll figure out how to deal with them, I promise.” 

Arya didn’t know what he meant, but it sent a chill down her spine nonetheless. She wondered if she ought to ask when a loud crack caught her attention. 

She whipped around to see Jon hitting a tree with a branch furiously. With every thwack, little pieces of bark crumbled and went flying. 

“I. Hate. Them. I hope they all burn!”

The taste of his rage hung in the air like burnt embers. Arya felt it brush roughly against her skin, scorching to the touch. But beneath the flames, a grief spread ceaselessly like an icy sea, frozen to stillness. It stole her breath from her lungs, its anguish seeping into her blood like black poison.

Oh, she thought, as she stared into the abyss. How long have you carried this? 

"Jon." 

He didn't hear her. The tree groaned in protest after another damaging blow. 

"Jon, please." 

He paused mid-swing and turned. His eyes were wide, making him look impossibly younger. There was a vulnerability lining his face, contradicted by the bludgeoning branch he wielded as a weapon in his hands. It could take a mountain or a murmur to blow him over in this moment. 

Arya considered neither, struck as she was by his frenzy. He'd always seemed so calm to her, as unchangeable as the godswood trees and the stone castles. 

But here, he looked lost and exhausted, and it tugged at her.

“We've done everything expected of us, haven't we?” he lamented, breaking the silence. “You've never brought shame to your family and I...I stand by my brother when everyone thinks I’ll steal his birthright. We do our bloody duty every day and it’s not good enough. We’re never good enough. They’ve decided who or what we are, and they’ve decided whatever it is, isn’t right.” 

Arya’s breath hitched and her eyes began to prickle. Around her, the godswood began to whisper; its voices eerily similar to those at Winterfell when they thought she was out of earshot: wolf-blood, wild child, such never bodes well for ladies like her, Lord Stark cannot allow this for much longer. 

“They don’t know us,” she reasoned, silencing the chorus forcefully. “It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks.” 

“It always matters,” Jon growled hoarsely, running an agitated hand through his hair. “This is the way it’s always been. People only care that you follow their rules, and when you don’t - you’re not wanted. You mean nothing: not who you are, not what you could be - to them, you’ve failed.” He shook his head sadly. “And then that’s it, isn’t it? And one day, you start believing it, too. That there’s something terribly wrong with you, but there’s nothing you can do about it, so you become everything they say that you are.” 

His thoughts, his presence, him: it was all laid bare in a snapshot, a whirlpool in a calm blue sea, drawing everything around it deeper to be lost in its depths. Arya felt it pull at her with a whisper: closer, closer. He needs you. He needs you. 

Without pause, she walked over and pulled him into a hug. 

Jon froze as soon as she wrapped her arms around his neck. When he did not move, she started to worry. Was this too forward? Did he want to be left alone? Should she pull away?

A heartbeat later, he dropped the branch and clutched at her desperately, like a child seeking comfort. His grip was tight around her back as he pulled her in and buried his face in her shoulder. He was burning, burning, and Arya wondered if it was just her imagination - but oh, it was warm, as if he were stitched from sunlight and summer.

She wasn't sure how long they stood together, before Jon finally heaved a sigh and let go of her slowly. His cheeks were pink and he ran a quick hand over his face. “I-uh, thanks," he muttered, avoiding her eye, “I’m sorry about-about everything I said. I didn’t want to make you feel worse.” 

They were standing so close, she could lose herself in the storms of his eyes. “The truth is,” she said quietly, “I hated what Jeyne said because part of me believes her - that I’m not good enough, like you said. That girls like me aren’t worth being loved or respected because I’m not...what most people want and I don’t know how to follow the rules so I can be.” She reddened at her confession, her words rolling off her tongue uninhibited. There was something about this dream world, something about being lost in each other’s heads that tore down her barriers, and she found little resistance in fighting it. “It’s stupid, I know, and I pretend it doesn’t matter to me but I’m always a little afraid that they’re right.” 

Jon made an incredulous noise. 

“But you know what?” she pressed when he tried protesting. “The rules are wrong. I’m starting to realise that. And if the rules are wrong, then the game needs to change, and the ones who know that are remembered for it.” Arya grinned at him. “Go ahead, name me a woman that changed the world.”

He contemplated, frowning in confusion. “Rhaenys or Visenya Targaryen, for a start.” 

“And a bastard?” 

Jon’s face cleared and the edges of his mouth lifted as he saw where she was going. “Orys Baratheon was said to be Aegon's bastard half-brother, and he captured Storm’s End from the Storm King. Brynden Rivers was one of the best Hands of the King in our history.” 

Arya leaned forward eagerly. “They became their own people, by their own right, and now they’re remembered for challenging their lot in life and rising above it. We can always change the rules and no one can stop us.” She beamed up at him. “That’s going to be me someday. It could be you, too - if you want it to be. Who cares if they think you’re a bastard? It doesn’t need to define you, Jon. You’re so much more than you think.”

He was staring at her in quiet astonishment, breaths shallow. His blistering anger had faded into something sweet, delicately waltzing along her skin like spring kisses. Slowly - had time frozen or had she? - he raised a hand and tucked a wayward strand behind her ear. “Stay like this,” he whispered softly. “Promise me that you will.” 

“Like what?” Was it always so difficult to breathe?

“Like you. Everything that you are, Arya Stark, is something special. Someone special.” 

His eyes dropped to her lips and Arya thought she would remember this moment forever. Here, at the threshold of illusion and reality, surrounded by something belonging to another world: an unspoken promise hung like invisible light, unspent and bright and everywhere at once. Her ears filled with stillness and breathing and the rhythmic thump of her heart and she leaned closer, closer, closing her eyes and -

A sharp inhale shattered the magic, and when Arya opened her eyes, she saw Jon stumbling away. His thoughts were a jumble as he moved to drop down by a tree. When he caught her eye, he flushed, his chest heaving. “I, um, I - this place, it’s not - we’re not -“

“Oh, right, of course,” Arya said quickly, masking her disappointment. “Not real, I know.” She cleared her throat pointedly, hoping her face wasn’t as red as it felt.

Stupid, she chastised herself. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

Unsure of what else to do, she tentatively joined him on the forest floor, keeping a short distance between them. The silence wasn’t as comfortable as she’d hoped, so she chimed, “Are you feeling better?” 

Jon quirked an eyebrow, still a little pink. “Are you?” 

She shrugged, playing with the wildflowers beside her. “It is what it is. I know Jeyne Mallister was out of line and that she was wrong. I’ll pay her back, somehow.” She shot him a sly smile, to which he laughed. 

“I’d like to see that, so be sure to tell me when and where. I’d wager there’s an audience that would like to see it, too.” 

They chuckled together, the awkwardness evaporating into the warm summer’s day. The conversation shifted to idle matters, of Arya telling him stories of her adventures in the godswood, of Jon recounting the delightful time he almost set fire to one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, by accident, of course - though Arya had her doubts. Time was endless, caught as they were in this limbo, and there was an entire lifetime of stories and memories to share. 

It didn’t feel like enough. 

“How long do you reckon it’ll keep us here for?” Jon asked, peering up at the thread still shimmering in the sky. “It feels like it’s been hours. Maybe we’re supposed to do something about it?”

Arya considered, and then yelled, “Oi! Can we wake up now, please?” 

Nothing happened. 

“Did you really think that would work?”

She shrugged. “Asking politely seemed worth a shot. Guess we’re here for a little longer.”

He snorted, eyeing the thread in trepidation. His face grew thoughtful as he stared, the space between his eyebrows scrunching the way it did when he was concentrating. “Arya?” he suddenly asked. “What does your family think about my mother?” 

Arya blinked, taken aback. “Why do you ask?”

”You told Jeyne Mallister that she wasn’t a whore,” Jon continued, his eyes piercing. “That’s all I’ve ever heard everyone call her. My father never talks about her,” his voice grew bitter. “For once, I’d like to hear that she was something more than just a girl that ran off with a married prince. Someone I might love, if I’d known her.”

Arya felt a hand squeeze around her heart and she nodded. “I can’t speak for everyone,” she confessed, “but my father loved her. He still loves her. He doesn’t talk about her much either, but when he does, it’s only ever about a girl who was beautiful and wilful and kind. She’s buried in the crypts with the Lords of Winterfell and the Kings of Winter, and Father visits her every week.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping low as if telling a secret, “That sounds like someone worth remembering.” 

He looked away then, rubbing at his eyes furiously. “Good,” Jon said simply, attempting a smile, “that’s...that’s good to hear.” He licked his lips, and Arya forced herself not to follow his tongue. “I’ve never told anyone this but,” he paused, looking down, “I can never stop part of me hating her for leaving me behind. It’s because she chose to run away with my father that I was born a bastard, and treated as my brother’s usurper, and why his mother is so blatantly disrespected by her own court. It always comes back to her.” He violently tore at the grass in anger. 

Jon’s voice was thick and he was blinking furiously. Arya felt her own chest hitch in shallow breaths, the dark grieving sea simmering beneath his skin rising to the surface and bleeding into her.

"Stop," she ordered, drawing closer. “Jon - this is not her fault. All this awfulness is not because a girl fell in love, for goodness' sake. She was hardly the first and she won’t be the last, and I won’t hear her own son think so little of her." 

"You think what she did was right?" he threw back scathingly. "You think running away with a married prince was a wise decision?" 

"Don't be ridiculous, I didn’t say that." Arya's voice softened. "But reason is rarely exercised in matters of the heart. You shouldn't hate her for thinking an ostracised life with your father was better than being unhappy without him. I don’t believe either ever imagined the consequences, in the end.” 

He deliberated. "Would you do it?" he asked, his eyes burning into hers. "Elope with someone you weren't supposed to be with, damning the consequences?" 

Arya frowned. She knew her response somehow mattered to him, somehow held this conversation at a precipice.

Would she? Her immediate reaction was to laugh him off, to say it was absurd and selfish and she’d never be so daft for a man. No one could be worth so much grief nor heartache to her family.

The lone wolf dies but the pack survives. 

But of course, save for her father, Arya had never held another man in such a high regard. If she was honest, Arya could hardly see herself in such a situation in the first place, and struggled to imagine it when her hypothetical lover was simply a shifting shadow with no face. It seemed so easy to brush off his question when there was no one to lose, no heart to be broken. 

It took only a moment for her to find her answer, then. 

"Ask me again when I'm in love," she said, to Jon’s surprise, "and I'll know what to say." 

He watched her mutely for a little while, his thoughts spinning like whirlwinds - but the black sorrow had receded like the tide, the vice-grip around her heart fading with it. A small flush rose up his neck, and he turned to gaze unblinkingly off into the distance. “You know, if-if what they said was true and you are like Lyanna. I think,” he cleared his throat, “I think I understand what my father saw in her.” 

She blinked at him, realisation dawning on her of what he was saying, “O-oh,” she stammered, tucking a hair behind her ear. “I, um, Lyanna was beautiful. That’s not - I’m not -“

”You really can’t see yourself, can you?” Jon quietly remarked, with a look that sent a shiver through her bones.

Arya was then incredibly aware of the dwindling space between them, aware of the warmth radiating from his body, of the taste of sweetness hovering in their midst. Her stomach churned like a ship on a stormy sea, and she wondered if she’d always felt this weightless. 

His eyes dropped to her lips again, and he leaned forward.

Remembering the last time he’d pulled away, Arya quickly lowered her head and loudly exclaimed, “Look, a winter rose!” She pointed at the blue flower between them. 

Jon paused, his breaths heavy as he gathered his bearings. “A what?” 

She picked it and shoved it in front of his face, "It grows in the glass gardens at Winterfell, but they only bloom for a week once a year and one time, when I was six, I picked all the flowers because I thought they were pretty and they died a few days later so when I went back to pick some more, they were all gone and my mother told me I had to wait another year to see them again and I cried so hard I threw up,” she babbled. 

The silence was piercing. 

Gods, what is wrong with me?

”I see,” Jon nodded hesitantly, brows furrowed. He’d moved away from her to allow a foot of distance between them. Arya was grateful - his warmth made her head fuzzy. The only explanation, of course. He peered closely at the flower she was still awkwardly holding out to him. "And this was the flower you loved so much, you vomited because you couldn't have it?” 

She wanted to die. “Something like that." 

”Naturally,” he chuckled. He cast an eye over the pale blue rose. It was a glorious sight: the colours of winter painted its petals, glittering like stars. Its sweet scent wrapped around them, a delicate fragrance that threaded beneath their noses, light and sweet. ”It really is beautiful,” Jon said, fingering the flower gently. “This whole place is. I can’t imagine what it must be like in reality. It’s almost too magical to exist.” 

“Doesn’t King’s Landing have a godswood too?”

Jon waved his hand dismissively. “It’s a patch of grass compared to here. Beauty doesn’t survive very long in the capital.”

She nudged him with her shoulder. “It’s not that bad,” she reasoned. “The city itself has its own charm.” 

He shot her an incredulous look. “You think sweat and shit is charming?” 

“Oh come now, it’s more than that and we both know it. All the different buildings and people - I think there’s something rather pretty about it.”

“You should raise your standards.” He laughed at her ruffled expression. “Pretty? Absolutely not. It’s a city of lies and masked faces. That’s not what you come to King’s Landing for. Summerhall, on the other hand,” he declared, “that’s something else.”

“Summerhall?” Arya cocked her head curiously. “I thought it was in ruins.”

Jon chuckled without mirth. “Oh, it is. My birthright is a bunch of broken rocks and a graveyard. Fitting, don’t you think?” He shrugged. “But there’s something special about it. Something old and magical, like your godswood.” He nodded pointedly at the ancient trees surrounding them like silent spectators. 

“It sounds wonderful. I’d like to see it,” Arya said wistfully.  

“I’ll take you someday,” he promised, nudging her with his elbow. "I think you'd enjoy it." 

She beamed at him, excitement bubbling in her chest. But just as Arya planned to pester him for more details, a golden flash drew their eyes upwards. 

Scrambling to their feet, they looked up in horror as the pastel blue sky darkened immeasurably, stormy clouds of black blotting out the light. The wind whistled around them, piercing them with cold spears as the trees swayed manically to and fro. In the blink of an eye, the luscious green meadow was disintegrating, dwindling into smoke screens of murky grey. 

"What's happening?" she distantly heard Jon yell. "Are we waking up?" 

She turned as the smoke grew thicker around her, wrapping her in black tendrils that obscured her vision. She willed herself to stay calm - this was her head, wasn't it? How frightening could it be? 

The world fell to darkness. 

oOo

Arya opened her eyes and gasped in astonishment.

The sun was high in the sky, highlighting a jagged corpse of a burnt palace like rotten teeth. The forest around had consumed the crumbling walls, the castle remains clawing its way through foliage and rock like the hand of a drowning man. There was a brutal beauty to it; a tapestry woven with the threads of life and decay. 

"Summerhall?" Jon’s jaw dropped open.  

“Oh, it’s gorgeous,” she breathed, half in wonder, half in love. 

"You think so?" The prince of the ruined castle turned towards her in pleased surprise. 

Arya nodded distractedly, drawn forward. She paused beside what she thought were the front doors, now a collapsed marble arch stained with age. The walls beyond must have been the entrance hall: broken columns reached for the skies, smothered in vines and dirt. It had almost entirely disintegrated, save for the occasional skeleton that stood proud in its survival, towering over her with its immensity.

The ground was littered with debris, and if she looked closer, Arya could just about make out an engraved panel from a destroyed rib vault. Curious, she traced a finger along the tarnished surface, wondering idly at its lost splendor. 

Behind her, she heard Jon walk towards a piece of wayward stone, covered in moss. He touched it hesitantly and let his hand rest on its wet surface. “I haven’t been here in years,” he murmured, pulling his fingers away to look at them closely. “But all these details - I don’t understand how it’s all been recreated so perfectly. There’s no way I’d remember this, so it can’t be built from my memories as the godswood was from yours." He peered up into the blinding daylight, and sure enough, a thin streak of gold winded lazily through the cloudless blue. "Unless...unless this isn’t really Summerhall as it is, but as I imagine it to be. It’s not building this world so much as giving us a canvas we know already to fill ourselves. Does that make sense?” Jon turned to her. 

“You mean, because this is all in our heads, we’re unconsciously controlling what we see? So, in theory, we could consciously control it as well?” At his contemplative nod, Arya glanced down. She still held the blue winter rose from the godswood in her hand. Touching each petal lightly, she marveled at its softness, at the smooth texture brushing each fingertip. 

We’re in control. 

She closed her eyes and imagined. 

“Arya,” she heard Jon’s gasp. “Look!”

With a deep breath, she opened her eyes and grinned. 

Spiralling outwards from where she stood lay dozens of blue roses in full bloom. Clinging on to the decaying walls and twirling around the warped vines, they spouted like fireworks, filling the air with its divine fragrance. The greens of the foliage were soon overrun with a rich blue, pieces of the sky and seas scattered around the woodland floor. 

“How did you do that?” Jon whispered in awe, watching as more flowers grew from the cracks of the ruined palace. 

Arya shrugged, kneeling down to run a light hand over the bed of roses at her feet. “I just pictured it in my thoughts. I didn’t think it would work.” She smiled widely as she picked a bouquet and saw the stems regrow into a new flower. 

Drawing in a deep whiff, she sighed in satisfaction, before carefully stepping her way through to the bemused prince still looking around him in wonder. 

“Here,” she said, showing him the flowers. “You try. Just think of anything, and focus on it.” 

Jon hesitantly looked at the bouquet and blinked at her in confusion. It was distractingly endearing, and Arya fiercely shoved the thoughts away. 

He sniffed the roses once and breathed a sigh. “Here goes,” he muttered, shutting his eyes. 

A deafening roar filled the air, rattling her bones. 

Arya’s head snapped up and the vision had her cover her mouth with her hand. 

Soaring across the sky, black scales dripping with midnight, was a dragon. 

It almost blocked out the sunlight with its monstrous size. Its jaws were open in a piercing scream, and from the ground, Arya glimpsed a row of long and sharp teeth. Spikes adorned its spine, trailing down to a thick tail that whipped back and forth, gleaming red under the light. 

“You said you wanted to see a dragon,” Jon reminded in her ear. “I can’t give you the real thing, but it’s close. That one’s on a tapestry outside my room.” 

Her hand slowly lowered from her face, heart hammering in her chest. “I love it,” she whispered, eyes fixed on the great creature until it disappeared into the distance. She smiled at him, and he flushed happily. 

“Your turn,” Jon said with a nod. “Bet you can’t beat a dragon.” 

“Bet I can,” Arya teased back. She put the flowers down and looked around, hoping for inspiration. It had to be something remarkable, of course, something Jon could not see in the waking world. 

Her eyes caught on a broken statue lying some feet away, its face too disfigured by decay to describe any details, but it gave her an idea. Oh, Jon was going to love this, she knew. 

Arya spun on her heel and looked back at the desolated entrance hall. Keeping her eyes open, she stared at the debris and frowned in concentration. 

At first, the statue rattled. Then, it lunged across the ground to stand proud by the archway, its shattered face smoothing into a blank slate. Pieces of marble clambered together to build an immense entrance, a perfect arch sitting above a giant iron door. The walls around them bled higher, fingers of granite reaching for the sky. It was as if an invisible brush moved through the air, but instead of paint and pastels, its masterpiece was made of stone and slab. 

The garden of blue roses melted into a sparkling lake of black marble, a galaxy of stars beneath their feet. Above, the sun was stolen away by an arching ceiling, framed by ribbed vaults. A dozen dancing dragons carved into the wood, their eyes gleaming with fire and rubies. Light poured in from high-arching windows and immersed the space in golden radiance. Banners and tapestries weaved themselves down the walls: silk three-headed dragons and wolves howling in a field of white, fluttering proudly in the unseen breeze. 

Stealthy and slow, stone by stone, they watched the broken transform into the magnificent. 

Jon stared, mouth agape. Arya grinned with pride.

The Great Hall of Winterfell stretched out before them, every stone in the right place, every moment in her thousand memories stitched together in perfection. The ceiling, however, was the glory of the Throne Room in the Red Keep - Arya had loved it at first sight, and spent the good part of the welcoming feast staring at it in wonder. She thought she rather enjoyed the blend of ostentatious Targaryen glamour with the unyielding simplicity of her Stark home.

”I’m enjoying it, too,” Jon murmured, listening. His eyes flickered towards the Targaryen and Stark sigils gracing the walls. “This is just how I’d want it to be, if I had the chance.” He walked towards a wall and ran a hand over the stone, his face filled with admiration. 

“Why don’t you rebuild Summerhall then? You wouldn’t have to live at court anymore.” 

Jon’s arm fell with a sigh. “Summerhall is sacred to my father. He still grieves for the tragedy. I don’t think he’d be particularly fond of me asking to build on its ashes.” He shot her a rueful smile. 

Arya deflated, and quietly stood back as he explored the hall of the castle he could not keep, a ghost of the one she called home. 

For now, she thought woefully. Arya folded her arms across her chest and glared at the floor. Jon could no more build Summerhall than she could remain at Winterfell forever. Like the seasons, the worlds they wanted were stolen by time itself, by its abundance and its deficiency: he was bound as long as the King should rule and her days unbound to another grew short. 

If only their reality was this, built on dreams and where time felt endless and no one was there to say otherwise. 

It wasn’t fair. 

”The rules are wrong,” Jon’s voice interrupted her. She turned to see him holding out a bouquet of blue winter roses at her. “And we’re in control, remember?” 

She smiled softly, taking the flowers in her hands and inhaling deeply. It smelt of something new, something old, and a promise of everything in-between. 

“I know,” Arya said simply, holding his silver gaze. 

He stared at her for a moment in silence, seeming to hesitate. Her stomach fluttered as he opened his mouth to say something, something, something -

“We should go back,” he finally said. “Your brother was looking for you. I wouldn’t want him to worry.” 

“Oh,” Arya replied (she wasn’t disappointed, no, not at all). “Right, yes. Let’s.” 

His mouth lifted in a half-smirk, and he looked to want to say something else. But whatever it was, she’d never know, because the walls around them began collapsing into smoke. The thread above spasmed in flashes of blinding light, the sky crumbling into the abyss. 

Arya ignored it all, watching as Jon’s face fell into shifting shadows, until it altogether disappeared. 

oOo

A half-second later, Arya groggily gained consciousness to see a ball of black fur pawing at her face incessantly. 

Balerion mewed as she sat up and rubbed at her eyes with a groan. 

“Bloody hell,” Jon cursed beside her, “this feels worse than a hangover.” He swayed to his feet and clutched the wall, holding his head. He looked ready to keel over. 

Arya did not fare any better. Balerion was still whining at the audacity of being abandoned, and she desperately tried hushing him before her head imploded. The dim candle lights in the cellar were too bright against her sensitive eyes, the stone floor too hard, too wet. Had the world always felt so...much?

She struggled to stand, carrying the cat in her arms. Her eyes lifted to find Jon’s, a silent message passing between them. 

What just happened? 

Arya could still feel the touch of the godswood trees beneath her fingertips, still hear the distant roars of a dragon, or the warmth of a summer sun bearing down on a meadow. It was impossible - none of it was real. 

Wasn’t it? 

“Thinking about this makes my head hurt,” Jon confessed, rubbing his forehead. “This bond...everytime I think I understand it, I’m blindsided by something else beyond anything I can imagine.” His hand dropped from his head and he exhaled. “It’s terrifying and strangely exhilarating, and altogether a pain in my ass.” 

“We know something,” Arya offered, leaning against the wall for support. “We know we have some measure of control. That’s good, isn’t it?” 

“I’d be more pleased if I didn’t feel like passing out right now.” 

“A bed does sound lovely,” Arya announced in a moan. “I’m exhausted.” 

“I’ll walk you back - oof!” Jon took a step forward before his legs gave way, muscles excruciatingly numb from sitting in one position for so long. He swore again under his breath. 

“Maybe some other time,”  she jested, grabbing his elbow and pulling him up. “You need rest. The joust starts tomorrow, and we can’t have you falling off your horse.” 

“Oh, please,” came the disgruntled response, “I’ve been jousting since I was a child. No one’s better than I am.” 

Arya raised an eyebrow. “Your humility is inspiring.” 

He winked at her, reaching out to scratch Balerion behind his ears. “You’ll see tomorrow. Try not to fall in love with me when you do. Many have before and it’s always ended in heartbreak.” Jon sighed dramatically. “T’is a curse.” 

“I’ll try my hardest, but I make no promises,” Arya said drily, rolling her eyes, a smile tugging her lips. “Speaking of which, the Jousting God can have his steed back before I steal him forever.” She nuzzled the cat, who closed its eyes in contentment. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? I’ll take you far away north forever and ever. Wouldn’t that be an adventure?”

Balerion purred in agreement.

The Jousting God in question snorted. “I’m not cruel enough to separate you two just yet. Keep him for the night. I’m sure my sister won’t mind waiting another day.” 

Arya beamed at him. “Yes, please!” she chirped happily, snuggling the cat close. Jon smiled at her, and she felt her cheeks grow warm and her heart beginning to flutter. 

It was excitement, of course, over keeping her new friend for the night, but Arya thought it wise to leave before she did something truly ridiculous. 

“I should - I should go,” she managed to stammer, burning red. Arya scampered around him before he could see. “Good luck for the joust tomorrow, if I don’t see you. And do get some rest. If you lose to a Frey, I’ll be furious,” she called over her shoulder. 

“If I lose to a Frey, Aegon will disown me forever,” Jon said simply, which had her giggling.

She almost at the top of the steps when she realized he was not following. “Aren’t you going to your chambers?” she asked, cocking her head. 

Jon, still standing against the wall, shrugged. “Perhaps we shouldn’t be seen leaving the cellar together. I’d rather not inspire any more gossip at your expense. You go ahead first.” 

At the thought of this being their point of departure, a frenzied idea seized Arya immediately. She couldn’t leave with just a good night, not after all that. Balerion was purring in her arms, and she held him tighter, hoping her courage wouldn’t leave her. 

“Is something wrong?” Jon asked, confused at seeing her paralyzed by the door. 

Before she could doubt herself any longer, Arya skipped down the steps and towards him. Balancing on her toes, she reached up and planted a soft kiss on Jon’s cheek. 

Her lips tingled where they met his skin, and when she pulled away, she could swear she tasted lightening. Jon gazed at her with wide eyes, frozen. 

“Thank you,” Arya said meaningfully with a half-smile, “for coming after me.”

With that, she turned on her heel and bolted through the door, her heart racing with her, leaving a dragon prince to stare after her in wonder. 

Chapter Text

“Is it like this,
In Death’s other kingdom?“

He quoted mantra-like in quiet tones, and looked into the mirror. Aegon regarded his reflection with detached curiosity, as if it were a stranger’s body he was merely observing.

“Waking alone
At the hour when we are-“

Gilded black steel glistened in the dim daylight like a dark ocean, undisturbed. Thin bands of silver decorated the surface, engraved with Valyrian symbols of good fortune. A roaring three-headed dragon sat proudly on his breastplate, made of rubies that glistened like drops of blood.

”Trembling with tenderness-“

Every piece of metal had been crafted to fit this body, every glittering jewel dripping with luxury. As if sculpted from the skin of a dragon itself, blazing with ferocity. Aegon stared in the mirror and at the perfect face with the perfect armour, searching for a moment of imperfection, the shadow of the prince beneath.

But only his father, the perfect king, stared back at him, as he always did these days. A ghost of his future, carved into his skin.

“Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.”

Aegon had always found little to admire in perfection, and that was in part why he did as much to disturb it as possible. Life, nature itself, was a wildness that defied definition. Oh, and people were so like nature, deliciously imperfect and changing with all the sudden chaos of the universe: dynamically, passionately and occasionally breathtakingly.

“For Thine is the Kingdom.“

So with the casual devastation of a tsunami, he had swept through his years chasing that fascinating rawness he knew lay beneath the impeccable surface, never quite knowing what he’d find yet savouring the challenge.

“For Thine is...” he repeated.

And he had found such wonders already: from stiff upper-lip lords with a raging libidos to the indigenous tribes he’d encountered whilst lost in the sands of the Dornish sea, who cared not for silks and courtly manners but for the skies and seas and the worlds in-between.

But that was all behind him now. He was but a prince, a would-be king, an heir to a dynasty. Perfection was all that was to be expected of him, now and always - so once again, Aegon found himself dangling by a thread, stifled in tedium. 

“Life is...” he frowned, searching for the last line to finish with a flourish.

Existing in this timeless abyss, his heart slipping through his fingers and melting into stone. 

“For Thine is the-“

An ill-timed cue: the sound of a blaring horn filled the tent and cut him off, followed by a wave of applause. Like a hidden orchestra, laughter and excitement clashed together over and over in a ragged symphony. A quieter, albeit no less enthusiastic, applause erupted within the tent.

“That was beautiful, Your Grace!” gushed a young woman’s voice.

Aegon blinked, waking from reverie. He glanced over his shoulder with a frown. “It wasn’t finished,” he told her.

The courtesan blushed prettily and raised a sheepish hand to her face. The beads in her intricately braided hair clicked as she looked down. “I-well, forgive me, Your Grace, I-I didn’t know. I’ve not heard this song before.”

“Of course you haven’t, my dear,” Aegon declared mildly and turned away from the mirror. “It was only written this morning.”

“Oh! Who’s the bard? Are they famous?”

“Of a sort. One may even call him royalty.” He sauntered across the tent and towards the chaise his guest had sprawled herself over. Outside, the clash and jeers of the first jousts fell into background murmur. He had time before his debut on the field, so Aegon sought one of his favourite ways of soothing his nerves. 

Taria, one of his best girls from Chatoya’s, beamed as he drew closer. Black curls fell about a round face, velvet in its softness. She had large, wide eyes that lent an innocent charm despite her exceedingly un-innocent silk dress, which fell open to reveal enough dark flesh that could drive a man wanton with desire.

Is it like this,
In Death’s other kingdom?

Aegon tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and lifted her chin with a single gloved finger. Her gaze smouldered and he enjoyed the sight tremendously. “Handsome too, if I may say so myself,” he purred, winking at her.

Taria’s blush deepened and she exclaimed innocently, “Oh, the King! How wonderful! I’ve heard the Gods envy his singing!”

Aegon dropped his hand as if scalded, frowning. “My father hasn’t sang a note in years. He hasn’t written one for even longer.” His voice was flat.

His companion’s face fell and she looked puzzled, before something clicked in place and her dazzling smile returned. “Then it must be Prince Jon!” Her eyes drifted dreamily as she sighed, “He’s so romantic.”

A clank of metal resounded around the tent as Aegon took a step back in disbelief. “You’re joking,” he said bluntly with a little chuckle. “My brother is as romantic as a dead fish.”

“Oh no, not at all!” Taria protested, placing a hand dramatically against her heart, “He’s so-so-“ she floundered for the right word.

“Dreary?” Aegon offered helpfully.

“So gallant! Knows how to make a girl feel special! I bet he’s a poet as well. He has that look about him.” She nodded with firm assurance.

Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness

He couldn’t help it, Aegon burst out laughing. Bending down, he planted an affectionate kiss on her head and moved to take a seat at the table in the centre of the tent. He reached over for a flask of water. “I think you have my dear brother confused for another, Taria,” he told her with a smile and poured himself a cup, “given his disposition to avoid girls at any cost. He finds the business of pleasure all terribly distasteful, unfortunately.” 

“Oh,” she blinked at him, pouting, “he didn’t seem so bothered when he danced with me a few days ago.”

Aegon paused in the middle of a sip. “Come again?”

“Dancing!” Taria jumped up excitedly and raised her arms, as if held by a spirit. “Down by the fish markets. He danced with all of us! Made us feel like fancy ladies, he did.” She giggled as she twirled about the tent, spinning round and round in circles. Aegon grinned at the sight. “Oh,” she sighed, “I hope he comes back. We all miss him terribly. Him and his lady friend. I liked her too, she was nice to everyone.”

Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone

Aegon shook his head in pity. “I think someone’s fooled you rather spectacularly. I assure you, I know my brother. So chaste, he makes the High Septon look like a cheap whore - pardon my language.”

Taria stopped and looked as if she wanted to argue further, but stopped herself short. Instead, she blushed and bit her lip, smiling coyly at him. Clasping her hands behind her back, she stepped lightly towards him, her soft curves framed by the dim sunlight in the tent. 

“I’m only teasing you, Your Grace,” she giggled, tracing a finger along the grooves of the table. She looked at him through her eyelashes. “Your bard is gullible as he is dashing.” 

Aegon leaned back in his chair and licked his lips as she drew near. “Mocking a prince is high treason, you know,” he laughed. 

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars

Reaching for her hand, he gently pulled her towards him and into the closest chair. Taria rested her elbows on the wood to lean in close and he smelt faint traces of cheap perfume and sweat off her skin. She looked up at him with wide eyes, lips parted expectantly. 

He reached over and grabbed a cup sitting by her hand. “How is your daughter doing?” Aegon asked formally, pouring another cup of water for his guest. “Has Chataya granted you any time off as we’d discussed the other night?”

Taria sighed and accepted the offered cup with a grateful nod, “Not yet, no. Jayde is doing well, Your Grace. Got her first tooth and everything.” She forced a smile. “It’s not so bad. Chataya lets me nurse her between visitors. Some aren’t even allowed that much. Men don’t like seeing it. Turns them off, they say.”

Aegon scoffed, a crease between his eyebrows. Idly, he ran a finger along the edge of his cup. “Weak men, perhaps. Love having tits in their face, but still clutch their pearls at the sight. It’s outrageous that you were put to work mere days after giving birth. Dangerous and stupid.”

“I needed the money.”

In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

“Precisely why we’ll have a new policy that grants time with full wages for new mothers. It’s preposterous that you’re all punished for a motherhood you’re forced into,” Aegon grumbled, shaking his head. “It need not be years but perhaps some months, and I’m sure establishments such as Chatoya’s can handle the expenditure. She’s hardly hurting for business.”

Taria gazed at him as if he’d hung the moon for her, “That would mean more than we can ever say, Your Grace.”

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion 
And the act
Falls the Shadow

He sighed and rubbed his hand tiredly over his face, feeling a thousand years old. “There’s just...so much I want to do,” he admitted sadly, “so much I want to change.” He thought of the list he kept under his bed, all his daring dreams for the world he’d one day inherit. Dreams they may remain, he thought morosely. 

His friend patted his arm gently. “You’re the heir to the King. You can do anything you want. They’ll listen to you.” 

For Thine is the Kingdom

Aegon smiled without humour. “One would think, but not quite. I am both free and imprisoned. Indispensable, yet utterly invisible. I am not so much myself as I am a character, a performer in a play whose lines have already been written....” He trailed off, staring at a spot on the table. 

“But you’ll be King,” Taria frowned, “the most powerful man in the world. Who could deny you anything you desire?” 

Between the conception
And the creation 
Between the emotion 
And the response
Falls the Shadow

Aegon played with his gloves, eyes cast downwards and chest tightening. He opened his mouth to respond when a rustle of a tent flap caught his attention. 

Taria bolted upwards and lowered herself in a deep curtsy. “Your Grace,” she mumbled with a bowed head. 

Rhaenys gave a short nod, glancing over the courtesan’s revealing sheer dress. Her lips pressed together tightly and she cleared her throat. “Your services are no longer required,” she announced. “Leave us.” 

With a quick glance towards him, Taria curtsied once more, mumbled courtesies, and bolted from the tent. 

Aegon watched her go with a sigh, turned towards his betrothed, and froze. 

Rhaenys stood like dark desire, silent with her hands clasped in front of her, staring at the floor. Her hair was long and loose, tumbling about her naked shoulders; she was so golden now, her skin a sun-kissed brown against her red dress, as if she had set the sky on fire to wrap herself in it.

The simplicity and the beauty of the image – of her – struck him hard.

Life is very long

Dark eyes suddenly flicked up to bore into him, unreadable as always. 

And as always, Aegon felt like a child being admonished for breaking something. 

“She wasn’t here to service me,” he quickly said, moving around the table. “I asked her here to...to talk.” He winced. It sounded unbelievable in his own head too. 

Rhaenys raised an eyebrow. “Ah yes, of course. That’s why one pays a whore. For conversation,” she said dryly. “I thought we were past this, Egg. You need not lie to me about your indulgences, I am well aware of everything you do.” 

“I’m wearing armour, Rhaenys,” Aegon rebuked flatly, holding his arms up to show her the heavy metal strapped on his body, “it’s not made for a quick fuck. I can’t even take a piss in this damn thing.” He lowered his arms and gave her a pointed look. “Does that convince you of my sainthood?” 

His bride-to-be sniffed delicately and raised a single black eyebrow. “There’s nothing saintly about you, Egg. But...perhaps you deserve the benefit of the doubt. For now.” The edges of her lips lifted in a soft smile and Aegon felt his chest ache. She stepped carefully towards him. Her eyes glimmered with a streak of promise that defied definition, a contradiction in their dark depths which proclaimed her entirely his and entirely alien. 

Suddenly, she was standing right in front of him, a sweet scent clinging to the dewy softness of her neck. Before she could protest, Aegon dipped in to press his lips against her pulse and felt triumphant when he heard a sharp intake of breath. Oh, this could go very differently. He raised a hand to rest lightly on her waist, pulling her closer against him until his nose was buried in her hair. Rhaenys released a soft sigh that tingled in his ear like a lullaby. 

Between the desire
And the spasm 
Between the potency
And the existence

A wild thought struck him to forfeit the entire tourney and take her right there in the middle of a tent, less than a hundred metres from the rest of the realm. 

The scandal if they were heard, his princess all ruffled and thoroughly debased, the tent in absolute chaos, their clothes -

“Why would you use a whore for idle chatter?” 

And like smoke, the fire in his chest drifted away and he barely restrained a groan. He pushed her back gently from the shoulders to search her face. Rhaenys looked back impassively.

“Am I not allowed to?” Aegon asked, a little more forcefully than he intended. “Or would you prefer if I’d fucked her instead? Would that make more sense?” 

The barest of flinches passed across Rhaenys’ face before it smoothed over once more. He almost felt guilty until she replied, “You’re not filling their heads with fantasies again, are you?” 

“Oh for Gods’ sake, not this again,” Aegon muttered under his breath, turning away from her. He walked over to the mirror and pretended to fiddle with his gloves to avoid her eyes. 

“Yes, this again, because you’re enjoying being their hero a little too much. What did you promise her?” 

He swallowed, still looking down. “I don’t have time for this. The joust is starting -“ 

“If you had time for her, you have time for me. What did you promise her, Egg?” she pressed. 

There was a long pause until the prince finally yielded and told her his plan. 

He heard a quiet sigh and an, “Oh, Egg -“

“They use them like dogs!” Aegon burst suddenly, whipping around to glare at her. “They abuse them like - like they don’t mean anything or they’re not human and I’m supposed to just...let it happen? And what, focus on other stupid things like Father does? What sort of king will I be if I don’t fight for the people who need me?” 

Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow

“A king who survives,” Rhaenys said simply, hands folded gently across her stomach, a picture of serenity. Like some sort of pillar of certainty in their perfect world, and Aegon found himself hating her for it. “What you propose will not be tolerated by the lords nor the brothel-keepers who would be forced to pay twice as much with no reward. They’ll not obey your demands.” 

“I’ll make them,” Aegon frowned. “It will be law. They have to obey or they’ll be imprisoned.” 

Rhaenys rolled her eyes. “You’re going to throw every brothel-keeper and lord who defies you into prison? They’ll call you a tyrant.” 

“It only needs to be a few to set an example-“

“How many brothels exist in all Seven Kingdoms, Egg? Do you plan on sending guards to every door to ensure they’re doing as you asked?”

“If I must-“

“How many men do you think you have to spare on this door-knocking adventure? How do you intend to enforce such a policy without the support from the lords - for they will not tolerate it. Not anytime soon, I’m sure. They are loathed to reach into their pockets for anything that does not fill them further.” 

“They’ll fall in line or they’ll be disciplined until they do-“

“Oh, so now you’re willing to risk a rebellion to get what you want? The last time a king forced his will on the unwilling, we had a war - or have you already forgotten?”

For Thine is the Kingdom 

Aegon let out a disbelieving laugh. “You’re not really comparing this to the Mad King burning liege lords to get his cock up?” 

“It doesn’t matter what the context is, Egg,” Rhaenys insisted, moving forward to rest her hand on his shoulder. “We cannot afford to defy the lords. Our crown will not survive it, and our dynasty - our family - will cease to exist. We no longer have the luxury of changing the world as we see fit. Grandfather made sure of it. Mother and Father have gifted us a fragile peace but we are a single mistake, a single scandal away from unravelling it all. The less we do, the less we change or say -“

“Or think, or breathe, or feel -“

“The better,” Rhaenys finished firmly. “Our duty commands it. Our family depends on it.” 

“When our duty strips away the last of our humanity, what will remain? Statues forged of gold, glittering and hollow. Not a family, surely. Is that the future you wish for?” 

Her expression faded, and in her eyes, he saw uncertainty. She cleared her throat and something hardened in her face, something terribly sad. “If that is the price I have to pay to keep what we have, then so be it.” She reached for his hand then and tried for a smile, “Let’s not dwell on such things. This is your big day and I want it to be perfect for you. And I was thinking,” she looked down shyly, stroking his knuckles with a finger, “if we might celebrate tonight. Just the two of us. It’s been so long since you’ve come by and, well, I do miss you.” She glanced at him through her eyelashes, her face painfully hopeful. 

This is the way the world ends. 

Aegon’s mouth twisted in a cruel smile. He didn’t want to hurt her and he would sorely regret his next words - but at that moment, he didn’t care. He just wanted to crack, to smash, to shatter this visage of perfection she carried. To remind himself that she was human, as chaotic and beautiful as she could be. 

Carefully, he took his hand back and shrugged. “I would but I’m afraid I have other plans. Jeyne Mallister’s invited me to a private dinner,” he lied, “and you know how I hate to disappoint. I’d see you afterwards, but sadly, she’s also asked for a tour of my private quarters - and well, you know how long these things can go on for.” He winked. 

Her face then would beat at him later, again and again, gentle, implacable as falling leaves. Her eyes glimmering with unshed tears, filled with burning fury; but there, a vulnerability that made her seem so soft, so fragile. He almost reached out for her when she turned wordlessly and ran from the tent, silks whirling behind her. 

Not with a bang but with a whimper.

He watched her leave and finished his song and swallowed the urge to break something. 

oOo

“You Grace? It’s almost time.” 

His squire found him thrown over the chaise, face shoved unceremoniously into a cushion. If the boy found anything strange about the scene, he had the wisdom not to show it. 

With an undignified groan, Aegon sat up and patted his disrupted hair down. At the sight of the silhouette at the tent entrance, he grumbled, “Finally, I thought you’d all forgotten about me.” The sooner the joust was over, the sooner he could crawl into bed - alone, as he’d always intended. 

His squire bowed quickly, already retrieving his helmet. “I assure you, Your Grace, the crowds have only grown more excited in anticipation of your arrival.”

“How gracious of them,” the prince dead-panned. “Let’s just get going, Podrick. I can’t bear to be in this stupid suit for a moment longer.” 

Stepping out of the tent, Aegon blinked blearily at the sudden brightness. The heat didn’t seem so bad at first, until the searing sunlight soaked into his armour and he felt as if he was being cooked alive. 

He breathed in sharply as his eyes turned to the field and the crowds beyond. The place looked utterly amazing; strung with red and black decorations, thronged with an undulating sea of hundreds of people who talked and shouted over the pounding music that beat to the rhythm of Aegon’s heart. 

On his right stood the royal stands, cloaked in silks. He caught glimpses of his mother and father from the shadowy podium, but no sign of his sister. 

Aegon let out a sigh and carried on towards the end of the field, where his horse was being prepped. His eyes trailed towards a dark figure hovering at the edge, standing apart from the rest of the competitors. Noticing the keen glances thrown his way, he lifted his head, pushed his shoulders back and slapped a practiced smirk on his face. Perfection was expected of him, now and always. 

“Your Grace, we met at dinner, remember?” 

“Looking forward to seeing you out there, Your Highness.” 

“Prince Aegon - an honour, truly, my name is-“

He smiled and shook everyone’s hand, careful not to dwell long enough to be captured in conversation. Deftly dancing through the eager faces, Aegon finally managed to slip next to the lone man dressed in armour not so different to his own. 

“I see you’ve finally deigned us with your presence,” Jon snorted, throwing him a glance. “Get lost somewhere?” 

Aegon shrugged, hoping he looked nonchalant. “Too many screaming girls in the way. Had to fight for my life just to get through.” He sighed dramatically. “T’is difficult to be so desired, I almost wish I wasn’t so handsome. Almost, of course.” 

Jon laughed, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes - which, Aegon noticed curiously, kept wandering back to the crowds. He followed his brother’s gaze towards a small group of dark-haired men, a red-headed boy, and a girl. In the centre sat Lord Stark, who was currently engaged in conversation with another Northerner. His two children seemed to bicker over a small bag of almonds. The boy stood up suddenly and held the bag over his head. His sister jumped up and, laughing, tried to swipe it from his hand. Arya Stark. The little wolf with a tongue, he remembered.

Jon was staring at them with an almost wistful expression on his face. Or, rather, he must be staring at Lord Stark. Yes, of course, Aegon thought to himself, he’s clearly terribly nervous about performing in front of his uncle. Poor thing. 

He suddenly clapped Jon on the shoulder in sympathy, causing the other man to jump in surprise. “Worry not, brother,” Aegon told him cheerfully, “I’m sure Lord Stark wants this as much as you do.” 

“What?” Jon looked utterly bewildered.

“For you to win...and make him proud. Isn’t that what you want?” 

“Yes! Yes, the joust, of course, right right right right, the joust. Winning the joust. For Lord Stark. That’s - that’s exactly what I was thinking. The joust. And Lord Stark. Yes.” Jon nodded his head once, then twice, then a third time again. 

Aegon frowned. “Are you alright? You’re distracted. Is something wrong?” 

“Your Grace, in position!” 

Jon looked over as the announcer called his name, ignoring the question. The crowd’s frenzy calmed to an intrigued murmur as they turned their attention to the field. On the other side, Aegon caught sight of Walder Frey, or Black Walder as they called him, mounting his steed. His beady eyes stared unblinkingly at Jon as he put his helmet on, his mouth almost salivating in hunger. Aegon felt an uncomfortable pit in his stomach at the sight. 

Behind him, he heard Jon climb his own steed. The horse whined softly as he patted its neck soothingly. Jon’s eyes kept darting back up to the crowds and he almost trotted off when his squire tried handing him his lance. Quickly, Aegon stepped forward and grabbed the reins, tugging until Jon looked down, confused. 

“I don’t know what’s going on with you,” Aegon hissed, “but whatever it is, you need to focus. Clear your mind. Black Walder is riding against you and I wouldn’t put it past him to unseat a prince to stroke his ego. Don’t assume he’ll back down. Is that understood?” 

Jon scoffed. “I know what I’m doing, Egg, I’m better at this than you are.” 

“Just focus. I can’t have you losing against some damn Frey.” 

“Alright, alright, quit smothering me.” 

Aegon took a step back and watched Jon trot towards the start line. His brother threw one last look at the crowds, then lowered his visor and steadied his lance. The crowds were gearing up in excitement now, several voices calling Jon’s name and waving handkerchiefs in the air. On the other side of the field, Black Walder strolled up slowly to his start line, his wiry black beard poking out beneath his helmet. He stood uncommonly still, his attention solely on Jon. 

Aegon turned to see their father standing at the dais, leaning over the rails, apprehension painted across his face. Above, the three-headed dragon stirred in the slow breeze, its six eyes fixed on the ground below. 

Time passed smoothly and silently as the tension pulled taut, drifting ahead like dandelion seeds in the wind, as they waited and waited and waited -

The horn blared, and Jon was off. 

“Steady now,” Aegon murmured as he watched Jon lean forward and lift his lance close to his body, keeping the weight centre and stable. He picked up speed as did Black Walder, both men lifting off their horses as they headed for collision like waves in a storm. 

At the very last breath, Black Walder slid across his saddle to narrowly skirt around Jon’s lance, hunching his body close so it flew over his head. Several boos spread around the audience at the cop-out, but a greater wash of uncertainty tingled along Aegon’s skin. Black Walder was better than he’d expected. 

He kept his eyes fixed on Jon, anticipation making his focus razor-sharp. Come on, brother, he thought forcefully, get it over with quickly and painlessly. 

On the other side of the field, Jon gathered himself up and reared his horse. His back was straight and his stare unflinching, gazing down the field at his rival. Shadows clung to his armour: a dark, gleaming statue that hid his icy stare – and half-revealed it as he bent forward, ready for the charge. 

Satisfaction ripped through Aegon as he watched Black Walder falter in hesitation. 

Like a war cry, the horn blared once more and soon, the men were colliding into each other. Jon had anticipated Black Walder’s evasion and leaned across his saddle, giving the other man no room to escape. Black Walder kept his own lance low until the final second, where he raised it up and met Jon’s attack. Their lances shattered forcefully like glass, the sound ripping through the air in pure destruction. Somewhere, the prince thought he heard a woman yell. 

A collective groan spread across as the crowd as Frey wobbled on his saddle, but remained seated. Aegon saw the man grip his right arm and curl over instinctively. 

Unease rising from his stomach, he rushed forward as Jon approached and was immediately stopped by stewards guarding the starting area from wayward visitors. “Jon!” he called out, “Jon, are you hurt?” 

His brother didn’t respond, but he didn’t need to. Aegon could see him clutching his shoulder and muffled curses were coming from his helmet. The impact from the lance shattering had been more serious than Aegon had thought, but he knew Jon would pull through. He had to. 

“Shake it off!” he yelled, more for his own benefit than his brother’s. “Focus on the next run!” 

From the corner of his eye, he saw a flurry of movement from the centre of the stands. Lord Stark and other Northerners were bending over the Lady Arya, who was clutching her own shoulder in shock. Aegon thought little of it, until he saw Jon’s head turn and almost drop his new lance at the sight. 

The horn blared again, but Jon was a beat behind as he pushed forward, his head only turning away from the stands after he’d set off. He was slower to hit full-speed this time, unusually hesitant as he lifted his lance into position. Aegon decided that propriety could go to hell in that moment.

“Get your head out of your ass and knock the little shit off his horse!” he shouted, much to the shock of the jousters around him.

He had no idea if his brother could hear him. He could hardly hear himself, his heart was beating so violently against his chest. The air was stifled, empty of anything except the weighty apprehension and his own puffs of breath. As if the whole world had crumbled into a void, and all that was left was this moment stretching endlessly. 

The men drew closer, closer...until the sound of their collision smashed through the air like a barrage of explosions, shattering and loud and overwhelming. Jon pulled away, struggling to keep upright. On the other side of the post, Black Walder was rolling around in the dirt, clutching his side and groaning. Two young men quickly ran on the field to carry him away. 

In half a blink, it was all over. 

The screams of the crowds assailed their ears. So many that their voices were one buzzing wind, so many that for a moment, Aegon struggled to catch his brother on the other side of the field, sliding off his saddle amidst the congratulating knights. He glimpsed Jon’s pale face and pained smile through a small gap, and waited for the relief to wash over. Except....except fear crawled over his skin instead, making the hairs on his arm stand on edge. Something was wrong, something was very wrong. 

This is the way the world ends.

Perhaps it was just his own nerves, nothing to worry about. Jon was shaken, but he was fine. He was fine, and he’d won and all was -

“He’s hurt! Someone look after him, he’s hurt! He’s - Father, let me go, they need to know!” 

This is the way the world ends. 

Aegon turned towards the frantic yelling coming from the stands, and saw Arya Stark attempt to elbow her way through the crowds to reach the jousting area down the field. To her indignation, Lord Stark had stopped her just before she could leap down and run. She was squirming in his grip angrily, shouting, “The prince is hurt! Father, no one is doing anything. They need to know that the prince is hurt!” 

Aegon snapped back to Jon, the dread in his stomach screaming in his ears and blurring his vision. He couldn’t see him anymore, his view blocked by dozens of heads fluttering around the field. The panic reared its ugly head in his chest like a dragon drowning in ice. 

This is the way the world ends. 

“Your Grace?” an urgent voice called his attention from behind. “Your Grace, the King has requested your presence back at the palace immediately. The joust has been suspended for the rest of the day. It’s Prince Jon, Your Grace.” 

“Not with a bang, but a whimper,” Aegon whispered. 

Chapter Text

He was not having a good day.

That wasn’t anything new for Jon Targaryen, but the undercurrent of pain that came with his black mood was. 

He desperately wanted to open his eyes but everything felt so unnaturally heavy. It was as if a fog had settled over his head, dragging him down to the depths of slumber. Even the pain felt shrouded in veils; whispers surrounding him like falling ice and a promise of a storm just beyond.  

As he lay on what he was fairly sure was his own bed, his shoulder feeling as though it had shattered in a dozen pieces, it occurred to him that there was a great deal of noise around him.

Specifically, the sounds of desperate yelling piercing his ear drums like sharpened daggers: relentless and unyielding. There was a soft sniffling almost lost amidst the chaos, which made Jon feel far worse than any of the yelling. He couldn’t quite fathom what all the ruckus was about. Gods, he wasn’t dying, was he? 

On his first joust too. How humiliating! His mood sank further and he tuned out the chaos around him. Instead, with an internal huff, Jon succumbed to the blissful embrace of dreamless slumber.

oOo

When Jon woke again, he hadn’t the faintest idea how much later it was – an hour, a day, a week, a month, or perhaps even a year. All he knew was that he was still in his bed and the sheets covering him were heavier than he would have liked. 

He had the odd sensation of floating in a darkened sea that shivered all about him. Soulless and slow, the tide was pulling him somewhere, but he could feel nothing bar the slide of silkiness on his arms.

As his senses began to sharpen, he heard a relentless buzzing in his ears. If he strained hard enough, it almost sounded like a girl whispering fervently in his ear, her throat clogged with tears as she begged him to stay awake, to stay strong, to simply stay. Gentle sobs wracked the back of his head, and Jon reached out towards them, touching the shimmering string that bonded them together. In a daze, he glimpsed a pale face, lying in a tightly wounded ball in the dark. It was a picture that made Jon feel vulnerable: Arya Stark, alone and afraid. 

Jon tried to move, to call out to her, but all he could manage was a slight fidget. His body seemed sluggish. Considering he had assumed he was dying a moment ago, it wasn’t unreasonable for his body to be unresponsive, but surely he could manage something? He couldn’t bear to see Arya weep for much longer. 

Something gently came into contact with his arm. Tilting his head and opening his eyes ever so slightly, Jon caught a glimpse of a silhouette framed against the moonlit window. Regal and crowned with melancholy; the figure rested a light hand against his wrist. 

Lost in the grips of consciousness, the strains of a ghostly but familiar lullaby slipped from their lips. 

Jon laboured to hear it – faded yet tantalising, like the low note of a violin. Gentle fingers ruffled his hair, twisting around his curls.  

A drift of serenity, warm as a summer kiss, washed over him and was gone before he could follow it. Beneath it, he heard something he almost recognised, something that raked over his heart and made longing flare about him like a halo. 

Quiet words; a voice that echoed through him like his own heartbeat.

"Remember, my darling. This, too, shall pass.” 

"Mother?" Jon whispered wildly, before he could stop himself, his voice reverberating in the abyss. 

But there was no answer. Only shadows and a winter wind singing through the empty space around him. 

oOo

The third time, Jon woke slowly. Light inched into his awareness; a low, rhythmic heartbeat thumped in his ears. Somewhere in the back of his head, a persistent buzzing needled at him incessantly. He was too warm and stiff, lying on his back with his shoulder strapped into something. His eyes opened almost reluctantly, squinting against the crisp morning brightness.

His room was empty. 

Dread coiled up in his stomach, rising like an adder from a basket. The joust. The collision. Pain. Arya. And then darkness. 

Struggling to sit up, Jon looked down to study himself. His shirt had been removed and tight bandages wrapped around his shoulder and torso. Tentatively, he prodded his flesh - and swallowed a gasp of pain. Jon found himself looking away then, somehow unable to bear the intangible weight of the sight, heavy as a nightmare. 

Sound entered his world: muffled voices talking in hushed whispers outside his door. 

“Absolutely not. The prince is not to be disturbed under any circumstances. Strict orders from the King and Queen. No exceptions.” 

“He’s my brother! I’ll see him when I damn well please, thank you very much. Now move, or I’ll move you myself!” 

“Egg, hush, let me handle this.” There was a quick clearing of a throat followed by a too-sweet voice: “Ser Oswell, we’re so relieved you’re feeling better! We all missed you terribly. Isn’t that right, Egg?” 

There was an incoherent grumble as a response. 

“Now, Ser Oswell, you must understand how anxious we both feel for our brother, and how much our minds would be at ease if we could just...see him for a few minutes? It would mean so much to us, truly.” 

“I do understand, Your Grace, but I cannot let you pass. The prince must be left to rest, as commanded.” 

“Now, you listen here, you old toad -“ 

Jon reacted before Aegon could insult the Kingsguard further and cause a scene. “I’m awake!” he called out. “Let them in, please.” 

A hush fell outside the door, before it was thrown open with a bang. “Jon!” two voices sang earnestly and hurried into the room. Aegon’s face split in two as he wrapped Jon in a painful hug, Rhaenys hovering behind. Jon bit back a groan as his shoulder screamed in discomfort, but he found himself sinking into the embrace, grateful for the support. 

“We were so worried.” Rhaenys’ quiet voice was unusually loud, shattering the heavy silence of the moment. She sniffed, her usual calm demeanour tethering dangerously on the edge. 

"You certainly love your theatrics. Collapsing in front of the realm on the first day of the joust? A little dramatic even for you, brother mine,” Aegon drawled, pulling away to appraise him. A sardonic smile curled his mouth.

He yelped in surprise when Rhaenys slapped his head and hissed, “Be nice!” Shaking her head ruefully, hair forming a fleeting dark halo in the air, she turned back to Jon. “How do you feel?” 

Jon hesitated, his hand lifting to rub the bandages anxiously. “Never better,” he deadpanned and forced a smile. He caught Aegon staring at him with the oddest expression, his face closing off as soon as their eyes met. 

The buzzing noise that had hummed like a distant choir in his head had not vanished, but grown worse and worse - he supposed it was the pain medicine they had given him muddling his connection with Arya. There seemed to be almost words in the sound; indistinct echoing fragments where there used to be clear conversation. 

‘Arya?’ he asked tentatively. 

If she had heard him, she gave no sign of it. Jon felt a brief moment of panic, searching for the golden thread that tied them together, to feel it and know it still remained unravelled - 

He breathed a sigh of relief as he found it at the base of his thoughts, twining lazily towards the foggy presence hovering in his mind and soul. Jon decided not to dwell on why. 

"You two are quiet," he remarked aloud, his eyes flicking from on sibling to the other. They perched on either side of the bed, either sharing uneasy glances or smiling awkwardly at him, but offering nothing more. It was agitating. “I’m not dying, am I?” 

Rhaenys stared up at him in mute horror. “That’s not funny,” she hissed. 

"Then stop looking at me like that," Jon said firmly, almost crossing his arms over his chest, before thinking twice. “I’m not going to sit here with you both looking like you’re at my funeral.” 

"Oh, have you got somewhere else to be?” Aegon said, cocking an eyebrow. 

That wrung a reluctant smile from him; the sullenness brewing in his chest lightening to a soft honey warmth. 

"Of course not," Jon said dryly. "Though I wouldn’t mind getting out of this bed soon. How long was I out?” 

“Just a few days,” Rhaenys reassured, patting his hand. “Mother and Father had thought you’d be asleep for longer, so you’re already doing much better than we expected.” 

Aegon snorted, and hastily turned it into a cough at Jon’s puzzled look. 

“A few days? Why, is it serious? What’s happening with the tourney?” Jon pressed impatiently, fingering the bandages. 

Some of the mirth on Aegon’s face faded and he quickly looked away. Rhaenys’ smile froze on her face, her eyes widening imperceptibly. They stayed silent, the air static with something akin to anticipation, though cold and distant as the waning moon. 

Jon’s heart began hammering in his chest and he felt an uncomfortable weight sink through his stomach. “You’re not telling me something,” he said, his eyes narrowed and shrewd. 

His brother and sister faltered, their expressions unravelling like ripped lace. It was almost effortless to glimpse beyond their seamless facade; to bare the truth of their thoughts beneath the sunlight. 

“I…it...you...” Rhaenys began helplessly. 

Aegon was shaking his head. Jon stared, bewildered. All sorts of tragedies flitted through his mind, countless, and he sifted them for one he thought would hurt the most. And it was there, forming on the tip of his sister’s tongue -

The answer rushed at him all at once, and it was brutal. 

“I’m not getting better anytime soon, am I?” His voice was flat and distant in his ears. “And I’m out of the tourney.” 

He didn’t need to see their crestfallen faces to know he was right. 

His siblings’ faces blurred with tears as he felt himself fracturing. Jon had wanted so much, like a child, and he had been denied almost all of it. Suspended between heartbreak and fury, he fought to stop himself sliding into the dark depths of his thoughts. 

It was a hard battle: none of it seemed fair. The moment he craved most, the dream he carried in his most secret, shadowed core, had dangled before him - only to be stolen away in a breath. 

No...no, that wasn’t right. It was stolen from him a moment before, when he’d seen Arya clutch her shoulder as the pain crippled his own. When the bond that tied them together had crossed into the physical world and made her his mirror, in more ways than one. How could he have expected to compete further, knowing his life was no longer the only one at risk? 

Is this to be my tragedy? To have my every choice, my every desire sacrificed at the altar of another? To walk the fine line between having everything and nothing at all for the rest of my life? 

"How bad is it?” Jon asked, grasping at the only thought that came into his mind. Dizziness and exhaustion sought to overwhelm him, but he thrust them back, somehow forcing his weary voice not to buckle. “Will it ever be the same again? Can I still use a sword?” 

"One day, I’m sure.” Rhaenys quickly jumped in, patting his hand in what he assumed she found reassuring. “The lance shattered your shoulder, but Maester Pycelle says that if you rest and recover properly, you’ll be better before you know it-“

“Will it ever be the same again?” Jon repeated through gritted teeth, levelling her with a hard stare.

His sister offered a careful smile and Jon saw through her exactly; the arch of the words, the condescending endearment, always matched by that note of control. “There are no guarantees, Jon, but we’re hopeful. It’s all we can do right now.” 

He imagined she thought she was a comfort. Instead, everything about her angered him.

His sister’s impervious nature in the face of despair had long been something admirable and almost enviable. It had been his backbone on so many occasions when Jon had wanted nothing more but to crumble. 

But this...this was different. Jon did not want reassurances - quite the opposite. In any other moment, Jon would have been shocked, saddened, wounded by the cruel jape by the Gods; as if his life were some dark pantomime, played out amongst glittering mirrors. To be mocked relentlessly over and over again by the same disappointments, the same destroyed dreams, haunting him with what might have been.

And he would have sought Rhaenys in all her perfect restraint and let himself be reassured with promises of a day in the future when things would be better. A static smile and calm blue skies. 

Jon was rather fed up of clear mornings and royal charades. He wanted midnight storms. To be angry and loud and unapologetic. To let it all out, for once. 

"No," he snapped, pulling his hand back. “It isn’t. Bring me Pycelle.”

“Jon, there’s nothing more he can-“

“Bring him to me or I’ll find him myself. This isn’t a request.” 

“Look, I know you’re upset and this must be hard for you, but you need to relax and rest-“ 

“Will you please shut up?” Jon cut in with a snarl. His shoulder trembled in pain and he clenched his teeth against the white-hot daggers that sliced through his body in agony. Breathing heavily through his nose, he turned his cold eyes to his stricken sister. “I’m not some child to patronise! My fucking shoulder is broken and I need someone to fix it now. Either get me Pycelle or get out.” 

“Hey!” Aegon thundered, leaning forward to grab Jon’s attention. “Don’t be a prick. She’s just trying to help-“

“She can help by getting me the damn Maester,” Jon threw back. 

His brother narrowed his eyes at him, the pools of violet darkening into black. “Pycelle has done all he can. That’s what she’s trying to tell you. There’s nothing else but to rest and heal, Jon, trust me. Don’t you think that all of us are doing everything we can to help you?”

Jon imagined they expected him to agree. But he didn’t. He looked at both of them with a gaze as analytical and impersonal as if they had never met. Weighed, measured, and found chilling, no doubt. He tilted his chin up and gave them look for look, his eyes as grey and shadowed as if winter was waiting within him, summer already vanquished in his heart. 

Jon might regret his words one day, but there was little to be found right now, however.

“Why should you?” he challenged. “What difference does it make to any of you whether I can use my sword again? I’ll tell you what: absolutely nothing. It serves no purpose because I serve no purpose.”

“Jon, that isn’t true. We know how much it means to you-“ 

“Do you?” Jon threw back desperately. “How, Egg? How could you possibly know? You’re going to be King. Everything is going to be yours one day. But the sword is all I have. It’s all I’m good at - really, truly, good at. It’s something I worked hard for, just for me, and you’re telling me I might not even have that anymore? What am I without it?” 

Aegon stared at him, bewildered. “You’re our brother. This isn’t the end of the world. After all, you are a prince-“

“A prince locked away in this miserable castle with a father who keeps me hidden like some sort of crime he’s ashamed of. Aye, stuff of legends. And now I’m going to be a cripple, aren’t I? A bastard and a cripple, stuck here forever.” His voice grew steadily more hysterical, his lungs struggling for air. 

Rhaenys reached over to clasp his hand in hers and squeezed tightly. “Jon, that’s enough. I know this is all a little much right now but you’re being unreasonable. Everything will be fine. I won’t hear another self-pitying word from you.” She sat back and levelled him a hard stare, looking far too much like her mother. “Really, Jon, things could be so much worse.” 

It snapped something in him. 

Snatching his hand back viciously, he spat out, “I told you not to patronise me! I’m not throwing some tantrum and I don’t need either of you talking down to me as if I’m some spoiled child that needs some fucking perspective. Why are you even here?” he demanded. “Does it make you feel better to see your pathetic little half-brother? Or is no one giving Your Highnesses any attention so you’re here pretending to give a shit?” The last part felt particularly vicious, and a little unfair, but Jon felt better for it. 

“We’re here because we thought you needed us.” 

So soft and emotionless, Aegon’s words struck him with a ferocity that all his anger could not have achieved. Jon gathered himself, not allowing it to rattle him.

“Then I suppose we’re all disappointed.”

Aegon looked straight at him. His eyes were the deep, cold black of an abyss. He had never looked so like Rhaegar, and Jon had never felt the similarities between them more keenly.

“I see,” the silver prince said. His voice was even and controlled. “It seems you need your rest. We’ll take our leave now. I’ll send Pycelle through, as requested. Rest well, brother.” 

Unable to bear any more glimpses of their pained expressions, Jon turned to the wrappings on his shoulder and pretended to fiddle with them. He did not look up as they moved towards the door, his eyes already beginning to burn with dry tears. 

oOo

The summer moon was distant. It gleamed in the evening sky like a silver coin, dipping behind the curtains as he slowly stepped through precise movements. Persistent pain dotted his shoulder and sweat bead his dark hair, sticking it uncomfortably to his forehead. Raising his right arm was excruciating, so Jon moved delicately from foot to foot, threading his practice sword with his other hand, testing his strength.

I can do this, he told himself fiercely, I’m stronger than this. I can do this, I can do this, I can -

A stab of merciless pain darted through his body and with a muffled cry, he dropped the sword. Breathing heavily, he glared at his shoulder before turning wearily towards the balcony windows to curse at the heavens. 

His reflection stared back at him: skin as colourless and bleak as the sky above, eyes dark and glittering like frost. His stillness served only to emphasise his fury; he had the contained energy of wildfire, and he didn’t doubt he would be capable of such casual devastation, had he been whole. 

Instead, he stood before the glass: an ordinary, broken man; lost in the smoke of a midnight that seemed so much darker now than it did before. As if all the light in the world had faded away, for one terrifying moment. 

Aegon’s stony face flashed in front of his eyes, and Jon almost physically recoiled. No. No, he wasn’t going to apologise. He was allowed to be angry. He was allowed to be frustrated. 

But you aren’t allowed to be unfair, his heart whispered. They’ve always cared. 

That’s not enough anymore, his mind hissed. 

Jon sighed. Perhaps this was a sign to finally sink down onto his bed at the end of what had been a too-long day. His head felt woolly, heavy from too much milk of the poppy and too little restful sleep. And always in the background was the frantic dance of Arya’s mind, moving to its own alien rhyme and rhythm.

Hour followed hour, draining by slowly while he tried to resist her insistent thoughts. Indigo permeated the sky, revealing scatted stars that gleamed like broken glass in the gap between his curtains.

Still he couldn't sleep. His shoulder burned beneath him and he was too hot, too cold, too uncomfortable. Arya hadn’t reached out to him yet in the hours since he’d awoken, but had remained buzzing in his ears like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch. He’d considered going to her instead, but something had stopped him. Was she upset with him? Had he hurt her? She had felt his pain at the joust, that much he’d seen. Did he just condemn her to months of agony as he healed, and she resented him for it? That wasn’t fair - he was as much a prisoner of this cage that bound them as she was. 

Jon sat up with a half-groan, half-snarl, hands tugging at his hair in the faint and futile hope that would get rid of his poisonous thoughts and all this ridiculous buzzing. He kicked at the duvet, tangled about him and wondered if the magic had worn away for Arya and she no longer wanted his company. He wondered why he cared. 

But she was half a spell herself, with the thrall of those silver eyes, stretching out beyond even the reach of the moon, immeasurable and amazing; eyes like the heart of winter hopes, and a spirit like a hurricane set on fire. 

Another hour, filled with useless thoughts. Thoughts of falling, and of blood in his mouth, dank and dirty. Memories of darkness pulsing through him, and of reaching out blindly in those moments of despair, grabbing at anything and reaching...

Her. 

Arya. Yes, they had shared a world together for one moment, like a shaft of light striking into a pit to find the darkness held crystal walls that flung back startling radiance. There had been things he hadn't expected - emotions he hadn't known he could possess and exhilarating feelings he found himself craving to embrace once more. 

Increasingly, it was getting harder and harder to resent being bound to her when the thought of her, the thought of everything their connection had brought them, sent his heart afloat. 

Wait. She had gone silent. Either she was asleep, finally or...

"Arya?" he asked, half-sitting up to peer at the other side of the room. Her presence in his mind was brighter than ever now, but her silhouette eclipsed the stars, those sharp features soft and shadowed in the deceptive night. 

And she was standing outside his window.

She rapped hard against the glass and tossed him a quirked eyebrow when he gaped at her in shock. “Aren’t you going to let me in? I’m not standing here waiting for you all night!” 

Startled to action, Jon hastily rushed over to throw open the balcony doors and moved to allow Arya to scramble through gracelessly. 

"Hello you," she answered lightly, gifting him a brilliant smile. She glided over to his bedside table, and lit a candle without so much as a by-your-leave. He squinted in the soft glow, until her face slipped into focus. "I thought you’d fallen asleep and I made all this effort for nothing.”

“How did you even get here?” Jon asked incredulously. “Were you....were you scaling the castle wall?”

Arya shrugged, nonchalant. “My brother Bran and I used to climb all over Winterfell as children. The Red Keep isn’t that much harder.” She tapped her chin in thought. “Though I did almost break into the wrong room. I think the lady thought I was some spirit come to haunt her and fainted.” 

“Did anyone see you? If someone catches you here-“

“Relax, Septa Jon. It’s the middle of the night and there was no one around. Which really ought to tell you how terrible your guards are. The fact your Kingsguard hasn’t burst through your door yet is mildly concerning. He’s a bit old, isn’t he?” 

Jon gaped at her. She spoke so casually, as if she hadn’t just climbed all over the face of the largest keep in Westeros to sneak into his room. Her head rested lightly on the wall as she appraised him, dark hair against stark white. The gentle moonlight softened her face and bent in silver lines along her skin, twisting into curves around her lithe figure. “What are you doing here, Arya?” he asked quietly. “You’re not in pain, are you?” 

Her small smile faded to a tight purse of her lips. She looked him over slowly, gaze running over the long winding bandages wrapped around his torso. Jon felt acutely aware that he stood shirtless, but the dressings for his shoulder more than covered his modesty. 

“I’m fine, Jon. It was just in the moment. But I needed to see for myself that you were alright,” she said simply, crossing her arms across her chest. “You’re hurt and...and I was worried.” 

‘And scared. For you.’ Her telepathic voice was gentle as a caress. Her eyes were half-open, showing only a smudged grey gleam through her lashes, but he had the feeling she was still watching him, alert.

"I’ve been better," he said quietly, and saw something sad flicker in her eyes, like a page caught on the wind and fluttering past him before he could read its secrets. "Maester Pycelle tells me that it’ll be a few months before I’ll be allowed to wield a sword again, but he thinks none of this will be permanent. It’s still too early to tell but I have to believe he’s right.” 

Her eyes widened a little and she pushed away from the wall to approach him. Slowly, too slowly, she raised a hand to finger his bandages with hesitation. Jon thought he could feel the burn of her touch scorching through the layers and imprinting under his skin. “I’m so sorry,” Arya whispered, tears thickening her voice. 

“For what? This has nothing to do with you.” 

A faint, strange frown quirked her mouth. "You can’t lie to me, remember?” She tapped the side of her head. “If I wasn’t in your head, if we were never bonded, Frey would never have hurt you. If we weren’t bonded, you wouldn’t be so afraid-“

“I’m not afraid-“ Jon began stubbornly.

“Afraid of competing because you think you’ll hurt me,” she cut in harshly. “Afraid of losing something so much a part of who you are, you think you’ll never be whole without it. Afraid you’ll always be trapped and never allowed to live a life you want. I know you’re thinking it because you can’t keep anything from me. Because we’re stuck together, and I’m sorry it ever happened.” She sniffled sadly. 

Jon searched her striking face, the pleasant curve of a mouth made for laughter, now twisted in regret. Her winter-pale skin had its own luminosity, but her darkening eyes revealed nothing, no ice and no fire; a blank slate of grey oblivion. 

“I’m not,” Jon murmured, wishing she’d look up at him. “Arya, you can’t blame yourself for what you can’t control. You know no more about this...this connection than I do. We’re more bonded than we think.” 

His voice held a snap; she pounced on the words as if she had been waiting to hear them. "Doesn’t that frighten you? Doesn’t that make you hate it?” 

Jon hesitated. How often had he raged against their link, despaired at it, pondered it? Had he ever feared it? Arya never seemed afraid - she’d faced each uncertainty as a challenge. Or perhaps he just hadn’t noticed. Did he really hate it? He couldn’t say. It was difficult to hate something capable of such loveliness, but as difficult to love something capable of such destruction. 

So he answered honestly; he would not allow himself to take on a guise. In the hush of midnight, within the stark intimacy of his bedroom walls, she was in his world now - and somehow, it seemed almost blasphemous to forsake the truth. "I don't know. I feel like I should. I feel like it’s a game and we just don’t know how to win.” 

"And that doesn’t scare you?" Arya challenged, taking a step forward. Her thoughts were hidden from him then, and he wondered if that was why he found himself leaning in. "It hurt you, Jon. It hurt both of us. What more has to happen before we start fearing it?” 

"I thought we were in control. I thought we make the rules.” 

"I thought so too." Her face held something close to regret. "But maybe we were wrong. Everything has changed now, Jon. This isn’t some fun little trick where we wander around in each other’s heads and play with magic. We’re done with this game. We have to break it.” 

Something uncomfortable twisted in Jon’s stomach. “You didn’t think it was so awful the other night.” 

Arya shrugged. "That was before we realised we could hurt each other. This link has us bound beyond belief.” She shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, crossing her arms against her chest. “And it isn’t letting me sleep either.” 

"Have you tried not climbing out of windows late at night?" Jon offered with a smirk.

She shot him an unimpressed glare. “It’s only because you’re already injured that I’m not smacking you right now. Maybe if you weren’t so loud, I’d get some rest. As it so happens, that’s also why I’m here. I haven’t actually slept properly in days.” Her cheeks reddened as she looked away. 

"What do you want me to do about it?" he said, watching the grey of her eyes dwindle into black like the tide. Yes, there were faint shadows on her face, and a little slowness in her voice. Really, it was remarkable she hadn’t fallen off his window ledge. 

She chewed her lip briefly, warring with herself about something he wasn’t privy to. After several long moments of silence, he was about to needle her again when she quietly asked, in a forced casual way, “Can I stay here for the night?” 

Jon nearly choked. "Here? In my room?"

She cringed, obviously finding it torturous. "It’s not what you think! I’m not trying to sleep with you, I swear. Well, I suppose I am, but not in that way! Just to be clear, I’m absolutely not here to fuck-“

"I understood the first time, Arya,” he quickly cut her off. “I just...but why?” 

She wrung her hands desperately. “While you were out, I-I just heard this buzzing in my head. It was like you were underwater or something, it’s hard to explain. I first thought the connection was getting weaker but that wasn’t it. It was like someone had scrambled my head up and I couldn’t sleep because all I could hear was this stupid buzzing and it made everything so fuzzy. I thought if I saw you, if I was close to you, it might stop.” Arya shrugged helplessly. “And it has.” 

Jon blinked at her stupidly, not quite sure what to say. “And you think sleeping in my bed is going to fix it?” 

"I didn’t say anything about sleeping in your bed. I just said it helps being close to you. Didn’t you hear a word I just said?” 

“I’m not letting a lady sleep on my floor.” 

She snorted and fought a smile, a dazzling curve of her mouth that was quite enough to knock his breath away a little. "Good thing I’m not a lady. I don’t care where I sleep, Jon. I just need a proper night’s rest. And unless you plan on drowning yourself in sweetsleep, I think you need me too.”

Jon eyed her uncertainly. “This is going to be hell to explain if anyone catches us.” 

“No one’s going to catch us,” Arya reassured him quickly. “I’ll be gone before anyone is awake. I just need a few good hours of peace. I promise we won’t get in trouble and you’ll still be a maiden in the morning.” 

Jon bit back a smile, his doubts crumbling under her bright resolve. 

"Fine. But you’re taking the bed," he said flatly. 

Arya rolled her eyes. "You’re hurt, stupid. You can’t sleep on the floor with your shoulder. You’re taking the bed.” 

“Either take the bed or I’m not letting you stay.” 

“That’s not fair. You won’t get to sleep either.” 

“My room, my rules.” 

“Fine!” She threw her hands up in exasperation. “But then we both share the bed. Don’t be daft, Jon,” Arya snapped when he started protesting. “It’s large enough for both of us to lie on without touching and the floor’s going to mess up your shoulder even more. You know I’m right.” 

He wracked his brain for more arguments, but nothing came to mind. With a sigh, Jon relented. “This is so improper.” 

“We’re long past that, Your Grace," Arya drawled, moving to one side of his bed. "Oh, do stop looking so scandalised, Jon. I’m hardly going to pin you down and ravish you. You won’t even know I’m here.” 

He felt a sudden rush of heat coursing through his body at the image, and hurried to squash it. Jon didn’t want to think about what her reaction would be if she caught a waft of his thoughts. 

"Good," he said hoarsely, carefully lowering himself on the other side, as far away from her as he could manage. “I guess, uh, sleep well?” 

Her heavy eyelids dropped, shielding the silver. "Yes, I think I will.” 

Chapter Text

Arya woke gently, sailing back to consciousness on the crests of sweet dreams. She felt warm as she lay on her side, her hand brushing against something. Her eyes opened almost reluctantly, squinting against the crisp morning brightness.

This wasn’t her room. 

This wasn’t her bed. 

She wasn’t alone. 

Anxiety pooled in the pit of her stomach as last night’s memories rushed back. The buzzing, the lack of sleep, Jon. And her, brazen under the moon, having the audacity to ask him to sleep with her. But searing sunlight was less forgiving and Arya felt heat rise in her cheeks in a deep blush. 

She stared at the sleeping profile of a boy who had one arm sprawled under his head. The other was resting beside her, hand spread close to her own. His quiet breath was calming in her ears and uncomfortably close.

Swivelling her head carefully, she gazed at his face. Jon didn't look any more pensive sleeping than he did awake. It was strange; he seemed younger almost, yet somehow terribly sad. She found herself looking away, strangely afraid the intangible weight of her gaze would wake him.

The twisted fabric of his bandages was directly in her vision, mere inches away beneath his loose tunic, and this close, she could see the bruises peppering the skin around it. She had felt his pain for one startling moment and it had not been gentle. Arya had been sure she was about to collapse from the intensity of it. And Jon...Jon had won the joust through it all. He’d bore the pain, and emerged victorious. 

Before Arya knew what she was doing, she traced the skin with one finger. Down from his neck, skimming over his shoulder. He sighed, the vibration of his breath fluttering under her finger like a butterfly's wing, and shifted.

Arya snatched her hand away, shocked at what she had been doing. She had been...been...touching Jon like he was familiar. Like he was hers. 

Put it down to early morning daze with a tinge of madness, she told herself, and get out quickly. 

Arya wriggled herself slowly away, careful not to jostle the bed too much. She had just about managed to reach the edge when warm fingertips brushed her wrist. The contact sent sparks jolting along her body, driving her into another mind for a moment, the one she knew so well with its white oblivion, swathed in the deep currents of a bottomless ocean. 

She turned her head and stared into grey eyes she was beginning to know as well as her own. 

"Sneaking off without saying a word, are we?” Jon commented, the corners of his lips quirking up. “What am I, some sordid affair?” 

Arya snorted and subtly moved her hand away from his, hoping he could not feel the hammering of her heart. “I didn’t want to wake you,” she replied with a shrug. 

He yawned and stretched lazily as a cat. "I haven’t slept that well in months,” he admitted, staring at the ceiling. A small smile played on his lips. “It was nice.” 

Arya sat up and rested against the headboard. The shadowy grey of morning’s first breath cast the room in a ghostly light and she wondered, faintly, if any of this was real. 

From the corner of her eye, she saw two dual glints, like distant beacons. Only there was very little distant about Jon Targaryen as he sat up and turned his head to reveal a painfully open face.

"I dreamed of you," he said vaguely, then his eyes narrowed, spilling silver. “I wasn’t sure before but now, I’m certain. It’s always the same dream and it’s always you there, calling me home.” His voice was as light as the dew drops on the window pane.

He leaned in, the movement slow, a dare so much as a request. And she didn't stop him, because she was curious, because it was easy not to, because, because...

And she felt the warmth of his breath. His touch grazed her wrists, warm and silky, and his fingers knitting with her own. He was simply looking at her, with eyes that were not just grey, but a colour that seemed to sweep up into the timeless, raw silver of a winter storm. And a storm, she thought, which was all darkness and mystery and chaos, would never hold this softness. 

The link burst between them like fireworks.

He was, she realised, inviting her in. And for a mad, mad second, she accepted.

His mind was an open gate, welcoming her to step inside and look around. To warm herself on the emotions that were searing as solar flares. He was fire caged in ice, and either way, he burned. 

It was she who broke the contact first, retreating back to safer shores. "It was just a dream," Arya dismissed, pulling away. “It’s this thread that’s messing with us, you know that.” 

"It feels like something more.”

She couldn’t help it - she looked up at him again. His face had become a tableau of planes and hollows coloured in grey and shadows. He had a lean and hungry look about him, she thought, and the image unsettled her. 

Arya could feel his presence swirling in her mind, reaching through the connection again, no longer afraid. She realised she could hear his breath, ragged and gnawing at the silence.

"Arya," Jon began, giving her a shade of a grin. Unfortunately, all it did was send a jolt of panic through her and she scrambled off the bed in haste. 

"I should go," she said flatly, lacing up her boots. “I don’t want anyone catching us.” She purposefully kept her eyes downcast, not wanting to see what she thought she might in his. 

This was not the anxious, brooding Jon who wanted to snap the thread as soon as possible. This was the one that she had never seen. The one she was hoping she wouldn’t see, not after the joust, not after they had seen what sort of havoc their link was capable of inflicting. 

It was almost as if Jon had grown fond of their...situation. It couldn’t be possible, she reasoned. He’d always been as anxious to cut this thread as she was. She wasn’t particularly keen to find out if something had changed. 

Arya tried to gather her thoughts while pointedly ignoring his. "Thanks for letting me stay, I appreciate it. I suppose since you’ll be stuck in here for a little while, I’ll check the library again to see if I can find anything that might show us how to break this connection.” 

The soft sunlight seemed to caress his face and paint him with golden elegance. It washed the world in brightness, leaving no shadows between them. He let out a little low sound, maybe a sigh, but maybe just her ears making up sounds. "If you’re suggesting the library then you must be desperate.” 

"Of course," she told him gently. “I’d say the urgency is even greater now than it was a few days ago.” 

Jon blinked, and the grey eyes became a little dimmer. "I’ve been thinking...” 

Please don’t, Arya thought desperately. 

"Maybe we shouldn’t rush to break it. There’s so much we still don’t know, still don’t truly appreciate. What if there’s something incredible we haven’t discovered yet? It would be a shame to waste such an opportunity. Who knows what we might find?” 

There was something in his voice, a tiny bit of wistfulness that made her pause for a moment and feel uneasy. Because it sounded as if he was almost serious. 

"You’re not thinking straight," she said briskly, passing it off. “It’s...it’s not natural, whatever this is. It’s hurt you already and I’m afraid to find out what else it could do, for better or worse.” She wrapped her arms around herself, thinking of the black feeling she’d felt in the days after his joust. “We said we’d break it, and that’s exactly what we should do.” 

He didn't answer immediately. A bitter twist to his mouth, and the silver light disappearing as he closed his eyes totally. 

"Jon..."

"You’re right," he said, bleakly. His eyes opened, and the look on his face was unreadable. “It was a stupid idea. You should leave before someone finds you here.” 

Arya wanted to reach out to him then, to tear down his walls and say - what exactly? She could hardly dare to think it aloud. 

With a nod and an awkward smile, she turned to the balcony and began her climb down, moving so quickly she almost slipped on the ledge. 

And silently, in the veiled and shrouded depths of her heart where her most desperate desires were coated with cobwebs and daubed with dust, she spoke the truth. 

I don’t want this to end yet either. 

oOo

The book was thick, packed with fragile paper, and Arya leafed through it slowly. The names were printed in black copperplate. From the pristine, yet delicate state of the pages, it was very old and rarely touched. That wasn’t surprising.

After all, how many people cared to read about long-dead members of a noble house somewhere in the marshlands of the North? House Reed was one of her father’s most loyal bannermen, and the most elusive. 

Cassandra Reed, she thought, was very much part of that mystery; there was seemingly no mention that she ever existed. She was simply another faceless woman littered across history, lost in obscurity. On the contrary, the book contained names and notes of every son of the Noble Houses of the North, be they mediocre or otherwise. They had a right to their place in history, for the very simple reason that they were men, and Cassandra Reed was not. It just didn’t seem fair. 

Arya had been sat at the small table for hours now, and her back was aching with stiffness. She occupied a little corner away from prying eyes, tucked between dusty shelves that had long gone untouched. Everyone was allowed to peruse whichever book they wanted from the royal library – details of well-known battle plans, long, dry political commentaries in every language that spanned thousands of years, trade histories and journals of old High Septons. Even now, in the midst of a tourney and the warmth of a sunny summer’s day pouring through the glass windows, several people were mulling around the library, poring over knowledge and snooping through the titles. 

But the corner where she sat hidden away contained accounts of every member of the nobility since they first began. Few cared for such light reading, so the books largely seemed undisturbed, perhaps for decades. It was the perfect place for Arya to resume her bond-breaking investigation. 

Cassandra Reed’s diary had seemingly disappeared, much to her chagrin after hours of frantic searching. Recalling the missing pages, she had the inspired idea to trace Cassandra’s life and possibly piece together the solution the woman had found to break away from the one she’d been tied to. It was better than scouring through a thousand books, desperate to catch a word here and there that could help. Whatever history the Targaryens possessed on House Reed was a start. 

And it was proving frustratingly fruitless. Irritated, Arya shoved the heavy book away with a disgruntled huff and stared longingly out the window at the clear skies outside. Rickon and her father were out riding in the city, and Arya now wished dearly she had gone with them. Instead, she was in this stupid library looking for some stupid book to break this stupid bond. 

A bond that hovered at the edge of her consciousness, drawing her closer to the fuzzy mind that crackled at its other end. Jon felt muted, yet ever-present; a stealthy creature that had somehow become part of her life, bedding down in the corners of her mind. 

But their connection felt veiled somehow, as if he was looking to hide from her. It wasn’t quite working like it always had. No fire. No thoughts - but his feelings were vague shapes in her mind, like being in a dark room and bumping into the furniture occasionally. 

The buzzing was back. The buzzing that slowly turned into sounds, and then words if she focused hard enough. But Jon clearly did not want her to listen, and the buzzing was ignorable for now, so that was exactly what she did. 

A memory of his face, softened by sleep and sunlight, rose to the surface instead. She tried to smother the flicker of something in her chest. 

"I must say, you’d be one of the last people I’d find here, my lady. A surprise, to be sure, but a welcome one." Low and lazy, the smooth voice startled her out of her reverie. 

Arya had always been under the impression that princes were snooty little shits in fancy clothes with not a whiff of a brain in their pretty little heads. At least, that was how Sansa had always described them, in far more romantic terms. And while those preconceptions had largely been disproven, thanks in no small part to Jon, they still very much existed exclusively for one Prince Aegon, heir to the Iron Throne. 

Their last interaction was not so easily forgotten - not his thinly-veiled insult of the North nor his blatant attempt at flirting as a betrothed man. She could hardly mask her instant dislike, but her mother’s manners and her father’s reputation were the only things keeping her snark in check. 

“I’m not sure what you mean, Your Grace. I’ve always appreciated a good book, though apparently I may not look it,” she replied evenly, turning to face him. 

It was nearly noon, and the sun slanting through the windows struck Prince Aegon full in the face. He was leaning casually against one of the bookcases, neither squinting nor blinking in the light; watching her instead with brilliantly violet eyes. 

“I mean no disrespect, of course,” he said in a rich purr, “it’s just that the only people found in a dusty library on a stunning day like this are dull old dogs and those hiding their secret sordid affairs. You seem like neither - then again, I suppose I don’t know you enough to say for certain it’s not the latter.” 

“I could say the same for you,” she threw back, striving for disdain. 

He shrugged and strolled forward, one hand casually in his pocket, the other holding a slim blue book with flowery writing on the cover. “Perhaps, sometimes. And sometimes, one needs a little peace and quiet to find what they’re looking for. I take it you and I have that in common.” 

“The only thing in common, I imagine. Is there something I can help you with, Your Grace? I’d really like to finish this book.” 

“Looking for friendly conversation, though I’m starting to think I ought to keep looking,” he said lightly, running an eye over the discarded volume on the table. “Some casual reading, I see.” 

She averted her eyes and replied in clipped tones, “Just...a little research. Curiosity, really. Still have lots to get through so I ought to get back to it.” 

He sat on the corner of the table, uninvited, and picked up the heavy book to flick through it. A few seconds dragged on in silence, and Arya wasn’t sure if the prince was being deliberately obtuse or if she really hadn’t dropped enough hints that she wanted to be alone. 

“I think we started on the wrong foot and I’d like to fix that, if you’d let me.” Smooth and sure, his voice glided through the air, slicing through the awkwardness hanging between them. He looked up at her with an open face. “First impressions can often be misleading.” 

Arya fixed him with her best narrowed glare. “And why would you care about my impression of you?” 

“I have a pathological desire to be adored.” He smiled. “That, and Jon had informed me after our last encounter, and in no uncertain terms, that I had insulted you. On reflection, perhaps he was right.” His expression grew serious. “I assure you, I meant no disrespect, my lady. I’d very much like to start afresh.” 

“Do you do this with every woman you’ve disrespected, or is this your way of seducing me again? I’ve heard the rumours and I didn’t appreciate it the first time either,” she said crossly. 

The prince sighed and shot her an exasperated look. “Jon gets his stubbornness from your side of the family, clearly,” Aegon muttered impatiently. “I’m not going to try and seduce you, as you so delicately put it. I was just looking to smooth over an upset I caused because insulting a daughter of Lord Stark is hardly appropriate for a man of my position.”

“So you’re just doing this because of who my father is and not because I didn’t deserve to be insulted? A fine apology!” 

“Are you always so difficult with people trying to be nice to you?” the prince snapped. “Does it even matter what my reasons are? I don’t have to be polite, you know.” 

Arya bit back a retort and conceded. Antagonising the prince further would not be the wisest option, she realised, dearly as he deserved it. She did promise her mother she would play nice. Arya uncrossed her arms and held out her hand formally. “Very well. Pleased to meet you for the first time ever, Your Grace. Call me Arya.” 

Relieved, Aegon reached over the table and shook her offered hand firmly. “Delighted to meet you...Arya,” he replied. “I’d still liked to be called ‘Your Grace’, however. We’re not there yet.” He grinned at her briefly, all traces of frustration melting away, before turning back to the volume in his hands. 

Arya snorted, before pushing her chair back to stand up. She walked around the table and deftly stole the book from his wandering fingers. “So - now that we’re all friends here, I’d like to get back to my book, Your Grace,” Arya said shortly. She walked back to her seat and plopped down. 

Aegon arched an eyebrow. “Ah yes, a complete genealogical record of some Northern House in the middle of a swamp. Must be a riveting read. Unless you’re looking for someone in particular...?”  

She didn't rush to fill the silence; no, she saw little point in engaging him further, lest he start asking too many curious questions she didn’t have answers for. Instead, she let it develop like thread on a loom, refusing to grant him any leeway.

He slipped into the other seat at her table with the stealth of a dancer, all liquid movements and careless grace. His keen eyes watched her with distant interest.

The prince reminded Arya of a viper: a strange, detached sort of charm that could draw people in with distracting colours, but disguised an astuteness beneath the veneer. Beauty - cold and naked as a sword in the light - was a powerful facade. 

And he was beautiful, she would give him that. Aegon had none of his brother’s features, all slashing cheekbones and arched brows, framing eyes as startling violet as a sky blasted by twilight. Jon could be seen in the soft curve of his mouth, however; in the gentle half-smile she often saw him sporting when he looked at her. 

With a mental shake, Arya dismissed her musings of Jon. He was beginning to entangle himself in her thoughts, unravelling her. Their bond was clouding her reasoning, so she steeled herself against it and dragged herself back to the present, where Aegon sat waiting for her to respond. 

"Well, we all have our curious interests," he mused when she said nothing, his tone casual enough to mask his subtle exasperation. "Mind if I sit with you and read myself?” 

"If you must," Arya said, a tone of finality on each word. 

From the corner of her eye, she saw him reach for his own book and turn to a random page. 

Barely a minute had passed when he piped up, “Have you ever read this?” He held up his book to the light to show her the title. ‘A Great and Terrible Fate.’ There was no author. 

“Tragically, no.” 

"It’s a fascinating read," he said, either ignoring or misreading her dry tone. "It’s supposed to be a gift for my brother but I figured he doesn’t have to know I borrowed it first. The anecdotes are very clever. There’s this rather striking one about a merchant and a figure called Death and there’s this market, you see, and they see each other at this market and - you don’t much care for literature, do you?”

Arya blinked at him, realising her expression had likely glazed over while he was speaking. “Not true, I love stories as much as anyone,” she told him sincerely, “but real, historical ones - not absurd little tales about merchants and someone called Death or whatever. They sound entirely ridiculous, Your Grace.” 

“Just because a story isn’t real, doesn’t make it ridiculous.” His voice was low and bladed, scything across the air. He was clearly offended by her dismissal and surveyed her with distaste. “All literature, no matter how absurd you might find it, is a reflection of ourselves. It teaches us about growth and fear and doubt and destiny. It teaches us about life and all its glorious imperfections, and how we, as people, might overcome those imperfections and achieve our true destiny - are you falling asleep?!” 

Arya, who had been nodding off, suddenly sat straight up. “No,” she lied quickly. “Well, maybe, yes. A little?” 

Aegon shot her an affronted look. “You could at least pretend to listen. You’re worse than my siblings. Nobody seems to care about the good word anymore,” he muttered, indignant. He made a show of dramatically holding the book to his chest and pushing his seat back to leave.

She wasn’t sad to see him go, but Arya couldn’t help but shoot back, “Well, maybe more people would listen if you stopped prattling on about literature helping us achieve our destiny and other such nonsense. It’s hardly a fun conversation. I mean, it’s not like destiny even exists, so why bother?” 

At that, he sat back instead, settling into the chair. Surprise rolled from his posture as he stared at her. Arya was certain it was because she had spoken so rudely to a Crown Prince and was wondering if he was waiting for her apology when he asked, "You really believe that?” 

“Believe what?” 

“That destiny doesn’t exist?” 

“Of course,” Arya said hotly, returning to her book with a shake of her head. “It’s just some stupid thing that princes and knights ramble on about in fairytales to convince some poor girl they’re meant to be together. In reality, there’s no such thing. We decide what happens in our lives, not fate or destiny or some other cosmic force of the universe.” She waved her hand airily, as if swatting away said cosmic force from her being. 

“And here I thought the North kept their Old Gods close,” the prince drawled, his eyes sharp and bright under those heavy lashes. “You don’t sound like a believer.” 

She shifted uneasily. “Of course I am,” she hurried to correct. Arya chewed her bottom lip in thought. “But I’ve always seen them as...benevolent observers. They’re far too old and grand to care about one person, anyway.” 

“I think you underestimate the importance of one person,” Aegon countered softly, “it can be enough to change history.” 

Arya raised her eyebrow at him. “And you think that’s you, Your Grace? And that’s why you have a destiny ordained by the Gods?” She tried to keep the scepticism out of her voice, but failed. 

If the prince was offended by her tone, he did not show it. Instead, he leaned his silver head back to gaze blankly at the ceiling and shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know, but I like to hope so. Destiny means someone up there has a plan for all of us, for why you are you and I am me and why the world is what it is. Otherwise,” he frowned, small creases appearing on his forehead, “there really isn’t much point to anything at all. And I find that - that nothingness - hardest to bear.”

Arya looked at him curiously, at the casualness of his posture but the expression suspended between restlessness and yearning. Beyond propriety and beyond arrogance; into that place where hearts were bared beneath the light. It reminded her so fiercely of Jon, that for one brilliant moment, their connection sent fireflies tingling through her body, darting and nipping at her senses. 

She had to struggle to remember what it was they were talking about. “Well, I don’t need the Gods to have a plan for me. I’m going to decide who I am on my own, and I certainly don’t need destiny or anyone else to give me meaning,” Arya said suddenly, words springing to her lips unbidden, an old fury lying beneath her tongue, waiting to erupt again. “I know what I want from this life.” 

Aegon’s eyes dropped to brush over the litany of books in front of them, over the thousands of lives echoed through history, their names reduced to ink and paper. His face was still and shadowed, carved from blank perfection. “And what is that?” he asked. 

"To make a difference." The words were bald, as if all her fears and all her dreams were stripped down to six sounds. So much, to become so little. She turned to him. “And you? What do you want, Your Grace?” 

The prince quickly slid off the chair, tall and dazzling, and shot her a smile. As if a flame had come alive, his thoughtful expression brightened to cheerful arrogance. All traces of shadow were wiped clean, and Arya half-wondered if she’d imagined it. “Nothing like a casual discussion on destiny to work up an appetite. My cousins in Dorne have sent a ship full of delicacies to earn my forgiveness for not attending my wedding, so to answer your question, I’d very much like to take advantage of their apology.” He winked at her. “Care to join?” 

Arya stared at him, struggling to work through the whiplash change of their conversation. “No, thank you, Your Grace,” she finally responded. “I think I’ll stay a little longer.” She buried her nose back into the book she had been neglecting, her eyes fixed on the words pointedly. 

She didn’t hear his footsteps leave, nor any other sound of movement. Arya glanced back up to see the prince looking at her with a peculiar expression. 

“Here,” he said, handing her his book. “You might enjoy this.” 

She took it gingerly, raising her eyebrows at him. 

Aegon shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets, looking deceptively as if he had not a care in this world. “Give it a shot and keep an open mind. In my experience, the best secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Maybe you’ll find what you’re looking for.” With a nod, he turned to leave, pausing briefly to say, “Oh, and if you could give it to Ser Oswell when you’re finished, that would be grand. I was asked to hand it to Jon myself but he isn’t very visitor-friendly at the moment. Oswell will make sure he gets it.” 

With that, he turned out of sight. 

And for reasons she could not explain, her conversation with the Crown Prince remained with Arya long after every trace of him was gone.

His book, however, lay half-forgotten at the edge of the table where he’d left it for the rest of the afternoon. Only when the dying sunlight faded to twilight and all the books on House Reed had been swept through did Arya reach over and flick through it, grateful for something else to look at that wasn’t just an endless sea of names and dates. 

The book was incredibly old, but well-maintained. The cover, wrapped in blue velvet, was soft beneath her fingertips. It was charming, in a delicate sort of way. Arya didn’t know Jon was such an admirer of literature - then again, perhaps it was easier to count the things she did know, than those she did not. She turned the cover over, thinking she might read a few pages before giving it away, if only to satisfy her curiosity. 

And then her eyes focused on the name.

Black printed copperplate. She read it once.

And in her heart, faint as a beacon on the edge of the horizon, something flickered.

Again, Arya read the name. In the hush, she became aware of her heartbeat, quicker than it had been, pounding out the rhythms of her excitement. And again, hardly believing it. 

Cassandra Reed 

And beneath, in stiff handwriting: 

‘To His Grace, Prince Jon, 

May you find this as illuminating in your darkest hour, as I did in mine. 

Ser Jaime Lannister’ 

Chapter Text

“His Grace, Prince Aegon of House Targaryen!” 

The announcer woke Jon from smoky daydreams. The bruising across his shoulder ached, as it always did now, but he ignored it. There was little else he could do. 

He sat on the dais beside Queen Elia, watching his brother prepare his lance for the joust. His arrival, with him looking decidedly alluring and dangerous, caused a ripple through the audience. Jon saw men straighten their postures and women rearrange their hair with calculation. They smiled and waved at him, blushing madly when he offered a practiced wave back. 

His brother’s opponent stepped up to his mark: a weedy thing with poor armour and a tired steed. He gazed over the audience with unease as he fumbled with his too-large lance, to the unkind laughter of those sitting closest to him. His helmet hid his face, but Jon had a feeling the boy was close to tears. 

“This is who Aegon is riding against?” he demanded, leaning over to look at Rhaegar, whose impassive expression showed no signs of hearing him. “These are the contenders you’re allowing into your tourney? Children who can barely wield a lance? And yet, you’ve banned me from my own damn sword. I’m better than all of them, even if I have to use my other arm!” 

“Jon,” Elia warned, sat between them, “this is not the time, nor the place.” 

Rhaenys shot him a wary look, which he ignored. 

Sure enough, the horn was blaring and the riders had set off. Jon had hardly settled back in his chair when Aegon had unseated his opponent in one smooth swing, catching the boy in his chest to shove him off his horse. The boy had barely raised his own lance in defence. 

It was over before it had even started. There was a momentary beat of anti-climax, as the audience waited for more - more action, more bloodshed - until they were all on their feet, applauding madly. Aegon had vaulted from his horse and taken off his helmet, his silver hair gleaming in the sunlight. With a quick wave at the crowd, he moved to pull his opponent shakily to his feet, who did not seem injured, and slapped his back in a show of good sportsmanship. 

“You’ll only hurt yourself further,” came a deep voice. “Frankly, I shouldn’t have allowed you to compete in the first place. You weren’t ready.” Jon turned to see Rhaegar’s bottomless violet eyes surveying him, like watching an unruly child. Elia stared ahead, her jaw clenched, pretending she was not part of the conversation. 

Jon struggled for control. It came to him with air; deep forced breaths that gave him at least the illusion of calm. “I won my joust. Against Black Walder too, not some piss-poor excuse,” he threw back, teeth gritted. “It was a small mistake-“ 

“A mistake that could have cost your life,” Rhaegar interrupted, his face thunderous. Jon resisted the childish urge to shrink back, meeting the full force of his stare instead. 

“I’m sitting here, aren’t I?” he challenged. “I’m stronger than you think, but you refuse to let me prove myself. You’re being unfair!” 

“I’ll be sure to repent to the High Septon for this grave sin,” Rhaegar scoffed. He was rolling his eyes.

“That’s enough! Don’t make a scene while people are watching. What will they think?” The Queen’s words were firm as curious faces closest to the dais peered up in interest. 

“I don’t give a damn what people think,” Jon snapped, each word a spearing jab. 

He wasn’t sure where this boldness came from; he’d never dared use such a tone - such language! - with the King or Queen. But Jon was so very tired of holding his tongue. It had done nothing for him - he was once again on the sidelines, at the mercy of the King, admonished like a child. Fury surged blindly through his veins, mingling with frustration and mixing to become something older, something long-awaited. 

Mutiny. 

A gentle hand on his arm caught his attention. Elia was shooting him a stern, but not unkind look. “What have I told you about controlling yourself?” she admonished in quiet tones. “You achieve nothing by letting your temper rule you. Regardless of what the King says, you cannot disrespect him so - and certainly not in public. You reveal too much of yourself when you do.” 

“So I am to simply take his insult? Then smile and wave at the masses as if everything is alright?” he demanded. 

Elia gave him a brittle smile. “That’s the thing about royalty. It is a mask that can never slip, a paper over the cracks. And if we’re lucky, no one will notice that it’s fallen apart all around us.” She turned back to the moving crowd, her expression smoothing to marble stone. “This is how we survive.” 

Jon couldn't stop the rage that laced his tone like poison. “That’s not good enough for me anymore.” 

He ignored her sharp glance, and watched the audience mull around the grounds, preparing to leave. They passed around the dais like silent ghosts. They weren't silent, of course, but to Jon, their voices were a formless wash, a sea of irrelevance that mattered little. 

He watched Arya instead, and his anger slipped away like sand between his fingers. 

He felt a stretch in his chest at the sight of her. All laughter and boldness, dressed in a deep green dress that reminded him of forest wilds. She was walking with her father and brother, jabbering away happily. The buzzing droned on in his head, her presence clouding his own thoughts until all he could sense, all he could feel, was her. 

Her eyes immediately lifted to catch his, and he looked away quickly. He felt her probe at him, questioning, but turned away, raising imaginary walls to keep her out. 

Jon tried to stop the wave of hurt that crept into his heart, but he could only think: she doesn’t want this. He had thought, fleetingly, that there had been something there. His dreams, a world shared, it had seemed...right. 

He had a strange sense of falling, falling, falling...

She doesn’t want this. 

oOo

Dusk moved across the sky like a spider, a creeping, stealthy thing. It spun a web of pale, ghostly light over the Red Keep, the bulk of the castle swept away in mist. 

Jon hid amidst the neat gardens of the courtyard. The shrubs were blooming with a myriad of colours, a hundred fireworks frozen mid-explosion. He moved almost unseen through the flowers, further from the babble, further from the crush, further from prying eyes. 

He sat on a stone bench with his long legs crossed at the ankles in an attempt at nonchalance. Absolutely still; the slight and cataclysmic hush before an avalanche fall. He was just settling down to do some serious brooding, not to mention indulging in a wash of self-pity and sullenness when a voice interrupted him. 

“Mind if I join you?” 

Jon swivelled in his seat to see Rhaenys strolling into the little alcove. Silks of deep violet hung off her frame, her dark hair twisted down her back in a long braid. She gave him a small smile.

“If you must,” Jon grumbled, shuffling along the bench to make space for her. 

Rhaenys hesitated, before requesting, “Could we walk a little? I’ve been sitting all day, a turn around the gardens would be nice.” She waited as Jon appraised her carefully, then shrugged and stood up, offering his arm.  With an expression akin to relief, she took it. 

They walked in silence for a few minutes, before Jon declared, “You’re not here to reprimand me, are you? Because I’m not in the mood for a lecture.” 

“That wasn’t my intention,” Rhaenys replied calmly, her hand extended to touch the flower petals as they passed. 

His sister looked visibly tired and Jon wondered if the strains of the forthcoming wedding were finally catching up. She seemed deceitfully serene, but he knew better. There was a tightness around her eyes and her shoulders hunched forward ever so slightly, somewhat on edge. 

Jon did not respond at first, his eyes fixed blankly on the path in front of them. He let the tension draw out between them before pressing, “What do you want, Rhaenys?” 

“That’s something you ought to ask yourself, not me.” 

He groaned at her cryptic words. “I’m not in the mood for games, either. Just tell me what you want.” 

A squeeze on his arm. “I’m trying to help, Jon,” came her soft voice. “I know you’re upset, but this anger of yours isn’t going to change anything. Father isn’t going to let you back into the tourney and you aren’t allowed to use your sword, so perhaps you ought to take all this extra time as an opportunity.” 

“An opportunity?” He stopped in his tracks and turned to her, suspicious. “An opportunity for what, exactly?” 

Perhaps she had been expecting him to lash out immediately, or maybe she hadn’t even thought she’d get this far, but Rhaenys perked up visibly and grasped at his hands with her own. “To make a difference! You and Aegon are always complaining that Father doesn’t take you seriously enough. Well, why not prove him wrong? I read your Night’s Watch proposal, you know,” she said excitedly. “Offering compensation to encourage recruitment? It’s a lovely idea - why not make it a reality? You’d have all of Father’s advisors on hand, and we’ll need to speak to the Master of Coin-“ 

“That wasn’t me,” Jon interrupted quickly. “That was Aegon’s assignment.” 

She raised her eyebrow. “Your imitation of his handwriting would have convinced anyone who hasn’t been forced to read it everyday. Unfortunately, I do. Besides,” she scoffed, “he already told me he hadn’t bothered. It was sweet of you to cover for him.” 

Jon scowled and said nothing.

Patting his arm again, Rhaenys gently prodded, “So will you consider it? I think it’ll be good for you.” 

He chewed his lip thoughtfully and mulled it over. “I suppose…I suppose it would be interesting to see where it leads. I could speak to Lord Stark about it. I imagine he’d have some ideas, his brother being part of the Watch and all.” 

Guilt flashed through him at the thought of his uncle. He’d been so wrapped up with Arya, with the tourney, with everything, that he’d forgotten his age-old dream to meet the Warden. It almost felt like another life when he’d sat in a bathtub and daydreamed of being a Stark, one that seemed to slip further and further away as each day brought more change he couldn’t take back. 

But it was a nice scene, he had to admit - sitting around a table with Lord Stark and the royal advisors, thinking of ways to help the Night’s Watch and people in need, to be the one in control, for once. And Arya, too, sat beside him, a spark in her eyes and passion on her tongue. 

“Perhaps,” Rhaenys said, uncertainly. “Though I think we ought to keep it quiet for now, just between us and some of Father’s people. Until we have a proper proposal in place, of course. Give it a few months, I think, and we can write to him once we’re ready.”

The scene turned to bitter ash at her words. 

“Lord Stark could offer valuable advice and he’s here right now. Why wouldn’t I speak to him? The Night’s Watch are important to his House and his people,” he rebuked, narrowing his eyes. 

The smile slipped off Rhaenys’ face. She hurriedly preoccupied herself with rearranging her skirts as she walked ahead, avoiding his hard stare. “Maybe in a few months, after we’ve ironed out all the details and garnered interest and-“

“Don’t lie to me,” Jon demanded in a low voice, grasping her elbow to pull her to a halt. “Did Father even read my proposal? Did he even send you to speak to me?”

Rhaenys reddened. “You know how he is, Jon. This was meant to be Aegon’s assignment, not yours, and he knows his handwriting as well as I do.” At the sight of his stricken face, she hurriedly defended, “But does that even matter? I figured you might enjoy the chance to-“

“To what? Engage in a pity project? If Father can’t be arsed to read an outline, what makes you think he’d care for an actual proposal?” Jon snapped, drawing them to a stop. His voice had been growing steadily louder and Rhaenys shot a quick look around for eavesdroppers. The small act made him even angrier, if possible. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? A distraction? Oh poor pathetic Jon, give him something useless so he stops moaning at us.” 

Rhaenys suddenly looked irritated. “So what would you have me do? Let you sit here and brood on your misfortunes? Let you lash out at the King whenever you wish, damn wherever it may be and who may be listening?” she hissed, her dark eyes aflame. “You ought to be grateful at this opportunity.” 

He felt the cold breath of resentment creep along his skin. “To play pretend?” 

“To be given the chance to make a difference,” Rhaenys said quietly and with a bit of that grave disappointment that she always excelled in. “You’re in the singularly unique position of having just enough power to influence change, but without the burden of a crown or the future of the monarchy on your shoulders to weigh you down. But instead of seeing what freedoms you do have, you scowl and skulk for the freedoms you do not.” 

Jon laughed without humour. “You call this freedom?” He waved abstractly at the palace around them, rising around them like jagged teeth waiting to ensare. “We’re on a leash that tightens at any moment and you’d have me thank the hand that holds the reins? To be grateful for whatever morsels it spares from the table, no matter how meaningless they may be? I’ll pass.” 

She sighed, a bone-deep weariness that had her mirror Elia for a flash. Rhaenys appraised him mutely for a moment, before replying with resignation, “Think about it, won’t you? Hopefully it will do you some good. You might finally be less resentful and settle in your role, for once. You might even thank me for it.” 

A few weeks ago, the advice would probably have made Jon cave. These days, he found he gave preciously little thought to it.

“I’m not looking to settle,” he told her furiously. “Don’t dress betrayal up as a favour.” 

She opened her mouth to reply when they were interrupted by a harassed-looking servant. Curtsying quickly at both of them, she said in a rush, “Your Grace, my apologies, but the seamstress has run into an issue regarding your dress and urgently needs your measurements.” 

Rhaenys frowned and turned impatiently to the other girl. “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something? Tell the seamstress I’ll deal with whatever’s happened tomorrow.” 

“Don’t bother. We’re finished here,” Jon corrected. “I’ll see you around, Your Grace.” With a mocking bow, he turned on his heel and walked away. 

He half-expected her to call out after him or the feel of her hand on his arm to pull him to a stop. 

She did neither. 

oOo

The evening sky was marbled with deep blues and violets. Jon sat by an open window in a hidden alcove, watching the trees flutter like wings. He felt the summer wind on his face, welcomed the burning air: it blasted through him, blowing away the cobwebs of feelings he did not want to examine, the thoughts that were too troubling. There was only his fury and the heat. Nothing else mattered. 

Gods, anger was good in his veins, warming his blood and setting him aflame. Anger he hadn't let roll free in days, weeks, months, years. Anger that was sinking into a slow churning inky black, anger that felt poised and ready to unleash. 

Below, the dark churning sea was a mass of spray, flinging high in the sky, desperate to soak him through. Further along the beach and towards the heart of the city, another sort of sea arose of lanterns and music in a chorus of celebration. Jon idly wondered what was happening in the streets tonight. 

He stopped short. The buzzing had become silent again, and he waited, the breeze brushing past his ears. 

Blinking, suddenly he saw himself, his figure dark and unmoving; and he was reaching for his arm -

He turned to catch Arya’s wrist, and found himself staring into the grey eyes that he had been seeing through only moments before. Eyes of wondrous colour, filled with a spectrum of silver that ranged from moonlight to the stormy flecks invading the thin, thin rim of deepest blue around her pupil.

“Found you,” she said softly, and when most he needed to know her thoughts, they were silent. Subtle shadows were under her eyes, as though sleep had evaded her too. “Mind telling me why you’re hiding?” 

Jon let go of her. “What makes you think I’m hiding?” 

Her eyes flickered with strange lights. “I suppose you often sit in the dark to, what, meditate?” She moved to sit next to him on the seat, uncomfortably, yet tantalising close. She was still wearing the green dress from earlier in the day, the one he liked very much. An old book was tucked in her arms. “How did you escape your Kingsguard? I had the impression you were under forced rest.” 

He turned back to the window again, unable to look at her directly. “Pretended I was asleep and waited for him to relieve himself. Snuck out then. Didn’t want to be stuck in my room anymore,” he said shortly. He tried to keep his thoughts as reserved as possible, pointedly ignoring her presence, blooming across his consciousness. 

She waited, perhaps for more elaboration. When he said nothing, she said quietly, “You’ve been avoiding me.” 

“You knew where to find me if you really wanted to,” he murmured, acid in the words.

Arya frowned. “I’ve been with my family all day. And last night, Rickon and I stayed up together. He wanted to tell me about his day in the city. I wasn’t going to blow him off just to sneak into your room,” she defended, making him feel abashed. “And you know that’s not what I meant. You’ve been trying to shut me out.” 

“I thought that’s you wanted. To be rid of this connection.”  

“Not when I have something important to share with you!” she argued with a narrowed glare. Without another word, Arya held her book out. 

Curious, Jon took it carefully and looked over the cover. He raised an eyebrow at her. 

“Read the first page,” she urged. 

His eyes roved over the names, and the note underneath. “Cassandra Reed?” he said aloud in astonishment. “And it’s...for me. From Jaime Lannister. You can’t be serious.” Jon looked back at her, all traces of initial sullenness disappearing. “Jaime’s never given me anything.” 

She shrugged. “Maybe he feels awful about your shoulder. But that’s not really the point, is it?” She tapped the open page with an eager finger. “This could be it, Jon! This could tell us what we need to know! Granted, I haven’t read past the first chapter. Haven’t had the time, really.” 

He felt a strange flip in his stomach. “And?” he asked, cautious. “Find anything?” 

“Nothing but some ramblings on destiny and what it means for all of us.” She slumped back against the window, distaste in her expression. “Your brother insists I keep an open mind, but it’s so very dull already. I hope it’ll be worth it.”

Jon let the fall open naturally to a random page. At Arya’s words, his eyebrows furrowed and he looked up. 

“When were you speaking with Aegon?”

“He found me in the library. Had a fun little discussion about the universe’s plan for us all.” 

Jon snorted. “That doesn’t sound like my brother. Was it all leading up to some grand finale where your destiny was in his bed or some other rubbish?” He turned back to the book. “Can’t see why else he’d be talking to you.” 

A sharp pain shot up his shin. He yelped and grabbed it, eyeing Arya’s foot ruefully. “What was that kick for?” he muttered. “I’m already injured, no need to damage me further.” 

“Maybe I’m great at conversation and your brother was enjoying the pleasure of my company,” Arya rebuked, bristling. She folded her arms across her chest defensively. “And no, he was perfectly chaste. He sounded a little sad, now that I think about it,” she considered thoughtfully with a frown. 

The pain had quickly receded to a dull ache, which did nothing to help the flare of irritation in his chest. His stance changed; suspended between stillness and strike, a breath from either. He asked sharply, “Why do you care?” 

“Am I not allowed to comment?” She raised an eyebrow. “You’re his brother, I thought you’d like to know.”

He could feel her disapproval emanating through their bond and forced himself to ignore it. Jon sneered, “Why? So I have to hear more of his complaints that no one takes him seriously because he never takes responsibility and loves to bed stupid ladies? It’s all he’s ever cared about - himself. Even more than me.” The last part came out in an almost whisper, an old fear he’d never dared to utter aloud before. 

Arya gasped softly. “Jon, you can’t possibly believe such horrible things! He’s your brother! And when we spoke, it didn’t seem like he-“ 

“You barely know him! And just because you’re in my head, it doesn’t mean you know everything about me or my family. So for once in your life, stay out of it!” he snapped.

Jon couldn’t say where this wave of madness emerged from - only that he wanted to crack, to break, to shatter something. He had no defence against the rage that crashed through him. And he didn't want to fight anymore. He was tired and his shoulder ached and he was falling, falling, falling-

She doesn’t want this. 

“Why are you even here?” he demanded, unkindly. “Was it just to show me some old book that you haven’t even read yet? Can’t you tell I want to be left alone? Or do you just enjoy showing up where you’re not wanted?” 

“There’s no need to use that tone with me,” Arya said coolly, voice steady, forcing the appearance of calm. She let his black mood break on her as uselessly as waves broke on rock. “I get that you’re frustrated, given what’s happened, and I would be too, but you can’t take your anger out on me. That’s not fair and you know it. I’m here because you clearly need a friend, even if you’re too much of a stupid to see it.” 

Bitterness churned in his veins, but feeling embarrassed and in an effort to quiet his whirlwind thoughts, he focused on the blurring first line of the page lying open on his lap. 

‘Doth thee bethink the universe fights f'r souls to beest together? Some things art too strange to beest coincidences.’

Jon stared at the words, not quite absorbing them. Beside him, Arya stirred restlessly, her presence searing in his head as he felt the whiplash of her own annoyance at him. He wondered why she hadn’t stormed off yet, knowing it was fully justified. Cautiously, he raised his head to look at her. 

The starry sky outside was lost, a curtain of clouds veiling them; her eyes, the smouldering silver of a wolf’s eyes catching the moonlight, were all the light the night could offer. They rested on his face impassively and Jon felt naked under their glower. 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things to you. I was out of line,” he said quietly, shutting the book and handing it back to her. He had little use for it - there was nothing in there that he wanted to read. Arya grabbed it and pressed it against her chest again, a barrier between them. He felt his heart constrict at the sight. “I’ve...been on edge all day. It’s not been easy, to feel so helpless.” 

“That’s not an excuse," she said, and that threw him; her expression crackled as though a bolt of lightning ran through her. 

"What do you mean?” 

She took a deep breath and glared at him. Arya had always shown such disdain for titles and propriety, always been so open with her tears and her laughter, that it was all too easy to forget she was the daughter of a Warden deep in the throes of ice and fortitude, and carried blood as old and noble as his.

In this shadowy world, she melted into the dark until he could glimpse only a flicker of grey and her brown hair, the sculpted lines of her long face, enigmatic flashes that combined to create something altogether more alluring than the girl he knew.

Her voice was very level, so he knew it must be costing her immensely to stay calm. “You’re not helpless. You’re not some child that can sulk in a dark corner because you’re angry at the world.” She cast a disdainful eye around the alcove. “Though you’re certainly acting like it.” 

The barb went home, like a spear to the chest. “I’m not acting like a child,” he fumed. “And I think, given what’s happened, I am completely in my right to-“ 

“To what, Jon? Sit here alone, pushing away everyone who cares about you - your family, me-“

(She cares about you, a voice crowed triumphantly within him.)

“- and for what purpose? To wallow in self-pity? You’re better than this,” she scolded softly, leaning forward. 

Jon observed her keen face, so open, so imploring. The nightly winds drifted inside, leaving a lingering salty twinge in the air and a cooling touch on his skin. The moon flitted out from a cloud and its cold light struck them both, casting her in an ivory halo, dragging her from the dark. 

He reached his hand up to touch a strand of hair that hung down her shoulders, feeling the softness between the pads of fingers. “The sword is the only thing I’m good at. It’s part of who I am,” he mumbled. “I don’t know what else I am without it.” 

Her breaths had grown shallow and he saw the knuckles clenched around the book whiten as they tightened. “Well, maybe we just haven’t discovered who the rest of you is, yet. And when we do - you’ll see. Everything will be alright.” Her eyes roved over his face and he thought, fleetingly, that he could feel their burning path. 

A swell of music intruded on the moment, followed by an uproar of cheering. 

“Is that from the city?” Arya asked, tearing away from him to peer outside. 

Reluctantly, Jon turned to the golden haze too, his fingers tingling where they had touched her. “I think they’re having a party of sort. Strange night to have it. I’m not sure what they’re celebrating.” 

“Remember the square we visited?” she grinned. “All those people dancing so freely...I loved that morning. There was something magical about it. I bet they’re all dancing now, Bessa and the rest.” 

She turned to beam at him, her fondness and warmth eclipsing his unsettled feelings in radiance and irresistible joy. The moonlight slid down her face and throat, her skin a snow-silver in the lunar glow. The bond felt unbearably strong, almost as if he were merely an extended part of her thoughts. Jon let himself be overwhelmed and ride the wave of everything that was her, dragging him out of the depths of his dark mood. 

An image of Arya flashed into his head. With her dark hair flung artlessly about her shoulders and down her back; with a crown of roses settled in the curls of her hair, and a darling boldness in her eyes as she spun happily under the sun, bathed in golden splendour and drunk on youth. 

“You still owe me a dance, if I recall,” he reminded her with a smirk. “And I think I’d like to collect now.” 

“Now?” Arya repeated in disbelief. “You want a dance right here?” 

“Not here. There.” He pointed at the window, towards the heart of the festivities, which grew louder by the moment. 

She gaped at him. “We can’t sneak out of the palace right now! Jon, you’re supposed to be resting in bed! What if you hurt yourself again? And Ser Oswell could show up any minute looking for you. I can’t let you get into trouble.” As if to make a point, she glanced over her shoulder at the empty corridor, listening out for the telltale sounds of clinking armour. 

Jon laughed, feeling lighter than he had all day, letting the madness seize control for one brilliant moment. Where rage had flooded his blood, something daring and reckless now flowed, pushing him onwards. This was exactly what he needed - time away from the palace, away from the darkened corners and the stifling rooms. Away and surrounded by true freedom, if only for a night. “Funny, I didn’t take you to be one so worried about rules and being proper. What happened to living a little?” he teased. 

Arya snorted and glared at him. “Not when your health is at risk! Your shoulder -“

“- is feeling better already. I promise I won’t do anything stupid to make it worse -“

“- yes but you could still hurt yourself! There are so many things that could go wrong -“

“- we’ll be careful and I’m not entirely useless with my other arm, you know. I can still defend myself. It won’t be for too long. A quick walk around to enjoy the sights -“

“- what if someone sees us? There are guards at every gate, you can’t just stroll out the palace at this hour.”

“Don’t get soft on me now, Stark,” Jon said, standing in one motion and moving towards the alcove entrance. He threw her a wink. “I thought you liked adventure and breaking rules? Or perhaps you’re more of a lady than you’d have me believe…” 

There was a glint in her eyes at the challenge, and Jon knew he had won her over. 

Chapter Text

“Where are we going?” she said, following the wavering light of his torch. It hovered like a firefly before them, illuminating the tunnel walls and its glistening stones. 

“I told you, we’re heading to the city,” Jon said, skimming through the darkness with ease. “If you pick the right path, these tunnels lead outside the palace walls.” 

Behind him, he could hear Arya, clumsy and fumbling through the puddles. Jon immediately stuck a gloved hand out behind him to brush against hers. “Here,” he told her, “hold onto me. Don’t want you almost hurting yourself like the first time.” He didn’t bother hiding the amusement in his voice. 

After a huff, Arya grasped it and steadied herself. The touch, even through his gloves, sent warm sparks down his arm and settled in his chest, a far from unpleasant sensation. He unconsciously gripped her tighter. “You mean when you crept up on me in the dark and called me a terrible assassin?” she teased in mock outrage. “You still haven’t apologised, you know.” 

He raised an eyebrow. “You mean when I heroically saved you from being lost in these tunnels forever? You still haven’t thanked me, either.” 

“You lied about giant, flesh-eating rats to scare me. Not very heroic, if you ask me.” 

"Never said I was lying,” he laughed, scrambling down a crumbling slope and tugging her along behind him. The movement jostled his injured shoulder and he gritted his teeth as a sharp pain shot through him. He clamped it down quickly before Arya could notice. 

Something solid slapped his arm, causing a light echo to ring through the walls. Jon paused and glanced back. “Did you just hit me with a book?” he asked, incredulous. 

“Well, yes.” 

“Cassandra Reed’s book? Why do you have that with you?” 

Arya sighed heavily and while he couldn’t catch her expression in the dimness, he imagined she was glaring at him. “Because His Grace decided he absolutely had to leave the palace there and then, and I didn’t get a chance to put it somewhere safe. So it’s coming with me.” 

He considered for a moment, before shrugging with his good shoulder and resuming his climb down. 

They didn’t talk for the rest of the journey, too focused on careful steps and their hold on each other. The only sound were their breaths and the gentle sloshing of water disturbed. 

At the base of the slope, a short passage twisted away like a madman's smile. It opened out into the vast night sky, a stream of clouds streaking above. They emerged out onto Aegon’s High Hill, the sprawl of King’s Landing twinkling in a golden wash below and into the distance. 

It was the first time that Jon had snuck out of the palace at night without Aegon by his side, and he could not help but feel naked and bared to the world. His older brother had always been there, dazzling so brightly that it was easy to hide in his presence, to believe that anything was possible if one had enough nerve. 

In the faded half-light of the moon, he fought an urge to scramble back through the tunnels and to his room, to a haven in which lay at least the illusion of safety. 

His heart was hammering, anxiety dampening his palms and trickling down his back. There was no more hiding. There was no more time to be a child, lost in fear - only this: the slant of Arya’s back, proud and straight as she strolled on ahead, the sure thud of her feet on the grass an echo of his heart, the long melodic notes of a city dancing beneath the stars. 

Sensing his disturbance, Arya turned to him, her smile faltering. “Are you alright?” she asked, concerned. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.” 

Jon swallowed and walked forward until he stood beside her. “I’ve never done anything like this by myself before,” he admitted ruefully. “I always followed Aegon wherever he went. Now that I’m here without him, I’m not sure what to do.” He furrowed his brow. “This was so much easier in my head.” 

She gave his hand a quick squeeze, her mind gently brushing against his in soothing reassurance. “Good thing you’re not alone then,” Arya said with sincerity. “Come on, we’ll figure this out together.” Tugging his arm lightly, they started their descent to the city centre. 

The Red Keep shrank into the distance; he did not look back.

oOo

Below them, King’s Landing grew bolder and brighter. The buildings were a patchwork quilt of colours, stitched together by fences and lopsided roofs. Crowds swarmed through the cobbled streets; flocks of cheerful voices weaving through the markets and inns. Lanterns of iridescent colours speckled the space above their heads, a ribbon of stars winding through the city. 

They reached the streets and joined the crowds, following the wave aimlessly. Jon tucked Arya’s hand into his arm and held her tightly. He had no interest in losing her like he had before. She glanced up curiously, but said nothing, choosing to happily observe the chaos and point out all the decorations that fascinated her so. 

Occasionally, they glimpsed the City Watch patrolling the streets and along the roofs, scanning the throngs lazily. Even knowing how easy it was to hide amongst the crush, Jon suddenly felt vulnerable. But no one so much as looked at them twice as they strolled through the busy streets. 

The crowds rolled into what seemed like a shabby neighbourhood on any other day, but tonight was decked in festivities. Little shops lined each side, candles bobbing in their windows. The apartments above had scarves and patterned cloths hung merrily over railings. They watched as two small girls ran across their paths, their faces painted in striking colours and screaming in laughter. 

Arya grinned at the sight. “And your sister said the city was dangerous at night!” 

“Let’s not test our luck-“ 

“Oi!” A man ran out of the closest shop and stopped some feet away from them. He wore a dirty apron around his wide midsection and a strong stench of alcohol wafted from his breath. Squinting his eyes at Jon, he pointed a finger at his face, “Aren’t you the -“ 

“No,” Jon said, and kept walking. A moment later, Arya remembered to follow him.

“Did he recognise you?” she asked in a whisper.

"Looks like it.” Jon pinched the bridge of his nose. “We need disguises,” he muttered in Arya’s ear, ducking his head as they passed a guard. “We can’t be seen out here. They’ll raise the alarms and we’ll both be in trouble.” 

"Well, what are we supposed to do about it?" she asked, frowning. “I haven’t got any coins on me, and you don’t look like you do either. We really should have stopped by our rooms before coming.” 

Cursing his spout of madness, Jon scanned his surroundings. Perhaps if they found some sort of shop that sold scarves or cloaks, they could hide their faces. He didn’t have any money, but he could offer a trade? What else could they do?

“Arya, I think we’re going to have to - Arya?” 

He stared at the empty spot beside him, as if she would magically appear if he looked hard enough. After a beat or two, he cursed again, and looked around frantically. Fear clutched at his chest. This was already going so horridly wrong. What was he thinking, leaving the palace? What sort of danger was he putting them in?

No, stop it, he told himself fiercely. Don’t be a coward. You’re here now and you’ll enjoy it, damn it. 

On the edge of his perceptions, he sensed the flickering of her mind, bright and rapid and jagged as summer lightning. Following the familiar tug of her presence, his eyes landed on her crouched some feet away, book pressed to her chest and speaking to the two girls they had passed earlier. One of them was nodding her head eagerly. 

In a huff, he stormed up to them, a dozen reprimands on his tongue. Noticing his presence, Arya stood and smiled at him, and he lost his ire immediately at the sight. “Oh good, you’re here! Milah and Graycie here have kindly offered to show us where we can paint our faces, like they have. That ought to do the trick. Isn’t that right, girls?” 

The children beamed at her, both now clutching at her skirts. They barely reached his waist in height, their frayed dresses several sizes too large for their frame and hanging off their skinny shoulders. One had bold strokes of red and yellow smeared across her cheeks, the other had covered her entire face in bright blue. Their smiles shone brilliantly as they stroked the fabric of Arya’s dress in reverence. She didn’t seem to mind the painted smears left by their fingers. 

“Where did you go?” he hissed at her under his breath, calming his racing heartbeat. “Stop scaring me like that. I thought I lost you again.” 

“You need to relax and trust me,” she replied, the girls pulling her forward, “I won’t run out on you, I promise. Now cheer up, we’re on an adventure!” 

Jon grumbled incoherently and followed in their wake. 

oOo

The chaos of it all was dizzying. 

What was once a simple road had been transformed into an avenue of market stalls, games, and street performers. Beneath the canopy of lanterns which sparkled like the bubbling champagne, a vast rainbow of colours greeted his eyes. The air was filled with the rumble of lazy, uninhibited chatter. Among the peacock finery of the crowds, dressed in their best, Jon felt like he stood out in his all-black wear. Amidst so many striking people, beauty became ordinary.

It wasn’t a masquerade ball, though in truth it could have been. Everywhere Jon looked, he saw painted faces: animals, gods, demons, abstract patterns, bold colours, none concealing the gleam of excited eyes. For one brief, brilliant moment, the lives of the inhabitants of King’s Landing had been transformed, and it was mesmerising to witness. 

Arya squeezed his arm and dragged him to a tiny wooden stall. Stacked high on the counters were bottles and bottles of paint in a variety of shades. The children - Milah and Graycie, was it? - beckoned them over. Behind the counter, an old man hunched over his stick was peering up at them. The white whiskers on his face twitched as he appraised their clothing, grinning widely when he recognised the finery. “Welcome, my lord!” he barked at them too loudly. “Three silver stags a pot! Special price for the lady.” He flashed his yellow teeth at Arya. 

“Three silver stags?” Jon repeated, scandalised. “For a pot of paint? What kind of-“

“What he means to say,” Arya interrupted, stepping on his foot to shut him up, “is that we, uh, don’t have any money so maybe we could…come to an agreement, of some sort?”

Jon didn’t know what sort of agreement she had in mind, but it mattered little. As soon Arya had mentioned their lack of coin, the old man had fixed them with a beady stare and grumbled, “Lazy ne’er-do-wells wasting my damn time! Off with you!” He waved his stick threateningly at them. 

Deftly stepping out of the way of an angry whack of the cane, Arya opened her mouth to argue, before Jon grabbed her by the waist and dragged her away. “Oi, we’re not lazy!” she called back, shaking her book at him in irritation. “Jon, what are you doing?! I was in the middle of negotiating!” 

“Were you now?” he said in amusement, stopping at the corner of an alleyway and away from the commotion of the main street. “Didn’t seem like it was going too well.” 

Arya huffed and folded her arms, hugging her book to her chest. “Well, I don’t see you coming up with any bright ideas. Now what?” 

“Miss! Miss, look!” came a squeaky voice from somewhere below. Jon looked down in surprise to see one of the two girls tugging at Arya’s skirt, the other carrying an armful of paint pots. “We got you something, miss!” 

As they tumbled it all to the floor, Arya glanced between the children and their loot sternly. “Did you steal this from that old man? For us?” At their enthusiastic nods, she chastised, “You shouldn’t have! What if you get in trouble?” 

They shrugged happily, oblivious to her apparent displeasure. 

Jon bent down to pick up a pot. “Oh, lighten up,” he told her. “He was charging three silver stags for one of these. I don’t feel so bad stealing from a thief.” He winked at Milah and Graycie, who grinned back at him. Shadows fell more harshly on their hollowed faces here than under the street lights and Jon thought, with a pang, that the cost of the paints they’d stolen were more than they could afford in a month. 

“Here. For your troubles. They’re from Essos, so don’t accept anything less than a gold dragon,” He took off his black gloves and handed one to each of them. 

Taking it slowly, they fingered the fine material with reverence. “Thank you, sir,” they piped together, before rushing in to hug his legs. Jon awkwardly patted their heads, and they scampered off into the crowds, clutching the gloves to their chest.

Arya watched them leave, then turned to Jon. “That was generous of you,” she remarked with a raised eyebrow. A smile flitted on her lips as approval radiated through their bond. 

“Why the tone of surprise?” he teased, feeling lighter than he had in days. “They earned it. So what colour do you want?” He kneeled, sifting through the tubs. 

“How about this?” 

Jon looked up just as Arya reached out to brush a finger down his nose. She giggled as he reeled back, spitting out flecks that touched his mouth. “Sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. In one hand, she held a pot of bright yellow paint. The other was hovering between them, covered in colour. Cassandra Reed’s book lay by her feet. 

He grabbed a random pot beside his foot - a deep blue - tugged off the lid and shoved his whole hand in. Arya shrieked as he grabbed her arm and pulled her towards him. With his coated hand, he smeared his entire palm across her cheek and part of her hair. 

She laughed wildly and scrambled for another pot, just as he reached blindly for one too. 

He didn’t know how long they spent there, throwing paint at each other and smudging as much as possible on whatever part of the other’s body they could reach. He could feel the curious eyes of bystanders as they passed, heard the occasional remark scoffing at their misdemeanours and the mess they were making - and Jon didn’t care. They were insignificant, a haze in the background that bore no relevance, no impact, nothing. In this moment, he was weightless, anchored only by Arya’s laughter, by her dazzling presence hovering at the edge of his consciousness, the thread tying them together in golden radiance. 

The walls around them were coated with splatters, a chaotic explosion of colour and life that elevated this unremarkable corner of the street into a masterpiece. Jon was entirely covered in paint, as was Arya, and he was fairly certain it would be difficult to recognise either of them now. Her long, dark locks had grown stiff under the coats of paint and hardly a patch of her green dress had escaped unscathed. A pity, Jon thought. He really did like that dress. 

“I think we’re out of paint,” Arya commented dryly, surveying the empty tubs littering the ground. She moved closer and looked up at him, her blue-coated lips spreading in a grin. 

Patches of her pale skin peeked through the white blobs on her neck. Unthinking, Jon raised his hand to daub them over gently, two fingers dragging down towards her exposed chest. He felt her breaths grow shallow, heart beneath his touch. Her skin was warm and soft as satin, and he felt a blistering tingle on the tips of his fingers wherever they made contact. He idly wondered what would happen if his whole hand was touching her, and just how much he’d burn. 

Through their bond, he reached for her. 

As if jolted awake, she stepped away suddenly, avoiding his eyes. Her presence in his head shrunk away from him equally, dimming its brilliance. “We should move on,” she announced. “Things to do, places to see, and all that.” 

Jon sighed and nodded, smothering the disappointment. “Don’t forget your book,” he said dully. 

Arya slapped a hand to her forehead. Her palm left a green imprint on an otherwise pink streak. “The book! I completely forgot! Oh and we’ve split paint everywhere,” she moaned. 

He spotted it discarded to the side, soaked in blue paint. “Well…” he began, “I’ve found it. Picking it up gingerly, they inspected it together. The cover was ruined, though the pages had miraculously survived. There was the occasional stain as Arya flicked through it quickly, but the damage was far from extreme. 

“Thank the Gods,” murmured Arya, clutching the book to her chest and closing her eyes. “Can you imagine if we couldn’t read it anymore? And it had the answers we needed?” She laughed breathlessly, though Jon didn’t share her relief. 

“Do you really plan on carrying it around all night?” he asked instead. 

She bit her lip and considered. Then, without hesitation, she shoved the book in his hands, picked up her skirt, and ripped the fabric apart. 

“Oi, what are you doing?” Jon yelped as she tore off a long strip, revealing a glimpse of her leg, from ankle to mid-thigh. He flushed and tried to look away, albeit unsuccessfully. 

“Improvising,” Arya replied calmly. “Now do me a favour and press the book against my hip.” 

Awkwardly, Jon followed her order. She tied the strip of fabric around her waist, securing a knot against the book tightly. “There!” she exclaimed, “That’s sorted then! Where to next?” 

“But your leg-“ he protested, blushing. “What if someone mistakes you for a whore?” 

“And what of it?” Arya said, rolling her eyes. “Quit being a prude, Jon.” With a good-natured punch at his uninjured shoulder, she walked off, knowing full well he’d be right behind her. 

oOo

“Fancy a drink?” he asked her. 

They had been roaming around the streets for a long while, watching street performers and ducking into shops to admire goods they couldn’t buy, before stumbling across an animated pub, its sign too faded to read. Rambunctious laughter from within rattled the doors and windows, the earnest scent of sweat and ale wafting through the cracks. 

“With what coin?” she replied sceptically. “I don’t think we can charm any children to steal pints of ale for us.” 

Jon winked at her. “Watch and learn, my lady.” 

They hovered at the threshold and peered inside. It was dimly lit; candles were smattered around the room close to the wooden benches, guttering in the warm wind that blew in from the open windows and across the floor where tables were full of people. Banners bearing unfamiliar coat of arms were strung from the high ceiling, fluttering above the dozens of thirsty visitors who talked and shouted over the pounding music. 

“See that over there?” Jon nodded towards a shadowed corner, where four men sat huddled around a table, fiddling with cards. Stacks of silver and bronze coins sat between their numerous empty mugs. “They’re playing sabacc, a card game that banks on gambling. Three of them are cheaters.” 

“How could you possibly know that?” Arya whispered back, following his gaze. 

Smirking, he gently pulled her until the old innkeeper behind the bar was in her view. “See how he keeps glancing over at their table?” She nodded. “They work for him. The game is rigged so his men, and so the innkeeper, will always come out on top. No matter what happens, one of them will always carry the winning hand. They deal the cards in such a way to guarantee it. Now, back to the table, see the man with the long hair? He’s their next victim and he’s about to lose everything.” 

Sure enough, a second later, the man had let out an angry curse and pushed away from the table to tower over the players threateningly. 

“And now comes the innkeeper, right on cue, to distract the victim from realising he’s just been swindled. All under the guise of well-meaning concern.” 

The man’s hand itched towards the dagger on his belt, but before he could grasp the handle, the innkeeper had bustled his way through and was calmly pacifying him with a brand new tankard of ale. The man relented, accepted the drink, and staggered off somewhere in the crowd. 

“Who would play to lose?” Arya wondered aloud, watching the scene unfold with unwavering interest. 

Jon shrugged. “They sometimes let you win. It’s an addicting feeling, thinking you’re luckier than everyone around you. But you’ll lose eventually. Guaranteed.” 

She turned to him then, a sardonic expression her face. “How is it you know so much? Been out gambling?” 

“Why the tone of surprise?” he mocked. “When Aegon and I snuck into the city, we could never resist visiting an inn. We learned pretty quickly after we kept losing all our money - so we figured out ways to cheat the cheaters.” He flashed her a smile. “Which is exactly what we’re going to do now.” 

She frowned. “I don’t know anything about cards.” 

“You don’t have to. You’re going to be my lucky charm.” He enjoyed her bewilderment. “It’s time to put our little connection to good use.” 

When Jon had finished explaining his plan, Arya was looking at him with renewed admiration. He didn’t know whether he ought to be insulted that she thought him so simple, or proud that he’d caught her off-guard. He went with the latter.

“Now we just need something to gamble with,” she pondered, tapping her chin. 

Jon waved his hand nonchalantly. “I’ll offer my jacket. It’s real silk, they won’t help themselves.” He frowned at the smudges of blues and yellows staining the black fabric. “Even if it does look like something threw up on me. I’m sure it’ll wash out.” 

“A silk jacket? For some drinks? And you called my negotiating skills into question!” Arya argued.

“That’s part of the fun! I’m not exactly planning on losing now, am I?” he defended. 

“And if you do? First your gloves, now your jacket. You seem rather keen on taking your clothes off this evening. You’re not planning on bartering your knickers away for a hot meal, are you?” 

“Depends on the meal, really. If it’s shepherd’s pie, I’ve already dropped my pants.” 

Arya laughed and she bloomed across their link. He basked in her glow hungrily. 

“Let’s get to it then,” she smiled - and with a twirl of her skirts, walked into the heart of the bustling noise. “I hope you know what you’re doing!” Arya called over her shoulder, flicking her hair back. “Otherwise, this night’s going in a very different direction.” 

“Oh ye of little faith!” he said loudly, earning him a giggle and a wink as she disappeared. 

He took a deep breath, slapped on Aegon’s shit-eating grin, and strolled towards the gamblers. 

“You playing sabacc? Wouldn’t need another player, would you?” he asked, injecting just enough naive enthusiasm to seem harmless. “Afraid I don’t have much coin to spare though.” 

The burliest of the three leaned back, a big bear of a man, his hair and beard thick with grey and his face weathered and beaten to a leathery shine. “What’s happened to ye? Looks like ye were fucked by a jester, and not kindly neither.” 

A weedy thing with a shock of ginger hair sat by his side, cackling. The last man was all silence and cool eyes aglow in the gloom, with smooth chestnut skin and short curls. He surveyed Jon with detached interest, his gaze lingering on the colour-smeared finery of his clothes. “Looks like he got a little excited by all that paint they sellin’ over at that market by Sloane Street,” he remarked. “Easy to wash out, I hear.” He raised a dark brow pointedly. 

Jon bit back a triumphant grin. People could be so predictable. “Well, I’d be happy to bet this jacket of mine for, say, some of those coins you got there.” He nodded at the stacks sitting in the middle of the table “Bought it off a merchant from Dorne only the other day. Worth at least twenty silver stags.” 

The ginger man reached out to rub the material, grunting in approval. “Feels real nice to me. Alright, I’m game. Draw up a chair, pretty boy.” 

Once the cards had been dealt, Jon settled back to wait. A six and four of hearts. Hardly a great hand, but one he could potentially work with. He glanced up at this opponents - the greybeard had scrunched his face in concentration, his beady eyes fixed unblinkingly on his cards. The ginger man was chewing tobacco methodically and distracted, looking around the room, looking at the other guests, looking at Jon. 

The third man’s face was smooth marble; neither a twitch nor a blink gave his thoughts away. Jon grudgingly had to admit that he was a decent player. 

‘Now?’

‘Now. Target the red bloke - he seems easily flustered.’ 

Right on cue, Jon felt a soft touch of fabric brush against the back of his neck. He looked up to see Arya pretend to take a tumble, falling gracelessly against the ginger man and clutching his shoulders to steady herself. 

“Oh my - I’m so sorry!” she gushed, fixing his jacket and letting her hands linger. “I can be so clumsy after a few drinks!” She offered an innocent smile, and Jon knew the moment the man melted at the sight.

He reddened in a colour not dissimilar to his hair, giving off the general impression that he was on fire. “Don’t worry about it, miss. Happens to the best of us. You take care now, you hear? Don’t want you hurtin’ yourself!” 

“I’ll try my best. I can’t always have a strong man such as yourself there to catch me,” she simpered, keeping her voice as high-pitched as possible. Jon resisted the urge to clench his fist when the other man’s expression grew dazed as it roved over her body, lingering on her exposed leg. He told her to catch his attention, not flirt with him, damn it. 

‘How else do you think a girl catches anyone’s attention around here?’ she asked, amused. ‘It’s all fun, Jon, do lighten up.’ 

Her eyes roved over the table and she let out a perfect gasp of surprise. “Oh, are you playing sabacc? Would it be terrible if I watched? I do love it, though I’m afraid I don’t know the rules.” 

His old companion groaned as the ginger man stood immediately, almost knocking the table over. “Bane, you dunce! Ye almost ruined the whole game!” he bellowed. 

“Don’t mind old Jacke there. Have a seat here, miss!” Bane dragged a chair from a nearby table to sit right beside him, uncomfortably close. “I’ll show you how to play, if you’d like!” 

“Like hell you will. We ain’t got time for that,” grumbled Jacke. “Stand over there if ye have to,” he ordered Arya, jabbing his thumb somewhere behind him, “and don’t be makin’ too much noise! Tryin’ to focus here.” He turned to the dark man beside him. “Your move, Orland.” 

Arya did a little curtsy and flounced to the spot he mentioned - conveniently positioned that the slightest step in either direction gave her a glance at each of the three men’s cards. 

‘Jacke has two aces. Bane has a queen and a four. Orland has a jack and a ten.’ 

Jon grinned - this was going to be his best game, yet. 

oOo

“Good show, men, but there can only be one winner, I’m afraid.” 

Jon reached over and grabbed all the coins off the table, dragging them to his side. His three competitors glared at him sullenly. 

Arya had slipped back into the crowd in the final round, having divulged the last of the hands and disappearing before any of the men could dwell on their matching paint markings and how awfully convenient it had been that they had both arrived at the same time. Bane looked particularly disappointed when he’d noticed. 

“Somethin’ don’t smell right,” Orland muttered suspiciously with a sneer. “You knew what to do every time. How’s that possible?” 

“Just pure skill, really. You’ll get there one day, my friend,” Jon consoled, patting the other man’s shoulder sympathetically. “But for now - drinks on me!” He stood up and raised his voice above the babble. “For everyone!” 

There was a deafening cheer as the crowd roared, clanging their mugs and stomping their feet. Even Jacke offered a reluctant nod and reached out to shake Jon’s hand. “If ye ever find yerself around these parts, I expect a rematch,” he said sternly. “Can’t be having no pretty boy showing me up in me own inn. Oi! Aren!” his booming voice called to the bar. “Where are our drinks then?” 

Jon accepted his mug of ale from the suddenly-cheerful innkeeper with no intention of drinking more than a few sips before finding Arya, but it gave him a brief break to enjoy the bliss. A few moments: no more.

“Jacke.” A shadow fell across their table; two men towered over them, gold cloaks hanging off their white armour and helmets beneath their arms. The younger of the two men gave them all a nod. The other was conspicuously still. “Fancy seeing you here.” 

“And you, sir,” Jacke murmured. Jon felt a tinge of surprise at his deference - he did not seem like a man who appreciated authority. “What brings ye here?”

The young City Watchman bestowed a boy’s charming smile on him. “Haven’t lost all your money, have you? You still owe me a hundred silver stags for that game you cheated me out of. Let’s not make it two hundred, shall we?” 

The man beside him gave a nasty smile. Jon shifted in his seat, careful to hide his face in his mug so as to avoid them looking too closely. An uncomfortable turn in his stomach told him that something wasn’t right. 

“A hundred silver stags?” Bane interjected in shock. “Who has that kind of coin? It was a ten-silver bet!” 

“It’s none of your business,” the older man said. His voice was hard, edged with the lithe accent of the Reach; his eyes were harder, reptilian in their coldness. They took nothing from his face, handsome and healthy and full of derision. “We’ll be back tomorrow, Jacke. Try not to make us wait again. You know the rules.” He patted his sword hilt pointedly, before they turned on their heel and stalked away. 

In the corner of her eye, Jon was aware of Arya, stark among the rest of the crowd who were unobtrusively watching. 

Fury filled Jacke’s eyes. “Bunch of cunts,” he spat at their retreating backs. “Think their shiny cloaks make ‘em better than all of us. Fuck ‘em all.” He took a deep swig of his tankard, his hand shaking slightly. 

“Why are they asking for a hundred silver stags?” Jon enquired. 

Orland scoffed. “Because they can. Because they know none of us will pay it. Gives ‘em an excuse to take what they want then - our weapons, our horses, even our damn women if they take their fancy. They call it payment for protecting the city.” He spat on the floor. “Fuckers. The King’s men, they call themselves. Hah!” 

Jon suddenly felt very cold, his breath lodged in his throat. “There are always bad eggs,” he murmured. “But they do their job.” 

“More like an entire poisoned basket,” Bane rebuked, folding his arms. “If it were up to me, I’d throw ‘em all in the harbour. Not a single good they’ve done for this city. Now I won’t be sayin’ nothin’ against the King, mind, great bloke that he is. But his men?” He scoffed. 

Jacke sighed and rubbed his wrinkled face wearily. “Didn’t know he was a Gold Cloak when I played him,” he groaned, clutching his tankard. “It was just ten silver stags, but they’re out to get me for it. Where am I going to get the money? Can’t afford to give ‘em anything else!” 

Orland patted his back sympathetically. 

Jon made his decision. “You’ll get the money,” he declared, fierce, his anger suddenly visible like a dragon dropping from the clouds. He unbuttoned his jacket, slipped it off, and threw it across the table. Jacke stared at Jon in wild confusion. “That’s actually imported from Essos. Any merchant worth their salt will confirm it. It’ll fetch you at least ten gold dragons, once you clean it up a bit,” Jon explained, levelling a hard look. “Sell it, take the coin, shove it in their faces and tell them to leave you alone. Problem solved.” 

Orland glanced between the jacket and Jon, his expression growing stonier with each passing moment. “What are you doin’ with a jacket worth ten gold dragons?” he demanded as Jacke fingered it earnestly, as if his life depended on it. “Who did you say you were again?”

A silence persisted, awkward, filling up every crevice, and it was broken only by the arrival of Arya, who came in clutching four overflowing mugs of ale in her arms. “Drinks for all!” she cheerfully announced, slamming it on the table. It spilled everywhere, drenching the cards and flowing into the men’s laps. 

“Oi, these are my nice trousers!” Bane moaned, jumping to his feet to desperately pat at his wet thighs. Beside him, Bane and Orland had pushed their chairs back and were grumbling about the mess. 

“Time to go,” Arya whispered in his ear, grabbing his arm. “Quickly, before they realise!” 

Without needing to be told twice, Jon leapt from his seat and followed Arya through the crowded inn, half-sprinting until they were out into the cool night air. 

oOo

Only when they had rounded the corner into a dingy side street did they pause to catch their breath. “What…were…you…thinking?” Arya panted, clutching a stitch on her side. “You can’t just…give away your jacket and…tell them it’s worth so much!” 

“He needed the coin! You saw what those guards were like,” Jon argued, watching her catch her breath as he leaned casually against the wall. “I don’t see what the problem is.” 

“I thought you didn’t want to be recognised,” Arya sighed after a few moments. “Jon, some of those people have never seen a gold dragon in their life. Some fancy lad drops in and just gives away a fancy jacket worth ten whole dragons - they’re going to wonder.”

He looked away then, suddenly feeling incredibly reckless. “I could be the son of some lord,” he defended. “Or some wealthy merchant.” 

“Jon-“

“What does it matter?” he snapped suddenly, turning back to her. “He may cheat at cards, but Jacke doesn’t deserve to be bullied by those sworn to protect him. None of them do. I was in a position to help, so I did. Happy?” 

Leached of all her good humour, there was a sadness to Arya’s face: in the twist of her lips and the twitch of her fingers. “Not really,” she replied softly. “There are others like Jacke, like Milah and Graycie, and all the other courtesans we met that day. Just giving them some gloves or a jacket doesn’t really solve their problems, does it? You helped Jacke today - but what if another guard demands something of him tomorrow? What happens when you’re not around?” 

Rhaenys’ words from earlier that day came rushing back: Make a difference. You’re in the singularly unique position of having just enough power to influence change.

“I can’t fix all their problems, Arya,” he whispered, defeated. He wasn’t sure if he was speaking to her, or to the Rhaenys in his head. “At the end of the day, I’m just one man. How much can I really do?” 

As if the universe sought to prove a point, they heard a terrible noise from somewhere near: a woman’s screams filling the air. 

Jon and Arya took one horrified look at each other, before setting off in a run without a second thought. 

The world blurred into dark buildings and spots of light as they shot by. It was almost instinctive; someone was in trouble and they needed their help. There was no time to dwell, only to act. Across their bond, he knew Arya felt the same. 

A movement caught his eye, and he threw out an arm to stop her. He saw the flash in the gloom, knew the all too familiar colour: a proud and glittering gold, the gold cloak of the City Watch.

His first thought: they can’t all be bad, can they? This is a Man of the Watch. He protects the people of the city, the King’s people, his people, he must be protecting the woman from something, though he cannot see from who or what…

And as the scream came again, a desperate, hoarse sound cut off by a man’s laughter, his mind whispered: oh no, no, no.

Driven by blind instinct, Arya rushed ahead without him, yelling. He watched as her fists connected with something shiny and silver, something armoured like a guard would be: and finally, the shimmer of the gold cloak registered on his senses. 

In his mind’s eye, Jon saw a reflection of himself running; the stinging of his neck as a gloved hand wrapped around his throat, the rancid reek of breath mingled with the warmth of the air, the weightlessness of his feet as he was lifted in the air. No air could enter his (her) lungs, and he (she) was suffocating…

A new, vicious pain knifed his shoulder - savage and red-hot and throwing him out of Arya’s mind. 

The swing of the punch forced the man to let go of Arya, but the moment of respite was brief. Jon hardly caught a glimpse of Arya rubbing her throat gingerly, before the guard sprang at him and slammed him into the alley wall. At the same time, he seemed to hear a tremendous crash that must have been his head cracking on the hard stone. 

Incredible pain like acid hurled through his shoulder, dimmed only by the blackening rage that flooded his veins. 

He lifted his knee slammed it as hard as he could against the guard’s exposed groin. As he fell, Jon kicked out and heard a very satisfying crack in the region of his face. After a very short scuffle, the man ended up kneeling on the floor with one arm twisted up behind his back and a furious prince standing behind him. 

The man was cursing as he writhed under his hands - a man of the Watch, a man of respectable standing, how dare a street rat lay a hand on a Gold Cloak, nowhere would be safe! - and unable to bear anymore, Jon tore off his helmet and slammed his head into the wall. All sound immediately cut out as the guard slumped backwards. 

Dead? Unconscious? He didn't care. However much he stared at the lump, it didn't seem real. Nothing seemed real anymore. 

Jon prodded his shoulder slowly, swallowing a trembling groan. It throbbed mercilessly and suddenly he felt hot, so hot that he couldn’t stop shaking. The uncontrollable shudders - pain or anger or adrenaline? - threatened to shake him apart from the inside. 

Arya. 

His head lifted jerkily of its own accord, and for a moment, the scene made no sense. Soundless, except for distant murmurs, vision jolting because he shook so.

A woman sat sprawled against the opposite wall, desperately grabbing fistfuls of her dress as if anchoring herself. In the dim light, he could make out her ghostly face stricken with tears. With her paint-streaked arms wrapped around the other woman’s quivering frame, Arya was speaking to her in low, frantic whispers. The woman was shaking her head slowly and Arya’s shoulders visibly sank in relief. 

A small, rational part of him knew he ought to be gentle and grateful that neither seemed harmed, but his body wouldn't obey, the rest of his mind a blind and quivering fog. He could only shake and feel the pain stabbing at him. 

Then Arya was standing in front of him, holding the woman’s arm, saying something he couldn’t quite hear. 

“What were you thinking?” he said derisively, interrupting her. “Charging at an attacker like that? Do you have any idea what could have happened?” 

Her eyes widened in shock. “What was I supposed to do?” she snapped. “He was hurting her, Jon!” 

“I would have handled it! You, on the other hand, can’t fight. You’re lucky he didn’t have his sword.” His voice was a snap. Images of almost and what-if echoed in his head and preyed on his anger. The trembling increased until it took him over and knocked away all other thought. “We’re going back. Now. We should never have left the palace.” 

“No,” Arya commanded, steel in her voice. “I need to take her home. I can’t leave her like this.” 

“I’ve already put you at risk,” he hissed. “I’m not putting you in anymore.” 

“I wasn’t looking for your permission,” she threw back, eyes flashing, “I’m going, whether you like it or not.” Her expression smoothed and hesitantly, she reached out and stroked the bright green streak across his cheek. “Please don’t think I’m not grateful for you being here, but you need to go back. You’re in far too much pain-“ 

“I’m not-“

“I can feel it,” she whispered. “You can’t lie to me, remember?” 

He leaned into her touch and closed his eyes, focusing on his breath. Pain ate at the edges of his mind, spearing his shoulder with every exhale. The thread flickered; a crystal gold that sparkled like champagne. Cool fingertips brushed his forehead, and like the silky glide of melting frost, the touch of her mind was snowflakes to his own. He concentrated on their connection, grasping at it, letting it wrap around his very self as he breathed steadily. 

The pain receded enough for the trembling to stop and a dull ache had taken hold. It would have to do for now. 

“I'm coming with you,” Jon finally said aloud. When she started to protest, he quickly cut in, “I wasn’t looking for your permission. I’m coming, whether you like it or not.” 

She smiled softly and he felt a wave of her gratitude wash over him. 

Hoping he wasn’t going to regret his decision not to drag them both home, Jon turned to the woman. She was now leaning against Arya in support, her eyes blank and somewhat glazed. A strong whiff of ale wafted from her breath. “Miss?” he asked, bending until they were level. “We’re taking you home. Can you tell us where that is?” 

She blinked, realising slowly that she was being spoken to. When her eyes caught his, they widened and she staggered back with a squeak. Jon raised his hands, palms out. “Easy there, I’m not going to hurt you!” he tried to reassure, “I saved you, didn’t you see?” He took a step forward, the woman shrank further back, blanching in fear. 

“Jon, she’s terrified,” Arya hissed at him. “Stand back!” 

“But if I could just explain-“ 

“Does she look like she wants to hear an explanation right now? For goodness’ sake, get behind me-“ 

“Nira? Nira!” 

Three heads turned to see two small figures pelting forward to embrace the woman, burying their heads into her skirts. Milah and Graycie, the girls from the market. 

“Where in blazing hells did they come from?” Jon whispered in Arya’s ear. 

“They must have been following us all this time,” she responded in surprise. 

The woman - Nira - was hugging them back, still glancing anxiously over their shoulders to where Jon stood. The children hammered her with questions and babbles, but Nira could only offer them a bewildered look and a few slurred words back. 

Arya approached them slowly and asked them quietly, “Is this your mother?”

The girl with the blonde hair and blue paint - Graycie, he thought - shook her head. “She works with our sister at Asten’s.” 

“Asten’s?” 

“It’s a brothel by the Guild,” Milah explained in a squeak, red and yellow paint smudging across her cheeks. She cast hesitant looks at the guard as he moaned softly, and Jon quickly moved to block him from her sight. Not dead, it seemed. A pity. 

Arya replied kindly, “We’d like to take her home, so could you show us the way to Asten’s, please?” 

Nira made a protesting sound and leaned away from Arya, eyeing both of them with distrust. “Who are you?” she demanded in a hoarse whisper. “What do you want?” 

“Don’t worry,” Arya reassured, “I’m Arya Stark of Winterfell and this,” she waved a hand at the gaping man behind her, “is Prince Jon. You know, the King’s son.” 

Nira’s jaw dropped. 

‘Arya, you were just yelling at me about giving myself away at the inn. What happened to being discreet?’ 

‘You almost murdered a Gold Cloak. It’s a bit late for that, Your Grace.’ 

Jon stifled a groan and pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly. This was turning into a very, very long night. 

oOo

When they had first left the alleys for the main streets, Nira hanging between them, the walk didn’t seem so bad. By the time they had crossed halfway through the city and pulled up in front of a barely held-together shack hidden in some corner, Jon’s shoulder was screaming once more and Arya’s face was shining pink in exhaustion. The searing heat of the summer night, coupled with dragging an inebriated woman through bustling crowds, had soaked into their skin until Jon was sure he’d have to peel off his clothes later.

He let out a sigh as they tumbled through the open doorway and were struck by cool air.

Inside, the brothel was basic but spacious. There were only a few customers mulling around, too engrossed by sultry touches and scents to pay the new guests any mind. Arya, upon seeing an empty chaise longue, gently moved Nira towards it and settled her down amongst the cushions. Milah and Graycie hopped up beside her, their legs kicking out beneath them. 

An ancient spiral staircase rose in the centre of the room, which was shoddily tiled in black and red. Through an open door, Jon glimpsed a flourishing garden, green and white and pink. He caught Arya casting curious glances around the space, her eyes brightening as they landed on each unremarkable detail. 

“I’ve never been to a brothel before,” she mused. “What about you?” 

“No,” he lied flatly. “Not really my thing. Keep your head down,” he ordered when he saw some patrons cast glances their way, “we can’t risk being seen, let alone in a brothel of all places.” 

“Look around - who’s going to recognise us?” 

A young girl emerged from one of the doors on the side and moved to greet them. She looked maybe twelve or thirteen, a slender girl with a stream of shiny blonde hair and soft blue eyes that were far older than her form. The bold pinks and golds of her clothes sat well against her fair complexion, not so well against her tired and almost detached visage. 

“Welcome to Asten’s. Is there something I can help you with?” she asked, her voice calm and low. 

As soon as her eyes fell on Jon, she let out a loud gasp. “Your Grace!” 

So much for their painted disguises. 

“Bessa?” Arya blurted, incredulous. 

The name seemed familiar. Jon studied her face, a memory rising of a bold courtesan asking him to dance in a square filled with song and sun. He almost didn’t recognise her - the laughing girl was gone, and in her place, someone far more sombre, anchored to her gritty reality. It was a sobering change. 

Bessa turned and let out an even louder gasp. “Arya? I - what…what are you doing here?” She glanced between them, before understanding dawned on her face. Her eyes widened in shock briefly, before she schooled her expression into something polite. “Are you looking to hire a service…together? We have rooms you’ll be finding suitable and a fine selection of both men and women, boys and girls of all ages, depending on your personal preference-“

“Oh Gods, please stop talking,” Jon hurriedly interrupted. He flushed deeply; beside him, Arya had hidden herself behind her long curtain of hair, until all he could see of her was the tip of her nose. “We’re not here to hire anyone. We’re just dropping this one home.” He waved towards Nira, currently slumped against the sofa and snoring quietly. Milah and Graycie were watching them, alert. “She almost had an, um, incident. She’s not hurt but thought it best to see her safe. So now that’s done, we’ll be going now.” He gave Bessa a firm nod and grabbed Arya by the wrist to head out the door as quickly as possible. 

Milah - or was it Graycie? - decided, in that moment, to point out, “It was one of the bad men, Bess. He tried to hurt her.” 

“A Gold Cloak?” Bessa said sharply. “Where is he now?” 

“The prince killed him.” 

“I didn’t kill him!” Jon corrected hotly, dropping his voice down to hushed tones when he saw curious faces turn their way again. “He’s probably awake by now, in some dingy alley.” His brow furrowed as he frowned at Milah. “What do you mean by ‘bad men’? Are you saying this happens often?”

“We shouldn’t be discussing this here.” A chorus of giggles erupted from the other side of the room. Bessa glanced over her shoulder, a flash of concern passing over her face, and turned back. “Follow me upstairs. We’ll have more privacy there.” 

“But Nira-“ Arya began. 

“She’ll be fine,” Bessa reassured. “The other girls will look after her. Come on now.” 

Jon moved to follow her, when a soft hand on his arm pulled him back. “We don’t have to stay, you know,” Arya offered. “If you want to head back, I’ll come with you.” 

He shook his head, his mouth set in grim determination. “I need to know more about the City Watch. If there’s a rot in my father’s guard, I can’t ignore it. Besides,” he shrugged, “this night’s already gone to shit. Might as well see it through.” 

Arya sighed. “I suppose. Next time you make a mad decision, maybe I’ll go back to bed instead.” 

“What’s the point of you being in my head if you can’t be my voice of reason when I make mad decisions?” he complained. 

She shot him an unimpressed look as they climbed the stairs. “Yes, because anyone’s ever succeeded in talking a Targaryen out of their madness.” 

How comical those words were, all the worse because he knew them to be true.

oOo

The early hours of the morning found them in a small bedroom on the third floor, decorated in gauzy reds and smelling the heady scent of soiled sheets and cheap perfume. The presence of the large unmade bed covered in dubious stains meant the tension was as tangible as the evening heat.

Bessa bustled in carrying a tray, Milah and Graycie clutching her skirts. She set it on the low table before them, smiling apologetically. “I brought some wine,” she announced, handing them both glasses before perching herself on the chair opposite. “I’m sorry about the mess…just had a client and haven’t had the chance to clean up.” She avoided their eyes as she poured them a cupful. 

Jon struggled to muster words as they sipped on their drinks. Bessa barely came up to his chest and looked like a sudden breeze would knock her over. The thought of her doing anything in this room sent his stomach roiling.

The girls manoeuvred their way through to Arya’s side and climbed on her lap. Arya settled them more comfortably and let them fiddle with Cassandra Reed’s book. Jon had almost forgotten that she was still carrying it. 

“What’s it about?” Milah asked, flicking through the pages. 

Arya confessed with a shrug, “I don’t know yet. I’ve only just started it.” 

“What does this say?” 

“That says ‘ships.’” 

“Is it a story about ships? Does it have any dragons in it?”

“Well, when I’ve finished it, I’ll let you know.” 

“I like books with dragons. Those are my favourite. I want to make my own stories one day,” she said in a stage-whisper, as if revealing a secret. 

Graycie snorted unkindly. “You can’t even read, Milah.” 

Milah reddened and turned her nose up. “I could learn!” 

“No, you couldn’t!” 

“Yes, I could!”

“Girls!” Bessa warned, cutting through their bickering. They shut up immediately and cast their eyes downwards, the picture of demure. “Stop bothering Lady Arya. Why don’t you go play outside?” 

Arya waved her hand nonchalantly. “They remind me of myself and my brother Bran when we were younger,” she laughed. “We couldn’t stop arguing, either. Let them stay.” 

Milah beamed up at her and turned back to the book. “What does this say?” 

Jon marvelled at Arya’s patience. “That says ‘volition.’” 

“What does that mean?”

“Sort of like free will or choice.” 

Graycie, feeling left out, tugged on Arya’s locks to grab her attention. “Are you a lady?” 

Arya’s grey eyes twinkled. “Unfortunately. But don’t call me that.” 

The girl chewed on her lip. “What does a lady do?” 

Jon masked his sigh with a cough and Arya dug her elbow in his side. ‘Be nice, they’re just curious!’ she chastised him through their link. 

“Well,” she began aloud, “I’m not really sure, actually. I’m not very good at it, you see.” 

“I want to be a lady,” Graycie proclaimed happily. “I want to wear pretty dresses like yours and marry a prince like you!” 

Arya balked as Jon almost inhaled his wine through his nose. “I’m not marrying a-“

“You can’t be a lady,” Milah insisted spitefully. “Ladies are nice and smart!” 

“I’m smart!” 

“Oh yeah? What does that word say?” 

“You don’t have to read to be smart!” 

“Ladies can read - isn’t that right, miss?” 

“Well, maybe I’ll learn! And then I’ll be a proper lady and you’ll be sorry!” Graycie declared hotly, jumping off Arya’s lap to bury herself against Bessa’s side. Milah stuck her tongue out and settled further into Arya. 

“Sorry, they can be a handful,” Bessa confessed fondly. A smile broke through her formal mask: Jon saw the promise of the beauty Bessa would become. Her eyes were bright as stars, full of youth, full of humour. She shone then, like a twist of fire in darkness, so much more like the girl they’d met in the square. 

“Tell me about the City Watch,” Jon asked quietly, taking advantage of the children’s heated silence.

Bessa looked up at him. “What’s there to tell? They’re bullies,” she said simply. “They think their positions mean they can do anything they want - and no one’s allowed to say nothing. Asten complained to the Commander about them hurting our girls and three of them showed up and broke his arm.” She picked at a loose thread on her skirt, avoiding his eye. “We try not to go out alone. Asten doesn’t say nothing either, doesn’t want the attention. Too many girls have disappeared to take any sort of risk. Nira’s new to the city so she didn’t remember.” 

“How long has this been happening?” 

She shrugged. “Since always, I think. They’re the King’s men, not ours. Everyone knows that.” 

He blinked, startled. “They’re meant to be yours, too.” Frowning, he rubbed his shoulder absently in thought. “I can fix this. I can speak to my Father and - and we’ll investigate and bring them to justice.” He reached over and patted her hand kindly. “I’ll make sure of it.” 

She watched him with wonder. “You’re just like Prince Aegon. He’s a gift from the Gods, too.” 

Arya choked on her wine. Jon narrowed his eyes. 

“You know my brother,” he said darkly. It was a statement more than a question. 

She gazed up at him, face full of adoration. “Aye, he used to come by once a month or so, back when he lived at the palace. He’d buy us all new dresses and a hot meal.” Bessa giggled, and the sound showed Jon just how young she was. “He’d even play with the babes sometimes. He said the funniest things - I’d laugh myself to stitches listening to him!” 

“How nice of him,” Jon said sharply. “Was this before or after he bedded you?” 

She gave a nervous grin. “His Grace never bedded anyone. He just wanted to talk to us, is all. Ask us how we’re doing, things like that.” 

Jon snorted derisively. “Spare me. Who comes to a whore for conversation?” 

He immediately hated himself a little then for the ease with which he wiped the smile from Bessa. Her expression distorted, an amalgamation of an adult’s well-worn sorrow and a child’s lurid insecurity. 

Arya pinched his leg and he swallowed a yelp. “Was that necessary?” she said through clenched teeth. “Why would she lie about something like that?” 

“It’s all right. He’s got a point and it sounds strange, but it’s true.” She folded her hands into her lap, fidgeting again with her skirts. “Because of him, Asten lets us keep our families here and pays us properly.” Her eyes shifted to Milah and Graycie, dozing gently against Arya. “Told him he’d run him through with a sword if he didn’t,” she smiled softly. “The Gold Cloaks would stay away from the girls when His Grace was around. They didn’t want to upset him and we said nothin’ because we didn’t want to push them, see.” Her face fell. “Until he moved away. Now they don’t seem to care much.” 

Jon's voice was cool. “You’re mistaken. That wasn’t my brother.” 

“Jon-“ 

Anger flared through him, brief but real. “I know him, Arya. I’ve spent years listening to him brag about all the women he’s fucked. We’ve fought over it because he knows how much I hate that part of his life. And now, it turns out, he’s just been - what, looking for a nice chat? Fighting for the whores of King’s Landing? Why would he keep something like that from me? That doesn’t make any sense.” 

She placed a hand to his arm in concern. “There has to be a good reason-“ 

Jon stood suddenly, and the space seemed suddenly a good deal smaller. His hands curled into fists, eyes flaring. “No, there isn’t. There’s no excuse at all.” There was steel in his voice and steel in his stare, bared and sharp and brutal. 

He turned on his heel and stormed away. 

oOo

The streets were filled with people, some in clusters, some alone, some in couples. He flew past them, until he found an empty side street. He sank to the floor then, flinging back his head to drink in the fresh air.

He sighed and leaned against the stone wall, closing his eyes briefly to listen to the distant music. His shoulder ached deeply, waves of discomfort resonating with the beat. 

“Do you want to talk about it?" a voice asked. It was light, warm and soothing. He knew who it was by the way his heart was seized in a vice of yearning. 

“No.” He couldn’t. His thoughts were too frazzled, too overwhelmed. To put any of them into words was akin to catching lightening with one’s fingertips. So he didn’t want to try. He didn’t want to do anything. 

Arya dropped next to him and shot him a swift, unreadable glance. “You know, despite everything, I’m still glad we snuck out tonight.” 

“I beg to differ.”

A crack of a smile. “I always thought that princes don’t beg. Blood of the dragon and all that.” 

He groaned and she laughed. She was laughing. At a time like this! When their night had been entirely ruined! And he was enthralled at how it transformed her. The sadness she’d carried earlier dissolved at once and left behind this undeniably appealing girl whose nature was addicting to experience. 

“Why aren’t you more upset?" he demanded. “The night’s gone to shit. People are suffering. My father’s men are a bunch of cunts who rape and steal and torment the city. My brother’s a lying twat.” He rubbed at his eyes and let out a bone-weary sigh. “I just needed an escape.” 

That silenced her and she simply stared at him with her head tilted slightly, her face intense. “The night’s not over yet," she said simply. “You promised me a dance.” 

“I don’t really feel like dancing,” he confessed, almost petulantly. 

A cryptic smile. “Well, that’s too bad, because I do. And there’s no one else around to be my partner, so it has to be you.” She stood up and held her hand out expectantly. 

He looked up at her hopeful face, and felt the tension, the anger drain away. Letting her help pull him up, he stepped closer and rested one hand on her waist, the other grasping her own tightly by their shoulders. 

Time passed smoothly and silently as they swayed to the distant sounds. There was no more moon tonight, only a galaxy of stars frozen in a thousand colours; shades of blue dipping into purple haze and grey fringes. Dark, soft green, so easy to sink into. Like the green of her dress, covered in a sea of colours too, as simmering and smouldering as the stars above. 

As they swayed, he was hopelessly lost in the mad infinity of the moment, and before he could stop himself, thought how much like those stars she was. Maybe there was something powerful burning in her, yet she came from so far away, the cold and distant tundra she called home...somehow beautiful, somehow the centre of a thousand dreams and wishes.

He simply looked at her, her eyes that were a grey that seemed to sweep up into the timeless, raw silver of winter’s first breath. And winter, he thought, which was all darkness and mystery and softness, would never hold that searing colour.

An arm around her waist gently pulled her closer and she followed, attuned as she was, too, to the stealthy beat of a night full of shadowed rainbows. If they focused, they could almost hear the sigh of their link brush against their minds and their skin, tying them together, whispering: at last. 

"You are beautiful." His words were calm and quiet, flowing as tenderly as the rhythm of the night did through his heart. It felt the same; smooth and alive and right. "You are so beautiful."

She tilted her head up, and met a kiss that was full of that same softness and mystery, and he realised that there was no greater belonging than amongst the stars and a winter night. 

Chapter Text

Rhaenys winced as her wedding dress tightened across her ribcage, leaving her breathless. It was long and fitted, made of a soft red silk that whispered with each step. A sheer gold jacket draped over her shoulders with pearls decorating the lace and bejewelled embroidery along the edges of her skirts. She was, Elia had said with a sparkle of delight in her eyes, a Dornish bride in every sense. 

She was made to tolerate the seamstress’ excruciating presence further as they presented a pair of elegant shoes that curled around the length of her feet like snakes. Their continued frantic poking and prodding ended as the sun began to sink and the Braavosi tailors had been dismissed for dinner, leaving the royal coffers considerably poorer and the tradesmen considerably richer.

She was playing with the last morsels on her plate while the Queen fussed over different sets of gold jewellery, only half-listening. They winked in the candlelight like glittering stars and Rhaenys could not bring herself to care a whit. 

“We’ll need something exceptional,” Elia mused, perusing the collections. “Something that will put all others to shame at the mere sight of you - oh, how about this?” She held up a necklace encrusted with glistening rhinestones along its gold chain. A drop of rich amber hung from the centre, the candles’ reflection dancing off its surface as if fire itself had been captured within the glass. “This ought to hold the tongue of that Mallister woman once and for all,” the Queen smirked with a crook of her brow. 

Rhaenys smiled weakly and nodded, but said nothing. She watched the other woman fiddle with the necklace instead. 

Elia was humming as she twisted the jewel between her practised fingers, observing it carefully through critical eyes. The light cast a warm glow over her brown skin, framing her in gold and shadow. Age had deepened the lines across her face, but had done little to erode its elegance.

Rhaenys had always found her mother beautiful; softened at the edges and tempered with a spine of steel. It was a beauty like that of the dozens of statues strewn around the palace - perfection at first, yet riddled with small errors if one searched them for long enough. On the surface, Elia was all serenity, but now and then, Rhaenys would catch a crack; a moment when her mother’s face and her words, her expressions and her meaning, would not line up. 

It was like watching two people, one hiding in the other’s skin. On the rare occasion, the skin was too fragile, on the verge of breaking and showing the truth of what lay beneath. Most of the time, it was as smooth as marble, impenetrable as steel. It was the Queen in all her regal glory. 

And a queen could not be wrecked by her emotions, Rhaenys chided herself in a voice that seemed far too like her mother’s. She must be strong and stable, unaffected by the currents. To be washed away was to be weak, and a weak queen would be swallowed whole by her court. 

But she wasn’t a queen yet. She was still a girl in so many ways. A girl who needed her mother to make sense of everything. A girl who wanted her mother to listen. 

There was a lengthy pause as Rhaenys fidgeted in her seat, a nervous habit from childhood she had long since conquered, but emerged when she was at her most anxious. In a desperate bid to end the conflict in her head, she finally blurted out, “Mother, what’s my duty?” 

Elia blinked, bewildered. “Your what, dear?” 

Rhaenys took a deep breath, “My duty,” she rushed. “I’m…not entirely sure what it means anymore. I thought - I thought it was to our family, to keep us together and strong, and in doing so, I was serving the realm. But…” She faltered and looked around absently, as if hoping to pluck the words from the air itself, “…but it’s not the same thing, is it? It never was. I can’t fulfil my role as both a princess and a sister, or a queen and a wife. One must always win. I was a fool to think otherwise.” 

“Where is this coming from?” Elia asked sternly. 

“Am I wrong?” Rhaenys pressed, leaning forward. Her hands shook in her lap and she balled them into fists to keep herself steady, as if her axis threatened to shift at the slightest breath. “It’s what you’ve always meant when you said love was the death of duty. I never understood it before, I’ve always thought my love was my duty, but I think I know better now.” 

Elia surveyed her in silence. Rhaenys had the odd feeling of being stripped from her bones and laid on the table next to the jewellery, to be assessed and critiqued as if she, too, were made of metal and stone, instead of blood and flesh. After a beat, the Queen sighed and rubbed at her forehead gently. “Your brothers are getting to you,” she muttered. 

Her lips quivered and Rhaenys reddened as she felt the prick of tears stinging her eyes. She could not cry now. She would not cry. “They’re miserable,” she whispered. “Jon is…angry and dissatisfied and nothing seems to temper him anymore and…and Aegon…oh, Mother, I think he resents me!” She swallowed the sob caught in her throat and checked the quiver in her voice. “Or he will, if he doesn’t already, and I - I can’t bear it.” Rhaenys’ turned to the stoic Queen imploringly. “He has all these dreams. Visions of a better world for the people-“ 

“Idealism with no sense of reality is a fool’s paradise,” Elia dismissed with a wave of her hand. “Perhaps an endearing trait in another man, but dangerous in a future king. Don’t encourage him.” 

“You don’t see how excited it all makes him,” Rhaenys argued. “Father’s always complaining that Aegon never shows any interest in the realm, yet you’re constantly shutting him down when he does! You…you don’t see his face when I shut him down. It’s becoming impossible to carry on like this,” she mumbled. “Jon hardly speaks to me anymore, and he certainly won’t after our disastrous conversation earlier. If I come to them as a sister or as a betrothed, I’d be encouraging behaviours that go against what’s right for the crown, but what may be best for their happiness. But if I come as a princess, they despise me for it and I just make them unhappier, yet I’d be fulfilling my duty to the crown.” She sniffed. “What am I supposed to do? Either way, I fail.” 

Elia smiled, but it was full of secrets and sadness; a slip in the mask. “And you will continue to fail. The crown blights every human transaction as sister, wife, daughter…mother.” Her voice faded a little, her smile wilting into something wistful. “I never wanted this life for you. Aegon has never had a choice - but you did. Things could have been different for you. It is not natural to live as we do: shrouded as we are, yet more vulnerable than most.” She laughed humourlessly. “To wield absolute power, yet condemned to be half-people, where to be human is to be weak. A cruel jest by the Gods, though one can appreciate the irony.” 

“So this is it, then?” Rhaenys rebuked. “I’m simply to accept that I shall always fail everyone around me? They’re-“ she wavered, swallowing. “Mother, they’re all I have and I can’t bear to lose them. Jon is - Gods help me, I don’t even know what Jon wants anymore, but stripping him of his swords and shackling him to a betrothal he doesn’t want isn’t going to help anything. And Aegon and I are to be married soon, Mother, and I want us to be happy. I refuse to accept that it’s not an option. Half-people we may be, which calls to reason that we can only be stronger together. Is their welfare not inseparably connected to the realm, after all?” 

“Your first duty is to the realm,” Elia stated, matter-of-fact. “And your duty to the realm is to ensure its stability. If you allow Aegon to run wild with these ideas of his or Jon his insubordination, you’ll be inviting chaos as the lords turn against you. They have turned for less.”

“There has to be a balance,” Rhaenys pushed, desperate. “Can I not choose both love and duty? Must one always be the death of the other? Surely, there are situations where-“ 

“To appease all is to appease none. This is not a game you can win, child. Those older and far more learned than you have tried and failed.” Elia leaned back in her chair and levelled a cool stare at her daughter. “Happiness nor love can save you,” she said bluntly, “so perish such thoughts and focus on what matters, however difficult it may be. It’s what your father and I did. We salvaged our kingdoms from the very brink of collapse. I cannot bear to think of what may have happened otherwise, because there is no other option.” 

“Targaryens have put themselves before the realm in the past and nothing but destruction followed their wake.” Elia cleared her throat delicately. “Look no further than under our own roof. Your father put love before his duty and started a war that devastated the kingdoms. So to answer your query - no, you cannot be both their princess and their sister. The crown must always win - because the day it does not, is a day House Targaryen faces its own demise.” 

Rhaenys felt her heart constrict and for the first time in her life, a touch of resentment began to blossom. Dully, she repeated the words her betrothed had thrown at her in his tent that terrible day at the tourney, “When our duty strips away the last of our humanity, what will remain? Statues forged of gold, glittering and hollow. Not a family, surely.” 

“No,” Elia said. “But a dynasty.” 

Rhaenys let out a breath she didn't know had been trapped in her throat. Despite the dozens of candles dotted around the room, a coldness sank into her, or perhaps it was something far more sorrowful: she stared at her mother - rather, the Queen - imposing and regal as she always was. 

A knock on the door broke the spell. 

“Not interrupting, am I? I hear it’s terrible luck to see a bride in her gown before the wedding day.” 

She looked up to see Aegon in the doorway, grinning with his hands over his eyes. The elegant-boned face was framed by a crop of silver hair and tanned from the morning joust. 

Elia’s face immediately lit up at the sight of her son, and all traces of their conversation suddenly dissipated. “It’s quite safe in here, dear heart,” she announced with a wide smile, extending her hand out. “Do come in!” 

He strolled in and pecked his mother’s cheek. “You’re both looking radiant this evening. Don’t tell me you dressed up just for me.” Slipping into the empty chair beside her, he stole a slice of bread from their dinner basket. 

Elia blushed and playfully smacked his shoulder, immediately switching from Queen to doting mother. Rhaenys almost had whiplash. 

Aegon ducked his head as she fussed over his hair, brushing it back from his face and attempting unsuccessfully to smooth it over. “Where have you been? I thought you and I would have tea this afternoon.” 

“In my study, if you’d believe it,” he mumbled, cramming the bread in his mouth whole. “Had some work to get through before the council meeting.” 

“Work, you say? So what’s her real name?” Rhaenys retorted whilst sipping her wine, hoping her indifferent mask stayed firm. 

Aegon shot her a wry look as Elia’s expression grew severe towards her daughter. “There’s no need for that.” She turned and smiled with unreserved adoration at Aegon. “I think it’s wonderful you’re taking this meeting so seriously. Don’t mind her, dear heart.” 

“I never do, Mother,” he parried with a shake of his head. When the Queen had turned back to the jewellery sets, he stuck his tongue out. 

Rhaenys snorted quietly despite herself and mimed a rude gesture back.

Aegon put a hand to his heart and winced. “Mother, do you see how little she thinks of me?” he declared in mock hurt. Glancing out the window at the inky sky melting into darkness, he leaned over to peck the Queen’s cheek. “Duty awaits. We ought to get going.” 

Elia sighed, giving his hand a squeeze. “Try not to upset your father again, my love. He’s always in such an awful mood the next day when you do and it’s impossible to deal with him.” 

“I make no such promises!” he called over his shoulder as they left the chamber, and laughed when Rhaenys elbowed his side. 

oOo

“Can we stop for a minute?” Aegon asked as they walked down towards the council chamber. “There’s something I need to discuss with you.”

“You’re not in trouble, are you? Because if you’ve lost another stupid bet, I’m not paying your debts again,” Rhaenys said quickly. 

To her surprise, his expression grew more serious and he pulled her into a quiet alcove on the side. “I thought about what you said that day. You know, before Jon’s joust,” he told her in a low voice. “You said that there was no way I could force all the lords in Westeros to do as I say or they’d call me a tyrant - remember that?” 

Rhaenys sighed and rubbed at her temple, as if that might erase the memory of that awful day. “About helping the whores? I remember telling you that what you want is impossible, as noble as your intentions are. You didn’t drop it, did you?” she accused. 

He grinned wildly at her, thrumming with excited energy. “Not even a little,” he proudly replied. “But I’ve come up with a solution and I’m going to share it with the council.”

“Egg, no-“

“A guild,” he announced. 

“A guild,” she repeated flatly. “A guild of whores…you can’t be serious.” 

“Not just them - merchants, craftsmen, farmers, you name it. One for all of them.” 

Rhaenys gaped at him. 

“Hear me out,” he rushed, grasping at her hands. “You were right. I can’t control everything that happens in all Seven Kingdoms, and if I tried, the lords would have my head for interfering.” He smiled broadly. “But what if we didn’t have to? What if the smallfolk took their welfare in their own hands, and we simply…let it happen. I’ve been reading about the Nine Free Cities of Essos all afternoon-“

“Aegon-“ 

“They’re thriving, Rhaenys, where Westeros has been stagnant for centuries. Do you know why?” he pressed, waving his hands impatiently. “Because their people look after themselves. They don’t wait for some lord to throw them scraps whenever it catches their fancy. We could do it too, you know: give them power over their own lives, give them the opportunity to grow and protect themselves. We wouldn’t have to look to Essos for everything anymore. Westeros needs to evolve and this is our opportunity.” 

“But-“

“I know what you’re going to say,” he cut in bluntly. “The lords won’t support it because it could cost them coin and some power - but I’ve already taken that into consideration.” He frantically pulled a parchment out of the pocket in his tunic and shoved it at her. A mess of tiny scribbles in his barely legible handwriting covered the page with numbers and notes. 

Aegon jabbed his finger at it. “I’ve made all my arguments here. We might take an initial hit, but if we follow Essos’ trajectory, the lords will be richer than they can imagine in years to come. We’d just need to formalise the organisations, grant them the validity and protection they need to make their own rules and elect their own leaders, and they can grow from there. Rhaenys, Westeros’ potential could be explosive if we focused on developing our trades properly. And I can finally make a difference! So - what do you say?” he asked breathlessly. “Will you support me on this?” 

The markings blurred on the parchment, across all his excited scribbles made after all her disparagements, across the numbers she knew had taken him hours to deduce. She looked up at him; from the endless, hopeful eyes that were the luminous violet of a twilight-flushed sky, impossibly vivid, to the silk of a full mouth that she’d know the taste of anywhere, even in her dreams. 

Aegon was watching her with an almost childlike hope of someone who did not merely push reality away, but threw it over the horizon. It was a look of innocence that Rhaenys knew she could not shatter. King’s Landing was surrounded by bitter, selfish men - and all his years in the capital had not erased his naivety, his need to uproot the world in his passion. 

She hadn’t known how persistent he was to realise his visions for their kingdoms, how much work he’d be willing to put in. And now, between her hands, she held not just the fruits of his labour, but his heart and soul and his dreams of the future. Their future. One they would someday rule, together. 

But you don't live in the real world, she thought sadly. You live in your little world of justice and noble deeds. Where corruption does not exist and common sense prevails and men are willing to change for the greater good. It’s nice and it’s simple and so far from the truth. 

But it makes you a brightness in the dark, and why I adore you so. I don’t want to be the one to extinguish it. Who could do that to the one they loved? 

“I stand by you,” Rhaenys said quietly, her heart constricting. “I give you my word.” 

His smile was dazzling, illuminating him with a radiance as startling as the lunar-silver of his hair. Such a beautiful face, and so happy in the dusky light. He belonged among the towering skies, belonged among the whites and blues and blacks of summer evenings and nights filled with heat. Truly, he belonged to her. 

Aegon lunged forward to sweep her in a deep kiss that she felt in her bones, and she settled in his warm embrace with a sigh. 

The things she did for love. 

oOo

“Ah, my children have finally deigned us with their presence,” Rhaegar announced as they slipped into the room. “The meeting began five minutes ago.” 

“Our apologies, Your Grace,” Rhaenys curtsied deeply, her voice adequately contrived. “We lost track of time. It won’t happen again.” 

Their father gave a tight nod and turned back to the rest of the room. Wrapped in midnight with a crown gleaming gold and a face set in stone, the King had come forth in his grandeur and cast his audience in shadow. Rhaenys felt a familiar twinge of reverence - and apprehension - as she watched him slip easily behind his mask, before following Aegon further into the room. 

A large table dominated the council chamber: there were half a dozen people around it, with Rhaegar at the head. The door closed firmly behind them, shutting out even the softest whispers of the castle. Aegon took his place next to their father, with Rhaenys beside him. 

"Back to business then," said the King, silencing all conversation. "Lord Whent, if you’d please.” 

Walter Whent, the aging Master of Coin, straightened his shoulders and set his greying jaw. “Your Grace,” he acknowledged in a deep rumble, “as I was saying: it’s still far too early to tell, but we’ve seen reasonable spending from our tourney guests in the last few days. Some reports are indicating a net economic growth of nearly 90,000 dragons. A modest revenue that is sorely needed, but not quite as high as we were hoping.” 

Rhaegar frowned. “The tourney isn’t over, yet. Surely, there’s time for that number to grow?” 

Lord Whent cleared his throat and reached for the parchment lying before him. With a deep sigh, he continued, “Even if that were to double, our deficit has increased by nearly 20%. Our next repayment to the Iron Bank carries an additional interest of 150,000 dragons for the three-month delay we requested. We’d still be short and we don’t have the savings to make the difference.” 

“150,000 dragons!” Monford Velaryon exclaimed, paling. The Master of Ships gaped at the different members of the council. “Have they gone mad? How do they expect us to keep paying if they bleed us dry?” 

“What happened to our savings?” Rhaegar asked Lord Whent sharply. “I was under the impression we had nearly 100,000 dragons to spare! This entire tourney - this wedding - was planned with that assumption. Are you telling me our coffers are empty?”

The Master of Coin pushed his parchment towards the King, pointing a wrinkled finger at the sums. “I’m telling you we can’t afford to hand that to the Iron Bank. There was no foreseeing this. The recent heatwaves have pushed the completion of the new road works to Dorne back by seven weeks. The foundations of the sewage system on the east side of the city collapsed a few days ago. We’ll need to rebuild the entire thing.” 

He waved at another paragraph. “That alone will set us back by at least 50,000 dragons, and we can’t wait to save that coin again. Without roads, we risk trade. A damaged sewage system risks open-air disease across the capital. We need that coin, Your Grace. I had hoped the tourney and the wedding would pay themselves off, but we haven’t reached the numbers we’re looking for.” 

Lord Velaryon raised his hand gingerly. “Not to mention the new seaports have started construction, Your Grace,” he added, almost apologetic. “Initial payments are due at the end of the month. I have delayed them as long as possible. I fear offence - and indeed, something far more physical - if I attempt anything more.” 

With a bone-weary sigh, Rhaegar pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “Is it too late to cut back for the wedding?” 

Rhaenys shifted, feeling somewhat guilty for the expenses he was still unaware of. 

“That coin has already been spent, Your Grace. We may as well enjoy the show,” Lord Whent shrugged. 

“Then just borrow more from someone else,” Aegon interjected haughtily. “What about Tywin Lannister? Or the Tyrells? Margaery is your good-sister, that counts for something.”

The King shot him a disapproving look. “We’ve borrowed enough from the Lannisters and Tyrells. We cannot be in such great debt to another House. Otherwise, Tywin or Mace may as well sit the throne themselves. As frightening a thought as it seems.” 

A snort erupted from Jon Connington, who quickly disguised it as a cough. 

Aegon reddened and glared down the table. “I don’t see anyone else coming up with any ideas,” he argued. Rhaenys patted his arm in reassurance. 

A delicate clearing of a throat drew attention towards a portly, bald man beside Lord Velaryon, his hands hidden in his golden silk sleeves. “Your Grace,” Lord Varys said in a voice as smooth as his robes, “I do have an offer that may be of interest.” A scent of lavender clung to his pale skin as he smiled at the King, stifling the air in its sweetness. 

At Rhaegar’s acknowledgment, Varys surveyed the table for a beat, before announcing dramatically, “The Good Masters of Slaver’s Bay would like a deal.” 

There was an immediate eruption at the table of dissatisfied rumbles. Beside her, Aegon was shaking his head in disbelief. “Can you believe that man?” he whispered in her ear. “Collaborating with slavers. How low can one sink?” 

Rhaegar, for once, seemed to be of a similar mind to his son. He let out an incredulous laugh. “Lord Varys, forgive me, but were you not born a slave yourself? Now, you’d have me make deals with those you once called your masters?” 

Varys bowed his head in a strange mix of sincere remorse, yet void of all emotion. “I am but one man, Your Grace. My desires pale to the needs of the many. And whilst I take no joy nor personal gain in such an affair, I can recognise that when morality goes against profit, it is seldom that profit should lose. I am merely…ensuring such triumph benefits the realm, first and foremost. Its security is at stake if our coffers remain unstable. The slave masters are offering enough to cover our debts to the Iron Bank, with some to spare.” 

The smile slipped from the King’s face, his eyes darkening as they narrowed. “A generous offer, but the masters are rarely generous. What do they want?” His hands curled into fists where they rested on the wooden table. “I will not barter with the lives of my people.” 

“Oh, they’re quite aware of your position, Your Grace,” Varys assured. “Rather, tales of your ambitious projects - the sewer system, for example - have piqued their interest. Unfortunately, their…labour has not the expertise nor the engineering knowledge to carry it out themselves. They build soldiers, not cities. As such, they are requesting a loan, of sorts. Allow your engineers to train their people for a time, your resources to develop their infrastructure, and they will compensate you handsomely.” 

“How handsomely are they suggesting?” Lord Velaryon asked, his eyes glinting. 

“Astapor has offered an initial payment of 50,000 dragons. Yunkai and Meereen, ever in competition, have offered twice as much - each.” 

This time, the mood that swept the council was decidedly more optimistic. Rhaenys saw Lord Velaryon perk up visibly and a twinkle alight in the eyes of Grand Maester Pycelle. Morality had a price, it seemed, she thought dryly. 

She looked towards her father, expecting him to be defiant in his refusal to engage with slave traders - but to her surprise, she found the King pensive. He watched Varys in concern, his frown carving deep wrinkles around his mouth, ageing him beyond his years. 

“Can we guarantee proper treatment of our men?” he asked, quiet. “And assurances that they would be paid fairly for their work? What of those they would be training? Would they be compensated?” 

“I think we both know the answer to that, Your Grace. They are not yours to protect,” Varys replied lightly. “But the masters have offered a contractual agreement that any men you send will be treated fairly, as by our own laws. They are eager, you see. For too long, they have watched the Free Cities flourish and grow. They see this as a…” His lips twitched in neither a scowl nor a smile, “…mutual opportunity.” 

Rhaegar closed and opened his fists repeatedly, restless in his consideration. Around him, the council sat silent, sensing a seismic shift in their future imminent, none wishing to disturb the moment. The candlelights hovering in the periphery seemed to hold their breath, the flames frozen in time. 

Like a crack on ice, Aegon’s angry voice shattered the air. “You can’t possibly be considering this!” 

“Egg-“ Rhaenys hissed, squeezing his arm.

He shook her off. “They’re slavers. Their coin was made by abusing their own people! If we take it - if we build their cities for them - what was the point of outlawing slavery to begin with? What good is our conscience if we exploit others? We’d be no better!” 

To everyone’s surprise, a deep voice rose in support. “I stand with the Prince, Your Grace,” Jon Connington boomed, his eyes flashing. “You are the people’s King. If word spreads that you willingly engage with slavers-“ 

“It won’t matter if they’re starving!” boomed Lord Whent, slamming his fist on the table. “Your Grace, as distasteful as it may seem, this could be a lifeline! We could pay our debts to the Iron Bank at last. How much longer can we be shackled to such snakes?” 

“However long is necessary,” Aegon said coldly. “I’ll not have our name dragged in the mud just to clear some debts.” He turned back to the King, imploring. “Surely this can’t be worse than taking more from the Lannisters or the Tyrells? Better the devil you know and all that. We have no guarantee the slavers will abide by our agreement and won’t take advantage of our lack of coin.” 

“Slaver’s Bay would not risk war with Westeros,” a weedy voice dismissed. Rhaenys recognised Pycelle without glancing over at his withered form. “They have not the numbers!” 

“But they do have the strength,” Lord Connington murmured, stroking his red beard. “Soldiers built by the masters are warriors undefeated. One man of theirs could cut down twenty of ours. Not enough for victory, but certainly more than a headache. And they carry far more gold than we’ve had in a long time. I would not rush to underestimate them, Your Grace. If you intend to deal with them, you must not assume we have the upper hand.” 

Rhaegar ran a tired hand through his hair, not meeting the intense gaze of any man in the room. Instead, he looked to Rhaenys, his brow furrowed. “I’d like to hear your thoughts on the matter.” 

All attention turned to her; a strange and heady mix of hope, curiosity, and almost resentment. Rhaenys was acutely aware that she was the only one sitting in a dress, unapologetically a woman in every sense, and the thought had likely passed through every mind present. She also knew her next words would damn or elevate her. 

From the corner of her eye, she saw Aegon’s expression plead with her, begging her to side with him. He listens to you, she could almost hear him say. 

From her other side, she saw Lord Whent and Lord Varys watch her quietly, assessing what sort of Queen she would be. 

Between her fingers, she felt the hard edges of Aegon’s crumpled notes that she had forgotten to give back. Excited scribbles of a better world, a fairer world, one he wanted to share with her. 

Your first duty is to the realm, her mother had said. And your duty to the realm is to ensure its stability.

Love is the death of duty. 

But he is my duty, too. He will be my husband, my king, my family. The future of our House. My future. The future I so desperately desire. We could be happy. We could be different. Would that be so wrong? 

“Rhaenys? Are you still with us?” 

The crown must always win. 

“I-“ she began, searching for words she did not have. 

Aegon was reaching for her hand now, squeezing it gently in silent support. The coffers needed coin, she knew, but to engage with slavers would set Westeros on a course of which there was no return. Their kingdoms would be built by coin stained with the blood of slaves. Would it be worth it?

But should she not, as a would-be queen, put the needs of her people above others?

Rhaegar’s eyes were narrowing as they scanned her face, waiting for her response. There was the realm to consider, the people that would suffer if the Iron Throne could not afford to care for them any longer. What were morals in the face of economic devastation, of children starving on the streets? 

Would Aegon forgive her? 

But was a temporary moment of inconvenience, a stumble on the road, worth selling one’s conscience for a spare bit of coin? The realm had survived wars and rebellions - surely, it would survive this, too?

What did her father expect from her? 

“I, uh, I think, um-“ 

“It appears the Princess is lost for words,” Lord Whent said slyly, shooting her a patronising look. Beside him, Varys’ eyes moved past her, unimpressed. 

“Give her a moment,” Aegon snapped. “She’s been put on the spot!” 

Rhaegar raised a hand to quiet him, and motioned for Rhaenys to continue. 

She opened her mouth to say - what? The words eluded her once more, or perhaps she had never found them. A few more agonising beats passed, stretched to eternity. Her jaw snapping shut, Rhaenys bowed her head and avoided the intrusive stares. “I don’t know, Your Grace,” she mumbled. 

She could not bear to look at her father, but she could not miss his deep sigh. “Perhaps this is too precarious a matter for my children,” Rhaegar admitted. “I think it best if you were dismissed. I shall inform of you my decision in the morning.” 

Desperate to disappear, Rhaenys stood immediately and curtsied, before walking quickly to the door. Behind her, she distantly heard Aegon half-heartedly argue before following. 

Rhaegar’s disappointment trailed behind her long after she had fled.

oOo

Later that night found Rhaenys curled on a chaise longue in Aegon’s room, nursing a cup of wine between her hands. He was a clean silhouette against the moonlit window, hands braced behind his back, his eyes hooded as he watched her quietly. 

When they had first reached his chambers, she had half-hoped he would saunter over and plunge her into a kiss that was all tension and grazing pain, to taste blood between their mouths, to feel the deliberate pressure of his hands against her skin. A promise of passion and beauty in torturous measures, enough to erase the hours before and the hours after and all the shame in-between. 

The bright moonshine threw out a soft light that fell over him like cream, stealing away the bladed lines of his face. When he didn't say anything, and did nothing but watch her further, she turned her attention back to finishing her wine and brooding. Rhaenys had little desire to return to her empty room and cold sheets - and Aegon’s pillows always smelt like the cinnamon scent that clung to his skin, the one she always loved. It was a secret comfort. 

“Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?” 

Rhaenys stubbornly stared into her cup, refusing to look up at him. “Not really,” she said evasively. 

“It’s not like you to choke up in front of the council.” 

“I suppose there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?” she snapped in sudden fury. “Maybe I don’t have all the answers. Maybe people shouldn’t expect so much from me!” 

Aegon raised his hands in surrender and slowly approached the sofa. “That’s not what I meant,” he muttered softly, lowering himself beside her. “Something’s bothering you. Tell me what it is so I can help.” His hands reached for one of her own and cradled it in his palms. 

She let their fingers intertwine and was on the verge of confessing everything: her fears, her nightmares, her hopes - 

“Nothing’s wrong,” Rhaenys found herself whispering instead, barely above a breath. She avoided his eyes and spoke to their joined hands instead. “I’m just a little tired. I’d rather not talk about it.” 

With a frustrated sigh, Aegon let go of her and leaned away with a scowl. She missed the warmth. 

“When are you going to open up to me?” he demanded. “You always shut me out when you’re upset and I don’t understand why. I want to help, Rhaenys, I want to be there for you, but you make it so damn difficult!” 

“Isn’t it enough to just be here with me?” she countered, guilt turning to anger. “Must we always share our feelings?” 

“It’s what normal people do, Rhaenys, when they’re about to be married in a few days,” he threw back. “They speak to each other - which we haven’t really been doing lately, have we? I don’t think we’ve actually had a real conversation since we first moved to Dragonstone.” 

Rhaenys slammed her cup down on the table beside her and turned furiously on the chaise to face him properly. “And that’s my fault, is it?” she fumed. “Certainly nothing to do with you gallivanting around with whichever whore catches your fancy, leaving me to manage the entire bloody castle myself.” 

“You never asked for my help! You always made it seem like you didn’t need me!” Aegon half-yelled, matching her rage with his own. 

“Of course I need you!” Rhaenys confessed with a sob, throwing her hands in the air. Her cheeks felt wet - Gods, she was crying, wasn’t she? “I’ve always needed you, but you can’t just…just show up every once in a while after fucking your way through the city and expect anything from me. I have to share you with everyone. You don’t get to demand that I share everything with you, too.” 

Aegon gaped at her. 

“And I always need you, you stupid idiot, not just when you think I’m upset or there are duties to be carried out. I just, I..I…” She sank back into the cushions and drew her knees up, wrapping her arms around herself. “I’m just…so tired of everything. I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore and I’m afraid I’ll make a mistake and ruin everything and it…it’s hard.” 

Like the cathartic peace after a raging storm, the room fell into silence. 

A gentle nudge on her side made her raise her head. Aegon was grinning at her, violet eyes flashing. “Now, don’t you feel better after all that?” 

“Shut up. I’m not finished being mad at you,” she muttered at him, turning her head away so she didn’t have to look at him. 

“I didn’t think you were,” Aegon remarked casually, as if they’d been discussing the weather. He scooted closer until his arms were pressed at her side. “But it does feel nice to hear you say it.” 

Rhaenys snorted incredulously. “You wanted me to yell at you?” 

She expected him to laugh then, but his expression grew sombre instead. “Rhaenys, do you remember playing together as children?” 

Bemused, she frowned at him. “Of course I do.” 

“I struggle to. Jon certainly won’t,” Aegon confessed. “I can’t really remember you or Dany being around much. It was always just Jon and me. One day, you were there; the next, you were all prim and proper and going on about what princesses could and couldn’t do.” 

“Mother wouldn’t let us play like you did. It simply wasn’t done,” Rhaenys defended. “And I was the eldest, I had to grow up and look after you all. I had to set an example. It’s what was expected of me.” 

“It felt like I lost my sister instead,” Aegon shrugged, eyes downcast. He fiddled with the ends of his tunic as he said, “And lately, it feels like I’m losing my betrothed. You’ve just disappeared into your duty and while I won’t deny that it’s what will make you a great queen - Gods, Rhaenys, I miss you. I miss the you that wasn’t just a princess, but a real, breathing person. I miss the you that wasn’t so frighteningly like Mother. I just miss you, is all.” 

Her nerves were frayed and she was all too aware of the tears slipping down her face. The shadows that yawned between them could have held anything: a thousand words neither said, promises of tomorrow, sweet nothings whispered in lust. What they did not hold enough of was distance.

She flattened her palm against his chest, and said, “Aegon,” half-plea, half-peace offering. “I’m here now.” 

She felt his heartbeat under her hand, thunder in flesh. And whether it was her words or her touch, she heard him take a harsh breath, and she looked up to try and find an answer in his eyes. There was only the sea of violet, and the memory of his name on her lips, and she wasn't sure it would be enough.

His hand tightened around her wrist – and she braced herself for the sweetness that came with it. 

The kiss came like a summer’s breeze – warm, gentle, a promise of joy and adventure. And she didn't even think about it, she didn't do anything but feel – it was his lips on hers and his hair bristling under her fingers and the pressure of his hand splayed at the small of her back. His body was a barricade against her, overwhelming as he always was, even in passion.

She felt her loneliness then – and his, felt the intensity of his touch. Some part of her needed it. Some part of her – desperate, wounded, lost in a haze of fear – needed him, for a second, for a minute, for the length of a kiss. 

When they parted, she swayed back, her head a whirl of sensation. Everywhere he'd touched her held the memory of him: her back, her wrist, her lips. 

He smiled at her; a genuine, boyish grin that flooded her with love, and lifted her hand to press against his mouth. “We’ll figure this out,” he promised. “Together.” 

She sighed and leaned against him, resting her head in the crook of his neck. “Together,” she repeated. 

A few contented minutes passed like this, embraced and relishing one another’s company. When he did speak, his voice was sleepy, with just a touch of husky at the edges, “As so is above in heaven, as shalt be below. Two becometh one, their bond writ in stone.” 

Rhaenys hummed happily into the side of his jaw. “A new poem?” 

“Not quite,” he replied, stroking her hair down her back. “Saw it in a book I just read and thought it quite apt for this moment. The story was a little stupid, but the sentiment was rather romantic.” 

She yawned and nuzzled deeper into his side. “Tell me the story?” she mumbled, closing her eyes. 

He pressed a light kiss against her forehead. “It was about two people who find themselves inexplicably bonded to each other the moment they met. As if destiny had tied them together - and I mean that quite literally, there was some sort of thread somewhere, binding them forever. It was a little bizarre, if I’m honest.” 

Something stirred at the back of Rhaenys’ head, calling her back to a moment just a few days ago…

“Anyway, one of them was betrothed to someone else and her soulmate - that’s what I think the story called it, anyway - goes absolutely mental because she’s half of his soul or some other rubbish. Oh and obviously, one of them is a Targaryen because you can’t have a story of a madman without throwing us in the middle of it.” 

‘I fear for the madness of a Targaryen bonded to the one he cannot have,’ her mother had said, behind locked doors. 

“I was almost too insulted to finish the rest, but it is what it is, I suppose. We haven’t done ourselves any favours exactly. Where was I? Ah, so this Targaryen plots with his soulmate to run away together and they use dreams as a means of secret communication.”

‘It is Lyanna and Rhaegar all over again. You think I do not know of the bond they shared? I saw the same look on Jon's face as I saw on Rhaegar's at the feast of that damned tourney.’

“I mean, it’s an excellent book otherwise, but this was utterly nonsensical. Sharing dreams, hah! I just - what’s the matter?” 

Rhaenys had sat up quickly and was staring at him in shock. “Say that again,” she urged. 

“Say what?” Aegon frowned. 

“Soulmates. You said they were soulmates and they were bonded the moment they met. That’s what you said.” 

He raised his eyebrows at her. “It’s just some story, Rhaenys, about two people falling in love. Soulmates aren’t real.” 

‘Find a match for Jon immediately and secure him to another House.’

Arya Stark. 

Soulmates. 

Oh Gods, it wasn’t possible. It wasn’t real. It was just a story. 

Wasn’t it? 

“Aegon,” Rhaenys whispered. “We need to find Jon immediately. I think there’s been a terrible mistake.” 

Chapter Text

It began with a kiss.

In songs, the happy ending was sealed with a kiss. But this was reality and it stopped for no one. In reality, endings meant one thing only. 

So this was a beginning.

Maybe it was the first word of a new song. Maybe it was the first mistake of many. But it began something all the same, like a flame touched to a trail of wildfire.

Their connection crackled lividly, a distant roaring in her ears. Desire rampaged through her body, leaping up at his touch with sizzling intensity; trepidation was mixed with it, heavy and potent, breeding something as overwhelming as he, and as disarmed as she.

Overwhelmed and disarmed, like the hissing of fire chewing a path along a fuse to something far greater...

Her head felt fogged, and yet, elated. The golden thread bloomed across her consciousness, burning and bright. She thought she saw it between them too, a luminous sun-dipped mist crowding in on her mind, lurking right behind her temples. She could feel it on her skin, clinging like droplets of water after a bath. She could even taste it, bitter and sweet, simultaneously paralysing and seductive, like the first sip of spiced honey wine she had once tried in Riverrun. It was deafening without making a sound, blinding without lighting a match. 

Maybe if things had been different, there would have been thoughts and words and decisions, but there was only instinct and delight pulsing from the dragon-burning warmth where he sat in her soul. Time meant nothing, rationality meant nothing, even nothing meant nothing. The void itself could not throw her from this.

It began with a kiss.

oOo

“Rhaenys, slow down! Where are you going?” 

Aegon hastened to a quick jog as he followed the storm of dark hair whipping around the corner. 

This was not how he’d anticipated the rest of his night. One moment, they were lost in the throes of romance; the next, she was rushing out the door, forcing him to chase after her without so much as a by-your-leave. 

“Rhaenys!” he hissed again, his long strides catching up to her. He reached out to grab her arm and was shaken off violently as they slowed to a halt. “What are-”

Aegon glanced up to see the bemused face of Ser Oswell peering down at them. 

“Your Graces.” He bowed deeply, his voice low in the hush of the night. “Is everything alright?” 

“I need to see Jon,” Rhaenys ordered, dismissing her usual courtesies. Aegon looked at her in surprise. 

Ser Oswell frowned. “It’s quite late, Your Grace. The Maester has insisted on bedrest for the prince. He must not be disturbed.” 

“As he shouldn’t,” Aegon agreed, wrapping another firm hand around Rhaenys’ forearm. “We were just heading to bed ourselves-”

For the second time, she wrenched herself away from him and threw a glare his way. Rounding up to the Kingsguard, Rhaenys pushed her shoulders back and commanded sternly, “Ser Oswell. I am ordering you to step aside. I wish to see my brother.” 

“Your Grace, the Maester-”

She scoffed. “Does Pycelle wear the crown? I think not. Now, for Seven’s sake, get out of my way!” 

With an impressive shove that surprised the giant Kingsguard, Rhaenys stormed past him and through Jon’s door, Aegon scurrying in after her. He threw a sympathetic glance over his shoulder at Oswell, before quietly shutting the door behind him. 

Blinking in the darkness, it took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the dim moonlight. “Jon,” Rhaenys said in a low voice, tiptoeing towards the heap of blankets on the bed. “Jon, are you awake?”

“Rhaenys, we should leave,” Aegon whispered harshly. “Let the man sleep.”

She ignored him again, peering through the shadows. Hesitantly, she reached out to prod a lump. “Jon?” 

There was no response. Aegon heard her breaths quicken and the rustle of sheets as Rhaenys tore through the pillows, throwing them carelessly on the floor. He made a noise of protest, raising his hand to stop her, when the sight stopped him dead. 

“He’s not here,” Rhaenys gasped, pushing the last of the pillows aside. In a dramatic show, she dropped down on the empty bed and inhaled shakily. 

Aegon walked over touched the centre of the mattress with light fingers. “He hasn’t been here for a while,” he murmured. “It’s cold.” Gingerly, he moved to sit next to his betrothed, patting the hands lying limp in her lap. “No need to worry. Jon’s probably snuck away for a walk in the gardens or the armoury for some sword practice. You know what he’s like when you tell him he can’t do something.” 

“He must be with her,” Rhaenys breathed. “It’s too late.” 

Aegon frowned. “With who? What are you talking about?” 

Moments passed as she stayed silent, staring miserably at the blank wall opposite. 

“Rhaenys.” He nudged her gently, then with a little more insistence. When she didn’t respond, he rolled his eyes and rose to his feet with a shake of his head. “I don’t know what’s got into you,” Aegon sighed as he looked down at her. “But I’m not dealing with you like this. Goodnight.” 

He was nearly at the door when her voice carried softly behind him, “Jon’s betrothed to Myrcella Baratheon. Father spoke to Lord Stannis this morning and it’s been agreed. Jon doesn’t know yet.” 

Aegon froze. Slowly, he turned to look at her in shock. Her figure was half-lost in shadow, yet he still caught her grimace and yes, her resignation. “How did this happen? When was this decided?” he demanded loudly, failing to keep the accusation from his words. 

Her mouth tightened, but before she could respond, a quiet knock on the door drew their attention.

“Your Graces, is everything alright?” came Oswell’s muffled voice. 

“Everything’s fine!” Aegon and Rhaenys chimed hurriedly together. They listened for Oswell’s slow movement away from the door before turning back to each other.

A thought occurred suddenly to Aegon and his eyes hardened in growing suspicion. He stepped closer to ask, “Jon isn’t out with Myrcella, is he?”

Rhaenys turned her head away, avoiding his glare. “No, he isn’t,” she mumbled. 

Aegon swore quietly. 

She sank her head into her hands and groaned. “I wish that was all.” 

“There’s more?” 

She raised her eyes to meet his. “He’s in love with Arya Stark, even if he doesn’t know it yet. They’re soulmates.” 

oOo

Arya didn't really know when they had stopped kissing, but they must have, because she could feel the warm breeze on her face again and the tight curl of his arms about her body and the way they were pressed together. 

A strange feeling turned just behind her ribs, as though a hot coal revolved there, and there was an odd hissing in her head. Her body was warm, the sensations soft and sweet — but the part of her that heard the murmurs of the crowds, the chorus in the night, made sense of the world. 

She reached out and touched the lips she had just kissed. They sighed against her fingers. 

"Arya," he said finally, though his voice didn't sound quite him. It was far too breathless. 

She tried to say his name, but speech eluded her at first. Instead, she extended her mind to his, their bond feeling raw and vulnerable; on the precipice of something greater, wanting more. It frightened her. The overwhelming desire for him washed over her, demanding her to push and pull against him, embrace him, devour him, consume, burn, join together and become oneoneoneoneone - 

“Jon,” she tried to say again, but out came only a whisper. She felt his hand on hers and his presence in her head. It was soothing at first - he meant to calm her down, but then a hint of his own turbulence came bleeding through: his need to wrap himself around her and rejoice, his restraint as his hands quivered in her own, desperate to touch her.

He stepped closer slowly, agonisingly so, and looked her in the eyes. “Do you feel it?” he asked quietly. Reaching up, he ran his index finger along her cheek, trailing fire along her skin. 

There was nothing else she could feel, save for this. She stood there open-mouthed and wide-eyed as the thread binding them stole every one of her senses. 

With a deep breath and more willpower than she had ever had to use, Arya tried to clear her mind instead. Oh, but she had never been very good at letting go of anything; an empty mind felt uncannily lonely to her. When she could finally manage to centre herself somewhat, she felt the fog lingering at the periphery of her mind. It was soothing, inviting, and with it came a quiet insistence to give in.

Give in. How easy would it be to just fall open, to take down all barriers and become one -

“What’s happening?” Arya finally whispered, dazed. “I can’t…I can’t think straight.” 

Jon’s fingers paused as they brushed her lips and he frowned. “Is this magic?” he murmured, his eyes lingering on her face. “Or maybe…maybe this is just what’s meant to be.” 

The wistfulness in his voice drew a shaky breath from her, and Arya felt a sudden impulse to wrap her body around him and lock their lips. At the same time, she realised, blood pounding in her ears, that this wasn’t her. How could it be, when anytime she tried to think, the fog at the edge of her thoughts threatened to overcome, begging her to let go, let go, let go -

She pushed away from Jon suddenly, and it was like reality had shifted a hair’s breadth to the side. How could she decide what to do if she couldn’t trust her own thoughts anymore? Arya crossed her arms in front of her chest, just in case her hands had a will of their own.

“I - I don’t know what’s going on,” she whispered, miraculously keeping the panic out her voice. “What’s happening to us?” 

Jon looked surprised at the sudden chasm between them. He raised his eyes back to her face, blinking a few times, as if clearing away the cobwebs of his own mind. 

“Arya…” he said again, his voice stronger. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but couldn’t quite find the words. 

A sudden ruckus from the street tore the magic between them and the moment shattered.

“Find the Prince!” 

oOo

“Soulmates,” Aegon repeated dryly, his mouth relaxing into a faint smile. “Now I know you’re taking the piss. Rhaenys, there’s no such thing.”

Rhaenys sighed wearily. “I thought so too, but then Mother said something strange and then you with that story you told me -”

“It was just a story!” he cut in with exasperation. “For Seven’s sake, Rhaenys, think about how ludicrous you sound. Jon’s barely known the Stark girl a fortnight, and you think he’s already in love. Our Jon? Please.” He snorted. With a shake of his head, he muttered, “I’m going to bed.” 

As he turned, something soft whacked him on his shoulder. He looked down to see a pillow by his feet, its pair still wielded in Rhaenys’ hands like a weapon.

“This isn’t a joke,” she hissed. “You didn’t hear Mother and Lord Connington that night -”

“Connington?” Aegon repeated curiously.

“- you didn’t hear how afraid they were for Jon and Arya Stark. It’s not some stupid, romantic, magical thing; they were genuinely terrified for them. Aegon…they said it was a bond that robbed a man of his senses.” She hesitated and hugged the pillow to her chest. “They said it was what Father and Lyanna had.” 

Aegon had to admit, he was almost swayed by her passionate plea - until she mentioned their father. A reminder of Rhaegar’s old betrayal, no matter how many years had passed, inspired a well of dark feelings in his gut that poisoned his blood. He barked out a laugh leeched of any humour. “Is that what she thinks happened? I suppose that’s one way to handle it. No one wants to admit that their shit of a husband abandoned them while pregnant. It’s far easier to pretend it was all magic and he had no choice.” A sneer pulled at his lips. 

“Aegon, stop it,” Rhaenys snapped. “This isn’t about them. This is about Jon.” 

“Rhaenys, I’ve been with him nearly every day of this tourney. You’d think I’d notice if my little brother was suddenly in love with a girl he’d just met. He’s never hidden anything from me.” With a shake of his head, he moved towards the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me,” he threw over his shoulder, his back turned to his betrothed, “I’m off to bed.” 

Just as he was reaching for the handle, Rhaenys’ heckles rose and her angry voice rang, “What exactly would you notice? You’re so self-absorbed! Jon’s been acting differently this entire tourney but, of course, His Highness can’t see it because he’s blinded by his own giant ego!” 

Aegon whipped around and narrowed his eyes at her, his own ire rising. “That’s rich coming from you! If you’re so concerned about Jon, why would you keep his betrothal a secret? You’ve known about it long enough.”

Rhaenys’ face stilled and she took a step back. “What makes you say that? It was only finalised this morning.” 

“Convenient that Myrcella just so happens to be your new favourite playmate,” Aegon remarked with a steely edge. “Father wouldn’t have made a betrothal without asking for your opinion first, because he always asks you. And his precious little princess just had to answer.” He made a disgusted sound. 

Her face whitened under the bright moonlight. “Aegon, you don’t understand,” she pleaded.

The bedroom door opened and cut her off. Aegon and Rhaenys turned around to see Ser Oswell standing in the threshold, gazing around the room in concern. 

“I heard yelling. The Prince needs his rest,” he explained sternly, his eyes darting towards the bed. As he took in the rumpled, but empty sheets, he turned back to the pair in panic. “Where is Prince Jon?” 

Rhaenys plastered on a smile and asked, “Is he not asleep?” at the same time as Aegon helpfully replied, “Jon who?” 

There was a beat and the colour in Oswell’s face drained in horror. “Where is he?” he pressed. “Please, Your Highnesses, tell me where he is.”

Aegon stepped forward, raising his hands as if calming a wild beast. “Now Ser Oswell, I’m sure he’s fine. There’s no need to cause a panic -“ 

“The Prince is missing,” the Kingsguard muttered, deaf to Aegon’s words. He disappeared from the doorway and they heard the clanging of his armour running down the corridor. “Get me Ser Gerold!” he called to the palace guards. “Tell him Prince Jon is missing!” 

Aegon cursed under his breath for the second time that hour and together with Rhaenys, they rushed after Oswell. 

oOo 

“Search every street, every home if you have to! Quickly! We must find him!” 

Jon and Arya immediately stepped into the shadows of the alley and crouched down to avoid being seen. On the street ahead, they caught glimpses of Gold Cloaks rushing through the crowds and on top of the roofs, roughly jostling the bewildered civilians and barking commands. 

“How do they know I’m here?” Jon hissed in panic. “Do you think Bessa told them?” 

“Why would she do that?” Arya rebuked. “We weren’t exactly subtle tonight, you know. Someone might have noticed.” 

His breaths were coming too quickly and even in the dim light, Arya could see the pallor of Jon’s skin whiten in fear. “We need a plan,” he told her. “They can’t find us like this. There’ll be hell to pay at the palace.” 

“The palace, of course! We just need to get back before they catch us! It’ll be like we never left.” 

He shot her an incredulous look. “The city is crawling with guards. We’ll never make it.” 

“Oh, do you have a better idea?” 

Jon did not and he knew it. With a quiet curse and a quick prayer, they glided against the wall and slipped out the alleyway and into a busy street. 

In truth, Arya was relieved to get out of there, where the madness of their kiss still lingered too vividly. There was no time to dwell on those feelings now. 

They blended into the masses, glad of the sweat and paint on their faces that meant they looked like any of the other hundreds sweltering in the heat and covered in festivity. Whenever a guard came close, they subtly turned their faces to one another to hide, Jon bending his tall frame and Arya pulling her hair forward to act as a barrier. 

The crowds carried them down to Fishmonger’s Square, into the piazza where street entertainers coaxed passerbys into watching ludicrous acts. They slipped past a man juggling fire and hurried into a large alleyway. The same one, Arya realised, they had raced through together only days earlier. 

How simple it had all seemed then, she mused. 

As they paused to catch their bearings, Jon rubbing his shoulder ruefully, he glanced up at Arya with a serious expression. “I’m sorry,” he said, full of regret. Their conversation was concealed by the merry music. 

She shook her head. “Don’t be like that, none of this is your fault,” Arya insisted. 

His mouth curved up in a wilting smile, something sad and sweet. “That’s not what I meant.” His eyes were as impenetrable as mist. 

Arya felt warm all over, her heart thudding far too loudly in her chest. A flood of something coursed through her veins, a magnetic pull that only seemed to direct her to Jon. All she knew in this moment was that she wanted - that they wanted; she could feel him like a part of her - was for their lips to meet again in an explosion of sensations. 

To rip her dress at the seams and his fingers to wrap around her thigh -

Is this me?

- kneeling before her, kissing up her thighs, burying his face between her -

Arya squeezed her eyes shut but the picture remained. Across from her, she heard Jon’s ragged inhales and his careful steps away from her. 

“It’s - it’s been a long night,” he whispered in a strained voice. “We’re both…we’re both exhausted and we just need to make it home and…and we’ll take it from there.” 

She nodded quickly, still not daring to look at him. 

“You both check over there, I’ll keep an eye out this way!” 

The guard’s voice sounded far too close for comfort, only two streets away. Panic had a way of slicing through the confused haziness hanging in the air and Jon and Arya set off again at a quickened pace. They spilled out onto the main road, the palace looming ahead tantalisingly close.

Arya pulled urgently at Jon’s hand to hold him back, catching a glimpse of guards roaming around at the base of Aegon’s High Hill, where the tunnel entrance was hidden in shadow. She linked her arm through his and slowly, they walked onwards, no different from the hundreds of others dawdling through the city.

“We need a distraction,” she murmured in Jon’s ear. “Just something to pull them away for a few minutes.” 

Jon nodded and looked up, scanning the area for an idea. His face immediately blanched as he caught something she couldn’t see over everyone’s heads.

“What is it?” she prodded, standing on her tiptoes to peer around.

“It’s your father’s men,” whispered Jon. “And Arthur Dayne.” 

“What? No, that can’t be right! That would mean…”

Arya hurriedly moved forward, frantically pushing people out of the way to take a closer look. Jon followed behind, murmuring apologies and pulling her into the shadows if she strayed too far out. 

She finally saw Jory and a small group of Northern men clustered around the Gold Cloaks, speaking quietly but with urgency. Arthur Dayne nodded at the King’s men, and they scattered into the street, yelling at each other to scout the public squares and markets. Jory issued commands to his men, too, as they climbed their horses and turned towards the crowds. 

“Father knows I’m missing,” Arya muttered in horror. She reached behind for a wall to press up against, not trusting her shaky legs to hold her up anymore. “He must be so furious! I don’t know what I’m going to do.” 

A firm hand gripped her arm and pulled her up quickly. “We’re going to make a run for the tunnel,” Jon decided, nodding towards the now-vacant base of Aegon’s High Hill. “And we can’t stop until we’re safe inside.” 

“What if they see us?” she hissed at him. “There’s guards everywhere and they’ll follow us in.” 

“None of them really know where the tunnel leads. Hopefully they’ll just think we’re some sewer rats. Anyway, if we stand here any longer, someone’s going to find us eventually so we don’t have a choice.”

With a shared look of unspoken fear and determination, they turned towards the hill and started running. 

oOo

The moonlight turned Rhaegar into a monochrome angel, bones angular and bare as ivory beneath the silver light, hair pale, half his face masked in shadow. He still wore his dinner attire and dark shadows graced his lilac eyes. The open window in his solar sent a chilly wind into the room that made them shiver, though it was not as cold as the look on the King’s face. 

“I won’t ask you both again,” he said in a low voice. “Where is Jon?” 

Aegon felt Rhaenys shoot him a warning look where she stood beside him, but he chose to ignore it. This was turning into a very, very long night and his patience was wearing away quickly. 

“For the hundredth time, we don’t know,” he replied through clenched teeth. “Do you really think we’d have showed up to his room if we knew he wasn’t there?” He threw his hands up in exasperation. “What more do you want from us? A handwritten letter telling you we don’t know shit?” 

“Cut the cheek,” Rhaegar snapped, moving around his desk. “This is no time for your insolence. Your brother is missing while wounded! One would think you would show more concern for his whereabouts, though…” He cocked an eyebrow. “Perhaps I overstated how much you care.” 

Fury rocketed up through his head like a missile, exploding in words. "You’re judging me? Really? You, who’s never given a shit about anyone. Unless it’s about Lyanna, of course. Everyone else can go to hell.” His voice grew quiet. “You wouldn’t have bothered with half this nonsense if I’d been the one missing. Because I wasn’t born to the right woman, was I?” 

“Silence,” the King spat. “Do not speak of what you don’t understand.” He frantically ran his hands through his hair. “Insolent child, this is so typical of you, Aegon! Whenever the moment calls for it, you’re incapable of holding your tongue for one damn minute. Everything must always revolve around you! Either control yourself, or get out of my sight!” 

“No,” Aegon snarled, and wriggled free from Rhaenys’ grip on his arm. He mustered all the scorn he could. Aegon hated the searing disappointment in his father’s eyes, that deep and distant reserve telling him that he would never be enough. "I’m tired of you pretending like you give a shit about your children. You don’t really care where Jon is or what he’s doing, you’re upset that Lyanna’s precious baby boy slipped through your hands. You still can’t let her go, and you’re taking it out on Jon.” 

“Do not push me, boy,” Rhaegar warned. “And do not invoke her name again.” 
 
Aegon snorted. “Or what? Going to send me to my room?” he mocked, hurling words like spears in the hope that one would hit, one would find a gap and sting the man before him. “What’s wrong, Father? Can’t bear to hear her name? What, I’m supposed to accept that you ruined fucking everything because of her and we can’t even talk about it?” 

“Egg, stop it,” Rhaenys hissed. “We need to focus on finding Jon.” 

Aegon was too angry to listen and enjoying the blackening expression on Rhaegar’s face too much to care. “What was it you called them, Rhaenys? Soulmates?” His lips curved in a terrible smile. “Or is that some bullshit you came up with because you couldn’t accept your own failure? And now all of us - Jon, especially - has to pay the price because you can’t fucking move on!“ 

“Egg, that’s enough,” Rhaenys’ voice grew stronger, more pleading, more desperate. “Mind your words.” 

“I’ll mind them when he minds himself first!” Aegon snapped, jabbing a thumb at their father. “Let Jon have his night out, doing whatever and whoever the fuck he wants! And you know what?” He grinned maniacally. “I hope Rhaenys is right and Jon is in love. I hope he’s found his soulmate or whatever and he leaves this damned palace and shoves your betrothal far up your ass, because Lyanna is dead, Your Grace, and she’s never coming back so it’s time to fucking move on-“ 

The punch came out of nowhere, though in hindsight, Aegon would figure he may have had it coming. 

The silence that followed was even worse than the careless cruelty of his words, than his father’s instinctive need to hurt him in a way that could not be achieved by mere speech.

“I-I didn’t mean to do that," Rhaegar said helplessly, moving forward at once to touch Aegon’s face, filled with horror. His expression was dreadfully defenceless, utterly disbelieving that he had done such a thing. 

For one free and uncaring moment, Aegon felt satisfaction that he could wound the King so, that he could not block him out as he’d always done for years. The satisfaction quickly turned to surprise. 

“You..." He raised a hand to touch his face, already feeling the beginnings of swelling around his eye socket. "You hit me.” It wasn’t so much as an accusation as a fact, and Aegon was merely an observer. He felt cool hands frame his face as Rhaenys turned his head towards her, stricken and shocked as she tentatively prodded around the bruise. 

A quiet clearing of the throat froze them all still. 

Aegon glanced at the door to see Arthur Dayne holding it wide open, a distinctly uncomfortable Lord Eddard Stark hovering behind him. 

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” the Kingsguard began, avoiding their eyes. “I was knocking for a while-”

“And yet, you walked in anyway?” Rhaegar chastised, his face still white with rage and shame. “What’s the matter with you, Arthur?”

“It’s a matter of urgency, Your Grace, forgive me,” Arthur rushed, walking into the room. He indicated at the other guest to follow him in. “Lord Stark, if you will.” 

Aegon quickly averted his gaze as Lord Stark entered the room. He wasn’t sure how long they had been standing there, but from the expression on the Warden’s face, he imagined long enough. 

Brilliant. It was only the man’s dead sister he’d been yelling about. 

Lord Stark drew level with him and bowed. There was a stiffness to his posture, and when he straightened, Aegon caught a suspicious look in his eyes. “Your Grace, I apologise for the intrusion.” His voice was flat. 

There was an unspoken exchange between the two men as King and Warden stared at each other. 

“Of course, my Lord, please.” Rhaegar finally grit out, reluctantly holding a hand out at the chair by his desk. Moving to sit on his own, he glanced up at the other inhabitants in the room and said loudly, “You’re all dismissed.” 

Rhaenys nodded hurriedly and grabbed his arm, all but dragging him to the door. The clink of Arthur’s armour followed behind. Aegon let himself be pulled along, his conscience restless.

Just as Arthur had firmly shut the door and stood on guard, Aegon pulled away from Rhaenys and turned back.

“What are you doing?” Rhaenys demanded. 

“I have to apologise to Lord Stark,” Aegon insisted. “I don’t think he appreciated the bit about me yelling about his dead sister, you know.” 

“What possessed you to yell about his dead sister anyway?” she threw back angrily. “Don’t you dare go back in. You’ve already made everything worse.”

“It’s true, Your Grace,” Arthur added in a level voice. “Best if you let it be, and come back with a cool head.” 

“I need a cool head? He’s the one that punched me!”

“You pushed him to it!” 

“Really, Rhaenys, you’re taking his side again? What am I talking about, you always take his side.” 

“That’s not fair and you know that’s not true.”

“Your Graces, please. Go back to your rooms. Perhaps find the Maester for your bruise, that looks quite painful.” 

“I’ll do whatever I want, Arthur, thank you very much. And it doesn’t hurt that much. He’s not that strong, you know.” 

“Don’t get snarky with him, he’s done nothing wrong!”

“Neither has Father, according to you!”

“Will you both please-“

The door was suddenly pulled open and a stressed Rhaegar rushed out, Lord Stark’s stony face in his wake. The King barely passed a glance at his two children bickering outside before turning to Arthur. 

“Lady Arya Stark is missing. Alert the City Guard. Lord Stark’s men are headed down now. I want you to follow them.”

Arthur bowed his neck, his mouth set in a determined line. He turned on his heel and rushed down the corridor, barking orders at the palace guards scuttling about. 

The King turned to Lord Stark with a plastered smile. “We’ll find them safe and sound, my lord. Children are prone to wander, as you know. I’m sure this is all just a misunderstanding.” 

Lord Stark’s eyes had grown icy, sending a chill in the air. His expression was closed off, and Aegon had the wild impression of a wolf poised for attack.

“A misunderstanding,” the Warden repeated softly, raising a brow. “I’ve heard that before.”

Rhaegar said nothing. 

Something terribly sad and terribly tired passed across Lord Stark’s face, as fleeting as a shadow. He nodded his head at Aegon and Rhaenys, and walked down the corridor, turning out of sight. 

Aegon watched him leave; sorrow lingered in the air like an oncoming storm, the whisper of grief in his footsteps.

The realisation of what had happened dawned on him suddenly, and Aegon felt cold all at once.

Oh Jon, you fool, why didn’t you say something? 

oOo

Jon and Arya emerged into the basement, drenched in sweat despite the cool air and breathlessly laughing. Though they knew it was nearly impossible to follow them through the tunnels, they had practically sprinted all the way back. 

“I can’t believe we made it!” Arya exclaimed, clasping her hands. “I was so sure they’d find us!” 

Jon leaned against the wall, clutching his shoulder grimly. “It’s not over yet,” he panted. He was soaked from head to toe, the dried paint smearing away with the murky water. “We still need to get back to our rooms. The hallways must be filled with guards.” 

Arya’s face fell. “Right, of course.” An idea struck her suddenly and she beamed at him. “What if we let them catch you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Arya regarded him with a thoughtful look. “You don’t have much paint on you left, you know, after you gave away your doublet. If we just clean you up a little…”

She reached forward and rubbed away the paint from his face with her wet hands, ignoring the urges pulling on her fingers, demanding she drag them through his hair.

Focus! she told herself fiercely.

Jon was burning holes with his stares as she wiped his skin, his cheeks reddening. She could hear his thoughts ringing loudly through her head, and the heat behind them made her pause. 

“I think you should…let me do it,” he managed to say through clenched teeth. “I can’t…I can’t think straight when you-you touch me.” 

“Oh,” was all she could say, stepping back. 

The silence that fell was more charged than before, and Arya glared determinedly at a rock on the ground to clear her head while Jon finished wiping himself down.

He cleared his throat awkwardly to grab her attention. “Well, how do I look?” he said. He was soaked, his clothes marred with brown stains from the tunnel water, but there were hardly any paint marks left. 

“Like you got lost wandering in the tunnels, slipped on some shit water and knocked your head.” 

“Excellent,” Jon grinned. “Now, once they find me, give it around twenty minutes before you come out. You might just be able to get by in the commotion without anyone seeing you.”

“As you say, Your Grace,” Arya smiled back, feeling her stomach flip as their eyes met.

Jon’s face fell and he opened his mouth to - ask for a kiss! a wild thought yelled - say something when he shook his head and walked towards the steps. As he reached the top, he turned back and said, “Let’s talk tomorrow? About - about what happened?” 

Arya masked her disappointment. “Tomorrow,” she agreed.

With a nod, he shot her a brief, brilliant smile, and slipped out the door.

The next twenty minutes were spent with Arya curled on the floor, biting her lips and declaring to herself that she had gone quite mad and that she just needed a good night’s rest and all would be well in the morning. Everything was fine, she told herself.

Everything was fine, she said as she rushed down the corridors, blissfully quiet as the guards had left for the royal wing. 

Everything was fine, she said as she narrowly missed Jory and his men turning around the corner.

Everything was fine, she said as she finally made it back into her room, shutting the door with a relieved sigh.

“Arya?” Rickon’s voice rang behind her. “Arya, where the hell have you been?” 

No, she realised, it really wasn’t. 

Chapter Text

At the sound of the door clicking shut, Rickon awoke with a start and tumbled out of the chair. The black cat curled up on his lap dropped to the floor. It shot him a glare, and darted under the bed. 

The sight of Arya, back turned towards him and standing still, cleared the sleep away as if a bucket of icy water had been thrown over him. 

“Arya?” he exclaimed. “Arya, where the hell have you been?” 

His sister said nothing, and pressed her forehead against the door. He could hear her breathe in and out, slow and shakily. It rang alarms in Rickon’s head, and he stepped towards her tentatively. 

“Arya?” he repeated, softer this time. “What’s wrong?” 

A single candle lit the room dimly. The dancing shadows brought the painted dragons to life, and as they leered down at the two Starks, Rickon felt goosebumps prickle his skin. In the play of the light, the shadows on Arya’s dark hair became a curtain of pitch black, shrouding her face from his view. Minutes ticked by in silence, squirming under his skin like worms. 

Unable to bear it a moment longer, Rickon had started to move towards her, when Arya finally decided to turn around. He paused as he took her in, startled. 

Her hair was matted with paint and disarrayed, an uneven frame for her wild beauty. Rickon had seen it in all sorts of states: covered in twigs, flowers, dirt, anything and everything. It was her face that seemed strange; shorn of her usual spirited expression, her beauty had transformed into something detached, something far older than her years. 

Rickon had never seen anyone look this way. Half-dreamy, half-hungry, it was a look of one possessed. 

The rest of her did not fare any better. Her green dress was stained with mud and paint, the edges soaked in what looked like filthy water. With horror, Rickon saw a tear along her side right up to her hip, her naked leg exposed through the gap. 

“W-what happened?” he gasped. He surveyed her closely, marking new details. There were faint bruises blooming along her pale neck, marching over her skin like the phases of the moon. Her lips were swollen and a blush brushed her cheeks. 

It made Rickon want to cry.

Mother told me to take care of you. 

“Arya?” he said, hating how small his voice sounded. He approached her slowly and reached his hands out to grasp hers with great care. “Sister? What happened to you?” 

Arya’s face smoothed out, blank as an eggshell. 

“Who did this to you?” he demanded. Realisation dawned on him as he recalled the chaos of the evening earlier, his heart sinking. 

They had all awoken to the sounds of the palace guards storming through the hallways and searching every room. When Rickon had realised what had happened - and that Arya wasn’t in her bed either - he had assumed the worst. 

But she had told him that there was nothing untoward between them. That the prince wasn’t the type to take advantage and that they were just friends.

She lied to me, Rickon realised, filled with hurt. She never lies to me.

“That bastard,” he swore, surprising Arya. “I’ll make him pay for this, I swear it.” He squeezed her hands reassuringly. “I don’t care that he’s a prince, I’ll find a way.”

Arya slipped away from his grip and shot him a confused look. “Jon? Jon didn’t do anything wrong.” 

“Stop defending him. Look at you!” Rickon waved over her dress and neck. 

“It wasn’t him. I did this to myself. Well, mostly,” she grimaced. 

“The bruises-“

“It wasn’t Jon,” she repeated, firmer this time. She pushed past him towards the basin, soaking a cloth in the water to wipe her face and arms.

Rickon gaped after her in the silence that followed. When she added nothing more, he snapped, “So that’s it? You aren’t going to tell me where you were? Arya, do you have any idea what you’ve put Father through tonight?” 

Arya dropped the cloth back in the basin and pressed her now-clean hands against the table with a deep sigh. “It wasn’t meant to go this far,” she confessed quietly, turning to look at him. “I don’t know what’s happening anymore.” 

His irritation disappeared as he took her in; her stormy eyes were anxious and dark as ink. She looked for a moment so lost, so young, that Rickon froze. He wasn’t sure what to do. Arya was his bold older sister, closer to his heart than the leather of his tunic. And like leather, she was not easily torn, yet easily mended. 

To be so vulnerable now, so human and fragile - it unnerved him. 

But he was a man now, as everyone said. And men always knew what to do. Robb and his father, brave and unwavering, always did anyway. 

So Rickon swallowed the lump in his throat and said, “Talk to me.” 

Arya chewed on her lip and looked away. “You wouldn’t understand. I can hardly believe it myself.” 

“Try me. Please?” He tried to keep the pleading out of his voice, albeit unsuccessfully. “I just want to know you’re alright.” 

The silence beat on. From the window, slivers of morning light slipped into the room, the sun stripping away the lingering shadows and secrecy. Perhaps that was why Arya finally released a deep breath and nodded slowly. 

“Let me change first.” 

Hope rose in his chest and Rickon quickly turned to face the door to give her privacy. He heard a rustle of material and the occasional curse, followed by the creak of her bed as she climbed into the sheets. 

“C’mere,” she muttered, and he glanced over his shoulder to see her waving at the other side of the bed, dressed in her nightgown. Rickon took off his boots and sat on top of the covers, wrapping his arms around his legs as he looked at her. She leaned against a propped up pillow, the paint in her hair leaving marks on the silk. 

Seconds turned into minutes as he watched her wring her hands, staring at everything in the room except him. 

“Arya,” he said, hushed, prying for knowledge. “Does this have anything to do with Prince Jon?” 

The silence bristled. 

“It has everything to do with him," she said, and he heard in her words desperation and desire, felt the things she did not say like shadows cast upon them. And then she gave a soft, tired laugh; turned her face so that her hair concealed it, and said in a tone more akin to her familiar jest, “Gods help me, I sound like an idiot.”

What he had glimpsed was already unsettling him deeply, but Rickon pressed on. “You said you were just friends.”

Her cheek twitched. “It’s a little more complicated than that, I’m afraid.” She suddenly made a frustrated sound. “This is going to make me sound mad, but to hell with it. Jon and I have this - this connection. It happened the first time I met him and it’s, well, it’s pure magic.” 

Rickon pulled a face. 

Arya kicked him from under the sheets. “I’m not Sansa, stupid. I mean it literally.” 

And then she spoke, every event since the very first day they had arrived in King’s Landing pouring out of her. It seemed to Rickon that she had waited for this, that all the words and thoughts had been keyed to this moment when she could finally unravel. 

He listened quietly through it all, focused solely on wrapping his head around everything. 

“-and then I just ran back here,” Arya rushed. “And even now, even though I’ve just seen him, Rickon, I can’t stop thinking about him. There’s this voice in my head telling me that I need to find him. It’s taking everything in me not to storm into his room this very moment. Does that sound insane?” 

Rickon stared at her, dumbfounded, his mind wracking for an answer that wasn’t a resolute yes. 

He tried to imagine what Bran would say. Bran who was clever and sweet and always understanding. Bran would ask a very simple question. 

“Are you in love with him?” 

Arya opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her eyes widened and her heart was revealed in the sudden tremor of her lips. “I-I don’t know. I’ve never been in love before,” she confessed. “It’s hard to think clearly anymore.” 

Rickon leaped at that. “Then how do you know it’s real?” 

Her expression softened as she whispered, “It feels real.” 

“Arya…” 

“You think I’m mad, don’t you?” she demanded. “Go on, I know you want to say it.”

Rickon raised his hands in surrender and quickly rebutted, “No, I don’t!” 

I wish you were, he thought. It would make this so much easier. What else could he say? Rickon didn’t know anything about love or magic, and he certainly didn’t know what to say to someone caught between both. Sansa would, he thought wistfully. Sansa knew every song and story about knights and princes and magical love, and Gods, did he miss her fiercely now. 

“Yes, you do,” Arya insisted knowingly. “But I can prove that I’m not insane. It’s all in a book, you see. I have it right here.” 

She leaped out of bed and picked up her discarded dress, rummaging through the material. “It’s by this woman who went through the same thing and she managed to break it and she wrote these books all about it and oh, where is it?” Arya threw the dress on the ground. “I know I had it with me. It has to be somewhere!” 

“I didn’t see any book,” Rickon frowned, climbing off the bed to help her search. “Maybe you dropped it.”

“No, no, no,” Arya moaned, tearing through her dress again and looking around the room desperately. “I can’t have dropped it! Rickon, I need that book!” Her breaths were coming too quickly as her face paled. 

Alarmed by her sudden reaction, Rickon asked, “Well, where did you leave it last?”

“I put it down when we were at this brothel-“

“Where? You never mentioned that!”

“-so I could show it to these girls, when…when Jon got upset and left and I…I ran after him and…” Her eyes widened. “It’s still at the brothel. I meant to go back for it but then I - we….“ She trailed off, blushing, though Rickon knew exactly what she meant. “I have to get it back,” Arya said instead.

He scoffed. “Arya, you can’t go back to the brothel.”

“Rickon, that book might just make sense of all this,” she insisted. “I can’t leave it there.“

“You’ll be lucky if Father doesn’t send you back to Winterfell first thing this morning,” he threw back, folding his arms. “You have no idea what he was like when he saw you weren’t in your room! He’s sent over a dozen men out looking for you, and now, you want to sneak out again? Doesn’t that bother you?”

“What would you have me do?” Arya hissed. “I’m sorry, alright? I didn’t ask for any of this, you know.” 

“Tell him what you told me,” Rickon said quickly. “Maybe he can help. Father always knows what to do.”

Her expression closed off immediately and she shook her head. “No, I-I can’t. Rickon, please don’t tell him. Please.”

“But why-“
 
“He doesn’t know Jon. He won’t believe me if I tell him that it’s not his fault. Rickon, promise me you won’t say a word. Not until I figure this out on my own.”

“Arya-“ 

“Promise me, Rickon. This has to be our secret.” 

Her eyes were painfully pleading and he found it difficult to look at her directly. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “You’re asking me to lie. Mother said nothing good comes from lying.”

Mother also told you to take care of her, and look what’s happened, a voice whispered nastily in his head.

Arya’s sigh drew his attention. She was rubbing her face tiredly, dark shadows beginning to form under her eyes. “I just need more time,” she muttered, her words hoarse with exhaustion. “Will you help me?” 

She seemed so small, standing there. Rickon had outgrown her about a year ago, but never thought of himself as such. Arya had always seemed larger than life, a hurricane of barely-contained energy that arrested every moment she was in. The girl before him felt like a stranger in comparison. Still, he could never refuse her, and he knew it. 

“I’ll always be here for you,” he said quietly. “Get some rest. We’ll figure something out.” 

Arya smiled sweetly at him, and he felt his heart squeeze. 

What would Mother say now?

As he left her room, shutting the door quietly behind him, Rickon simply prayed that things wouldn’t get any worse. 

“Rickon? What are you doing?”

Rickon turned to see his father standing in the hallway, Jory beside him. They were both startled to see him. 

“Oh,” he began, flushing. “I was just checking on Arya.” 

“She’s there?” Ned exclaimed, moving to the door. Rickon tried protesting, but his father pushed his way in and stopped at the sight of a snoring Arya snuggled in her bed.

Frowning, Ned quietly backed out of the room and shut the door. Jory let out a relieved sigh. “Perhaps she fell asleep in the bath and you missed her, my lord,” he suggested to Ned. “Slight thing that she is.”

“Aye,” Ned muttered, “that must be it.” His eyes bore into his son’s and Rickon struggled to keep a blank face. “Tell the others she’s safe and head to bed yourselves.” 

Jory bowed at them both and walked away, already calling to a group of Northern men waiting at the hall that Arya had been found fast asleep in her room after all. 

“Well, I should go, too,” Rickon began, crossing the corridor to their own room when Ned’s voice froze him mid-step.

“Did she tell you where she was?” And who she was with, went unspoken.

Rickon felt ice in his veins as he stared at the handle of his door. If he turned around and looked at his father, he knew the façade would crumble. Wracking his brain, the lie poured from his lips like wine, “She went down to the kitchens for a snack. Jory must have just missed her.” 

“I checked the kitchens myself, Rickon.”

He swallowed, feeling his cheeks flush. His eyes bore holes into the wood of the door. “Maybe she was already in her room by then? She can be quick when she wants to be.” 

Please don’t ask me anything else, he begged silently. I can’t keep this up and it’s only been a few minutes. 

When Ned said nothing else, Rickon took that as a sign and darted into their bedchamber in relief. As he turned to shut the door behind him, he caught a sight of Ned Stark staring at Arya’s room in melancholic silence. 

oOo

Morning filtered in through the dusty window, filling the kitchens with sunlight. Fryda, one of the palace cooks, was kneading the bread on the large table in the middle, sweat beading her forehead. A quick pattering of footsteps caught her attention, and she saw Ellya, the serving girl, rush towards her. 

“Do I have gossip for you!” she sang, eyes twinkling. “You’ll never believe who my sister saw last night-”

oOo

“-running about in the city!” Fryda exclaimed, dumping the finished bread rolls into a wicker basket. “No guards, no escort, no nothin’. Ellya’s sister swore on her life that she saw him, alright.” 

Dallar, the stableboy fetching breakfast for his companions, gawked at Fryda. “Prince Jon? That don’t sound like ‘im.” He regarded her thoughtfully. “That why them Kingsguard were runnin’ all about?” 

Fryda handed him the basket and leaned in, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper, “Aye, he went missin’ last night. Had the whole palace in a tizzy, Kingsguard marchin’ all over the place. That’s not all, that is-”

oOo

“-some Northerners were stompin’ all over too, lookin’ for someone,” Dallar mumbled as he crammed more bread into mouth. 

Orwen frowned, breaking a piece off his own breakfast. There was little time to dwell before he had to rush off to the tourney. As a squire, he needed to be in early to help his lord prepare. “Who?” he asked with wide eyes.

Dallar waggled his eyebrows. “I got it on good authority that Ned Stark’s girl was seen goin’ about early this mornin’, all secret like. Lookin’ like a mess, I heard. Torn dress and movin’ like the Others be after her.” 

Orwen gasped. “Where was the prince?” 

“They found him in the royal wing, o’course. Pretended he got lost in the sewers.” Dallar snorted. “I bet my hat that ain’t true. Been workin’ here for ten years, I ain’t ever heard of the prince gettin’ lost anywhere. If you ask me-”

oOo

“-that Northern girl goaded him into it, she did. They be wilder up North, you know,” Orwen gushed at his fellow squire as they saddled up to ride to the tourney. A serving girl was quietly stacking the plates from the morning meal in the corner, though Orwen paid her no mind.

“But I heard somethin’ else from my cousin,” he grinned at Aldo, “which is startin’ to make a little sense now. He says some fancy lookin’ lord walked into the tavern he was in last night, paid drinks for everyone. Left pretty quick with a maiden on his arm. Never happens, and my cousin drinks himself to death there nightly-“

oOo

“-and they were off their faces, he said,” Wylla whispered to another serving girl, Katlyn, as they poured the juices and stacked fruits on trays to deliver to the royal guests. “That Northern girl was draggin’ him about. Don’t know where they went after that -”

oOo

“-but some whores down by the Alchemist’s Guild were chattin’,” Aldo explained to a group of keen squires as they strolled towards the tents, basking in the attention. “They swear they saw some princely lookin’ fellow goin’ into Asten’s with two pretty ladies on his arm!” 

A chorus of disbelieving sounds arose around them and Aldo chuckled.

“That doesn’t sound like the prince,” Podrick Payne rebuked stubbornly. “I serve his brother, I do. His Grace doesn’t visit brothels, everyone knows that. Besides, he got lost in the tunnels, don’t you know? Either the whores are lying or you are!” 

Aldo rolled his eyes at him. “Oh, because you’re so close to His Highness so you know everythin’, don’t ya? Well, these royals are all the same, like. And don’t be sayin’ nothin’ about those whores, they know what they saw and what they saw was-”

oOo

“-the prince spending an awful long time in the brothel with that lady. Highborn, they said she seemed, but had a Northern accent,” Katlyn muttered quietly as she passed the tray onto the handmaiden, Alissa. They both glanced up and down the corridors quickly before ducking their heads back together.

“Northern? You don’t think it’s Lord Stark’s daughter, do you?,” Alissa whispered, eyes widening. “But I heard it was all an overreaction, that she fell asleep in the tub and her father just didn’t see her. That’s what her men are saying, anyway.” 

Katlyn snorted. “Don’t tell me you fell for that! It’s a cover-up, it is! Haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what?”

oOo

“Lyanna reborn, they say!” Alissa sighed, pulling the comb gently through her lady’s locks. “Come to bewitch another prince. It’s all so very romantic. What do you think, my lady?”

Jeyne Mallister rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. The girl’s a wildling. I wouldn’t be surprised if she dragged him to the brothel herself. It’s scandalous, I tell you. I can’t imagine what poor Lord Stark must be feeling.” She fluffed up her curls with a frown. “Do pay attention to what you’re doing, Alissa. The tourney’s ending soon and I won’t have my time marred with terrible hair, thank you.” 

Alissa curtseyed quickly and began pinning Lady Mallister’s hair in an intricate knot at the back of her head. “I just can’t imagine it, that’s all,” she continued in a quiet voice, laced with wonder. “I heard the prince was a respectable sort of fellow. Everyone in the kitchens really likes him. Bit sullen, they say, but a good head on his shoulders-”

oOo

“-so I said that it’s impossible, His Grace would never visit a brothel.” Podrick shook his head as he tightened Aegon’s breastplate. “Least of all with a highborn lady. It’s outrageous, it is, slandering His Grace like that.” 

Prince Aegon narrowed his eyes. Or rather, one eye, as the other was swollen black and blue. Podrick wisely avoided looking at it directly. “And which highborn lady are they claiming they saw him with?” His voice was oddly tight, and Podrick thought he heard a hint of worry in his words. How strange, when it could be only lies! 

Podrick shrugged and turned to grab a pair of gauntlets off the table behind him. “The one they’re saying the guards were looking for all night, Your Grace.” 

oOo

“Arya.”

Jon awoke with a start, her name lingering on his lips. 

Sudden pain burned up his shoulder and through his body, an agony so sharp that he jolted up with a gasp. 

“Easy there, Your Grace,” a withered voice reassured, and Jon turned to see Pycelle sitting on his bed beside him, his hands full of bandages and a small vial of clear liquid. His shoulder screamed, shattered bones and muscles cramping into dagger-like knots. He looked down to see a patchwork of deep purple bruises blanketing his skin, from his bicep to his collarbone, raised and angry from the swelling. Jon winced. 

“Your wound needs dressing,” the Maester explained, nodding towards his shoulder. “It’s been under quite some strain. I hope you weren’t exerting yourself when you were…lost in the tunnels, was it?” His colourless eyes twinkled shrewdly and he barely suppressed a malicious chuckle.

Jon glared at him but did not take the bait. “Just get on with it.” He clenched his jaw as Pycelle started his work, glancing out the window at the near midday sun. “Have the jousts started again?”

“Yes, Your Grace. Most have left for the tourney already. Your father came to visit, but I’m afraid you were asleep.” 

Jon’s mouth twisted. “Did he leave a message?“ 

“Only to order you to rest today and stay in your rooms, Your Grace. You gave us all quite a scare last night.” 

Pycelle carried the expression of a man who had never shown genuine sympathy, but tried very hard to pretend. Jon rolled his eyes before wincing as his muscles protested at the tight bandages Pycelle wrapped around his torso. 

When he was done, the Maester offered a quick bow before slinking away, leaving Jon alone in an empty room and a snowstorm brewing in his head.

An image suddenly sparked up in the back of his mind, unbidden. Arya, underneath him, moaning his name. It wasn’t a memory, more an indistinct feeling of yearning, like his hands needed to know the shape of her and his mouth needed to know her taste.

But I know how she tastes, he thought deliriously, the sensations of mere hours ago still lingering on his lips. And I know I shouldn’t, but I want more. 

Jon felt his stomach flip and wiped a hand over his eyes as if to rub away the images. A part of him - quiet, subdued, and rapidly disappearing - hoped it would fade away. The rest of him was firmly lost in thoughts of a woman who had her fingers clutched around his heartstrings and soul. Jon was suddenly overwhelmed by the jagged pieces he had unknowingly seared into his memory: the sound of her laughter, her smiles when she liked something he said, her tears and her rage and her touch and her smell and -

He wanted to gather her in his arms as he gathered those pieces of her, and watch them fit together perfectly against him, as he knew they would. He wanted to invade the secrets in her smile, to see if she would crumble at his touch the way he crumbled at hers, to know her, mind and body and soul. He wanted it all. 

His head felt clouded and the buzzing arose in his ears again, undercut by an insistent: find her, find her, find her, findherfindherfindher -

Jon tore himself from his bed and hurriedly threw on whatever clothes he could find. Quick and desperate fingers ran through his wild hair, and he grimaced as the bandages strained against his shoulder. Arya had to be at the tourney by now, he felt her presence just out of reach, just beyond the city’s gates. Perhaps he could catch her at the end of the joust, speak to her in private behind the tents, alone, just for a moment…

Wrenching the door open, Jon almost collided with two hundred pounds of solid metal armour. 

Oswell Whent turned and glanced down at Jon with a frown. “You should be in bed, Your Grace,” he said sternly. Jon had always known the Kingsguard to wear an exasperated, yet friendly, face around him. That Oswell was missing today, replaced by another that seemed very ill-tempered and exhausted. 

“I thought I might head to the tourney-”

“No. The King’s orders are clear.” 

Pinpricks of pain were fluttering against his skull and Jon grit his teeth to ignore them.

Find her. Find her. 

“Oswell, I’m not some fragile princess that needs to be locked away in a tower,” Jon snapped. “You’re welcome to hold my hand if that makes you feel better, but I’m not staying in my room today.” 

The Kingsguard narrowed his eyes, his lips twisting in irritation. “I have my orders from the King,” he said quietly. “I can’t disobey him.” 

“Well, I can - and will. And since you’re sworn to protect, I suppose you’ll just have to follow me.” Jon patted his metal arm in reassurance. “If he asks, blame me for it. He’ll believe that.” 

“My prince-“

But Jon had already taken the opportunity to squeeze past the Kingsguard and walk quickly down the corridor. When he heard the clank of armour hurriedly keeping pace, Jon glanced over to grin at Oswell, who responded with a glare that made Jon chuckle. 

oOo

They had reached the stables and were waiting for the horses to be prepared when a drawling voice rose behind them.

Jon closed his eyes and counted to ten. Viserys was the last person Jon cared to see on a good day. He had been grateful that his uncle did not care for tourneys and mostly skulked around his own quarters. Now, with his temper teetering on the edge and an incessant buzzing bouncing around his head, dealing with Viserys would be unbearable. 

“Well, well, well,” Viserys said, sauntering towards them. There was a sneer on his face as he regarded Jon. “I’m surprised you’re showing your face today, let alone going to the tourney.” 

“Piss off, Vis.” 

“Aren’t we hostile?” the older prince said shortly, screwing up his handsome face into something cruel. “I’m not the one that humiliated the family last night, dear nephew.” 

“Neither was I,” Jon said pointedly. “Going for a wander around the palace is hardly a crime. It’s not my fault Father overreacted.” 

Viserys’ pale lilac eyes were contemptuous. “That’s not what the rumours say.” 

“I don’t pay attention to gossip.” 

His uncle shrugged, walking closer. “Perhaps you should. They can be so…illuminating.”

Jon’s hands clenched.

“My princes, let us remain cordial.” Orwell’s eyes were the same fresh green as summer grass, but harder than frozen glass. “There is no need for such conversation.”

“Is that so? Your orders are to protect the family from harm, Ser Oswell, not from their own hurt feelings,” Viserys mocked. “If my brother’s bastard can’t handle what others are saying about him, perhaps he ought not to give them something to talk about.”

“Shut up.” Jon’s voice snapped out so hard it could have been the crack of a flame. “I’ve heard enough.” 

Viserys was either not perceptive enough to take warnings from the arched, quivering tension in the air, or simply did not care for it. “But I haven’t said anything at all,” he replied, his voice delicate. “Certainly nothing about you gallivanting around the city with a Great Lord’s daughter -“

Jon felt his blood freeze, edged with something that spoke of danger, of oncoming pain. 

“Visiting brothels as well, my how the noble have fallen. And with a lord’s daughter in tow, shameful, shameful-”

“Mind your next words,” Jon warned quietly. Beside him, he felt Oswell shift and grasp his good arm, sensing Jon’s rage tainting the air.

“What is Lord Stark thinking at this very moment, I wonder?” Viserys carried on, a malicious smile cutting across his face. “All this talk of how noble and honourable he is, and yet! Yet here is, with a whore for a sister and a whore for a-”

Jon yanked his arm away from Oswell and grabbed his uncle by the throat with such ferocity that he lifted him off the ground. He would have throttled him if Oswell had not pulled him off. Fury blackened his heart and he pushed against the restraining grip Oswell had latched around his chest, causing his shoulder to scream. 

Viserys staggered back, rubbing the marks Jon's fingers had left on his neck. “Savagery runs in the blood, I see,” he snarled, though hoarsely. “I do hope this doesn’t end in a war, dear nephew. There’s only so much blood we can shed for you.” 

“That’s enough, Your Grace!” Oswell snapped. “Where is Ser Darry?” he called around the courtyard for Viserys’ Kingsguard. He was met with shocked and pale faces of servants and stableboys watching in fascination. “Where are the blasted guards when you need them?” 

“Some of us don’t need constant supervision, like others, you know. We’re not nearly as much of a threat.” Viserys raised his eyebrows but flinched when Jon made another sudden move towards him. Masking his fear with an air of nonchalance, Viserys tidied his hair and walked away quickly, grinning. 

After he turned from view, Jon unclenched his fists and felt the blinding fury slowly cede, replaced with a dull ache spreading across his shoulder and torso. “You can let go of me now,” he said to Oswell. “I’m hardly going to chase after him.” 

The Kingsguard slowly withdrew, his eyes downcast. “I apologise, Your Grace. I hope I did not hurt you further.”

“Forget about it,” Jon dismissed. He looked around to see their audience were hurrying out of sight, not daring to meet his gaze. Some were already whispering amongst themselves. The stableboy preparing their horses had remained, the only one to do so, and Jon could see him cast surreptitious glances his way. 

“Oswell, tell me what everyone’s saying.” His heart was pounding so loudly, he felt dizzy. “I need to know what they’re saying.” 

“It’s just gossip, Your Grace. Ignore your uncle, he was hoping to get a rise out of you.”

Jon turned to face him fully and glared. “Tell me what they’re saying about Lady Arya Stark.” 

Oswell paled and looked away and Jon felt his stomach sink. 

“Your Grace, I’d rather not-”

“That’s an order, Oswell.”

The older man’s face tightened and he sighed. “It’s not pleasant, but as you wish.”

As he spoke, Jon’s stomach sunk lower and lower until all he could feel was a strange hollowness. In his head, the thread twined around his thoughts, filling his visions with Arya and the repeated mantra: find her. 

Oh Gods, what are we going to do? 

Chapter Text

Late morning sunlight dragged across her face, waking Arya from her sleep and making her sit up from the coil of tangled sheets. Most of the time, she needed a moment or two to remember who and where she was.

Not today. She went from sleep to awareness in the time it took to swing a sword. 

He was somewhere a floor above her, but Arya could feel Jon’s presence like he was beside her, and it sent her heart fluttering. It was as if a piece of her had become permanently entwined with him, the edges fading into one another. His dreams thrummed in her head like a melody, and she sighed as she felt his mind brush against hers like a kiss. 

A kiss…

Inhaling sharply, Arya raised a trembling hand to her mouth. Her fingertips traced over her lips, the memory of heat and desire seared into her skin. She let the images wash over her: his mouth fierce on hers and his chest firm under her fingers and his hand tugging at the tangles in her hair. A rush of warmth flooded through her veins, as if the ghost of his body was still pressed against her. 

Her wanting - and his, for she could feel every strum of his thought - had been overwhelming. It was madness; it crumbled some wall between them and bared her to him in a way that was intimate and new, but she hadn’t wanted to stop. She still did not want to stop. 

No, this isn’t you, she tried to reason. These aren’t your thoughts, this isn’t -

Wasn’t it? Everywhere he'd touched her held an imprint and if Arya pressed her lips together, she thought she could still feel him linger. Shaken and yearning, her world trembled on its axis.

Find him, something told her urgently. Find him, find him, find him, findhimfindhimfindhim -

“My lady? Are you awake?” 

Her handmaiden, Beth, knocked quietly on the door, her soft voice muffled by the thick wood. 

“Just a moment!” Arya called, scrambling out of bed. She turned and winced at the streaks of blue paint staining the white silk sheets, at the torn dress lying crumpled on the floor, and finally, at her disheveled appearance in the mirror on the wall. Gods, she looked like she had fought a bear and lost - bitterly, at that. 

The bruises along her neck from where the City Guard had grabbed her were flushed a lovely shade of violet and yellow and she grimaced as she prodded them. Arya heard the door push open and whirled to see a shocked Beth staring at her with wide eyes from the threshold, a bucket of warm water in her hands. 

“I told you I needed a minute!” Arya hissed, rushing to drag her in. She hurriedly slammed the door behind her, grateful that no one was passing by. 

“I’m sorry, I-I didn’t hear…I-my lady, y-your neck!” Beth flustered, staring at her in horror. “Did someone hurt you?” 

Arya waved a dismissive hand and took the bucket from her. “Never you mind that, it’s not important.” She moved towards the empty tub behind a screen on the side of her room and poured the water in. Making quick work of her nightgown, Arya sighed as she settled in the water, humming in content. 

Beth’s mouth was moving soundlessly as she stood frozen by the door. She eventually found the courage to squeak, “N-not important? My lady, we should inform Lord Stark immediately!” 

Arya opened her eyes to frown at the handmaiden. “You’ll do no such thing,” she ordered. “I don’t even know the name of the man who did it -“

Beth gasped. 

“- so there’s nothing Father can do anyway, so let’s just drop it, please? I’m being quite serious, Beth. Do me this favour? We both know I’ve kept a fair few secrets on your behalf over the years.” She raised an eyebrow pointedly. 

There was a long pause while Beth mulled it over before she sighed and nodded. “As it pleases my lady,” she mumbled. Arya felt a little terrible for strong-arming her into it - Beth was hardly older than herself and as harmless as a mouse, always insisting on using Arya’s proper title because the thought of anything else was too mortifying to consider. 

I’ll make it up to her, she told herself reasonably. Beth had an awful sweet tooth…perhaps she’d steal her some of the fancier desserts from dinner. That never failed to raise one’s moods. 

With that, Arya settled back in the tub with a smile, tilting her head back to let her hair soak and wash the paint away. She opened one eye to glance at Beth quietly putting away her torn dress and changing the stained sheets, and felt a rush of appreciation. 

A thought arose. “You wouldn’t happen to have packed any dress with a high neckline, would you?” 

“Just the grey one, my lady. The one you wore at Lord Robb’s wedding. Your lady mother thought it apt for the final feast.” 

Arya remembered that dress. It was highly uncomfortable and rigid and made her look like Septa Mordane’s long-lost daughter. She grimaced. Looking like a woman of faith was the very last thing she wanted Jon to see, especially not - she thought, her cheeks reddening with heat - when they had promised to speak today. Alone. Just the two of them. The thought made her lightheaded. 

Standing quickly, she let Beth hand her a sheet to dry off in and sighed in resignation. “What choice do I have?” she grumbled. Beth shot her a pitying look as she pulled the offending dress from the closet and helped Arya into it. 

“Are my father and brother awake?” she asked as the handmaiden tugged a comb through her tangled wet hair. It was a losing battle and eventually, Beth gave up and settled with smoothing down any wayward strands. 

“Yes, my lady, just at breakfast, and to the joust afterwards,” she said. “We’ll have a champion by tomorrow’s end. Isn’t that exciting?”

“Oh! Yes, very,” Arya replied, distracted. Jon would surely be watching the tourney today. Perhaps she could catch him afterwards, pull him behind a tent and -

Arya flushed and pushed the image away quickly before Beth noticed her reaction. 

As soon as her handmaiden had taken a step back and she’d thrown her old boots on, Arya rushed towards the door, throwing a ‘thank you’ over her shoulder. With one hand grasping the doorknob, Beth’s small voice rang out, oddly strained. “My lady?”

Arya looked back, resisting the urge to hop from one foot to another impatiently. “Yes? Everything alright?”

A myriad of expression flashed across Beth’s face and Arya bit her tongue to stop herself from telling her to hurry up. Her head felt fuzzy and clogged, a buzzing ringing in her ears. Her body pulled her towards the gentle snowy presence that wrapped around her conscience as if it belonged, and Arya struggled to stay focused on the present. 

“Don’t…don’t pay attention to any rumours,” Beth finally said with hesitation. “It’s all malicious slander anyway, my lady.”

“Oh.” Arya scrunched her nose in confusion, at a loss to where this was coming from. The lords and ladies were always whispering about one thing or another, after all. “Well, I never pay much mind to gossip, you know that.” 

Beth smiled at her, though it did not reach her eyes. 

Arya decided to dwell on it later - there was no room for other thoughts when her head was filled with visions of Jon’s smile and the quiet whispers of find him, find him, find him, findhimfindhimfindhimfindhim-

oOo

The corridors were filled with Northerners, idly standing from her door to the breakfast room. There was not a moment someone wasn’t watching her, nodding at her, some bearing frowns that they thought she could not see. 

As she approached the room, Arya could hear the clink and quiet conversation of Rickon and her father, pulling her to a pause. Rickon’s words from last night struck her like a bell.

Do you have any idea what you’ve put Father through tonight?

Arya closed her eyes and took a deep breath, the guilt gnawing away at her insides. She could fix this. It was just a night out in the city, and she was in bed before they found her. This was hardly any worse than the time she tried to run away from home at nine over some stupid argument with her mother. She had slept in a tree until her father found her, a day later and barely outside Winterfell. Her mother had her locked in her chamber for a moon for that, but they moved past it. They would move past this as well. 

Wouldn’t they?

“Arya?”

She looked up to see Lord Stark filling the doorway, his face expressionless. 

“I was just about to fetch you. Come, have something to eat.” He moved away before waiting for a response, and she meekly followed him in. 

Slipping into her seat, she glanced over at Rickon who offered an encouraging smile. Ned sat back in his chair and offered her some eggs without word. There was none of the easy conversation that had sat at their table every morning since their arrival in King’s Landing. Save for the occasional sound of silver hitting silver, the three Starks forced down their meals in silence.

There was an undercurrent of tension in the air, strung tight to the point of snapping. Arya kept her eyes on her plate and her breathing quiet, not wanting to be the one to shatter the moment like fragile glass.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Ned raise his head and clear his throat. Rickon and Arya looked at one another first, before turning to their father.

“I have some good news,” Ned began, reaching into his tunic. He pulled out a letter. Arya recognised the familiar sweeping curves of its handwriting. “A word from Sansa reached me this morning. She’s had her babe. A healthy boy named Harlen. Sansa is doing well herself.” A smile spread across his face, cracking the mask he had worn all through breakfast. 

The tension in the air rose and disappeared like smoke and Arya felt immeasurably lighter. 

Rickon whooped and laughed, bouncing in his chair. “Can we go see them?” he asked excitedly, blue eyes glittering. “Did she say we could?” 

“Aye, we’ll see them,” Ned nodded. “I’ll not miss a chance to meet my grandson. We’ll leave tomorrow morning.” 

Arya’s smile, prompted by the surrounding warmth, dimmed. “I thought we were attending the wedding as well,” she said, hoping her voice seemed light and unaffected. “The joust itself doesn’t even end until tomorrow evening.” 

“I’m aware,” Ned replied, turning to her. His eyes were a fathomless grey, yielding nothing. “But I cannot be away from Winterfell for too long. Visiting Highgarden will already delay our return by some weeks. It’s best if we leave as soon as possible, to make good time.”

“But leaving before the final…what if the King sees this as a slight?” Arya argued, desperation creeping in. 

“I’m sure His Grace will understand,” Ned frowned, narrowing his eyes. “It’s not everyday one’s daughter has her first child. They can manage without our presence. We’re leaving tomorrow, Arya.” There was a finality in his voice, the Warden’s voice, which ended the discussion. 

Arya’s stomach was twisted in knots and the buzzing in her head grew louder and louder as she clamped down on the rising panic. She looked over at Rickon, whose own radiance had dimmed, and widened her eyes imploringly at him. I need more time, she wanted to tell him. I can’t leave just yet.

Her brother’s cheeks reddened and he offered a surreptitious nod, as if he knew exactly what she were saying. There was unease in his expression as he tapped on Ned’s arm to gain his attention. 

“Uh…Father? I-I agree with Arya,” he stammered, swallowing quickly. “I mean…we came all this way a-and it would be a shame not to see who wins in the end, wouldn’t it?” 

Ned looked sharply at Arya, who was shovelling eggs into her mouth and concentrating all her effort on not choking while feigning nonchalance. 

“Please?” Rickon begged, going so far as offering the pout he had mastered as a toddler to get his own way. “We’ve been looking forward to this for so long!” 

Arya watched her father’s thoughts cross over his face in phases like the moon: astonishment, deliberation, then finally, concession. 

He heaved a deep sigh and pinched his nose. “I suppose it was a long journey,” he muttered, mostly himself, “and another day can be accommodated. But -” his eyes swivelled to Arya and she resisted the urge to squirm. “-I expect you both to be prepared for our departure. We are leaving King’s Landing the morning after the final, and I’d very much like to do so in peace. Am I clear?”

Arya nodded so hard, her head almost came off. It wasn’t the week she thought she still had if they had stayed for the wedding, but it was better than no time at all. The desperate panic swelling inside her had cooled for a breath, relieved that she had one more day to -

To what?

To kiss him? To break the bond? What did she want? What did Jon want? 

Find him, said the haze behind her eyes, lingering like dew drops in her mind. He is yours as you are his. Stop fighting. 

A vision; breathless sighs against naked skin, her legs wrapped around his waist as he drove into her over and over, his name painted on her tongue as she hit her peak -

Then all at once, like a house of cards collapsing in on itself, the illusion was cast away with as little as a whisper. Is this me? Arya felt a hand squeeze her heart and a thread spun with gold around her neck. Her dress felt too warm now, beads of sweat starting to form on her hairline and against her skin. 

‘This thread that binds us hath becometh a noose around mine neck,’ Cassandra Reed’s diary had said, the next pages torn away. The words came from so far away, as if a lifetime had passed since she’d sat on a little table with Jon in a dusty library, quarrelling over how best to destroy the magic that tied them together. 

It had seemed so important then, to break this bond. Arya couldn’t pinpoint the moment when they had stopped trying so hard, or when the barriers had fallen and everything blurred together. 

She idly swept her tongue along her lower lip, hoping his taste still lingered there. It had been overwhelming and disorientating and almost frightening in its intensity…

…but Gods, it had felt good. And how could something that felt so good, so right, be wrong? They fit together, her and Jon, like two jagged pieces in a puzzle. Jon saw her, when no one else did. It was so natural to be with him, easy in ways she had never found anywhere else. 

As if they’d been crafted from the same star, she knew Jon as he knew her: imperfect and different and yearning for more. 

“Arya? Are you ready to leave?”

She glanced up to see her father watching her, illuminated softly by the light pouring through the windows. His eyes were filled with concern, yet still kind. They had always been kind. 

With a nod, she rose and followed them out. 

The thread, bright as sunlight, tightened its grip until she was awash with gold and warmth and him.

Find him. He is yours as you are his. 

Arya tried blinking away the fog. She just needed to focus, to clear her mind, to -

Stop fighting. Give in. 

oOo

The morning sun beat down on the Starks as they rode into the arena. The aroma of perfume and sweat wafted from the crowds to mingle with the smog that always seemed to hover over King’s Landing. Despite the summer winds lifting her hair and brushing her skin, Arya found herself melting. The high neck of her dress prickled under her jaw, forcing her to keep fanning the heat away from herself. 

The stands were mostly full, the stragglers trickling in behind them, idly chatting amongst themselves. Ned ushered his children in somewhere near the back corner, far on the side so no one was likely to sit near them. Arya knew it was intentional and frowned. 

Ned Stark did not wear his emotions on his sleeve. To the world, his face gave nothing away, indifferent and ever watchful. To Arya, she saw the strain in his jaw as he clenched his teeth, and the wariness of his eyes as he stared across the arena at the empty stage where the royal family would be seated soon. Between one breath and the next, she glimpsed something raw and anguished flash across his expression. Her stomach twisted uncomfortably at the sight. 

Her attention was drawn away immediately by Rickon’s sharp elbow at her side. “Did you hear?” he said eagerly. “They’re opening up a spot in the final tomorrow to the audience. Anyone can compete.”

She forced herself to be present. “Why would they do that?” 

“Well, you know, there’s been a place missing since, uh,” Rickon looked awkward as he murmured, “he didn’t make it through.” Louder, he exclaimed, “Isn’t that exciting? Gods, I wish I could enter.” 

Arya rolled her eyes. “You can say his name, you know,” she muttered, too quiet for him to hear, at the same time their father leaned in to declare, “Absolutely not.” 

“Well, why doesn’t Jory compete then?” Rickon complained. “Since Karstark fell on the first round, we don’t have any other Northern rider.” He pouted, crossing his arms. “I’m sick of watching prissy doled-up idiots from the Reach. They’re so dull.” 

Arya nudged him in amusement. “You’re just disappointed there hasn’t been any bloodshed yet.” 

“That’s what makes it fun! What’s the point of a joust if we don’t see a little violence every now and then? Otherwise, what did we come all this way for?” 

“Gods help me, the two of you will be the death of me,” Lord Stark muttered. 

Rickon and Arya looked at each other and broke into peals of laughter. Simply being here, under the brightness of the sun and surrounded by some of her favourite people, reached through the miasma clouding her thoughts. It felt too much like belonging. It felt too much like home, thousands of miles away from Winterfell. 

He is yours and you are his, a voice whispered, unbidden. Let go and give in. 

But they are mine too, another threw back. 

She wasn’t sure which one she was supposed to be listening to anymore. 

“My lords, my lady. I apologise for the interruption.”

Three heads swivelled to the right in one movement, catching sight of a young woman in a deep curtsy standing next to them. She had a heart-shaped face with soft brown curls wrapped around her head, and wore a dress of deep green with the symbol of a rose pinned to her shoulder. The sigil of House Tyrell. 

Arya suddenly felt very self-conscious over her tangled hair, frizzing under the humidity, and her sweaty face that she knew had to be the most unflattering shade of pink. She straightened her back and hoped that made her seem halfway decent. 

When Lord Stark nodded for her to continue, the woman offered a practiced smile at Arya. “Her Grace, the Princess Margaery would like to offer her most sincere congratulations for the birth of Lady Sansa and Lord Willas’ child,” she recited dutifully, “and would like to extend an invitation to the Lady Arya to join her for breakfast on the morrow in celebration of this blessing they both share. We would be humbled if you would agree.” She deepened in another curtsy. 

Her father and Rickon turned to look at Arya, who felt a blush rise in her cheeks. Was she supposed to curtsy back? The other woman was still in a bow, and Arya wasn’t sure if she was waiting for her to tell her to rise, or just for her answer. 

The princess wanted to break her fast with her? Arya gaped. Princess Margaery hadn’t shown the slightest indication throughout the tourney that they shared a sister, and now she wanted to dine with her. Arya had never spent much time with a princess before, save for a short conversation with Princess Rhaenys. It couldn’t be that difficult, could it?

As the seconds passed, the moment grew steadily more awkward as Arya realised she hadn’t said anything. The woman was glancing up at her in quiet concern and her father was clearing his throat pointedly. Say yes, his eyes were burning into hers. 

Flushed, she blurted gracelessly, “Of course. Thank you, uh, for the invite. I…look forward to it?” She offered a smile, and was given a hesitant one in return. 

“We are grateful to hear it,” the woman said, in perfect tones. “A guard will escort you to Her Grace’s quarters. We hope you enjoy the rest of the day, my lords, my lady.” With another curtsy, she was gone. 

Rickon snorted. “Very smooth.” 

“Shut up, stupid.”

“Arya,” her father warned. “Behave. And I think your mother would be pleased that you’ll be spending time with Her Grace. She is Sansa’s good-sister, after all.” 

Not sure there was much of a choice, really, Arya thought sardonically, but was wise enough to keep to herself. 

The stands were completely full now, and across the jousting grounds, the royal family were taking their seats. Princess Rhaenys and the Queen arrived first, their red and gold silks shimmering like sunset seas as they gracefully took their places. Princess Margaery was close behind, in vivid greens and waving at the audience with porcelain smiles. 

The King followed behind, donned in his usual black, cutting a striking figure amongst the colours of the women around him. The crowds rustled around her, ever in admiration of their ethereal King. Arya had always known the King to be handsome, such was always said of him, but when she looked at Rhaegar Targaryen, she found his face to be not quite right. It was too lush and beautiful for her liking - rather, she preferred something a little less dashing, a little more somber, a little more -

Where was Jon?

Her eyes roved around the stage and all around the grounds, hoping for a glimpse. In her mind’s eye, she reached for him, seeking the cool and steady presence that had become so familiar. He was still back at the palace, which felt as far as Valyria for the way it set her ablaze with yearning. 

Find him, something buzzed in her head. Findhimfindhimfindhim -

“…a Stark whore, they’re saying…”

“…sleeping with the King’s son…”

“…just like Lyanna…”

“…hush, she might hear you!” 

Arya’s breaths froze in her chest. The world fell into muffled silence as her head whipped around, trying to follow the source of the voices. 

She was met with several pairs of eyes casting shrewd glances her way, their heads bent together as they whispered. 

Her cheeks reddened further and her fists clenched where they lay in her lap. 

She was imagining things, surely. They couldn’t know about Jon and her, about their time in the city. They were so careful! For the most part, at least. It was impossible that they’d find out about anything. She hadn’t done anything wrong. 

Hadn’t she?

“…seeking royal favour…”

“…Northern whores…” 

Rickon’s hand was suddenly wrapped around her fingers, gently untangling them from their vice grip on her dress. She looked at him and saw his blue eyes were wide and full of shock, and she suddenly felt the urge to cry. 

Arya didn’t dare look at her father, but she felt him stiffen. 

“Ignore them,” Rickon whispered in her ear, still holding her hands with one of his. “It’ll be over soon, and we’ll be on our way home. They don’t matter.” 

That didn’t comfort Arya much, at all. 

“…bastards have no shame, you know…”

“…what to say of Lord Stark’s honour?” 

The scene blurred with unshed tears as Arya sat rigid, biting her tongue so hard she tasted blood. She would not - she could not - unravel. It would make everything worse, that much she was certain of. 

They can’t hurt you, she told herself fiercely. You’re Arya Stark of Winterfell and words are wind. 

Her gaze was fixed on the arena ahead, but she could feel the leering faces chip away at her, with their serpent grins and forked tongues. 

It was just meant to be a small trip in the city. That’s all. 

It wasn’t meant to go this far. 

‘This is my fault,’ Jon’s remorseful voice filled her head. ‘I’ll find a way to fix this, I promise.’

Instinctively, Arya turned and caught his eyes watching her from the stage, where he’d just taken his own seat. She was warm all of a sudden, far from the searing heat of the sun, but in a way that spread through her chest and to the very tips of her fingers. It was comforting, as if she were filled with honeydew. 

Jon smiled at her, and Arya felt a little less alone. 

‘It’s not your fault,’ she told him. ‘Everything we did, we did together.’

‘And I don’t regret a moment of it, you know.’

A grin tugged at her lips then, and she ducked her head to hide her blush from her father and brother. Distantly, she heard the announcer introduce the guest spot in the final and welcome the first competitors of the day, but she was hardly paying attention. There wasn’t anything on the field she wanted to see.

Arya looked back up, saw Jon still watching her, and beamed at him. ‘Neither do I,’ she said. 

She felt his joy wash over her, gentle like crests on summer waves. It filled her world with light and she immersed herself in his glow. How simple it was to do so, how lovely it felt. She barely held back a sigh. 

‘You look beautiful,’ he whispered, so candidly, as if he said it every day.

Heat crawled up her neck as she flushed. ‘I look like a septa,’ Arya jested. 

‘If more septas looked like that, perhaps more men would be following the Faith.’ 

She snorted, and quickly masked it with a cough when Rickon looked at her sharply. In her head, she felt Jon’s amusement shimmering through their link, and she bit her lip to contain the smile that wanted to spread across her face. 

The gossips and the stares fell away, shrouded by the whirling snowfall of Jon’s presence, and Arya forgot them in an instant. 

oOo

By the day’s end, five champions were declared for the final, Prince Aegon one of them. 

Truthfully, Arya recalled as they rode back to the palace, she could not remember a single joust. She had been entirely too engrossed in Jon - his voice in her head, the heat of his eyes, his constant presence wrapped around hers. 

Even now, she could feel his touch like a shadow on her skin. At the tourney, sitting just a few hundred metres away, he had eclipsed everything else. It was a monumental exercise in concentration just to follow Rickon’s excited chatter as they watched the men spar below. 

To her disappointment, he left the joust immediately after it ended. She saw him exchange words with the King, catching glimpses of rage before he sent her a reassuring look and stormed off, a Kingsguard on his heels. The King’s expression had grown darker, and Arya saw the crowds murmur with interest as they watched the prince ride away. 

‘Maybe it’s best we don’t try to meet tonight,’ Jon had told her as he left, feigning composure. ‘I know we promised to last night, but I can’t risk you getting into any more trouble.’ 

Arya had sighed and tried masking the flare of desire and disappointment that suddenly arose. Arya had been so looking forward to…talking about what had happened, and it didn’t seem fair that they wouldn’t be allowed to.

A small part of her - logical, restrained, quiet - muttered that they did not need to meet to be able to talk. They were, after all, talking that very moment. What was stopping them from doing so, in their own corners of the palace?

A flurry of images slammed into her, unbidden, each more heated than the last. And suddenly, she’d forgotten what she’d been thinking only moments earlier. Whatever it was didn’t seem that important, clearly. 

Her head felt stifled, weighted down by a fog that she couldn’t break, no matter how hard she willed it. The golden thread, burning and bright as ever, twined lazily through it all, beckoning her to follow, leading her back to Jon. Always, to Jon.

Stop fighting. Give in. 

“Arya?”

Rickon’s concern tugged her mercifully from sinking further into daydreams, his face blurring into view; young and fierce with worry.

She recognised the street they were riding on, lined with stalls and the thick smell of salt hanging in the air from the sea nearby. Ahead, Fishmonger’s Square slowly emerged between the throngs of smallfolk weaving about, and Arya was struck with a realisation. 

“The book!” she exclaimed loudly. She snapped her jaw shut when Jory, riding ahead with her father, threw a glance over his shoulder at her. Leaning over, she spoke urgently to Rickon, “I need to go back to the brothel I was at, so I can get my book. It’s far too important.” 

Her brother gaped at her. “Are you mad? Do you want to test Father’s ire?”

Arya huffed in frustration. “I don’t have a choice, do I? Now, are you going to help me or not?”

Looking uncertain, Rickon unwillingly asked, “Where’s the brothel anyway? Is it far?”

“It’s - well, it’s….it’s by the, uh…” Arya faltered with a frown, picking her memories from last night. Milah and Graycie had lead the way, twisting and turning through the winding roads of King’s Landing. She had tried to learn the route, but the strain of holding Nira up had taken all her attention and halfway through, she had decided to simply follow. 

But surely, someone had said the name of the brothel. She could find it then, but oh, what was it? So many faces and images flashed through her mind then, but not a single name arose. Was it beginning with an A?

Rickon was staring at her, raising his brow.

Jon would know, Arya thought desperately. Jon would be paying attention. This was his city, after all. 

She reached through their link, but felt his attentions drawn away. Diffused feelings of fury slipped through again, black and curling tendrils wrapping around his thoughts. Arya caught glimpses of an older man with a light brown beard, the gold of his cloak glinting in the torchlight as he scowled. Jon hurriedly raised a barrier to stop her from witnessing anything more. 

Arya frowned. Around her, the sounds of the city grew indistinct, as if submerged underwater. ‘Are you alright?’ she sent to him. ‘What’s happening?’

She was met by silence, but a sudden triumphant feeling bled through all the same.

Thoughts unfurled in her mind like sails, trying to catch the changeable breezes of his mood. She reached out again, a feather-light touch that brushed against his mind, questioning. Arya was met by warmth, and a quiet, ‘I’ll tell you later.’ 

Rickon’s elbow nudged her gently. “What’s wrong?” he pressed.

She blinked at him, his voice seeming too loud after the soft snowfall of Jon. “Nothing,” she said quickly. 

“Well? Where’s the brothel then?”

Disappointment bloomed in her chest. “I don’t know,” she replied dully. “There’s no point searching blindly for it. Forget about it.” 

Rickon gave a relieved sigh and sat back in his saddle, far happier than he was a moment ago. 

Frowning, Arya turned back to the road ahead, her horse’s reins tightening in her grip. Beneath the near-constant yearning that she wore like a second skin all day, her stomach roiled with a deep, sinking unease. 

She needed that book. 

Chapter Text

It was autumn, the springtime of death. The land was all red and gold, with mellow mornings filled with delicate mists. The dews were heavy, laying thick like a blanket until the surrounding forest glistened like a cloth of gemstones. 

Amongst the rustling leaves and hollowed woods, a deteriorated hut lay nestled between the roots. Decayed and lopsided, its blackened walls hid in the shadows of the forest, never to be found unless one knew where to look. Behind the hut, a bottomless pool lay still as a dark mirror, its surface undisturbed and waiting. 

A single candle burned on a table within, chasing the darkness away. It illuminated a woman with wild dark hair, streaked with grey, writing frantically on a series of parchments. She was neither old nor young, but her moss-green eyes were filled with weariness and her thin mouth had long forgotten how to smile. She murmured to herself as her quill scratched across the page, occasionally pausing to flutter a tired hand against her forehead. 

It was nearly finished. Her final words, immortalised on parchment, stripped down to black markings that said too much and nothing at all. And yet…and yet, with every word, she felt a little lighter, a little more brave. 

There was one more story left, one more tale to make out of her heartbreak. A final burst of beauty out of her sorrow. 

Will you read this some day, my love? she wondered. I hope you do. I hope you see us in every page, in the spaces between each tragedy. It is all that will be left of us, in the end.

She unrolled another scroll of parchment, took a deep breath, and began to write. Her lips formed the words as she wrote, whispering, “Once, at which hour the stars w're young, th're wast a man who hath fallen in love....”

oOo

Once, at which hour the stars w're young, th're wast a man who hath fallen in love. He wast a prince of dragon blood, and he began as all men do, innocent of death, a child in a land so green it shone as em'ralds. He ran through the streets and swam in the calm sea, joyous and free. The simple w'rld of family and home wast enough.

But then the child becameth a boy, and the boy wond'r'd what did lie ov'r the h'rizon.  Ev'ry day he wouldst waketh up, behold the edge of the sky and wond'r. But the boy wast a prince and courts and duties needed attending, so he nev'r went furth'r than the city walls that he knew. His hands w're eag'r to do m're than writeth lett'rs, his skin yearning f'r sun and wind and rain.

oOo

Jon urged his horse through the bustling streets, Jaime Lannister a step behind him. 

Anger simmered in his veins, his hands clenching around the reins. He hadn’t meant to storm out of the joust so soon, but Rhaegar had left him little choice. 

He couldn’t remember watching a single match from the day, too engrossed in making Arya laugh. It made her face glow amidst the mundane crowd, luminous like the frosty light of an evening star. It cast away the whispers and rumours that clung to her, and Jon had felt his chest ache whenever he saw a lord or lady throw a smirk her way when she wasn’t looking.

I can fix this, he told himself. I’ll find a way. I always do.

When the horn blared and the finalists, Aegon amongst them, had taken their bows, the King’s fathomless eyes turned to his youngest son at last, having ignored him for the entire day. Jon swallowed a shiver at Rhaegar’s expression, as cold and dark as an Other’s heartbeat. 

“Jaime!” the King had called out suddenly.

Jon heard a clink of armour as Jaime stepped around him, golden and splendid. He kneeled down by Rhaegar, fine blonde hair falling around his face. “At your service, Your Grace.”

“Oswell has proven incapable of keeping my son in check. Perhaps a younger man is needed, one not easily swayed into disobeying my orders. Take his place by Jon’s side and escort him back to the palace. Do not allow him to wander. He is not to leave the Red Keep without my explicit permission, is that clear?” 

“Right away, Your Grace.” 

Jon had risen from his seat in indignant anger, when a tight grip on his arm held him in place. “Control yourself, my prince,” Oswell whispered in his ear firmly. “Choose your moments. This is not the time to rebel.”

“I can’t let you be blamed for this. I’m the one that got you in trouble.”

Oswell smiled kindly. “It’s not the first time, Your Grace, and I doubt it will be the last. Worry not. Off you go, now.” 

He had been right. Rhaegar’s face was grimmer than Jon had ever seen it, his expression bordering on barely-contained fury. Biting his tongue, Jon relented, spinning on his heel to stalk away. 

He felt Arya’s concern flutter in his head like a butterfly, and sent a wave of reassurance to calm her. Yearning spread under his skin like wildfire at the thought of her.

Find her, it whispered, find her.

He had never felt such a heightened need for someone’s touch before. His day had been filled with his heart nearly bursting, visions of Arya wrapped around him searing into the backs of his eyes. Their link burned brightly in his head, pulling him incessantly towards her. And Gods, did he want to follow. He wanted it more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life - and the desire nearly frightened him. 

Findherfindherfindherfindher -

Tomorrow, he had told her, though he wondered if he had the patience to wait any longer. 

oOo 

Time passed; the boy becameth a man, a young man with a head full of the horizon. His family did love him, but they couldst not understand the yearning in his eyes. They spoke to him of real things – of betrothals, of laws, of crowns and ruling. They anchor’d him, the soul and centre of his world, and he loved them too, so they wast enough to hold him thither.

Then, one summer, the laughing girl came, and stole away his heart.

And nothing wast ev’r enough f’r him again.

oOo

Jaime disembarked from his horse as Jon stormed out of the courtyard, his black mood trailing behind him like a shadow. He heard the familiar sound of metal clanking through the Keep as Jaime rushed to fall in step with him.

“I don’t like minding children either, you know,” Jaime told him in breathless exasperation, having been forced to run to catch up. “It’s hardly stuff of legend, watching you mope about.” 

“I’m not a child,” Jon bit out. “And I do not mope.”

“No? You’re doing an extraordinary impersonation, if so, Your Grace. Tell me, when do I get to meet the man behind the act?” 

Jon stopped short and rounded on him, some cutting remark hanging on his tongue -

“Your Grace. Ser Jaime,” a new voice interrupted.

They turned to see an older knight watching them carefully from beside a set of closed doors, leading to the Throne Room. He was tall with dark, impassive eyes and a curling light brown beard that hid most of his expression. Draped across his back, his golden cloak gleamed wickedly in the torchlight.

Jaime’s brows raised, and he nodded respectfully at the man. “Ser Manly. Forgive us, we did not see you there. All is well, I presume?” 

The name rang a bell. Ser Manly Stokeworth, Commander of the City Watch, Jon recalled. He held back a scowl. Given what he’d learned, Ser Manly was either ignorant or complacent in his men’s behaviours and Jon thought him inadequate whichever way. 

“I’m afraid not, Ser Jaime,” drawled the older knight, his hand resting idly on his sword hilt. “I’ve come to see the King. One of my men was found beaten and bloody last night, left to die in some filthy alley.” His eyes shifted to Jon, hardening. “The King’s men are vulnerable these days. The people are…ungrateful of our protection. I intend to ask the King for more men. It would be safer for all of us.” 

“Not safer for the people, surely.” The words slipped from Jon’s lips before he could resist. He felt Jaime’s eyes boring holes into the side of his head. Defiance welled up inside him, and he tried to stamp it down. He'd learned the hard way that letting his emotions loose in front of strangers just made him more vulnerable. It made it that much easier for him to make a mistake, to make himself a target for others to latch onto. 

But Jon thought of Arya then, and how little she hesitated before speaking her mind. Because it was right, because someone needed to, because holding his tongue had only ever brought little but a few moments of stolen peace. 

Maybe a little defiance was needed after all. He thought of Arya, raised his chin and glared at the older knight stubbornly instead. 

Manly bared his teeth in a grin, his beard ripping wide. “With all due respect, Your Grace,” he said, with lack thereof, “these matters are best left to the King and myself. I would hate to bother a…prince with that which does not concern him.” He said the word ‘prince’ with such mockery, it set Jon’s ire on edge. 

He bristled and narrowed his eyes. “The welfare of the people does concern me, as do the City Watch,” Jon argued. “And I question your decision to increase the guard. I cannot help but wonder if it’s not so much the number of your men, but their quality.” 

Arya’s touch brushed against the link, then, soft and warm. Jon hurriedly blocked her out, not wanting the distraction, as sweet and welcoming as it would be otherwise. He was locked in a game of tongues, and he intended to come out on top. 

Manly’s crocodile smile faded, and he took a slow step forward towards Jon. “Forgive me, Your Grace, I may have misheard. If one questions the City Watch, one questions its leader, and surely, His Grace does not intend to insult me so.” His dark eyes flashed and he was so close, Jon smelt the faint scent of sandalwood and sweat off his skin. “After all, we do protect his life as well, from so, so many that may seek it. Blood paid for blood shed, and all that.” 

The words were cool, but made to cut all the deeper for it. He heard Jaime shift and Jon gave into temptation. He quirked a brow at the old commander, and let the anger spiral. “I’m not questioning your leadership, Ser Manly.” Jon leaned in and whispered loudly, as if telling a secret, “I am denying its existence.” 

Ser Manly’s face contorted with rage.

“The City Watch is in shambles,” Jon continued, shrugging. “You’re more than welcome to discuss expanding your ranks with the King, but until you bring your men to heel and remind them of their duty to protect the people, you have nothing more to offer and there is nothing more to discuss. The King and his city need not the protection of weak men, and neither do I. That is all. Have a good day.” 

He had already walked away when Manly’s voice echoed through the empty hallway. “One does not simply attack a man of the City Watch without consequence, Your Grace. I will find who did it, and justice will prevail, I assure you.” 

Jon glanced dismissively over his shoulder. “I look forward to the report.” With a smile, he turned his back on the knight. 

He heard a quiet curse and the sound of a sword withdrawing, before Jaime wryly warned, “Careful, Ser Manly. Swords are dangerous things. It can be so easy to lose a hand if one doesn’t know any better. You know better, don’t you, ser?” 

Jon paused and listened to Manly release a deep, shaky breath and slip his sword back in its sheath. There was a beat before Jon heard his footsteps hurry away. He turned to see Jaime watching the man leave with a tight expression. 

They looked at each other silently then, before Jaime snorted and shook his head, blonde hair glinting gold in the light. “You should be careful about pushing him. He’s not nearly as insane as half of the knights around here, but still twice as arrogant as he should be - and that’s coming from me. He won’t take your slights well.” 

Jon chuckled, a muted triumph flaring through him. “I’m shaking in my boots,” he taunted, unaware of how light his voice was. “Let him be wroth with me. I want him to know that I’m watching him.” 

Amusement flared in Jaime’s eyes; a glimmer of green, bright in the amber-washed hallway. “I do believe the message was clear enough.” 

Jon smiled - a real, true smile - and resumed walking. When he didn’t hear the Kingsguard follow, he looked over to see Jaime standing where he left him, arms folded.

“That’s not where your quarters are, Your Grace,” he said pointedly. 

“I know,” Jon smirked. “I’m headed to the armoury for some practice. Father didn’t say anything about that.” 

“True enough. But you should be resting.”

“Do you really want to be standing outside my chamber for the next twelve hours?” 

Jaime hesitated for only a moment, before sighing and trailing after the dragon prince he’d sworn to protect. 

oOo

The mummers came to the capitol every year in their colourful carts. The dragon prince loved their plays, full of exotic characters and outlandish stories. And after, the players would join all folk in an inn. They drank ale and shared the news from the towns they hadst passed through.

He nev’r hath paid much attention to the faces under the paint and the masks, but this year wast different. This year, the laughing girl lit up the stage and ‘twas as if every line the girl spake wast only f’r him.

oOo

Beyond the rooftops of the palace, the sky was beginning to darken.

Arya suppressed the urge to run into the courtyards and practice with her wooden sticks, not daring to do anything but roam around her family’s quarters restlessly. Too many of her father’s men were watching her closely, but pretending otherwise. 

It made for a slow and lonely afternoon. Rickon had tried engaging her in a game of cyvasse, but her thoughts were too distracted to play properly. Arya felt helpless - caught between storming into Jon’s rooms, to searching for her book, to tearing down the secret smiles and stares that followed her around the palace, wherever she went. She could do nothing but wear away the same spot in the carpet, pacing about her room like a caged wolf. It was grating and unfair and Arya felt she may explode at any moment.

“I’m going to the kitchens,” she suddenly announced.

Rickon was hanging off the side of her bed, reading a book. His face was upside down as it blinked up at her. “What for?” he asked.

“If I stay in this room any longer,” Arya declared dramatically, “I’ll throw myself out the window. If I must go insane, I’d rather do it with a lemon cake in my hand.” 

Rickon scrambled to follow her as she threw her door open. Outside in the corridor, two Northern guards cast her a questioning look. 

“We’re going to find some food,” Arya said, almost daring them to object. Her father hadn’t officially ordered her to be followed, that much she knew, but Northerners were never especially apt at the art of subtlety. 

The men glanced at each other, brows raised. “It will be supper soon, my lady,” one began. “Perhaps you can -”

“I’ll be with her,” Rickon said quickly. He stood a little taller and wore an expression that looked so much like Robb, the guards straightened their backs immediately. “Don’t worry. We’ll return soon.” 

Mouth twisting, Arya scowled at everyone and stomped towards the kitchens. 

She felt like a babe once more, needing to be watched and followed, and it stoked her indignation. Had it been Rickon traipsing around the city with a prince, she was sure he’d have received hardly half the reprimand, and nearly none of the gossip. As she passed through the corridors, Arya could feel the eyes follow her every step, watching in silent judgement. She resisted the childish urge to flip a rude gesture their way.

“Slow down!” Rickon called, jogging to meet her. “What’s the hurry?”

“Half the bloody castle thinks I’m some royal whore,” Arya snapped, “so I don’t plan on dawdling where they can ogle at me like I’m about to strip naked any moment.” 

Rickon reddened, scandalised. “It won’t last long,” he tried to reassure, though Arya suspected it was more for his benefit than hers. “They’ll realise that’s not who you are. They will, I’m sure of it. Rumours die down all the time.”

She thought of her smoky daydreams, the flurry of images that had invaded her head since she’d first woken that morning: of her, lost in the throes of passion, Jon between her thighs and moaning her name into her neck as he thrust deeper -

Find him, a voice whispered, as it had all day. Find him. Give in. He is yours as you are his. 

Arya shoved the thoughts away before Rickon caught her blush, though she still felt them hover at the periphery.

I wish I was as sure as you, little brother, she almost said.

oOo

It wasn’t that the girl wast the fairest he hadst ev’r seen, because in truth she wasn’t. But thither wast a beauty that did belong to another world. She hadst eyes as dark as a storm and a smile that arch’d like the curve of the horizon, and in her, he hath found the thrill of the unknown, the unexplored, the unfathomable. 

oOo

A host of noises greeted them inside the kitchens – bangs, clatters, the unmistakable sound of glass on glass. When they ventured in, the cooks were all methodically searching the cupboards and digging through baskets. Arya caught glimpses of rare and exotic fruits she had never seen within them. 

Instead of dull silver tins or plates, the palace kitchen was crammed with spices and wines. A giant barrel of red powder leaned against a heap of half-charred tomatoes; wild boar was unmistakable next to jars of what looked like a rainbow trapped in the glass. Arya thought she understood herbs at least, but the rows and rows of colours that sat along the wall made her question if she understood food at all. 

She was in the middle of admiring a particularly appetising smell from one of the pots when she felt a weight suddenly rush into her legs. 

With a yelp of surprise, Arya looked down to see two small girls, one blonde and one brown, clinging to her eagerly. She was startled when they turned their beaming faces up towards her.

“Milah? Graycie?” she exclaimed, astounded. The girls squeaked happily when they heard their names, bouncing up and down on their bare feet. “What are you doing here?”

“Our ma works here, so we visit sometimes!” Graycie announced, pointing at a thin, haggard-looking woman in the corner with a broom in her hand. At the sight of her daughters, she rushed forward, mortified.

Arya noticed Rickon step closer uncertainly, and she shook her head to stop him. The older woman was gushing apologies as she tugged at the children, her gaunt face pale with terror. “Begging your pardons, miss,” she whispered. “They don’t mean to be so bold. Children, y’know. I’m so sorry, I’ll take ‘em away now, don’t you worry-”

The girls grumbled and fought against their mother, gripping the folds of Arya’s dress tighter with determination.

“It’s alright,” Arya hurriedly told the woman. “I don’t mind them at all. We’re friends now. Aren’t we, girls?” She smiled at the pair, who giggled in response. 

She felt a tug on her hand. Milah was insisting on her attention. “We brought you somethin’,” she chirped, her lank dark hair swaying as she bounced on the balls of her feet. “You left it behind at Asten’s last night! We waited for you but you and the Prince never came back. Is he here, too?” She peered around, as if Jon were lurking somewhere behind Arya’s skirts. “Is he comin’ soon? We liked him lots, we did. Graycie’s scared of him -”

“I am not!” Graycie shrilled in indignation. 

“-but I think he’s like a hero, he is, because he killed the bad man and helped Nira.” Milah continued to babble. “Can we see him, please? Will you tell him Bessa said hello?” 

Rickon’s glare burned into her, and Arya was acutely aware of everyone in the room sharing wide-eyed glances with one another. A blush rose in her cheeks and she desperately wanted to hush the little girl in front of her. The kitchen had fallen into silence, the men and women stopping their chores to eavesdrop. 

Arya cleared her throat awkwardly, and quickly said, “Of course I’ll tell him. What was it that you brought me?” 

Milah rushed to a corner and back, holding something wrapped in a dirty old blanket. There was a flash of wistfulness on her face and a moment of regret as she handed it to Arya, who felt the knots in her stomach unravel when she lifted the fabric away.

The once-blue velvet was smeared with dried white paint, already peeling under her fingertips. She ran her hands over it eagerly, never having been happier to see a book than she did then. Turning to the front page, Cassandra Reed’s name lay stark against the aged paper, gleaming in the sunset light pouring through the windows. 

With a gasp, Arya bent down and gathered Milah and Graycie in a tight hug. “Oh, you brilliant, brilliant girls!” she gushed. “You have no idea how grateful I am, truly. I was so sure I’d lost this forever!” 

Their mother had flinched towards the children at her sudden movement, but paused in shock as her daughters flushed under the praise and squeezed Arya back. Their smiles were infectious as they broke apart. Rickon stepped forward to deftly steal the book from her fingers, flicking through it curiously. 

“I can’t believe you got paint all over this,” he grumbled at her, touching the cover gently. “Maester Luwin would cry if he ever saw it.” 

Arya snorted, and felt her hands squeeze. She glanced down to see the girls staring at Rickon suspiciously. Milah was tugging at her hand, forcing her to bend down so the girl could whisper in her ear.

“Who’s that?” she asked, offended. “Does the Prince know you’re with him?”

Graycie elbowed her sister in her ribs, scandalised. “Be nice!” she mouthed at her, angrily. 

Milah stuck her tongue out at her as Arya laughed, mussing both their heads affectionately. “Girls,” she said, “this is my brother, Rickon.” She waved a hand at the boy beside her. “Rickon, this is Milah and Graycie. Say hello.”

Rickon offered a small, hesitant smile at the girls, who looked at their mother for cues, then bent their knees in an awkward, graceless curtsy. Suddenly shy, they rushed to hide behind Arya’s skirts to peek up at Rickon, who quirked a brow at her. She shrugged at him, stealing the book back and holding it to her chest protectively. In the corner of her eye, she saw Milah’s eyes fixate on it with longing.

oOo

The prince did sneak out of the palace every day to gaze at the mummers. The nights wast long and too bitter cold to endure in silence and stillness. So ‘twas no surprise that every night, someone would pick up a fiddle and play the first notes of a dance. The song drove out the cold with motion and noise, feet stamping, hands clapping, voices shouting down winter.

And when the music rose up, he hath reached f’r her and she was there – they spun through the night, a whirlwind of two, her laughter sweeter than the song. He hath felt ‘t in his bones and his blood, a golden thread weaving them together. Under the crescent moon, they danced the hours away, the girl’s hair swirling like water, every contact searing through him. 

When the fire died and the music with ‘t, thither wast nothing but shadows, and her. He bended to kiss her...but she slipped from him, her laughter ringing out in the silence. And she said, “I am not yours to kiss, my liege.”

oOo

A large woman with greasy straw-blonde hair tied severely behind her head approached her. “Milady? The cakes you asked for won’t be ready for a little while. Would you like someone to bring them to your chamber later?” 

Rickon pouted as Arya suppressed a shudder. “Gods, no. I’d much rather be here than in my chamber, I assure you. We’ll wait here, if you don’t mind.” 

When the other woman bowed and left, Rickon groaned in exasperation. “What are we supposed to do for an hour?” he complained. 

Arya felt a tug and looked down to see Milah blushing shyly. She stared at her feet as she mumbled, “Could you show us some more of your book again?” She cast another long, hungry look at it nestled in Arya’s arms.

Looking around, Arya saw spills and stains all over the floor from the cooks strolling around with pots in their hands, and had an inspired thought. 

Bending down until she was level with Milah, she whispered, “You said you wanted to make your own stories one day, didn’t you?” 

The little girl nodded excitedly. 

“Well then, come here. Rickon, hold the book, please.” 

She lead the children towards the side of the room, where a small puddle of thick gravy had dripped from a giant pot on the stove above. She sat them all down and, carefully tucking her dress beneath her, plopped beside them. Rickon stayed by the door, leaning casually against the wall and turning to a random page. 

Arya took a finger, ran it across the puddle until it was wet, and began drawing on the cobbled stone of the kitchen floor. 

M I L A H

The girls squinted at the letters and looked at her in confusion. Arya took Milah’s small hand in hers and traced over each letter. “That’s your name,” she told her gently, “so you can sign your stories and everyone will know they’re yours. See, let’s go through each letter and you can practice writing it yourself then.” 

Milah squealed with delight as Graycie gasped, “Can you do me next?” A lull fell in the kitchens as several pairs of eyes swivelled to watch them with a mixture of curiosity and interest. 

oOo

The next night, when the music began, he sought her out. All night she did dance with him and none other, her eyes flashing, her smile full of promise. And when the music died, she did flee, this time with tears in her eyes, whispering, “I cannot beest yours to kiss.” And as the moon hath grown fatter, the prince hath fallen a little more in love with her. 

oOo

The next hour was spent tracing letters and names along the floor. By the end, Arya had shown everyone in the kitchen how to write their name, patiently guiding their hands and helping them with the sounds of each letter whenever they had trouble. Rickon watched the scene unfold over the edge of Cassandra’s book hesitantly at first, before the laughter and excitement in the air warmed him enough to join in himself. He was now sat beside Arya, explaining to a young server boy how ‘Seamus’ was pronounced. 

“No, I know the letters make it seem like ‘See-mus’, but it’s really pronounced ‘Shay-mus’, trust me,” Rickon insisted for the hundredth time.

“That don’t make no sense,” the boy whined. “Are you sure you’re writin’ it proper?” 

Rickon raised his hands and shrugged. “Don’t look at me, it’s your name. Pick something easier next time.”

The boy began to cry. Rickon turned to Arya incredulously, who shot him a look. “What?” he defended. “I’m not wrong!” 

Arya was rolling her eyes when the sound of the kitchen door slamming open drew everyone’s attention. When they saw who stood in the doorway, there was a flurry of chaotic panic as everyone, except Rickon and Arya, rushed back to their stations and pretended they were busy. 

The new arrival was a thin man with wild hair and a deep green doublet that made him look remarkably like a vegetable. A sneer was carved into his face as he cast a baleful eye across the names littered across the floor in gravy, flour, and nondescript waste. 

“What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded loudly. “What sort of nonsense have you all been up to? Supper is to be served in under two hours and the King’s guests cannot be made to wait! There is no time to be playing such ridiculous games!”

Milah and Graycie had run to a corner and were hiding behind their mother’s skirts, who was sweeping the floor with fervour. Around the kitchens, the same people that had giggled and grinned moments earlier were withering into shells as they buried themselves into their work, eyes cast low and faces dimmed. 

“And who are you? No one is allowed in the kitchens.” The steward had caught sight of Rickon and Arya sitting awkwardly near the middle of the room. 

“We’re so sorry,” Rickon began, dragging Arya up. “We were just…looking for something to eat and-”

“Supper is served at a set time. Not earlier, not later,” the man stated stubbornly. “Please return to your quarters at once!” 

Rickon nodded his head and hurriedly pulled Arya out the door. The steward had resumed his yelling, complaining about tardiness and disgrace in the royal household, and Arya couldn’t bear another minute of it. She snatched her hand away from her brother and rushed back in. 

“It’s not their fault, I made them do it!” she told the frowning steward. “Please don’t be angry with them, blame me instead.”

The man surveyed her with distaste. “They ought to know better, my lady. They have all served in the palace long enough. Now I must insist you return to your chamber immediately. This kitchen is off-limits to all guests of the King. Good day!” With an insistent nudge, he pushed her out the kitchen and slammed the door shut. The sound of his raised voice echoed through the wood, harsh and furious. 

Arya had half a mind to storm back in and demand he be kinder when Rickon pulled at her arm again. “You’ll only make it worse for them,” he said with sympathy. “Come on, let’s head back.”

Biting her lip, she followed him dejectedly. “It was just a little fun,” she said quietly, hugging herself. She barely took notice of anyone staring at her on the walk back, lost as she was in her shame. “I didn’t want them to get in trouble for it.” 

Rickon slung a comforting arm around her shoulder and handed her Cassandra’s book. “For what it’s worth,” he said gently, “they loved every minute of it. And you know what?“

“What?“

“You were good with them back there. Really good. I think you’d have made a decent Maester in another life.”

Arya laughed and shoved his side. “Girls can’t be Maesters, you know that.” 

Rickon grinned and shoved her back. “More’s the pity. Maybe they should change the rules for people like you.”

They had reached their rooms, the hallway seemingly empty of guards. Arya assumed they had grown distracted and wandered elsewhere in her absence. Rickon squeezed her shoulder affectionately before slipping through his door. Arya watched him leave thoughtfully.

“Oh, one more thing.”

Rickon ducked back out and indicated at the book. “I flicked through it while you were with those girls. It’s just a bunch of stories about different people. Sometimes they’re about lords and ladies, sometimes they’re just farmers in the middle of nowhere. I only read one, and it was about someone called Death and a marketplace. Seemed really stupid, if I’m honest. Are you sure it’s the one you’re looking for?” 

Prince Aegon’s words echoed in her head then: Just because a story isn’t real, doesn’t make it ridiculous. All literature, no matter how absurd you might find it, is a reflection of ourselves.

She clung to the book with a little desperation. “There must be something in the stories, then,” Arya said hopefully, praying she was right. It was her very last resort to make sense of everything, of the wildfire setting her blood aflame, of the snowfall presence in her head that made her heart ache. “They’re all lessons in the end, aren’t they?” 

oOo

In his waking day, the prince bethought of naught but her. She cameth to him in his dreams, and they whispered sweet nothings to one another and promised to meet later that night. When three weeks hadst passed and the moon wast rising full and white, the mummers announced that that night would beest their last. When she took his hand as the music rose, the laughing girl wast silent. She was his, as she hadst been every other night: but she did not laugh.

And in the greyed, burnt-out embers of dawn, she hath drawn him close. Drops of sorrow wast in her eyes, and she did tremble like a frightened bird. But when she kissed him, ‘twas honey and fire, ‘twas lightning in his heart.

He hadst nev’r known aught like ‘t. 

And she told him of a legend, of soulmates, of fate. He wast hers, she said, as she wast his.

oOo

Jon winced as he rolled his shoulder, his grip growing slack on the training sword. Shots of pain ran through his body and he grit his teeth to force himself through each strike and swing at an imaginary enemy. 

“That looks like it hurts.”

Jon threw a glare at Jaime’s haughty face and ignored him. The Kingsguard stood leaning against a pillar, watching Jon train with growing pity. Another spasm of pain made his arm tremble and Jon nearly dropped the sword. 

Jaime sighed. “At some point, this is just too tragic to watch, even for me. Come on, you’ve had your fun. Back to your chambers now, Your Grace, before your father has my head.”

“No, I can do this.” 

He lifted his arm and a sudden grunt escaped his lips, the sword slipping from his fingers. Jon cursed wildly and ran a frustrated hand through his hair. Restlessness made him nearly twitch, his skin burning for relief. Is this what they meant by dragon blood? he wondered, his hands flexing by his sides as he paced around the training ground. He needed to release the pressure building in his chest - the anger, the desire, the yearning - but his usual exercise was proving useless. Jon glared at the sword on the ground, as if it were somehow its fault. 

Golden armour crept into his view as Jaime reached down to grab the weapon. He tested it in his grip, rolling his wrist. “Have you tried using your other arm?” he suggested lightly. 

Jon scoffed. “Why would I? It’s not my sword hand.”

“It could be, if you practiced it enough,” the Kingsguard shrugged, running a delicate finger along the sword’s edge. “I don’t know about you, but if I couldn’t use my hand, you’d be damned sure I’d be out here training with the one I had left.” 

Frowning, Jon walked over and snatched the sword away. “Pycelle said I just needed time.”

“You really want to trust the word of a man that smells like dead cats?”

Jon hesitated. “I have to. Otherwise…otherwise, that means I can never fight again.” The thought was too painful to imagine.

The gleam of the Lannister’s smile was like light moving along steel. “That’s where you’re wrong. Come on, I’ll practice with you. Let’s try your other arm.”

An incredulous laugh erupted from Jon’s lips. “I thought you didn’t like me much. Why help me at all?” 

Jaime shrugged nonchalantly, his sword already in hand. An arrogant drawl coloured his words. “Perhaps I can’t bear to watch you struggle a moment longer. It’s like watching a dying pup on the side of the street. You can’t help but put it out of its misery, and I can’t very well do that literally now, can I?”

“Charming,” Jon muttered, moving the sword to his weaker hand, testing his strength. He carefully went through his practiced motions, but he felt slow and clumsy. Even if he did gain confidence, Jon couldn’t imagine having any of his old silky speed, and none of his fluidity or precision.

Then I’ll be in trouble, he thought, and feared. What will I do then?

“You’re overthinking this.” Jaime’s words drew him out of his spiral. He circled around Jon, swinging closer with each pass until he was his equinox, blotting out all but him, gold and bright. “Try attacking me. Go on.”

It was an invitation Jon had waited a long time for. He took a deep breath, tightened his grip, and threw all his strength behind his swing -

Jaime blocked him easily, and the sharp stinging of steel on steel rang around the courtyard. His expression gave nothing away and so close, Jon was unsure whether the look in his eyes was amusement or disappointment. He hid himself so well, veiled behind colour and sarcasm.

“You can’t best me in strength with your weaker arm,” Jaime explained with false patience, pushing away. “You can’t overpower a stronger opponent. I thought Ser Darry taught you that when you were four.”

Jon made a face and flexed his hand. “Don’t patronise me, Lannister, I know that.”

“Then do better. Let’s go again.” 

oOo

In his dreams, he hath heard her whisper, “I’m to marry another and I cannot bear to be apart from thee. I beg thee - come with me, far from hither. Come with me, let us giveth one another everything, and I shalt beest yours and you shalt beest mine forever. Meet me at midnight by the old oak tree. We will run away together, thou and I.”

What else couldst he say but yes? He would has’t given her the world.

As ‘t did out, the price wast far more than that. 

oOo

Jaime danced backward, his sword whirling around his head in a shining blur, flickering out like lightning. Jon parried as best he could, but the slashes came so fast that it seemed like Jaime was a whirlwind of weapons and arms. Beads of sweat ran down Jon’s face, his breaths panting in time with each swing, each chime of steel song echoing around the training ground. 

He focused on ducking under Jaime’s blows and jabbing at him whenever he saw an opportunity. His arm was too weak to parry him blow for blow, so Jon made sure to never stop moving, circling around the knight like a hawk to its prey, hoping to tire him out. 

They skipped around each other for half an hour more, until Jaime struck one last time, and Jon’s strength failed. With a grunt, he stumbled, only barely catching himself from falling on his knees.

Jaime was in disarray, his blonde hair sticking to his forehead. He still looked irritatingly handsome despite it - or rather, more so because of it. “Impressive,” the knight declared with raised brows. “You learn quickly. See what happens when you focus on speed, instead of strength? You’ll be an adept swordsman with your other hand in no time.” 

“I barely kept up with you,” Jon argued, wiping his face. “If you’d actually been trying to kill me, it would have been over before it started.”

Jaime dropped to the floor and leaned back on his hands to catch his breath. “You’re too hard on yourself, Your Grace. Barely two hours in and you’re faring better than I expected. Give it time, you’ll see. You’re more talented than most.” 

“More than Aegon?” Jon asked, feigning nonchalance. 

The Lannister laughed. “You know damn well I can’t answer that honestly. He’ll be King someday, I have to watch what I say.” 

Catching himself before he preened too much under the praise, Jon joined him on the ground, rubbing at his shoulder. The bandages prickled his skin uncomfortably. They sat in companionable silence for a moment longer, staring at the twinkling stars above, when Jaime said suddenly, “I’ve watched you train since you were a babe. I know how well you fight and joust. Black Walder should never have landed a hit on you that day.” 

Jon’s eyes narrowed. “It was an accident,” he said tightly. “I was-”

“Distracted?” Jaime offered, raising his brows. “You made every common mistake. He’s twice your size and you thought you could unseat him with brute strength. That’s not a sign of one who knows what they’re doing - and I know that you do.” 

Jon bristled and snapped, “If you’re insinuating something, I suggest you come out with it.” 

The Kingsguard watched him coolly, his green eyes simmering like a grassy sea. “Merely an observation,” he said simply. “I know what it’s like to be…distracted from the present. To be lost in something else. Or someone else.” There was a ghost of yearning in his voice, easily missed if Jon weren’t paying attention. “It doesn’t matter how long or hard you train, unless you learn to control your thoughts in the heat of the moment. It could very well mean the difference between life and death.” 

Jon said nothing. 

Jaime stood then, manoeuvring with some difficulty due to his armour, and brushed the dirt off. “We ought to head to your chambers now. Let’s not test our luck that no one’s found us here yet.” 

Jon got to his feet, watching Jaime thoughtfully. He followed him quietly, observing as he took his training sword and returned it to the rack, and on the short walk back to his quarters. Jaime opened the door for him and stepped back dutifully, nodding farewell, when Jon piped up, “What do you know of Cassandra Reed?” 

oOo

At midnight, the prince hath left, naught but a sword on his back. His family, he bethought, would never knoweth whither he hadst gone and wherefore. Although he did love them, ‘twas a safe, staid love, comfortable as old slippers. 

His love f'r the laughing girl wast like wildfire, and ‘t burn'd him through and through. 

He hath walked past the bonfire, past the city walls, out to the old oak tree. She wast thither, under its leafless branches, her dark eyes glittering. If the girl hath felt the frosty air, ‘t didst not show. 

oOo

The change in Jaime was sudden. 

He anxiously looked around the corridor, before ushering Jon into the room and shutting the door behind him. Jon felt a strange sense of duality stepping through it, as if something were about to change, and the Jon of now and the Jon on the other side of the threshold met and meshed in its walls.

Jaime moved past him, towards a candle sitting on the table. The sun had already set, so he lit a flame and threw back the shadows. It did not reassure Jon. Adrenaline thundered in his veins, driven by uncertainty.

He watched and waited, and when he judged the knight had relaxed a little, said, “Tell me what you know.” 

Jaime froze. Then said in a cool voice, “I assume you haven’t read the book I gave you. A little rude, I don’t just hand out gifts, you know.” 

“Why give such a book to begin with?” Jon pressed on, relentless. “There’s something I’m supposed to learn from it, isn’t there? But you already know what it is. Why not tell me now?” 

The face the knight turned to him was blank as an eggshell. “It’s not easy to explain. You can’t…you can’t begin to imagine what it means, and I wouldn’t even know where to begin.” His mouth twisted, and Jon saw a vulnerability he’d never seen flash across his features. “Its beauty and its…its monstrosity…the consequences of it all is…it’s life-changing.”

Jon wanted to hear him say it. To hear the truth drip from his lips, turning dreams into reality with mere sound. 

We’re not the only ones.

Jaime walked closer, and Jon was startled by the intensity that filled his eyes. “Where is the book, Your Grace?” 

Jon shifted, averting his gaze. “It’s with someone else.”

“Arya Stark, I assume.” 

The name was like a knife. The silence that followed was immense. Inches away, Jon saw his Kingsguard suddenly with the same duality as himself; he was a knight and a lord, and a boy with a secret, not too unlike his own. 

“You know what this is, between Arya and I, don’t you? You know what it means,” Jon urged, more insistent. His voice was quiet and a little afraid. He was on the precipice of something greater, he knew. Like the dreams he had of standing on a cliff, the welcoming void beckoning him to join at his feet. 

Jump, it had said. Jump, jump, jump -

“Tell me what it is, Jaime.” 

His expression was pained. “It’s…it’s too late. If I tell you now, it will only make everything worse. Trust me, Jon. Perhaps not reading Cassandra’s book is a blessing after all.” His emerald eyes were nearly pleading. “This is not a road you want to walk down. There is only pain at the end of it. Let it go. There isn’t any other choice.” 

Let her go, went unsaid. 

There was silence: brief, sanctified, they were caught within it like an insect trapped in amber. 

Jon stepped forward, his voice dangerously low. “That isn’t for you to decide. These are my roads and my choices, and I have every damn right to know the truth and I will not be told otherwise. I’m not a child, and I won’t be treated like one.” The last words were hoarse, almost desperate. “Please, Jaime. I need to know.” 

The knight sighed, and the sound was jagged and tired.

“I suspect you already know, that you’ve always known. What else could it be? To be pulled so strongly towards another, that you couldn’t stop it, even if you tried. To have your lives flash through your minds in seconds, one heart recognising the other. You already know what it means, Your Grace, you just haven’t found the word for it.” Jaime chuckled darkly under his breath. “The Gods have fashioned us for love, but I imagine they went a little too far with this.” 

Jon was on the threshold, on the cusp of something more. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and jumped into the void -

“Soulmates.” 

oOo

“Do thee love me?” the girl hath asked. 

“Of course,” he did answer. 

“Then marry me,” the girl hath said.

He told her that they would findeth a septon as soon as ‘twas light and marry thither and then. But she shaked her head. That wast not her way, hath said the laughing girl. She wouldst wed beneath the tree, by the rites of her people, and the girl did want to marry in such a way, at this very moment. He wast bemused, but he wast besott'd, so he did agree. 

oOo

Soulmates.

There it was. The truth he hadn’t even dared imagine, out in the open, a vast and terrifying fact. Jon didn't even know when he had sank down against the wall and on the floor. The world was shaken; his reality dangling from a fraying thread in front of him. 

In his mind, the link glowed with what felt like triumph. It spun behind his eyes, filling his head with visions of a grey-eyed girl, and he knew, he knew, he knew that he wanted to give her everything - heart, mind, body.

And soul. But that had always belonged to her, as hers belonged to him. 

Soulmates. 

He had to touch her with his hands, he had to taste her with his tongue; she was his and he was hers and he could no longer wait. 

Mine. She is mine. 

“Your Grace? Jon?” a faraway voice called, touching his shoulder. “Listen to me. I need you to promise me that you won’t do anything rash. This bond, it’s -”

Every memory together, every moment, burst together like flowers in spring. Every smile, every whisper - it struck a need in him, a desire to unmake her with his hands. It was all he could think, all he could feel. There were no words, no thoughts, his senses only extending as far as this one, singular purpose: 

Desire. 

She is mine as I am hers.

Soulmates.

“-rob you of everything you are. It stops you thinking clearly and it’s too easy to lose yourself, so you must promise that you won’t seek her out. Not until you understand what your choice means-”

Lose himself? How could he lose himself, when he felt like he’d been found at last? She was the other half of his soul. Of course, of course, it all fell into place. What else could it have been? They were meant to find one another. It was destiny, it was fate, and they were soulmates.

“Jon. Jon, are you listening to me? Damn it all, I’ve made everything worse, haven’t I? Gods help me, the King is going to murder me for this.” 

The thought of Rhaegar dragged Jon unwillingly back to the surface, and he frowned in confusion. “What does the King have to do with-”

There was a steady, but firm knock on the door. Jaime stood up from where he’d been crouching by Jon’s side and opened it warily. 

“Good evening, Ser Jaime. I bring the prince’s supper?” 

Jaime stared at the servant girl blankly for a moment, before nodding. “Right, of course. Come in. Drop it over there.” 

The girl curtseyed and walked in, setting a series of plates, a goblet and a flask of wine in perfect practice on the table. Once her tray was empty, she turned on her heel and nearly yelped in surprise when she caught Jon sitting in a dazed heap along the back wall.

“Your Grace! I-I didn’t see you there! I-“ 

“Out,” Jaime commanded sternly. 

Flustered, the servant curtseyed quickly and scurried out the room. 

Jon barely noticed her leave. He was staring at a fixed spot on the wooden floor, a thousand thoughts swirling around him. He was roused back to the present by a firm touch on his arm.

Jaime’s face was impassive. “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid. There’s…something you still need to know and I can’t be the one to tell you. You’ll learn soon enough and when that happens, we can talk more about this. Until then, just be sensible, won’t you?”

Something else? What more could there be? Jon’s world had been upended in a matter of seconds, and yet….and yet, finally settled in place after it had been turbulent for weeks. Or had it been years? He could no longer remember.

Soulmates.

What else could matter more than this? 

Jaime was still waiting for a response, so Jon simply nodded, unable to do anything more. Satisfied, the Kingsguard stood and left the room. And then Jon was alone with a storm in his head and calm in his heart. 

Mine. As I am hers.

Soulmates.

oOo

The first time he did lay her down, her eyes wast dark and desiring, and the dragon prince did whisper promises of sweet days to come. 

And such long days ‘t would beest. They ran into the night, across the seas, into the lands far east. They ran to the end of the worlds, ev'r in love, ev'r in glorious love.  But such soaring promise can only beest followed by the mightiest of falls.  
 
The prince hath felt himself diminish with each day that hath passed, incarcerating himself in the silence of her flesh. His thoughts wast not his own, his dreams wast not his own. At which hour he wast not with her, the prince couldst feel the apparition of her 'gainst his palms, slickly silken. 
 
Thither wast nay mercy, nay moment of peace. He couldst nay longer recall the faces of his family, of the life he hadst before. Thither wast only him and her.  Only this, a world of two. He did love her f'r ‘t and he loath'd her f'r ‘t.  
 
Eventually, the laughing girl would laugh nay more.  
 
But he couldst nay let her go, nay more than she couldst let go of him.  And so, day by day, they fad'd a little more, did love a little more, did hate a little more. 

oOo

Supper was a hasty affair; Arya had scarfed down her food without a word and declared she was heading to bed, the day having worn her out more than she’d expected. Cassandra’s book was hidden under her pillow, and Arya was anxious to finally read it.

Her father had cast her a long, pensive look, before nodding, an unreadable expression on his face.

With a quick peck on his cheek, she had run to her chamber, threw on her nightgown and buried into the sheets, book in hand. Beth had long been dismissed and she was left alone, undisturbed, for what felt like the first time in days. 

Her breaths were loud in her ears as she carefully turned the cover over. It wasn’t a very long book, but it wasn’t short enough to finish in one night. Impatiently, she combed through the old pages, hoping something would catch her eye. 

It was handwritten by someone clearly in a hurry to capture their ideas. Words crisscrossed like wild thorns, sloping across the pages at strange angles. Inkblots and other stains obscured the letters, and she was beginning to doubt the sanity of the author.

For that matter, she was beginning to doubt the sanity of the reader.

Jon’s presence was overwhelming and the link felt painfully bright, as if it had been set on fire. Arya pressed her hand against her forehead, desperate to stay focused.

Stop fighting. Give in. Find him. Findhimfindhimfindhim -

“Can you please shut up for a moment?” she finally snapped aloud to no one, frazzled. “Gods, I can barely think anymore without you yapping away.” 

For a heartbeat, she unironically thought it worked. The visions and voices fell quiet, and for the first time all day, Arya felt like she could breathe. Hovering at the edge of her consciousness, however, she saw the golden thread twine lazily, and it reminded her strikingly of a snake waiting to pounce. 

With a shake of her head, Arya flicked through the book again, wondering where she was supposed to start. Near the end, a blank piece of paper fell out from between the pages. Perhaps a marker from Prince Aegon, she thought. 

Curious at what he had been reading, she turned to where the paper had been. It was halfway through the last chapter of the book, and it seemed the prince had not finished it, yet. With piqued interest, she flipped to the start. There was no title, only the chapter number, as with all the rest of the stories.

In her shadowed room, the candle cast figures across the page. Under the soft pools of golden light, the old parchment almost glowed under her fingertips. Outside, the stars were wisps in a dark night, clouds hiding the moon away until the only light left was her lone candle. For a moment, she felt like the world had grown quiet, just for her. 

In the silence of the night, Arya began to read, ‘Once, at which hour the stars w're young, th're wast a man who hath fallen in love....’

Unaware of anything but the story that seemed to almost crawl upon the pages, Arya swallowed each word. Until, until, until -

‘And she told him of a legend, of soulmates, of fate. He wast hers, she said, as she wast his.’

Soulmates. 

Oh, Gods.

Arya read the words over and over desperately, half-wondering if it would change; that it was all a dream. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible. Could it?

Like a dam breaking, the thread twisted alive triumphantly, and she knew it was true. Of course, it was true. Like the final stroke of a brush, the masterpiece was complete and everything came crashing together at once. He belonged to her, as she belonged to him. Of course, of course, of course, it had felt so natural, being with him. It had to, for what was more natural than two halves of a soul coming together, at last? 

The book fell from her fingers, the rest of the story no longer important. What could matter more than this?

Soulmates.

If she closed her eyes, Jon was there, imprinted on her eyelids as he was imprinted on her soul. She was dragged forwards, as if her skeleton sought to explode from under her skin; fire burned around her, through her, begging her to let go - 

Yours and mine, yours and mine, yours and mine, they called. A hundred voices arising in one, like wolves howling to the moon. There were no thoughts, no sensations, save for the wildfire sparking beneath her skin, desire rampaging through her veins. 

Find him. Find him. Findhimfindhimfindhimfindhim -

Arya put her head in her hands, fingers scrubbing at her temples. Yearning pulled at her from everywhere, and her ears rang with gasps of pleasure in the haze of a shadowed room, of a face moulding under fingers and eyes, grey eyes, winter’s eyes, watching her, spinning with lov-
  
She had to tell him, he had to know the truth. He would know what to do. He always knew what to do. 

She had to talk to Jon. 

Footsteps dragged her from her reverie and she glanced at her door to see a shadow pass in the gap beneath. It paused, seemingly undecided, before Arya caught a quiet sigh that sounded so like her father. The shadow stepped away then, and her heart squeezed. She waited for a few beats, but he did not return. 

Throwing back the covers, Arya barely remembered to pull on her boots before she flung open her window and scrambled onto the sill. 

oOo

What becameth of the dragon prince and the laughing girl would beest lost to history. Some say that if thee went to the darkest, emptiest part of Asshai, past the bones of the dragons, past the rivers and the rocks, past the broken thrones of gods, thee shall findeth them both: together in damnation than alone in death, beyond all else, beyond immortality or power, just a man and a woman who loved and lost - and still did love, unwilling or unable to accept loss.

oOo

Jon was still sitting on the floor, his supper grown cold. It seemed impossible that just an hour earlier, he had been swinging a sword in the courtyard. The weariness was still there, but behind the fatigue, there was a restlessness that kept growing. That kept pushing. That kept whispering in his head, and it said one thing only: find her.

So he sat on the floor, the candle blown out, the darkness welcome against his tired eyelids. He was shirtless to cool down his flushed skin and the bandages on his shoulder felt itchy. The balcony windows were wide open, hoping to catch a breeze from the warm night. 

When a figure stepped into the room from outside, he felt a wash of relief that she had found him, at last. 

The nervous energy coming from her felt contagious; her breaths coming out faster than usual and his following suit.

“You know, don’t you?” she said finally, after a long pause. 

“So do you,” he replied quietly.

Arya inhaled shakily, and Jon felt goosebumps prickle his skin. He stood and slowly moved towards her. For one brilliant moment, they stared at one another, both overwhelmed by this new revelation, and the next - something changed. 

One of them, either of them, had stepped forward and she was so close, he could feel her warmth against him. Her lips quirked a little in a smile that both devastated and set his heart aflame. 

“I don’t want to fight it,” he said softly. “Not anymore.” 

“Then what do you want?” Arya asked, the words between them understated and hushed.

He breathed in and breathed out, felt his body moving in its inner, secret rhythms. Had he ever felt more alive, more afraid, more powerful? A thousand moments with Arya flashed with Jon’s mind - it felt like a lifetime, but no time had passed at all. How had that happened? Spinning together in a sun-drenched square. Her arms around him in a godswood made of dreams. The warm sound of her laughter in his ears. Her hand in his as they danced in a shadowed alley. Their kisses and the flashes of their memories and the emotions in-between. 

“Stay,” he said. “I want you to stay.” 

His mouth tingled faintly, as if feeling a phantom kiss, a promise of what came next. They were so close - so very close, in more than mere distance.

Her eyes gleamed as she leaned in. “Good,” she whispered and captured his lips with hers. 

Chapter Text

There would never be anything to compare with this moment - this one piece of beauty. Nothing to match the sweetness and tenderness in this kiss, the way their minds opened like lotus flowers, baring their hearts in all their glory. 

Their link sang, the thread unravelling from inside his chest, winding around them. He melted, tasting hints of sweet wine on her lips, on the tongue that swiped into his mouth. And it seemed so natural to tilt her head and deepen the kiss, his hands carding through her tangled hair. She sighed against him, her hands dragging along his naked torso. 

It was more than mere sensation, as if the empty corners of his very self could somehow be filled and fulfilled, as though molten silver were poured into his soul.

It felt like...

Belonging.

She is mine, as I am hers. As it was, as it would always be. 

Soulmates.

Arya broke away for air, his name a whisper. He kissed along her cheek and down her ear instead, desperate to keep his lips on her skin. Mindful of the bruises knitted across her neck, he tried to be gentle. His mouth pressed against the marks the Gold Cloak had left, kissing away the sorrow as she shivered at each wet taste. His hands moved over her body almost in awe while she stroked his sides.

Slow and sweet turned fast, frantic as she moved her hands into his hair, tugging at the strands with urgency. Jon tightened his grip around her waist in response, pulling her flush against him. The thread burned blindingly bright. He felt it sear through their barriers, blurring them together until Jon could not tell where he ended and Arya began. They were dragged under the haze, together. 

Together, and that was all that mattered. 

Humming, her hands wandered down his face and along his neck, her touch feather-light. Her fingers teased and trailed down all the way to his shoulders, feeling the muscles there. When he nipped her suddenly under the jaw with his teeth, a moan escaped her lips and she gripped his injured shoulder in reaction. Through the bandages, a pain shot through Jon and he flinched. 

“Sorry!” Arya gasped quietly, pulling her hands away. 

She nearly stepped out of his arms, but he tugged her back, unwilling to put too much distance between them. “It’s nothing,” he told her softly. The bond between them was so warm; comfortable and inviting. The pain had quickly receded, carried away by golden light. Jon was too lost in the moment to care. 

Perhaps this was madness, he wondered idly, reaching for another deep kiss, which she happily reciprocated. There was no doubt, only desire: burning, uncontrollable desire. It had his hands desperately run up her body, pushing her nightgown off her shoulders and into a puddle at their feet. It had her tug at the laces of his breeches, pulling at them fervently until they came loose and she could shove them off his hips. 

He ended the kiss to look at her properly; his eyes alight with wonder as he drank in the sight of her.

Madness, he thought, in a hazy warmth as his breaths hitched, but a madness worth every moment. 

Arya flushed under his dark gaze, reaching up to shield what she could with her hands, suddenly realising how exposed she had become. He heard her thoughts ring clearly in his head, as if she were yelling them aloud: whatamIdoinghewon’tlikewhatheseestooskinnysmallbreastsnotprettyenoughIwishIwishIwish-

Jon didn’t know how to tell her how beautiful she was, how she was his and Gods, how much he wanted her. How every smile, every whisper, brought him closer to the impossible conclusion that he had always known her, always loved her - perhaps in another time, a different place, some other existence. 

He was never a man of many words, so he didn’t know how to tell her all this. Instead, he promised, ‘I’ll show you.’ 

Grasping her hand, he stepped out of his breeches and pulled her gently towards his bed. They were clad in nothing but smallclothes now, and he saw Arya blush as her eyes raked over him in quiet admiration. 

He was stretched tight with yearning. Nights upon nights with little sleep and an entire day lost in daydreams of her had left him feeling raw and vulnerable. Her hand was warm in his and something else too, something beyond his senses. The moment their skin had touched, something stirred at the back of his head, golden and luminous. It encircled the dwindling protests of scandal and think about what you’re doing and wait wait wait, hastily silencing it. 

And so they didn’t wait. They didn’t want to wait. They didn’t hesitate when he pushed himself upright against the headboard, Arya lifting her leg over his and sitting down in his lap, straddling him. They didn’t shy away when his arms wrapped themselves around her waist. There was only pure, unadulterated want; the coming together of what had always belonged as one, at last. 

They sat in silence for a while, his nose nuzzling her jaw, her hand playing with his hair. The only thing they heard was each other, though no one was saying a word. Words, Jon thought, were too crude for this delicate, delicate moment. Instead, he held her as one would a flower, revelling in her beauty. 

Her fingers drew circles around the nape of his neck, and he lost himself in their patterns. Idly, he moved one warm palm over her breast and squeezed gently. Jon felt her react, almost as vividly as if they were a single body. She was burning with heat, every inch of her body alight with sensation, a furnace brewing in her belly. His breaths hitched as her need flooded over him. 

“Jon,” she said, her voice cracking. It was a request, a question, a pleading command.

“Yes,” he whispered. He kissed her shoulder, her jaw, and then her lips.

Their link bloomed in a burst of radiance as soon as he tasted her again. There it lingered, different this time. He could always sense her, gauge her moods and feelings, but now she was an illuminating presence at the forefront of his mind. She was moonlight on his skin. There was no need to learn or experiment; intuition guided his touch, her pleasure a mirror to his. It was as if they were remembering each other’s bodies, rather than experiencing them for the first time. 

He traced the contours of her face with reverence, his eyes trailing fire. His hands followed the shape of her jaw all the way to the soft swells of her breasts, drawing a small moan from her lips. He dropped to her thighs, feeling the smooth bare skin, the muscles flexing underneath. Visions washed in of what her naked legs would feel like around his waist, under his lips, and against the side of his face. An involuntary groan caught in his throat. 

He looked into her wide grey eyes, softer than stars, softer than mist.

“I think I love you,” he confessed in a whisper. “I can’t remember a time when I haven’t. I feel as though we were never strangers, you and I, not even for a moment.” Jon let out an incredulous laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Isn’t that strange? It’s as if we’ve wandered into a dream, and I can’t tell what’s real anymore.” 

For a beat, Arya stared at him in bewildered silence. Then she smiled the most exquisite smile, tinged with joy. “If it’s a dream, then it’s the best one I’ve ever had, and I don’t want us to wake up. It feels real enough.” She pressed her forehead against his, and when they kissed again, he tasted her laughter. “And I think I love you, too. Imagine that.” 

Jon grinned, his heart sweeter than a rose in bloom. “Imagine that.” 

With a daring look, Arya lifted one of his hands and pressed it against her chest. He watched her trail it down the middle, between her breasts, across her stomach, where she rose to her knees to slide her smallclothes down and off. He could hardly believe it to be real; Arya, naked in his bedchamber, draped across his lap and entirely his. 

She looked ethereal, Jon thought in awe. Pale as moonlight, with the night in her hair; and him, drunk with longing. Arya ran an index finger along the side of his face, down his throat, towards his stomach, and their eyes met for a stunning, stunning heartbeat before she pressed her lips to his, her hands splayed across his chest. Gods, he could kiss her forever. Lost in the fog; there was no time for thought. Their bond thrummed like fireworks, sparking at their fingertips, sending wave after wave of pure starlight through his veins. 

Arya ran her hands along his waist, nails carving lines into his skin, fingers slipping past the edge of his smallclothes. He followed her movements keenly as she slid the fabric down his hips, and he chased after her touch for the bare second that they separated.

When she returned to his lap, he captured her in another fierce kiss, touching her everywhere. There was nothing between them now: no fabric, no seconds, no distance, and the realisation made Jon even harder than he already was between her legs. 

He wanted to know her every aspect: he wanted to watch the rising sun slide across her skin, to see it flush when his hands slipped between her legs. He wanted to feel every curve of her waist, the softness of her breasts, the taste of all the places in-between. Kissing down her neck, he listened for her breath: it was slow and drawn out as his knuckles ran along her spine, growing desperate when he traced her thigh, and stopped dead for a heartbeat when he slipped a finger inside her. He explored her slowly with the lightest touch; her pleasure lit up like wildfire in his mind when their link guided him to the right spot. 

Her arousal flared across their connection and hung around them, tangible and heady. Jon watched her lashes, thick and dark, flutter shut as she lurched forward, seeking out his mouth with hers.

The kiss was somehow more intimate than his hand between her legs. She moaned against him, her mouth falling open as his hand worked tight circles between her thighs. Arya rocked forward, her hands sliding into Jon’s hair, grasping at it in fistfuls. Her breaths were fast and unsteady, and she pressed her body impossibly closer as the last bit of control left her. 

They kept nearly silent, except for whispers against each other’s lips, promises sighed into the yielding flesh of neck and cheek and ear. 

“Jon,” she begged, and it would be the only warning he got before she was shaking and folding over him, gasping as a wave of pleasure surged over her. He could both see and feel it travel through their link, crashing into him, a shudder running through his body. He groaned softly, his fingers stuttering against her flesh. 

Arya buried herself into the crook of his neck to catch her breath as Jon pressed kisses against her hairline, his hands smoothing down along her thighs. He loved her completely, then. He felt her, adored her, desired her, in his blood, in his bones. 

This moment here, with her cradled in his arms, naked and climbing down from ecstasy - it was bliss, and Jon wanted thousands more like it. He wanted to string them together, these snapshots of perfection, and wear them around his neck forever. 

As if hearing his thoughts, Arya lifted her head and smiled, before seeking out his mouth. She kissed him gently, and stroked a hand along his cheek. He reached for her, his fingers teasing her breasts, thumbing their peaks. She hummed appreciatively at the contact and slid her hand lower. The muscles of his stomach jumped as her fingers brushed against them, and when she finally wrapped them around his cock, the sensation of hot flesh in her hand sent a shudder through them both. 

Jon breathed hard through his nose as she stroked him, his own hand guiding her. She twisted her hand instinctively and he gasped. He gave her a meaningful look. “You’re going to kill me, you know that?” he murmured with a deep swallow.

Arya flashed him a grin and - always one to rush ahead - moved from his lap and sat on him, the heat of her trapping his erection against his own stomach. Jon’s eyes slammed shut at the contact. She rocked experimentally against him for a moment, just enjoying the slide of flesh on flesh. His hands came up to still her, gripping her hips.

“Arya.” 

She frowned in frustration but slowed to a stop. “Show me what you want to do then,” she huffed. Her tone was so chiding, so at odds with the intimacy of the scene that Jon let out a low chuckle, despite himself. 

“So impatient,” he smiled, lifting her off of him enough to grasp his cock. 

Arya opened her mouth to argue, but could only manage a broken, “Oh,” as Jon positioned and slowly sank her down around him. 

“Gods,” she swore under her breath as Jon filled her. The sweet feeling of her wrapped around him like a hot glove sent a stab of pleasure straight up from his core to the tips of his fingers. The thread twirled around them, through them, lacing itself in their bones, bright and beautiful. It carried away her discomfort, soothing the aches until all that was left was desire. 

After a moment to adjust, Arya leaned back slightly, bracing her arms against his legs, and began to rock her hips. 

Jon’s mouth fell open, his face awash with emotion as he watched her move. His hips began to snap up to meet hers, the fire building low in his stomach, faster than it was in hers. He tried to recall one of Aegon’s several bawdy pieces of advice on pleasuring a woman that he’d always dropped unprompted, much to Jon’s chagrin. 

For the first time, however, Jon felt nothing but relief that he’d occasionally listened. Tentatively, he dropped a hand between her legs to rub where she was still swollen from his fingers. 

“Jon, Jon, Jon,” Arya’s voice was raw and his name on her tongue had never sounded so beautiful. He could no longer tell where his body ended and hers began. He could not say which one of the two beating hearts was his own. Beneath her star-cold eyes, everything else fell into shadow until his senses extended no further than her. 

She had awoken a thirst in him he hadn't known existed, and he wanted to slake himself on her like this each night, learning, remembering, experimenting. There was a delicious thrill to the sound of her sighs, muffled against his neck, to the taut lines of her body, to the dull heat that rose over her cheeks. 

And as their motions became erratic and desperate, Jon didn’t know whose pleasure burst like stars behind his eyes: his, hers, or theirs. 

oOo

Jon woke wrapped tightly around a warm, soft body. The sky outside had stayed unchanged, still a velvety black, the moon hidden behind clouds. Arya’s breaths stirred as her head lay on his chest, her expression content. His arm was wrapped around her waist, his hand playing with her long hair and getting caught in the tangles. The casual intimacy of it all thrilled him, the easy touches that were beginning to feel like a habit. 

He watched her sleeping face in the low light, his eyes tracing every feature. He wondered if he'd been in love with her since their first kiss in some forgotten alleyway, or since that first, blazing touch in a tunnel underground, or sometime long ago, when they were barely a thought in the universe. 

Jon had always known love, for as long as he could remember. He had always known what it meant to be loved. Though it had only ever been the comfortable love of family, it was a love all the same.

But not like this. 

Not like being wrapped inside another, inside her eyes, inside her voice, inside the way she laughed. He loved her like he could never grab enough of her between his fingers. And no matter how close they were, even in the warm afterglow of sex, it still didn’t feel close enough. He felt like he was on fire, their connection burning in their souls. 

And she loved him. Gods, did she love him. He had felt the wash of her emotions, the striking hammer of her adoration beating into his chest over and over. It had stolen his breath away, to be so desired, to be wanted so entirely by another, willingly and without limit. 

No, he had never known love like this. 

Arya cracked an eye open and he was lost in grey, “You’re thinking very loudly, you know,” she grumbled. “Go back to sleep, Jon.” With a sigh, she shifted, drawing him closer. 

But he couldn’t sleep, not now, not when his mind was racing at a thousand leagues a second. He watched her for a beat and thought, deliriously, that she looked like the rest of his life. She looked like soft waking mornings, like kisses goodnight, like hands entwined in the dark. If he looked beyond, Jon could almost see children with eyes like his own sprinting through the hallways, their laughter ringing around the castle. 

He saw quiet evenings by the fire, Arya curled by his side, watching her read some fantastical story of dragons and maidens wielding swords of fire. He saw himself teach her how to fight with steel, of chasing her through the streets, of sailing the world together. He saw her sitting next to him at council meetings, at tourneys, in places unknown, a crown in her hair and a son - his son - in her arms and Jon felt such fierce longing, fiercer than he had ever known, nearly break his heart. 

This could be mine, he dreamed. All of it. And why not? She was his fate, sealed in stone and written by the Gods. He was expected to marry and she was the daughter of the great Lord Eddard Stark. Why would the King refuse? Jon wouldn’t have to choose between duty and love - he could have both, with her.

And she wouldn’t have to suffer the barbs or the gossip anymore. She could wear whatever she wanted, do whatever she liked, and he wouldn’t let anyone say a word otherwise. He could kiss her, wherever, and no one could do a damn thing about it. 

The Red Keep had never felt like home - but maybe it could, with her. Maybe everything would be as it should, and Jon would finally find his place. They both would, together. Maybe this was what they had been waiting for, all this time. 

“Arya?”

She hummed, barely conscious. This could have waited until the morning, but Jon was thrumming with enough energy to tear the skies apart. 

“Marry me.” 

Her eyes snapped open, suddenly wide awake. “What did you say?” she whispered. Her voice held a snap; and Jon knew that whatever he said next could shatter her in a thousand brutal pieces or remake her completely. 

So he raised himself on his good shoulder to lean over her closely, so close that he could count every speckle in her eyes if he wanted, and hoped she could feel his raging heartbeat. For a wild second, he wished for his brother’s talent with poetry, to wax romance so easily, to turn every moment into a song. 

Then again, Arya had never cared for such trivialities, only for what lay raw and honest beneath. And he loved that about her, because Gods knew, Jon never had the patience for it, either.

Instead, he ungracefully gushed, the words pouring from his mouth unfiltered like wine, “I want you to marry me, Arya. Maybe tomorrow or - or after the tourney or something. We could do it in the Sept of Baelor or I could follow you to Winterfell and we could wed in your way, under the heart tree, if you wanted - or we could do both. I’d marry you twice if that’s what it took. I’ll speak to Lord Stark and my father tomorrow, or I’ll wake them both right now, if I have to. We could live in Winterfell, or…or here, if that made you happy, too. There’s always Dragonstone as well, and Aegon and Rhaenys will be there, so maybe we could spend a few months with them every year and a few with your family and-”

A finger on his lips silenced his ramble, and he was grateful for it. Arya was staring at him with wonder, her eyes silver gleams in the moonlight. The whole world held its breath as he waited for her to speak. A quiet doubt began to seep in, and he wondered if he had moved too quickly, said too much, misread everything. Maybe she didn’t want to marry at all, maybe he had terrified her, maybe maybe maybe -

“Yes.” 

His heart stopped. He gazed at her in disbelief.

“Yes,” she said, stroking his cheek. “Yes,” she said again, her hands trailing down his face and along his collarbone. “Yes,” she whispered, meeting his lips in a kiss, and Jon wondered if he had melted into starlight. 

With one quick move, he shifted himself on top of her. The kisses grew desperate, the touches more heated as she wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him against her. She reached a hand between them to guide him into her, when he pulled away suddenly. 

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her breath coming in pants.

Like a touchable dream, he looked at her spread across his pillows, lips swollen from his kisses and her eyes filled with desire. A wild feeling of possession seized his heart. She was going to be his wife. His wife. Married, they would be married, their entire lives before them, together together together.

Soulmates. Gods, was there a sweeter word?  

But there was time to celebrate that later. Tonight, right now, he wanted to draw out as much pleasure as he could from her, to see her head thrown back in ecstasy wrung only by him, and him alone. 

Mine, she is mine. 

Jon took her legs in his hands, spreading her thighs wide with a firm, inexorable grip. Dizzy with the need to taste her, he placed a kiss on her stomach, and another in the hollow of her hip. Slowly, he moved down her body, teasing and licking every inch of her skin, memorising which spots made her laugh or sigh or jerk against him. He kept his kisses light, as soft and warm as a summer breeze. She reached down to entwine their hands, clinging onto him desperately as she stared at him with wide-eyes. 

“Are you alright?” he asked, suddenly worried if this was too much.

“Don’t stop,” she muttered, leaning her head back against the mattress and closing her eyes. 

With a grin, he held her legs open and bent his head between them. At the first swipe of his tongue across her sensitive flesh, she gave a yelp which she muted by throwing her own wrist over her mouth. Jon threw a frantic look at the door and let out a sigh of relief when Jaime didn’t come barging through. 

“You have to be quiet,” he grinned as he turned back.

Arya cast him a wicked look. “I will, if you promise to do that again.” 

Encouraged, he went on, tasting her with a fervent eagerness while she writhed and groaned until he felt her ready to spring. He pulled his mouth away before she came and laughed when she threw him a frustrated glare. 

“Always in a rush,” he teased, stroking her thigh with a finger. 

She huffed at him. “Do I look like I want to be patient?” 

Her cheeks were flushed and her hair was in sheer chaos around her, more tangled than he had ever seen it. There was a wet sheen across her breasts and her stomach, where he had spent an age lavishing her with his tongue, and the erotic sight made him nearly feral. 

His breaths came in faster suddenly, and he dipped back between her legs to run his tongue over her clit, savouring the taste. A shock trembled her body; her back arching, her head turning side to side, and the noise leaving her lips was almost, but not quite, a sob.

So he did it again, and again, licking and kissing her until he had her gasping and twitching. He lost himself in her sensations, in the inferno that blazed beneath their skins. Jon felt like he knew her body as well as he knew himself, and yet, when she came, he was nearly overwhelmed by the surge of her feelings. He entwined their fingers together as she writhed under his lips. Gently, he whispered sweet nothings against her skin, relishing the smell of her arousal as her orgasm crashed into them. 

Arya was past words, tugging him towards her. Smiling, he kissed his way back up hurriedly, his own patience now thrown out the window. She tried reaching for his cock, but he was faster, lining up the head against her, groaning as he pushed in. He had wanted to take it slow, to relish the moment, but she felt so good and all thought vanished as he thrust into her, deeply and wildly without abandon. 

Pleasure spiked through him and into her, and out of her again as their nerves exploded with delight, filling them with light as he filled her, spilling into her while he mouthed her name against her cheek and she muffled the scream of his into his neck. 

The golden thread that bound them together, that had changed their worlds so spectacularly, spun into a single, brilliant fabric. It bathed them in sunlight, wrapping them so tightly in warmth that barely a breath lay between them - and it felt complete. 

Chapter Text

The sky was the deep indigo of midnight, threaded through with stars like silver embroidery. There was a warmth in the air and the sweet smell of summer.

It found Eddard Stark at the castle godswood, an acre of elm and alder and black cottonwood overlooking the river. The heart tree was a great oak, its ancient limbs overgrown with smokeberry vines. He was knelt before it in prayer, as if it was a weirwood; only, Ned could not feel his Gods here. The absence made him feel even lonelier and more desperate for home. He wondered if his prayers would still be heard, from so far away. He hoped so, if only to grant him some semblance of peace, however brief. 

“You are cruel to mock me,” he whispered into silent air. “But I beg you all the same.” 

Dragon’s breath grew beneath the oak, its red petals glittering like blood in the white moonlight. He was struck with a memory then: of flowers clutched in Lyanna’s pale hands, blackening in decay. The air had been filled with a sickening sweetness, and his little sister was spread on a bed made of silks, dressed in white. She had seemed so at peace, so young and untouched.

(A lie, if there had ever been one: Lyanna had died alone and covered in blood, in a tower a thousand leagues away from home, weeping for a brother that never came.) 

Ned closed his eyes and breathed through the avalanche of grief. In twenty years, the thoughts of all those he had lost - his father, his brother, his sister, his mentor, his best friend - were always, forever present. Sometimes, it was faint and small, like a whisper in the dark. Other days, it was unbearable, like a knife screeching against glass.

The war had ended - yet, in many ways, it had gone on. An ache in the bones, an ache in the gut, an ache in the heart. 

Caught in a trap and surrounded by memory, he relived those dark, dark days over and over. 

oOo

A crossbow had pierced Robert’s neck, shot from behind at a chink in his armour, just as he was to deliver the killing blow to Rhaegar. Like a house of cards, the rebellion had swiftly crumbled after, and it was no longer distance that stood between Ned and that damned tower, but the entire force of the Targaryen army. 

He had failed and Lyanna had been lost forever.

They had brought him to the Red Keep in chains. For a week, Ned had wasted away in the black cells, waiting for his fate. Jon Arryn was gone. Hoster Tully was gone. Robert…Gods, Robert, who had stood so tall and seemed so infallible, as if death itself would not dare tear him down, had been slain. Ned had been the last one left, the only one to survive. 

What a burden that had been.

On the seventh day, two members of the Kingsguard dragged him upstairs, still in shackles. They took him to a large, luxurious chamber in the Holdfast, the hallways eerily empty. And there - there she was. His little sister, spread serenely on the bed as if she were asleep, surrounded by dried petals. 

Ned could not recall much from then on. The pain had been overwhelming, and he would later learn that the Kingsguard had needed to pry him away from Lyanna’s body when he refused to leave. 

There were snapshots; brief glimpses of memory that came in flashes, as if the whole was too much to bear.

Rhaegar, standing vigil by her side, refusing to grant Ned a moment’s peace to mourn alone. 

The distant cries of a babe, somewhere in the castle. 

Lyanna’s cold, cold hands, gripped tightly in Ned’s own. He felt the dead flowers in her palm - she had always been so fond of flowers - and wept. 

“She will be buried on a hill outside the city,” Rhaegar had commanded, looming over them. “I have already sent word for her…for her grave to be prepared. I thought you may like to see her before-”

“No.” There had been such strength, such coldness in Ned, as if the Warden of the North had found his voice. “Not here. Not where our father and brother were murdered. She wouldn’t have wanted this. Let me take her home. Let me take her back to Winterfell.”

“She belongs with me. You will not take her from me!” A touch of madness in Rhaegar revealed itself. “She does not deserve your crypts, where she will never feel the sun or the wind again, where she will be alone and abandoned - I won’t allow it!”

Did she feel the sun or the wind in the tower you locked her in? Ned thought bitterly. Had she not been alone and abandoned when she died? Where were you, when she needed you? Where was I? 

“She is my sister and a Stark of Winterfell,” he had said instead, struggling to keep his anger in check. “She belongs with her family, not in some foreign land she had never seen. Please - let her go home. If…if you will not allow me to leave, at least allow my brother to take her back - as well as what remains of my father and Brandon.” His voice cracked in its desperation. “You have won, you have won, what more could you possibly want?” 

Rhaegar’s face twisted viciously then, a shadow of the handsome dragon prince. “Lyanna is gone, and you call this victory?”

“The realm is yours.”

“The realm can burn for all I care, Stark.” 

Days would pass in the black cells, alone and forgotten. There, with only the stones and the rats to bear witness, Ned had prayed. And prayed and prayed and grieved and raged and fallen apart, spinning in a cycle until he lost all sense of time. 

Eventually, Jon Connington would come to see him, his lantern burning Ned’s eyes after so long in the darkness. The symbol of the King’s Hand had been pinned to his tunic, his face as somber as the grave. 

“I’ll be the first to offer my congratulations, Lord Stark,” he announced in a dry voice. “The King has decided to forgive your crimes against the crown. Too much blood has been shed in this war, and His Grace now desires peace. You’ll return to the North in the morning and resume your duty as Warden of the North. Defy the crown again, and you’ll find no mercy. Is that understood?” 

Ned snorted. “I do not believe the Mad King to be capable of mercy. Is this some sort of trick?” 

A smirk played on the other man’s lips. “It seems the war was too much for Aerys’ heart. He passed many days ago, in his sleep. Rhaegar is the King now.” 

There was much left unsaid, but Ned could not deny feeling a semblance of satisfaction and little desire to pry. He had not cared much for his own life, but the relief that Benjen and Catelyn would be safe from punishment had struck him hard. 

“You will swear fealty to your new King and renounce all loyalty to the traitor, Robert Baratheon.” 

Ned bit his tongue to hold back a scowl. 

“You have been granted permission to take the remains of your father, brother and sister back to Winterfell.” 

That had taken Ned by surprise. “What made Rhaegar change his mind?” 

“You will address your liege with his proper title, Stark,” Connington snapped. “And you need not know the circumstances. Take it as a token of good faith. The war is over and it’s time we moved on.” Something unreadable passed over his face then, quick as a shadow. With a nod, he turned to leave. 

“What of the child?” Ned called out. He knew there had been a babe, had heard it from the whispers of the soldiers and guards as he was brought to King’s Landing. 

Connington froze, and looked back with a suspicious glint in his eyes. “What about him?” 

Him? So it was a boy. A son, a son, Lyanna had a son. It was all that was left of her now, and Ned had felt such longing. He wondered if he looked like her. He hoped so. “I could take him with me,” he offered, nearly pleading, “to Winterfell-”

“The boy stays here with his father. This is not negotiable.” 

“The boy is a bastard,” he argued. “What sort of life will he have here? There is no place for him at your courts. He would be happier in the North, close to his mother. This child is my blood too, and I’ll raise him as such. Please, let me take him-”

“He has been legitimised by the King, Lord Stark. The boy is a Targaryen and this is his home. He is now a prince of the Seven Kingdoms. What more could a child want?” There was finality in Connington’s voice, and Ned knew he would never win. 

The Hand had turned away once more, when Ned called out again. He could not help himself: this was Lyanna’s child, the very last memory of her left in this world. Ned felt obliged - out of duty, out of love, out of grief - to ask. “Will you swear that he’ll be safe? That you’ll do right by him?” 

Connington had sighed, and after what felt like an age, nodded. “I give you my word. The King would never allow any harm to befall him.” 

It was all he had to go on, so he let himself believe it to be true. Softly, he asked, “Has he been given a name?” 

It was the first smile Ned had ever seen on the griffin’s face. “He has. His name is Jon.” 

oOo

Jon. 

In the present, Ned sighed. 

I had hoped you were your mother’s son, he thought morosely. I had hoped I could tell you about her, if you’d only asked. 

Ned recalled the opening feast, and the moment he had seen him, sitting on the high table with the rest of the royal family. Gods, how struck he had been by the resemblance - Jon Targaryen had more of the North in him than Ned’s own sons, the spitting image of a Stark. There was Lyanna in his eyes, in his expressions. He thought he might have heard a little of her laugh in his, too. 

The rest, as it would turn out, was all Rhaegar. Ned sighed and bowed his head. 

Twenty years had passed, and yet, here he was again. On his knees, as he had been in the black cells during those first excruciating days, praying fervently for a girl caught in a dragon prince’s snare. 

Twenty years had passed, and yet, it felt like no time had passed at all. The wound had been reopened, and it was if it had never healed. 

“Gods of my father, protect my little girl,” Ned prayed quietly. “I can’t - I can’t do this again,” his voice weakened and he closed his eyes. “I can’t lose another to this cursed place. She doesn’t belong here. It would…it would destroy her, as it has destroyed so many, and I-I don’t know what to do.” 

Ned knew he needed to speak to Arya, and he had tried - had stood on the threshold of her door only hours earlier - when his fear had taken hold. What if he pushed her away? What if it was already too late? What if she was already lost to him? He still did not know the truth behind the change in Lyanna, in the year between the tourney at Harrenhal and when she had disappeared. One moment, she had been his happy sister, full of life and youth and potential - and the next, a shade of herself, beyond Ned’s reach. He couldn’t remember when he had last seen her smile. 

The change had already started in Arya. She was quieter now, detached where she had once been a wildfire of a presence. Not to mention the lying - Arya had never lied to him before, and now, it felt she had done nothing but lie since they’d arrived in this damned city. 

He missed his wife fiercely now. Catelyn would know what to do, though she had been the one to insist he attend the tourney to begin with. “They will consider your absence an insult. This isn’t about the King, Ned, but his children. For the safety of our family, for our security, we must show fealty,” she had said. They could never imagine, not in a thousand nightmares, what would come of it. 

And in showing fealty, Ned thought bitterly, I have condemned my daughter. Just as Lyanna had been condemned once, too. 

The sound of branches crunching under a foot caught his attention, and he looked over his shoulder for the source.

He blinked in surprise. Illuminated by soft moonlight and wrapped in a simple dark cloak, stood the Queen. 

“Your Grace,” he greeted gruffly, the shock wearing off. Ned stood and bowed respectfully, straightening when Elia waved a hand. 

“I hope I haven’t disturbed your prayer, my lord,” she said, apologetic. “I am not used to seeing anyone here.”

“You visit the godswood?” Ned asked, curious. 

Elia smiled. “Not to pray, no. I simply enjoy the solitude.” 

“Allow me to leave you to it, then. I was just about to head back to the castle. Good evening, Your Grace.” 

He was near the gates when Elia called out softly behind him. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind company, if you’d like to offer it.” 

Ned looked back and appraised her. He made no step towards her, nor to the gate. “It’s nearly midnight, Your Grace,” he told her, breaking the awkward silence. “An unusual hour for a stroll.” 

She met his eyes with a bold stare of her own. “I can think of no better time, when no one is watching.” 

“All the more reason for me to refuse. A conversation that cannot be made in the daylight is not one I am keen to participate in, Your Grace.” 

Elia quirked a brow and stepped forward, drawing her cloak tighter around her shoulders. “My guards are not here. Your Queen is in need of an escort - for safety, of course - as she takes a walk,” she pointed out. “And you, my lord, have your sword. You wouldn’t leave a woman defenceless in the middle of the night, surely?” 

Ned’s eyes narrowed in suspicion as Elia’s widened in false innocence. King’s Landing was full of serpents with tongues that spun lies as quickly as yarn, and he trusted none of them.

“What do you want from me, Your Grace?” he asked bluntly. “I am in no mood to play games tonight.” 

It was the Queen’s turn to be surprised. Surrounded by masks and jesters, she was unused to such honesty. He thought she might be offended by his harshness, but she simply quirked a brow and slipped her hand around his arm, pulling him into a walk. 

“Perhaps I have longed to make your acquaintance, and I have finally found my opportunity. Is that so difficult to believe?” 

Ned fell into step beside her, stiffly. “Very much so.”

Elia’s dark lips spread in a grin. “My brother, Oberyn, would often tell me Northerners were as hard and cold as winter, and no less forgiving. I confess, I was always curious to see if he was right. How fortunate it is, then, to have run into you this evening. It seems you and I were long overdue a meeting, my lord.” 

“How do you mean?” 

Her smile faded a little. “To have lived through histories such as ours, so entwined, yet having never spoken a word to one another - it’s strange, isn’t it? It’s as if we are two ships passing by in the night, battling the same storm, yet never colliding.” 

Ned kept his expression carefully blank. “And in two different directions,” he said quietly. She threw him a curious glance as he did. 

They strolled towards the edge of the godswood, where they stopped to look over the river. Under the midnight sky, the water was a pool of black ink, its depths unfathomable. The stars were blotted out, lost amidst the clouds. 

Melancholic, Elia let out a deep sigh. She was silent for so long, Ned wondered if she had forgotten he was there. Then, suddenly, in a hushed voice, she whispered, “I wanted to hate her, you know. I think I did for a while, in the beginning. I wanted to blame her for everything: for my shame, my sorrow, the war that nearly tore the realm apart. It was easier than admitting the truth.” 

“And what truth is that?” 

Something akin to wistfulness passed over her face then, something terribly sad and full of longing, before it disappeared in a blink. In its place was her usual analytical look, her eyes roving over him from head to foot. She then lay a hand on his arm and stepped closer, in a display of familiarity that Ned found uncomfortable. “I was never able to pass on my condolences before, so allow me to do so now. I will not pretend that I am sorry you lost your war, but your father and brother did not deserve their fates, nor your sister.” 

Ned’s jaw tightened. He felt so old, so awfully old and worn, and so young all at once, as if he were still that boy of two-and-twenty whose world had fallen apart. He moved away from her then, her hand slipping from his arm, but kept his cold eyes on her. “I told you I had no desire for games, Your Grace. Condolences can be given in the morning, as well as by raven, if one is sincere enough to do so.” 

He had crossed the line, surely, the fatigue and homesickness loosening his tongue. Ned could almost feel Catelyn’s disapproving glare from across the continent.

But the Queen, he was beginning to realise, was far from predictable. 

She suddenly laughed, a clear sound that rang into the night. Ned stared at her, bemused, as she shook her head in amusement. “You and Jon are so alike: so mistrustful of one’s sincerity, such little patience for idle conversation - and honest. Jon can be so honest with his words, like yourself, and honest with his heart. Sometimes, a little too much.” Her smile was fond, and a little sad. “He’s always been different.”

The mention of Jon had Ned scowling. “But no less his father’s son,” he grit out. 

There was a marked change in the air, the space between Warden and Queen suddenly charged. “Lord Stark,” Elia said, her voice quieter, “I did not take you for a man who listened to gossip-”

“Gossip? I am no fool, Your Grace,” Ned challenged. “I have seen the boy watching my daughter. There is nothing innocent nor proper in the way he does so. And then last night-”

Elia waved a nonchalant hand. “A misunderstanding, is all. It may appear otherwise, but I know Jon well, my lord. I’ve raised him, practically as my own, in all these years. He’s not the sort of man to visit brothels, let alone disgrace a lord’s daughter. I simply do not believe-”

“Do you think it matters what you do or do not believe, Your Grace?” Ned interrupted, stepping forward in anger. “Do you think it matters what I believe about Lyanna? Does it spare her from the realm when they blame her for the war?” 

“Jon is not his father,” the Queen replied patiently, “and these rumours will pass, Lord Stark. They only need to be doused once, and I assure you, they will be. Your daughter’s reputation will not be harmed.” 

Ned narrowed his eyes. “You ask for a betrothal, then?” The thought set his heart at war. A betrothal would save Arya’s name and ensure the prince did right by her, if what Ned feared was true. 

But he could not bear to leave her - his little girl, fierce and wild and wilful - at the mercy of dragons. King’s Landing would force her to play a charade she was ill-suited for, surrounded by false tongues and painted smiles, waiting to watch her break. Ned could hardly stomach it himself and Arya - Gods, Arya would be swallowed whole.

What sort of father would lead his daughter to her own destruction? 

What sort of father would deny her what she desired most? If this was what she wanted? 

The Queen sighed and rubbed a tired hand against her temple, closing her eyes, and Ned felt her weariness in his own bones. When she opened them after a beat, she gave him a sad smile. “We’re not so different, you and I. Our grief is personal, but our tragedy is the same, and we are condemned to relive it, time and again.” She folded her hands delicately, one over the other, and stared out at the water. “I won’t have Lyanna’s ghost wander these halls, Lord Stark. Neither will the King. You should never have brought her here.” 

Ned stiffened, the words stinging. “Arya may look like Lyanna, but she is no ghost,” he defended. “She is more than her beauty, as Lyanna was, and Arya is…she has always been different.” His voice softened in the end.

“All the more reason for her not to stay,” Elia said, raising her brows. “King’s Landing is unforgiving. From what I’ve learned of Lady Arya, this is no place for someone like her.” She gave an unladylike snort. “It’s no place for anyone, in truth, yet we endure because we must. I am not seeking a betrothal for your daughter, Lord Stark. As it so happens, Jon’s is already arranged.” 

That took Ned by surprise. “To who?” 

“Lady Myrcella Baratheon.” 

“Does Jon know?” Ned asked, feeling another stirring of fury. “Has he been chasing my daughter, knowing he is to wed another?”

“No,” Elia said quickly. “There hasn’t been…an opportunity to tell him, yet. We will do so in the morning.” She reached out to lay a hand on his arm again, before thinking twice and letting it fall. “Jon has always done his duty,” she told him gently. “He’s a good man with a good heart. I have no doubt of it.” There was hesitation in her eyes and it cast shadows, filling Ned with doubt. 

“A bold move to betroth him to Stannis’ daughter, Your Grace,” he warned. “The King plays a dangerous game by doing so. It wouldn’t be the first time.” He looked at the open blackness and sighed. “I hope you’re right about Jon. There is no room for him to misstep. Lady Myrcella is a Lannister as well as a Baratheon. An insult to her will carry consequences for all.” An insult to me will not be unnoticed either, went unsaid, but he thought the Queen heard the words anyway. 

“I know,” Elia replied curtly. “I am well aware of the precarious situation, Lord Stark. When Robert Baratheon rose in rebellion, half the realm rose with him. They have never forgiven Rhaegar for his victory on the Trident. I imagine you haven’t, either.” 

“It was not Rhaegar that slew Robert,” Ned argued, against his better judgement. “It was not an honourable victory.” 

The Queen made an irritated sound. “What do they care of honour?” she challenged. “Men like you are a dying breed, Lord Stark. If Rhaegar had perished at the Trident, do you think they would have cared about honour? Of course not. Robert’s armies would have sacked King’s Landing and the Red Keep next.” 

Ned stared at her in shock. “No. No, he wouldn’t have. Robert would have never allowed innocent blood to spill.”

Elia’s expression was filled with disbelief then, but she chose not to argue. “It doesn’t matter now,” she said quietly. “What’s happened has happened, and we must pick up the pieces of what remains.” 

They stood in what almost felt like companionable silence, watching the moonlight weave through the clouds. In the hush of midnight, only the rustle of the trees could be heard, the whispered voices of the Gods. 

Elia glanced at him, her face now softened. “I suppose there’s something to be grateful for, out of all this…this tragedy.” 

“And what would that be, Your Grace?”

Her lips quirked in a near-smile. “He idolises you. Jon, I mean. When he was a boy of hardly ten, he wouldn’t stop pestering everyone for a story about you.” 

A small bloom of fondness grew in Ned’s chest, despite everything. “Nothing terrible, I hope.” 

Elia laughed. “Much to Rhaegar’s irritation and Jon’s delight, not a single word. He has always wanted to see Winterfell. I hope he can, some day.” 

Ned’s smile faded. “If that were true, he would have sought me out. I’ll be leaving shortly, and I’ve barely spoken to the boy. He does not seem keen to know me.” 

“Young men often believe they have all the time in the world,” Elia sighed. “And this tourney has been…eventful for Jon. Don’t hold it against him. I hope you’ll have a chance to meet him properly before you leave, my lord.” She ran her hands over her skirts and fixed her cloak more securely around her shoulders. “This has been an enlightening conversation, but I should head back to the castle. Our ships have finally collided, it seems.” She offered him a smile. 

“Let us hope the storm does not drown us both,” Ned dead-panned, and she laughed. 

As she walked away, a thought struck Ned and he called out quietly behind her, “What was the truth, Your Grace? You never did say.” 

Elia stopped and looked over in surprise. “I’m not sure I follow.” 

“You said you wanted to blame Lyanna once, because it was easier than admitting the truth,” Ned reminded her. “What truth was that? I’d very much like to know.” 

The Queen’s eyes were dark and unfathomable. Her voice, when she spoke, was laden with melancholy. “That some in this world are made to be loved. Such was Lyanna’s glory, and such was her tragedy.” 

Ned felt his eyes itch. “And you?” he asked softly. “What are you made for, Your Grace?” 

Her smile was crooked. “Infinite sadness,” she said. 

She left him in the shadows of the godswood then, unable to forget those words. They had the awful ring of prophecy, though Ned could not fathom why. 

Chapter Text

Arya awoke to dawn filling the room and the feel of a hand in the dip of her side. As her consciousness slid from pleasant dreams to reality, she found a mind knotted about her like a lazy cat, the body it belonged to intertwined with hers. 

Jon was a warm weight along her front, legs tangled up with hers and her head tucked under his chin. The gentle tug on her hair was his hand buried in her locks, his arm beneath her neck; the other rested on her naked waist, holding her so they were pressed heartbeat to heartbeat. A subtle musky scent clung to him, and his pulse was a slow, comforting drumbeat.

Arya nuzzled into the hollow of his throat, moving closer to block out the daylight. She didn't see his eyelashes flutter and half-lift, and she didn't see the way the flushing grey eyes dropped to her wild hair soft and tamed by sleep. Nor did she see the faint smile cross his mouth.

But she did feel the way his mind sharpened and slid from a formless wash of white into crystal-sharpness.

“Morning,” she muttered, not bothering to move.

“Hardly,” was the sleepy reply. The hand that had been resting on her side closed into a fist as he drew his knuckles over her spine. “It’s still too early.” 

Arya hummed in agreement, eyes still closed. “I should head back to my room,” she sighed, “before someone notices.” 

Jon pulled her closer, wrapping both his arms across her back. “Not yet,” he whispered in her ear. “Just a little longer.”

She lifted her head from his neck to look up at him, and felt her heart bloom. His eyes were the grey of smoke and steel and the stormy skies above Winterfell. Arya raised a hand and traced his features, learning and memorising the feel of him under her fingers. She touched his forehead, the arch of his brows, the straight bridge of his nose. She touched his cheekbones, his lower lip, the soft stubble of his chin. His breath was warm against her touch and when she brushed his mouth, he kissed her fingertips. 

Laughing, she pressed her lips on his. Jon moaned and leaned over her, the kiss growing more urgent, more needy. His hand swept down her body, reaching between her legs-

She broke the kiss to reluctantly grab his wrist. “Don’t tempt me,” Arya warned, “or I’ll tell Margaery Tyrell to sod off with her stupid breakfast and stay here all day.” 

“All the more reason then,” Jon said with a wink, but he moved his hand away nevertheless. It took everything in Arya not to pull him back. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her again and pressed her against him. “Is there a reason you’re visiting that snake pit? If you need a rescue, just say the word. I’ll tell Margaery you fainted from heatstroke or something.” He poked her side and she giggled. “The sun was just too much for this delicate Northerner,” Jon teased. 

Arya poked him back. “Get enough ale in a Northerner and we’ll be ready to fight the sun with our bare hands. I’m not sure that excuse will work,” she laughed. “Anyway, it’s a celebratory breakfast. Sansa just had a son with Margaery’s brother, Willas, so we share kin. Father wouldn’t want me to miss it.” Her lips tugged into a half-smile. “Sansa always wanted children. I’m happy for her, truly. Maybe she’ll stop trying to mother the rest of us now,” she jested. 

She looked up at him with a grin, but it faded when she saw his long face. 

Jon’s expression had shifted ever so slightly, imperceptible to anyone who wasn’t so intimately aware of it. He gazed at Arya with such intensity, it set her aflame. Gods, it was real, wasn’t it? Under the moonlight, it all felt like half a dream, but now, it came rushing back. He had asked her to marry him, and she had said yes. The realisation stole her breath away. 

Love. He said he loved her. 

How simple a word was, how it held such power, such promise of change. The world was the same and yet, nothing would ever be as it was again. Everything was woven, mixed up and tangled inside her. Nothing she had ever felt, nothing she had dreamed or imagined in her most lonely nights could match this, would ever match this. 

He loved her and he had asked her to marry him and she had said yes. To be wed, to be his wife. His wife. She had said yes - willingly and without doubt, because she loved him. She loved him. 

Her eyes widened. 

And because they were one, the threshold between him and her having faded into a single us, he was witness to her unravelling and his face clouded with doubt. 

“I didn’t - I won’t hold you to it, if it’s not what you want,” Jon began hesitantly, though the words pained him to say. “I just…I just thought - last night, I was…I told you that I loved you and I do, I do love you and - you said the same and well, it makes sense, doesn’t it?” 

Arya was conscious of an inexpressible tenderness in her heart as she watched him fumble. There was such longing in her, heavy as lead - longing to love, to be loved, for more. She had spent years hovering on the threshold of being too much or not enough, years of being swallowed by the weight of everything that she was, everything she wanted to give - with no place and no one to share it with. 

But now her soul was laid bare to another, there was nowhere to hide or pretend - and Jon still wanted her, and Gods help her, she wanted him, too. It was the sort of stupid thing that she would have mocked Sansa for, once upon a time, but Arya understood now. It was love and she was in love and she wanted it all, whatever came with it. 

Arya wanted to go to bed and to wake up day after day beside him, to drift in and out of sleep in his arms, to be with each other - not as a quick stolen pleasure - but like sunlight, open and everywhere at once. She wanted to run through the city with him, to laugh with him, to be ridiculous and happy and childish and she wanted to kiss him more than anything in the world. 

It was insanity and nothing she had ever imagined for herself, and Arya wanted it anyway. 

Jon was watching her, witnessing her thoughts, and offered a hesitant smile. His eyes held a question and she gave him her answer. 

She captured his lips with hers and sent him a resounding, ‘I already said yes, didn’t I?’ 

He laughed as they kissed and kissed again, and Arya thought there was no better taste than this. 

They sank into one another, their connection thrumming comfortably, wrapped around them like a blanket. Arya’s thoughts could hardly move an inch without bumping into some piece of Jon. With her head on his chest and with his hand caught in her hair, she sighed in contentment. 

“Soulmates,” Jon murmured distantly. “I never thought they could be real. It sounds like some stupid story, but here we are.” 

Arya idly traced a pattern on his stomach with a finger. “I can feel that it’s true,” she started hesitantly. And she could - she had sensed it in the bond as she’d read Cassandra’s book, as if it had finally released the breath it had been holding since the very beginning. As if a missing piece had fallen into place, and everything made sense, at last.

A moment of madness had seized her then; a dense veil isolated her from the world, separating her thought from her desire and all she could do was find him, find him, find him - and so Arya did. She had fought the voice for what felt like forever, but she had been so tired, so full of yearning. 

Now, it was as if the veil had fallen away, her senses rushing back, and something niggled at her. 

“I can feel that it’s true,” she repeated, “but I still don’t know what it means.” 

Jon looked down at her, confused. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? We belong together. That’s what all of this has been about. It’s fate, destiny, whatever you want to call it.” 

“Destiny,” Arya tasted the word on her tongue. It felt…unsatisfying, somehow, but she couldn’t quite place her finger on why. She raised herself up on her arms to look at Jon, as if the answer was written somewhere on his face. He raised a brow, a half-smile playing on his lips. 

The expression reminded her strikingly, then, of his brother looking at her in a similar way. Their conversation in the library a few days ago came flooding back, somewhere amidst the dusty shelves. 

We decide what happens in our lives, not fate or destiny or some other cosmic force of the universe, she had told Aegon, so certain of herself that destiny belonged in fairytales and reality was so different. How everything had changed. Yet…she couldn’t rid herself of the doubt that crept through her head, like vines crawling along a wall.

Did we ever have a choice? 

Like the tide, a golden wash flooded her thoughts. It was bright and beautiful and it carried her away in its currents, until all that was left was this single, brilliant moment. 

He is yours, as you are his. Now and always.

The words came from everywhere at once, and she let them dissolve into her. They were happy, she was happier than she could remember, and that was all that mattered. Arya didn’t care whether this was destiny or not. She loved Jon completely - not because she thought they were fated to be together. And he felt the same, she was sure. 

Wasn’t she?

Another soothing touch of golden light and Arya’s mind went blank. 

He is yours, as you are his. Now and always, always, alwaysalwaysalwaysalways - 

“You alright?” Jon asked her, his expression furrowing. 

“Yes,” Arya said, too quickly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Nothing - just thought I saw my brother’s face for a moment in here.” He gently tapped the side of her head, before cupping her cheek. “You’re not imagining him while naked in my bed, are you?” he jested. “I might just throw myself out the window.” 

His eyes were pure stars, and Arya could think of nothing else but the feel of his fingers on her cheek and his thumb on her lips. Something in her began to howl and though she wasn’t tired, she felt numb and heavy and at a loss for the right words. He was looking at her, waiting for her to jape with him, but all she could whisper was: “I don’t care that we’re soulmates. It’s not…it’s not important. It’s just another word for this, for you. And you know, I think…I think it will always be you.”

Maybe he felt the wash of love through their bond, or maybe he tasted the longing in her words - but Jon’s smile was filled with boundless happiness, and it made him glow in such a way that she felt the warmth on her own skin. He reached up for a chaste kiss, grinning when Arya shifted a leg around his waist and slipped a tongue into his mouth, his cock hardening beneath her. 

“I thought you had a breakfast to attend,” he whispered against her lips as Arya sat up, dragging him with her. She pulled his hand down to the space between her thighs, growing warm and wet, and breathlessly sighed when he slipped two fingers inside her. 

Grinding against him, she managed to pant, “I’ve never been on time to anything before. Why start now?” 

Jon laughed and kissed her again, swallowing her moans and touching her in all the right places. She whimpered and leaned back as his tongue ran along her jaw, nipping at her neck, moving lower to -

“Did I do this?”

Arya opened her eyes to see Jon frowning at a set of hand-shaped bruises on her waist. In the morning light, the black and blue marks were stark against her pale skin. 

“Does it matter?” she muttered, swooping in for another kiss. Rocking against him, she reached for his hands and placed them on her breasts. He palmed them gently, his touch frustratingly hesitant. 

Arya felt the heat that had been brewing start to fade, so with a groan, she pulled away. “Jon,” she said in a firm voice, “I’m not made of glass. You don’t need to treat me like I’m fragile. I’m fine.” 

He averted his eyes, still staring at the bruises on her skin. They were peppered across her waist and her thighs, some barely visible. Arya didn’t mind - it had felt good, truly, to be held so tightly - but Jon was troubled.

“I accidentally hurt your shoulder last night too,” she tried to reassure. “These things happen. Don’t worry yourself so much.” 

“It’s not the same,” he murmured. “You - you felt that. You felt my shoulder during the joust, too. But I never felt these, not once.” His fingers brushed her sides delicately. He looked up at her in horror. “Was I hurting you last night and you - you hid it from me? How did you hide it from me?” 

Arya brushed his lips with hers and kissed him into silence. Their link leaped to life, so that for a moment, they were not two but one; the soft touch echoed on her mouth, tarrying, and she saw herself through his eyes, felt her own breath shivering on his skin. She let him in, let him fly through the landscapes of her mind, let him feel the ghosts of pleasure that he wrung from her body, over and over last night. He shuddered beneath her, his desire and guilt at war. 

“I only felt you,” she whispered. “You don’t have to worry about me. You’re all I feel. You, and nothing else. You can never hurt me.” She tugged his bottom lip between her teeth and felt satisfaction when he inhaled sharply. “Now touch me properly and don’t you dare hold back, or I swear to Gods, I’m going back to my room.” 

Jon stared at her for a beat, his eyes glazing over. For a moment, she thought she heard a whisper, soft as sunlight, echoing at the back of her head. She couldn’t quite make out the words, but Jon’s expression shifted from uncertainty to caution to desire. Suddenly, his hands were roving her body, desperate and wanton. 

He took her twice then; once while she rode him relentlessly, his fingers leaving fresh bruises on her skin as her nails ran down his chest, and then agonisingly slow, pinned beneath him as he licked and kissed each mark with reverence, moving across her body as the sun moved across the sky. 

Afterwards, Arya sat at the end of the bed, catching her breath and using a old washcloth to wipe away the mess between her legs. Jon was behind her, lifting her hair in his hands to let it stream through his fingers and blowing on her sweaty skin to cool her down. When he dropped a kiss at that sensitive ridge where her neck joined her spine, Arya breathed in, taut with anticipation. He continued his kisses down her back, and she thought, oh what was one more time? Their appetites had become insatiable and Arya wanted to devour, to be devoured. 

She leaned back in his arms when there was a sharp knock on Jon’s door. “Your Grace?“ Jaime called out. 

They froze. Jon seemed an effigy of himself, pale and still, the only colour was a splash of gold from the sunlight pouring in through the windows. “Hide behind the door,” he whispered at her. Out loud, he called back, “Give me a moment.” 

Quiet as a mouse, Arya slipped across the room and stood against the wall by the door. She watched Jon haphazardly pull on his breeches, leaving the laces undone. He shoved her nightgown and boots quickly under the bed and combed through his messy hair. There were marks all across his chest and neck from Arya’s over-eager mouth and hands, so she grabbed a discarded tunic on the floor and threw it at him, urging him to put it on.

Tugging it over his head, he opened the door a crack and plastered on a smile. “Ser Jaime,” he greeted, a little too brightly. “Early, isn’t it?”

Arya could not see the Kingsguard from her place behind the open door, but she heard his amused voice say, “I wouldn’t say that, Your Grace. It’s a half hour before breakfast.” 

Half-hour? Arya looked up and saw how bright it was outside. She muffled a curse. 

Jon masked his surprise. “Right. I-I see. Was there something you needed?” 

“Just delivering a message before my shift ends. The King has requested you break your fast together in his solar. Be ready in half an hour.” 

“His solar?” Jon repeated, surprised. “Will Aegon and Rhaenys be there?”

Jaime’s voice was wry. “I wouldn’t know. Your father didn’t send a pretty card with the details, unfortunately. A servant has been called to run a bath, and I’ll take you to the King before I’m off for the rest of the morning - so do hurry up, Your Grace. Not all of us had our beauty sleep last night.” 

Arya gave Jon a mental prod to stop him smirking. 

When the door was shut, Arya moved like a whirlwind to search for her nightgown and boots. “A half hour before breakfast? Oh Gods, Beth might already be in my room and if she sees I’m missing-”

Jon, who was frowning in absent thought, turned to her. “You’ll be fine, it’s still early for Margaery,” he reassured. “You have an hour, at least.” He looked back at the door, his brows furrowing. “We never break our fasts with the King. I wonder what it’s about.” 

Arya was throwing back the sheets and rummaging under the bed, swearing softly. “I can’t find my smallclothes, I could have sworn they were - oh, forget it, this is taking too long.” She grabbed her nightgown and threw it over her naked body, then hopped on one foot as she laced up her boots. When she was ready, Arya turned to the balcony windows and pulled them open. 

Before she climbed on the sill, she strolled over to Jon, grabbed his face with both hands and planted a deep kiss on his mouth. He hummed and wrapped his arms around her back to draw her closer. “I can feel you worrying already,” she chided gently. 

He nudged her nose with his. “My father has that effect.” 

“Well, what do you say, after our painful breakfasts, we have a little…catch-up in the library to make ourselves feel better. I doubt anyone will be there today. Then we can head to the joust.” 

“Or we make our excuses, skip the joust, and spend the whole afternoon here instead,” Jon suggested with a grin. “I know what I’d prefer.” 

Arya laughed and pulled away. “Only if you promise to be as entertaining.” 

He lifted his dazzled, dazzling eyes to her and replied, voice throaty, “I think I can make it worth your while.” 

Her cheeks felt warm and Arya knew if she didn’t leave then, she’d stay forever. She kissed his smile again in farewell and turned to the window. 

oOo

“Tell me - why do we need two feasts, just four days apart?” Rhaegar remarked, disgruntled. He was peering at a parchment on his desk, growing steadily frustrated as he read further. 

Elia stood by the open window, gazing out. The King’s solar overlooked the main gardens at the heart of the palace; the roses were flowering under a champagne sun and distantly, she heard the buzz of bees. Good, she thought absently, the worst of the summer heat was over then. Perhaps there would be rain soon. It had been so long since she had seen rain. 

“Elia?”

She was staring at a bush of wildflowers as she replied, “One feast is for the end of the tourney, one is for the wedding. We discussed this months ago.” 

“Yes, but that was before the Iron Bank raised the interest on our payments. Do you have any idea how much these lords eat? Gods, and the ale. Nearly thirty barrels a night, Elia! Thirty!” He scoffed and shook his head. “Remind me not to host a damn tourney again. They’ll be taking a bite from the throne next.” With a sigh, he threw the parchment back on the table and leaned back in his chair. 

“A fat lord is a happy lord. And happy lords make for a peaceful realm,” Elia murmured. 

Rhaegar muttered something incomprehensible, his expression dark. She ignored him. 

There was movement in the garden. One of the young lords had decided on a morning stroll, his wife holding one hand and his daughter tugging along in the other. As they passed beneath the window, Elia caught his thick mop of chestnut hair and seashells decorated on his lapels. Gawen Westerling’s youngest, she remembered. The lord bent down to pick his little girl up, who looked no older than three, and twirled her around. The child was giggling mercilessly, and Elia watched them, wistful.

Once, perhaps, she might have envied them; mourned what she could have had. But that was all in the long ago, before she had grown too old and tired to love.

“Something on your mind you’d like to share?” Rhaegar faltered. “It’s…it’s not about Aegon, is it? I can explain-”

Elia frowned and turned to her husband. “What about Aegon?“ 

“You…haven’t seen him?”

“He did not come by yesterday after his joust. I assumed he was otherwise occupied.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why? What has happened?”

“Nothing,” he said, too quickly. “He’s fine. Nervous, I imagine, for the final today. That’s all.” There was guilt on his face, a near-identical copy to one she had seen on Aegon a hundred times. She made a note to visit her son after breakfast. 

A perfunctory knock on the door drew their attentions. With acknowledgement from the King, it was opened to allow a line of servants carrying silver platters laden with fruits, breads, a dozen types of cheeses, boiled eggs, bacon, and bowls of porridge. They prepared the table in the corner of the solar, setting the plates and cutlery down, and pouring water and milk in every goblet. 

The Queen watched them, and once they bowed and left, she turned to Rhaegar with her brows raised. 

“I was unaware the entire castle was breaking their fast with us this morning,” she commented drily, eyeing the piles of food. “Perhaps this is where the coin has been spent, Your Grace.” 

Rhaegar shot her a wry look. “I wasn’t sure what Jon liked,” he confessed, “so I had them prepare everything, just in case.” 

“I doubt he’ll be eating much, you know,” Elia said, her voice light. She moved to the table and grabbed an apple, not so much to eat but to have something her restless hands could fiddle with. “I doubt either of us will have much of an appetite, either.” 

“Something is bothering you,” Rhaegar observed, standing from his chair. “Go on. I know you want to say it.” 

There were several things bothering her, but Elia gave voice to only one: “How are you so sure that he’ll listen?” 

“Jon has always done his duty. He’ll understand how important his betrothal is.” 

“Yes, but that was before his little excursion in the city nearly jeopardised everything. Lord Stark is…” Elia sighed, “…not an easy man to placate. He worries, Rhaegar, and that worries me. Now, we have Tywin Lannister’s granddaughter to contend with, too.” She glared at him. “I warned you when you spoke to me of Myrcella Baratheon. She is the very last woman we can afford to insult. The Baratheons and the Lannisters are unforgiving. This was not the time to test Jon’s limits-”

Rhaegar’s jaw clenched. “I thought we had more time,” he said softly. “It’s an excellent match, Elia. With it, we’ve united nearly all the Great Houses under our banner. We would have sought the arrangement, regardless. The opportunity would have been too great to pass.” A troubled look rested on his face as he joined her at the breakfast table. “When I spoke to Stannis, Jon hadn’t…there was no cause for concern. We were moving as quickly as possible and I thought nothing was amiss. There was no reason to believe otherwise.” 

He poured a goblet filled with water into a large pitcher, replacing its contents with wine from a flask on his desk. “Aegon’s bedded half of King’s Landing while Jon would pout for days if you forced him to spend time with someone against his will. How could I have possibly foreseen him risking a noblewoman’s reputation as he has? For heaven’s sake, Elia, there are whispers of brothels and whores. Does that sound like Jon to you?” 

Elia bristled at the mention of Aegon and threw Rhaegar an angry look as he downed the wine in one swift motion. “I was hoping,” she said scathingly, “that you running off with your soulmate might finally serve a purpose, for once. Clearly I ought to manage my expectations, even after all these years.” The words didn’t hurt as much as they used to, but she couldn’t resist the jibe.

He frowned. “Care to elaborate?” 

“‘Soulmate bonds rob a man of their senses,’” Elia mocked. “That’s what you always told me, for two decades now. A poor excuse for what you did, but I believed you.” She huffed in irritation. “You know what it means to have a soulmate, not I. If anyone should have foreseen this, Rhaegar, it’s you.” 

He was staring into his empty cup, as if searching for answers in its dregs. “I suppose I hoped he was like his mother,” he murmured. “Lyanna, she was afraid of our connection at first, so unwilling to accept the magnitude of what it meant. It took nearly a year before she embraced the truth. I had hoped Jon might be the same. A year was unlikely, but I thought we had more than mere days.” He ran a tired hand over his face. 

“You were already wed and she, betrothed to another. Of course she was hesitant.”

Rhaegar waved a hand. “That was never the issue,” he dismissed, unthinkingly. 

Elia swallowed the hurt and looked down at the apple in her hands. When she woke that morning, she had half-wondered if it was possible to call the whole matter off and forget it, no longer forcing the issue. To let the past remain the past, to only press onwards and allow the wounds to scar over. 

But she couldn’t forget because it was impossible to forget, and it was too late to call anything off, and wounds do not heal of their own accord, no matter what happened.

Once she could trust her voice not to waver, Elia asked again, “So answer me, then - how are you so sure Jon will listen? He is your son, Rhaegar. If you could leave your -” she swallowed, “- your wife, your children, and your duty for your soulmate, what makes you think Jon will be any different?” 

The past beat inside her like a second heart, and Elia realised that she would never be as unaffected as she wished to be. 

Rhaegar’s expression was unreadable and he avoided her eyes. In the seconds of silence between them, she heard their bleeding, cracked-open souls. It sounded like a flame dwindling and dying. It sounded like someone falling apart. 

“He’s a better man than me,” he said finally, so quiet, she almost mistook him for the breeze outside. “That’s the difference.”

But he will carry your tragedy anyway, Elia thought as Arthur Dayne announced Jon’s arrival. As we all have. 

Jon stepped into the room and bowed stiffly to them both. Though a summer wind was drafting through the window, it was still a warm day. Elia was dressed in her lightest silks, and even Rhaegar, ever wrapped in black, wore a thin tunic. Jon, she noted, wore a dark jacket with a high-neck. There were twin spots of colour in his cheeks, and though his eyes were wary, Elia thought he looked healthier than he had in days. 

“Your Graces,” he said quietly. He looked towards the table laden with food and counted the places set. “Are the others not joining?” His voice was light and unaffected, though Elia knew better. When Jon was anxious, his sword hand would clench, as it did now. He never quite managed to hide it. 

His father offered a quick shake of his head. “No, everyone is…presently indisposed. I thought we might have a private meal together. Just the three of us. It’s been a long time since we’ve spoken properly.” 

Elia resisted a snort at Jon’s blatant disbelief. 

“Am I in trouble?” he asked. His expression cleared as understanding dawned. “This is about the other night, isn’t it?“ 

“Let’s sit down, shall we?” Elia stretched a hand out to the table. “We’ve spent our last coin on this breakfast. We may as well enjoy it.” 

Rhaegar gave her a look as Jon glanced between them, puzzled. “Ignore her,” the King grumbled. 

Silently, they took their places, Elia and Rhaegar on opposite ends of the table with Jon in the middle. He looked distinctly uncomfortable, refusing so much as a sip of water as Elia bit into her toast and Rhaegar tucked into his porridge. 

Seconds ticked by, though it felt like hours. Like actors in a terrible play, their movements were stiff and unnatural, each looking at anything but one another, waiting for their cues to drop their charades. 

Finally, after too long, Jon turned to the King in barely-contained frustration. “Well?” he demanded. “Are you waiting for me to comment on the eggs before you tell me why I’m here?“ 

Rhaegar raised a brow and frowned at his son. “My apologies,” he said drily. “Am I interrupting your busy schedule?” 

Jon’s jaw clenched. “I’d much rather we skip to the part where you lecture me on my fuck-up and save us all the pain of pretending like we’re enjoying one another’s company.” 

“How about, instead, we take a step back and you tell us what possessed you, in the first place, to…fuck up, did you say?” Elia interjected in a mild voice, before Rhaegar opened his mouth to argue. 

Jon avoided her eyes, choosing instead to burn holes into the bowl of fruit at the centre of the table. He offered nothing, letting the silence grow like thread on a loom. 

She dropped her cutlery and watched him carefully. Something was different; it was as intangible as a ghost, barely discernable, yet it was there all the same. Elia looked at him, truly looked, for the first time in what felt like a very long while. 

There was a confidence in the way he carried himself - he sat straight, as he always had, but there was little strain in his shoulders; Jon was more at ease than he had ever been around the King. His face had always seemed to hold more hollows than most, shadows pooling beneath his eyes and cheeks as if it found refuge there. Now - now, he still looked tired, yes, but the shadows had faded nearly entirely, and his expression was stubborn, where once it had been blank or anxious. 

It decided her, that certainty.

“You believe your only mistake was to be caught, don’t you?” she observed. “You don’t regret a thing.” 

The edges of Jon’s lips quirked. “No,” he admitted softly. “I don’t.”

“Have you gone mad?” Rhaegar snapped. “Do you have any idea what sort of damage you wrought while running amok with Lord Stark’s daughter? You very nearly ruined her!” 

Guilt flashed across Jon’s face as quick as a blink, before it smoothed out. “That was not my intention,” he muttered with chagrin. He glanced at Elia. “Did you-?” 

“Muddle the rumours? Clean your mess? Placate Lord Stark?” Elia scoffed at him. “I’ve done what I can. There are so many whispers floating about, one can hope the truth is lost somewhere in the middle. You are fortunate that whores can be so easily discredited and your reputation is at odds with what they claim.” She smiled at him with no humour. “‘Prince Jon would never visit a brothel, of course,’ they say. ‘He’s far too noble for that.’” 

She held Jon’s gaze for a beat before he sighed and leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest. “It’s not what you think,” he said quietly. “We weren’t there to-“

“It doesn’t matter,” Rhaegar cut in. 

“The truth doesn’t matter?”

“There is no truth,” Rhaegar said bluntly, with a trace of bitterness. “There is only one story, and it belongs to everyone but you. If they wish to condemn you, then you are condemned. The why, the who, the how - it never matters. Your intentions may be noble but…they will not care. They will only see what they want to see, and what they see is a man who cannot control his urges and is no better than most who think with their cock.” His expression hardened. “You cannot allow them to see you so weak. It affects us all, damages us all. It is…unforgiving.”

His last words were nearly whispered, and it brought about a fraying silence in the room. Elia thought that Jon would concede and apologise then, as he always would -

But Jon rolled his eyes and pushed back from his chair to stand. “Gods, not this again. Spare me the lecture, Father, I’ve heard it a thousand times.” 

Rhaegar blinked in surprise. “Then clearly you never listened,” he bit back, “or you wouldn’t have done exactly the opposite as you were taught.” 

“Oh, I was listening,” Jon drawled, strolling to the window with his hands in his pockets. “I listened every day for twenty years. But it’s all horseshit anyway. It always has been.” 

“Mind your tongue,” Elia warned quietly. 

Grey eyes turned to her. She met the full blast of his stare and found it colder than ever. “That’s all we do, isn’t it?” he challenged. “Mind our bloody tongues. Think of the crown, think of the family, watch what we say. Meanwhile, your City Guard,” he turned to Rhaegar, “are out there abusing your people and you sit here worrying that I’m putting everything at risk. What, because of gossip?” He snorted. “Let them condemn me. Let them say what they want to say. They can’t do a damn thing about it. And they know it, so they’ve turned their vitriol against Arya because she’s an easy target. For that, I am sorry and soon, they won’t be able to say a damn word against her, but I won’t apologise for anything else.” 

Elia raised a brow at the ease with which Lady Arya’s name dropped from Jon’s lips; so casually, as if it had always belonged there. “And what will you do to stop them?” she asked, fearing that she already knew what came next. 

The sunlight pouring through the window softened Jon’s silhouette. In the haze, he went from man to boy to man again, and Elia could not pinpoint when the transformation had happened: when this quiet, shy little boy had grown so tall, become so angry. But there was no doubt; it was a man who straightened his shoulders and it was a man who declared, “I’ve asked Arya Stark for her hand and she’s accepted.”

There was a long, terrible pause. 

As Rhaegar looked at her sharply, Elia felt the anxiety that had taken root in their hearts a long time ago.

“What did you say?” the King whispered, as if afraid that if he spoke it too loudly, somehow everything would become too real. 

“I said that I’m going to marry Arya,” Jon said, his voice unwavering. “You wanted me to find a wife, and I have. I risked Arya’s reputation, so this will protect her name. And…” He gave a shuddering breath, “I love her, and she loves me. That’s really all the reason I need.” The smile he offered was radiant and warm. 

The silence that followed was anything but. 

Rhaegar dropped his head into his hands with a curse. Jon saw him, doubt shadowing his joy.

When it was evident her husband was unlikely to speak, Elia took the delicate first step. This must be handled with care, she realised. “When did this happen?”

“We…spoke last night.” 

“Does Lord Stark know?”

“Not yet, no, but Arya may have a word with him after her breakfast with-”

“Have you bedded her yet?”

Jon said nothing, but stared at her owlishly. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.” With a sigh, Elia stood and moved towards the King’s desk. She grabbed his flask of wine and took a long swig straight from its mouth. Jon stared at her, uncertain. 

“Is that a sign of your blessing?” he jested, but there was apprehension in his eyes. 

“No.” 

A single word resonated around the room. Elia and Jon turned to Rhaegar, who had resumed his breakfast with pointed fervour. As he spooned another helping of porridge into his bowl, he spoke again, softer this time, “It’s not going to happen.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jon snapped angrily. “Why not?” 

“Lower your voice.” 

“I’ll lower my voice when you give me a damn reason why!” 

Elia stepped forward and lay a gentle hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Calm yourself, and let us explain. You will get nowhere with your temper. Sit down, please.” 

He shot her a furious look, but bit his tongue so hard, she wondered if he bled. Throwing her hand off of him, Jon stalked towards his chair and dropped down stiffly. Elia took a deep breath and joined him at the table. 

“Tell him,” she urged his father. 

Rhaegar dropped his spoon, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and announced, “We’ve already secured your betrothal to Lady Myrcella Baratheon. Her father has agreed, and the arrangements have been made. This was why we called you here, in truth.” His brilliant violet eyes swept around the table, settling on Jon’s stony face. “It was time you were told.” 

Elia leaned forward and grasped the hand lying cold on the table. “I know this comes as a disappointment to your…plans, but Myrcella is an excellent match. Not only for her political weight, but as a companion. She is a lovely girl with a wonderful disposition, and you may come to appreciate her, in time. This love you say you feel, it may be…” she avoided Rhaegar’s searing look, “something else entirely. Something not necessarily real.” 

“I see,” Jon said simply, after a long silence. His expression was blank. 

She looked at his face, searching for some sort of emotion - understanding, rage, sorrow, something that told her that he had heard what they had said. There was something frightening about it; his eyes were empty, going on and on forever. He was missing some primal light, that flicker of shy youth that he always carried. If she were to prod him, Elia wondered if everything would crumble at her touch. She nearly raised her hand to see. 

Worried, she whispered, “Jon?” at the same time that Rhaegar asked, “Are we in accord, then?”

Jon did not look at either of them. “Yes, Your Grace.” His voice was restrained, giving nothing away. 

“And Lady Arya Stark will be informed of your change in circumstance?” 

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Rhaegar hesitated. “So you accept the betrothal? And you’ll ensure you won’t have any bastards running about?” 

There was a twitch in one of Jon’s eye, so quick that Elia nearly missed it. “Of course, Your Grace. Duty comes first, after all.” 

Relief flooded Rhaegar’s face and he let out a breath. “Excellent,” he smiled. “Excellent, excellent. We’ll announce it at the feast tonight. Lord Stannis will be most pleased.” He raised his cup at his wife and son and drank deeply.

Jon followed suit, his movements practiced and unnaturally calm. He then spooned eggs onto his plate and took a bite, his expression nonchalant. “I look forward to it,” he said politely. 

Elia stared at him tuck into his food, seeming very much like a man with little care in the world, neither a crack nor tear shattering the façade. It prickled her skin and sent an anxious ache in her stomach, as if something were to happen in the next moment, something terrible, but she couldn’t say what or how. 

She listened to the sentences he spoke in a low voice that did not rise toward breaking, watched his fingers’ patience as they lifted his cup to his lips and did not tremble. Jon was ever the dutiful son and she saw even Rhaegar glance at him twice in disbelief. 

When their plates had been cleaned, Jon rose and offered them both a quick bow. “Thank you for the breakfast,” he said, adding just enough sincerity to his words to appear genuine. Elia saw through it immediately. He had, after all, learned it from her. 

But she kept her lips pressed together as she nodded at him. At their acknowledgement, Jon moved towards the door. As his hand touched the knob, Rhaegar called out, “You have permission to attend the final joust later.” 

A split second; Jon stiffened. He then relaxed and turned to frown at his father. “I thought I wasn’t allowed outside the Red Keep.”

“Aegon would appreciate your presence, I’m sure. You may travel with me to the grounds at midday-”

“Actually,” Jon interrupted, folding his hands neatly behind his back, “Maester Pycelle suggested I take it easy today. It seems my shoulder has been under some…considerable strain as of late. He recommends bedrest this afternoon. I imagine Aegon will understand.” 

Rhaegar frowned in concern. “Has your shoulder been bothering you? You did not say you were in pain. You should have mentioned this earlier, I wouldn’t have-”

“It’s quite alright,” Jon rushed. “I hate to impose, much prefer to soldier on and all that. But I think some bedrest will do me some good.” His expression was innocent enough. 

“Very well, I understand. Rest, then. We wouldn’t want you to miss the feast tonight.” 

The answering smile was all teeth. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Father. Good day.” 

When he was gone, Elia let out a breath and moved to the window. The warm air was stifling, and to her dismay, the bees had gone quiet. Perhaps there would be no relief from the summer heat, after all. Behind her, she heard Rhaegar’s chair scrape back and his footsteps pace around the room.

“That…wasn’t what I was expecting,” he finally said, and she heard the frown in his voice. 

Elia’s gaze wandered over the gardens, now dotted with more couples and families admiring the blossoms. Above, the sky was a clear blue, neither a speck nor dot of cloud in sight. A shame. “Keep an eye on him,” she warned quietly. “Something is amiss.”

The footsteps ceased. “He agreed to the betrothal, as we wanted. What are you afraid of?”

You fool. 

The Queen breathed deeply, hoping for a whiff of an oncoming storm, but she smelt nothing but the overtly-sweet scent of flowers and heat. It seemed to her as if the rain was lying dead under the scorched summer leaves. There would be no relief in sight. 

Her thoughts drifted to another summer, twenty years ago, in another castle, at another tourney. Another, another, another - yet the same. Always the same. Like a cursed wheel that never stopped spinning. She was so very tired. 

“Arthur!” Elia called suddenly. 

The door opened quickly, followed by the familiar clink of armour as Ser Arthur stepped into the room and bowed. 

“There is a tunnel in the cellar that leads out into the city. Have it blocked immediately, by midday at the latest,” Elia ordered as she turned. “We should have done it years ago.” 

“Yes, Your Grace.” 

“Double the guards at every exit. Keep all gates closed unless I say otherwise. Inform the stableboys that no horse is permitted to leave the castle without express approval from the Master of the Horse. Then send the good master to my quarters in the next half-hour. I will provide him a list of those permitted. Those unaccounted for will have their horses unsaddled and taken elsewhere.”

Rhaegar scoffed. “You can’t be serious. Elia, there are hundreds of guests who need their horses today-”

“And their names will be on the list,” she replied with a raised brow. “With a few exceptions. Merely a caution, is all.” She turned back to the Kingsguard and pretended she hadn’t been interrupted, “Inform the steward that no one is to leave to fetch anything from the city. Deliveries have already been made this morning. If we run out of ale, so be it. Nothing moves in or out of this palace without my knowledge nor my permission, is that understood?” 

If Arthur was concerned, he did not show it. “Yes, Your Grace.” 

“Why not simply double the guard around Jon?” Rhaegar argued. “All this fuss-”

“I doubled the guard around you once, and instead, they went with you on your little trip North for Lyanna,” Elia threw back harshly. “I’m not making the same mistake twice.”

Arthur had the grace to look embarrassed. When Elia nodded her dismissal, he seemed grateful.

A realisation struck suddenly. The knight was just about to cross the threshold when she ordered, in a quieter voice, “And send Pycelle to my solar. Tell him that it is urgent.” 

With a nod, Arthur was then gone, shutting the door behind him. 

Rhaegar, on the other hand, was perturbed. “And how long do you plan on locking down the castle? For heaven’s sake, Elia, Jon would never-”

“Until I am satisfied that he is not your son, after all,” Elia declared, turning back to the window. The sky had not darkened a whit, but her thoughts were black as a midnight storm. “To lose one prince to forsaken duty may be regarded as unfortunate. To lose two looks like carelessness.” 

“He will know what you’re doing. Aegon and Rhaenys will, too.” 

“Good. Let it serve as a warning then. I am entirely too fed up with damn soulmates.” 

Chapter Text

Beneath the oncoming dawn, King’s Landing was all soft silhouettes and lines of ramshackle stone. The clouds were glowing like roses and gold, and in the middle of the pale sky, the morning star shone bright and beautiful. 

Squatting on the peaks of Aegon’s High Hill was the Red Keep, the seat of Targaryen power: a shining public face, the pride of kings, the prison of queens. It had known the gallows and the block, the fire and the fury, and its stones were stained with blood.

No one could truly call it home. In that, Rhaenys was no different. 

But she had always tried. Gods, she had tried so hard - and somewhere along the way, she had lost herself in it all. It was a strange feeling; the more she chased her home, the more alone she felt. Rhaenys knew longing, but she had forgotten how to belong. 

She stood on one of the open balconies in the southern wing, glancing up at the crumbling wall on her right. It wasn’t very tall, just over twice her height, and it crossed over to a part of the roof where one could hide away with magnificent views of the sea. It had been a haunt of Jon and Aegon’s for years when they had been children.

While Rhaenys was fitted with dresses that barely let her breathe and learning the subtleties of teatime conversation, her brothers spent hours playing on the rooftops, often begging her to join. She never did, of course, so they eventually stopped asking, and Rhaenys pretended she was too mature anyway. 

At least, she always told herself as much, if only to make herself a little less sad. It was a foolish lie, she realised now. A foolish lie for a foolish girl with foolish thoughts. 

She stared up at the wall and made a mad decision. If everything was falling apart anyway, she may as well climb the damn wall. Jon and Aegon would never play there again, but she could pretend, for a single foolish moment, that they were. 

Her skirts in one hand, she kicked off her slippers and grasped at the stones, seeking a solid grip. She was never one for much physical activity, so just the simple act of pulling herself up took all her strength and left her breathless. Sweating and red-faced, it took everything in her to finally clamber gracelessly over the edge, cursing softly. Her hair was sticking to her skin and her skirts were crumpled and torn and she had never felt more uncomfortable in her life. 

What a terrible idea. I’m never doing that again, she thought to herself. Who even likes climbing anyway? 

Rolling onto her back, she was catching her breath, when an amused voice declared, “Oh good, you made it. Thought you were a dying animal for a moment there, with the sounds you were making.” 

With a frown, Rhaenys raised her head to see Aegon sitting casually on the roof’s edge some feet away, his legs dangling over the void. His eyes were filled with mirth. 

“Why didn’t you help me?” she demanded, pushing herself unsteadily to her knees. She didn’t quite trust her legs to hold her up yet, choosing instead to crawl on all-fours to where her betrothed sat chuckling. 

“And ruin the show?” Aegon grinned. He looked at her frizzled hair, flushed cheeks and torn skirts with a raised brow. “You look like you’ve been ravaged by a blacksmith. As expected for a first-timer.” 

“Always so charming,” Rhaenys grumbled as he laughed. She peered over the edge and felt a little dizzy at the drop. The shore stretched out below, pale and rippling like a brushstroke. And beyond - she let out a sigh - beyond was the wide, open waters. There was something about the achingly bright expanse of blue, the ebb and flow of the glittering waters, that was soothing to watch. Moving a few feet towards the middle of the roof where she felt safest, Rhaenys wrapped her arms around her legs. Aegon had resumed staring at the sea’s ceaseless movement. 

“Must you sit on the edge?” she asked him warily. “You’re one strong gust away from splattering on the ground.” 

He kicked his feet like a child, letting them swing with the breeze. Shrugging, he said, “The view is nice. You can see all kinds of things from here. It almost feels like flying.” 

She resisted the urge to nag him further. He cut a fine figure against the horizon and she desperately didn’t want him to leave. Instead, she squinted up at the summer clouds floating above. As the sun rose high, the sky grew into a relentless blue and the distance was so infinite, she felt a little light-headed. She had the liberating feeling she could just disappear into it without feeling any pain. It was all she had to fend off the gnawing gloom in her chest.

Her gaze shifted to Aegon. His back was mostly turned towards her, his silver hair looking almost blue in the light, but she could see the bruising around his eye that stained his face. It wasn’t nearly as faded as she hoped and the sight made her insides twist. 

They hadn’t spoken since he’d stormed back to his chamber after quarrelling with the King two nights ago, and she hadn’t the stomach to seek him out, in case they argued further. The look he’d shot her as he left - of shock, of anger, of disappointment - burned when she closed her eyes. It would be nothing compared to the look she feared from Jon, that she knew had to be coming. It was only a matter of time. 

Plucking up the courage, Rhaenys shifted to her hands and knees to crawl towards Aegon. Desperately trying not to glance down, she manoeuvred herself to his side. When he didn’t move away, she gave an internal sigh in relief. 

After a tentative silence, she finally murmured, “It wasn’t my first time.” 

She caught his frown at the edge of her eye. “What do you mean?” 

“Before it was fixed some years ago, part of the back kitchen wall was in disrepair. There were holes all over. If one was small enough, they could climb outside and onto the kitchen roof without anyone the wiser. A simple feat for a five-year-old.” 

Aegon’s eyes were comically wide as he gaped at her. “You’d climb up there? You? I don’t believe it.” 

“Believe it. You could see for miles and miles beyond the city walls. I didn’t really like going up there, you know. It was far too dangerous. I can only ever remember two or three trips, really, and hating every moment.” 

He frowned. “Then why do it?” 

Playing with her hands in her lap, she said softly, “I was looking for Father. I wanted to be the first to see him when he came home. I missed him madly.” 

Aegon scoffed, leaning away from her. She could feel him tense, his jaw clenching. “He didn’t miss you. He never gave a shit about either of us. If Lyanna hadn’t died, he’d have never come home. And you’d still be on that stupid roof waiting for him, wouldn’t you?” He said it all with a sneer, but there was no heat behind it. When she said nothing, he shook his head and looked away. 

Rhaenys felt as if her skull would crack soon; the fatigue was endless, and like the waves, her exhaustion beat at her, over and over. “If Jon leaves, he’s never coming home again, is he?” she whispered. It wasn’t a question. “He isn’t going to stay.” 

Her betrothed said nothing for so long, she thought he might not have heard her, until he finally sighed and said, “No, I don’t think he will.” 

Rhaenys closed her eyes and a sob caught in her throat. “I can’t bear the thought of losing him forever, Egg. How can you stand it?” She sniffed and quickly rubbed at her eyes before any tears could fall. “I can’t imagine a future without him. He’s our brother, he can’t…he can’t just leave! Maybe I was wrong about - about the betrothal, but I was so afraid we’d lose him, I didn’t know what else to do. I’ve made it all worse, haven’t I?”

A distant expression settled on Aegon’s face then, his gaze unfocused in the distance. “Do you remember when I came back from Dorne? Two days before Jon’s nameday?” 

She blinked at him for a moment, struggling to follow his bizarre train of thought. “Of course. It was a lovely surprise,” Rhaenys said slowly. “I don’t understand what you’re getting at.” 

Aegon crossed his arms loosely on his knees and said frustratingly nothing for a while.

Then he smiled. 

Not the boisterous smile he offered the world, or the fond, secretive smile she knew so well; something sadder, and muted. A shadow of the man, his eyes bruised and far away. 

“Did you know that I gave Father an entire report on my return?” Aegon continued, staring at the horizon. “Uncle Oberyn said that I should prove to the King that I was taking my squiring seriously, that I wasn’t just out there drinking and fucking for a whole year.” His eyelashes fluttered. “So I wrote about everything. I wrote page after page on all the lords I met, on the lessons Uncle Doran and Uncle Oberyn shared with me, ideas I had while travelling around the kingdom.” 

He shot her a contemplative look. “I thought everyone might finally see that I’m not an idiot. I know what they say about me, Rhaenys. I know that no one really believes that I can handle the throne. Father and Jon certainly don’t, so I thought if I - if I did this, it might make a difference. I wrote and rewrote everything a dozen times, put it altogether like a fucking book. It was nearly four hundred pages and -”

Aegon swallowed and looked down then, as Rhaenys watched him in silent surprise. Hesitantly, she reached for one of his hands and he let her take it. 

“He never read it,” he told her, his voice quivering with barely-contained fury. “Father wouldn’t even open the damn door. Twelve moons I was gone. I never had a letter from him in all that time, and he still didn’t want to see me. Two weeks later, I burned the damn thing and drowned myself in half the ale in the city.”

Rhaenys stared at him in shock. “Is that why you went missing for two days? I worried myself ill because of you! Mother thought I was being irrational, but I knew something was wrong.” 

Aegon snorted. “You were the only one. Two days later, and it was you who sent guards to find me in some inn somewhere. Jon leaves for a few hours and Father sends an army after him,” he muttered bitterly. His expression softened, growing sadder. “Jon thought a little less of me after that. Father didn’t even think of me at all. I’m not sure he even noticed I was gone.” 

Rhaenys grasped his hand a little tighter. “I’m sorry, Egg.”

“It’s been years, I’m not looking for apologies.” He watched their fingers entwine, the crease between his brows deepening. “What I’m trying to say is that whatever you’re holding onto - it doesn’t exist.” 

She dropped his hand as if it were on fire. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Rhaenys, if I knew it wouldn’t break Mother’s heart, I’d have boarded a ship and left a long time ago,” Aegon declared. His voice was gentle, and it somehow cut her deeper for it. “This isn’t a family. Perhaps we were, once, before the war, but that was a long time ago. There’s nothing left to save. You’re holding onto a dream, it’s not real. We endure because we share a duty to the Iron Throne. Nothing more, nothing less.” 

Something about his expression tore her apart and she looked away angrily. She felt the rage building in her throat, but she couldn’t trust herself to speak, not without crying and Rhaenys wouldn’t, she wouldn’t cry. She could not bear, in her fallen state, to appear so vulnerable. 

Nothing more, nothing less.

I have loved you for as long as I can remember. I built so much of you within me. I wonder how much of me there is in you. Were those real, all those moments between us? Was it? Was it? 

Aegon reached out for her hand, but she took it away before he could touch her. Instead, she wrapped her arms around herself like a shield. 

He sighed and leaned away from her. “I don’t want Jon to leave, either,” he admitted quietly. The corner of his lips tugged upwards. “Who else is going to be my Hand when I’m King? I always imagined he’d be by my side, that we’d take on the world together.“

There was such vulnerability in his face, that under the searing sunlight where illusions were scorched away, he was almost a boy again. “But I’m also tired, Rhaenys. I’m so tired of living in the shadow of a dead woman and the war that followed her. This whole damned affair with Arya Stark - it leads back to Lyanna. It will always lead back to Lyanna and I’m…I’m tired.”

Aegon squeezed his eyes shut and bowed his head, as if in prayer. “I love Jon, I do. He’s my blood and I am his, and I know none of this is his fault -” He swallowed, then whispered, “But I sometimes wonder, Seven knows I hate myself for it, if everything might not have been easier if he-”

“Stop it,” Rhaenys ordered, shaking her head. “Stop, I won’t hear another word. Please.” 

She thought he might argue then, but he just looked at her. Language crumbled into dust under the weight of his silence; everything he wanted to say, everything she didn’t want to hear, was caught in this one, single look. 

Whatever you’re holding onto doesn’t exist. 

After several long beats, she heard Aegon give another resigned sigh and climb to his feet. She felt him reach out to her, perhaps to touch her shoulder, before he thought twice and moved away. Rhaenys couldn’t decide if she was relieved or disappointed. 

She wanted to say, ‘Don’t leave me,’ but she couldn’t do it, not again. She was so tired of begging people to stay. 

Aegon had started to climb down the wall, judging from the sound of his boots scuffing the stones, when Rhaenys finally spoke. 

“Are we real?” 

The question surprised herself as it slipped out. It floated between them, fraught with tension, fraught with longing. Rhaenys kept her eyes on the horizon, somehow fearful of seeing his expression. There was no need to elaborate - Aegon knew exactly what she meant. 

She heard him pause, before replying in a voice that broke her heart, “Sometimes.” 

How short the word was; how great its wound. 

I have lived in a dream of innocence, she thought to herself, as she watched the blazing sun-spattered ocean. And it has ruined me. 

oOo

In another part of the castle, a handmaiden was screaming.

“Beth, please be quiet!” Arya desperately tried to calm the girl. “You’re going to get me in trouble!” She scrambled down from the window sill and shot her handmaiden a pleading look. 

Only a few moments prior, Beth had been bent over the bed and gently prodding at the lump of pillows she assumed to be Arya. Her lady was to be dressed and doled up to greet a princess - a princess! - followed by a grand finale of a grand tourney, which Beth was sure would be the most lavish event of her lifetime. It was set to be a very good day, indeed. 

A loud sound from the window startled her instead, and the sight of her lady outside, in nothing but her nightgown and perched precariously on the ledge, had sent the poor girl into a state of shock. 

It was most definitely not going to be a good day. 

“What - what are you doing?” Beth squawked, staring at Arya in horror. “Were you…were you climbing the palace?” 

Arya shifted awkwardly. “It was only one floor,” she defended, “and it barely took a few minutes-”

“Oh Gods, oh Gods, I need to sit down,” her handmaiden floundered, plopping on the bed. Her face was white as a sheet. “You could have slipped and fallen to your death-”

“But I didn’t-”

“Or - or impaled yourself on the railing-”

“Yes, but I didn’t-”

“Or been carried away by the wind and drowned at sea -”

“Now you’re just being absurd,” Arya said crossly. “Look at me, I’m fine! Really, Beth, you sound like my mother. Bran was climbing cliffs when he was twelve! This castle is child’s play in comparison.” 

“Yes, but you’re not Lord Bran, are you?” Beth snapped, before realising her mistake with a blush. “I-I mean, my lady, I’m sorry, I-”

Arya sniffed and shot her a glare. “I think you’ll find that I’m just as good as Bran, thank you very much.” She hesitated. Well, Bran was an excellent climber. “Or at least I will be, some day. I haven’t fallen for years, you know,” she huffed. Her eye caught the warm bath steaming in the corner of her room and she moved towards it eagerly. 

She was just about to discard her nightgown when Beth stuttered, “I - I didn’t mean to offend, my lady, I just - it’s so terribly dangerous, and I can‘t imagine what could possibly have been so - so important that you had to risk your life. What would your lady mother say?” Her small face was scrunched with worry, making her seem so much younger than her nine-and-ten years. It lessened some of Arya’s irritation; Beth had always meant well and she liked to call the older girl a friend. 

“Alright, alright,” she grumbled. “Stop fretting over me, I won’t do it again.” 

Beth let out a relieved breath. 

With a fond shake of her head, Arya raised her nightgown over her knees - before freezing with a blush. “Beth, would you mind stepping outside, please? I’d like to bathe alone.”

Her handmaiden opened her mouth to protest, before nodding her head, as agreeable as always. “I’ll be just by the door. Call if you need anything.” 

Offering a small smile in gratitude, Arya waited until the door was firmly shut before she turned to the mirror, and pulled off her nightgown. 

Beth had seen Arya in all states of undress, so it wasn’t modesty she sought. Glancing down, she bit her lip as her eyes ran over the hand-shaped bruises on her thighs and hips, the red marks across her chest. There wasn’t a day when Arya hadn’t sported some sort of bruise, somewhere; but these were so much more intimate. They were entirely for her - and Jon, she thought with a flutter in her chest. Like letters exchanged in secret, only the ink were his kisses and the parchment her skin. 

Arya looked at her reflection then, searching for something new and exotic, painted over what had always been there. It felt only right, of course - her world had shifted on its axis so suddenly, and it called to reason that something ought to show for it. She couldn’t be the same girl that had stood in front of the mirror only a day before. 

So Arya took a deep breath, and looked again.

The same face, as usual; too long for her liking. She had never found much beauty there - Sansa and Jeyne Poole had always said that her mishmash of features were too harsh, too horse-like to ever be desirable. Arya traced her nose and her mouth, reddening as she remembered the feel of Jon’s lips against hers, warm and insistent. She tugged at the dark tangle of hair that her mother had always grieved over, and remembered Jon’s fingers grasping at it tightly as he sighed against her neck. Her body was still too thin, still too pale, but the pattern of marks, where Jon’s teeth and hands had been eager in their exploration, made her feel wilder than she ever had before. She touched each spot with a dazed smile. 

Same...but different. It wasn’t a visible change; subtle as a shadow on snow, but undeniable to her. For a moment, she thought she saw another face beside her own, winter's face, with endless dark eyes that were boundless as the skies, and shimmered like dawn's first breath. The memory of his arms about her was so strong that she thought she felt pressure on her body-

She blinked, and the illusion brushed away so she saw only herself.

“Is everything alright?” Beth’s voice echoed through the door, followed by a gentle knock. 

Disoriented at how long she’d been standing there, Arya quickly called out, “Yes, almost finished!” She darted to the tub and dunked herself under the lukewarm water. It was a soothing touch to her aching muscles, bubbles erupting from her mouth as she sighed in relief. 

Beth walked in shortly after Arya had finished washing her hair, and set about laying out a dress on the bed; a sleeveless gown in deep blue silk, edged with silver embroidery and a deep cut down the back. The material looked as fragile as wisps, and it fluttered like water at one’s touch. It was to be followed with a pair of dainty silver slippers that were made to look elegant, but were hardly durable for walking…anywhere. 

Wrapping herself up in a sheet, Arya frowned at the ensemble. “This isn’t mine.”

“Lady Sansa kindly sent one of her own dresses and slippers to your lady mother, about a moon ago. Lady Stark thought it necessary that you had a Southern dress, in case the occasion called for it.” 

Arya wrinkled her nose. “Do I have to?” she whined. “I’ll wear a stupid dress if I must, but I don’t see why I need to wear this. It’s hardly going to make a difference to Margaery Tyrell!” 

Beth gave her a look that really did remind her of Catelyn Stark. “You’re breaking your fast with Princess Margaery.” The name was said with hushed grace, the handmaiden’s eyes widening with delight. “Such opportunities are rare, my lady! This dress is in the latest style and sought by every woman in court - you’ll certainly make an impression, I’m sure of it.” 

Arya rolled her eyes and slipped on her shift quickly, before the secrets on her skin could be seen. “I don’t want to make an impression. It’s just a dumb breakfast,” she grumbled petulantly under her breath, which Beth pretended not to hear. 

The handmaiden was on a mission to present her lady, fond of her as she was, in as flattering a light as possible. Such were the strict instructions of Lady Stark, and Beth took pride in the challenge. Her lady could be as fine as the rest of them - finer, even! - if she wasn’t so bloody stubborn. 

And stubborn Arya was determined to be. 

The dress was extraordinarily pretty, she admitted, but it was so impractical. The silk was ridiculously thin, and Beth warned her that she’d tear it if she walked too quickly, or sat too quickly, or ate too quickly, or -

“What am I supposed to do then?” Arya complained, ignoring her handmaiden’s protests as she crossed her arms across her chest. Apparently she did that too quickly as well, Arya scoffed. 

“Dine with a princess,” Beth said firmly, checking the skirts. “It’s just for this morning. You’ll survive.” 

There was a short battle over the slippers, of course. 

“I am not wearing those! I can barely walk across the room!”

“You can’t wear boots with that dress, my lady! It would be a scandal!” 

“Oh, don’t be dramatic. It’s not like you can see them under the skirt, anyway!” 

“My lady, please!”

And then it came time to do her hair.

“Ouch - are you angry with me, Beth? Is that why you’re maiming me?” 

“I’m just brushing your hair.” 

Arya winced as she combed through a particularly aggressive tangle and nearly scalped her. “This fuss is ridiculous,” she told the other girl, grumpily. “All just to eat some porridge and eggs.”

Beth chuckled. “I heard from the other handmaidens that Princess Margaery’s morning routine takes no less than three girls to prepare. She’s very elegant, you know.” 

“Sansa’s in good company then,” Arya muttered, to which the other girl laughed. She fingered the dress hesitantly, letting the soft material flow between her fingers. Silk was a rarity in the North - it was never warm enough to bother with, not without bundling oneself in furs, anyway. Arya hadn’t seen Sansa since her sister had moved to Highgarden nearly three years ago. She imagined Sansa in the pretty dresses she always loved, blossoming radiantly, surrounded by princesses and ladies giggling at her every word. It had always been her element. Their mother would boast that Sansa had been the perfect lady at three. Then lamented at Arya for still not figuring it out, six-and-ten years later. 

Arya chewed on her lip. If I wed Jon, won’t I be a princess too? The thought was horrifying. 

What did princesses even do? Was she supposed to dress like this every day? Daintily bite into her eggs? Sit about preening like a stupid peacock while doing her stupid needlework. Arya barely suppressed a shudder. 

Jeyne Mallister’s vicious words came rushing back. ‘Perhaps you hope he'll marry you but...well, you're rather lacking, aren't you? He expects a princess, not a wild dog, no matter how willing it is to spread its legs.’

The marks on her skin prickled, and Arya couldn’t look at herself in the mirror anymore. She wouldn’t know half the women in attendance, but they’d surely have already heard of her. The prospect of walking into a room full of ladies who thought her some royal whore sent Arya’s blood boiling, and she wondered if it was worth her father’s ire if she skipped the whole morning, propriety be damned. 

But another echo followed, whispered to her by a prince in a godswood of dreams. ‘Everything that you are, Arya Stark, is something special. Someone special.’

A warmth spread through her body, tingling the edge of her fingers. She was being ridiculous. Jon would never ask her to be anything she wasn’t. Jon would practice swords with her, had promised a water-dancing teacher. He hadn’t cared when he’d seen her in breeches and boots, and he’d told her how much he loved her last night as her soul was laid bare. 

Jon would always want her, even if no one else would. 

And really, it couldn’t all be tea parties and needlework, could it? Rhaenys and Visenya had conquered the entire realm with swords and dragons. Alysanne had brought about all sorts of reforms, changing the world irreversibly as she did so. Nymeria had sailed across the sea with ten thousand ships and a hundred times as many loyal men, and well, if they could do it, why couldn’t she? 

‘We can always change the rules, and no one can stop us,’ she had told Jon, once. ‘That’s going to be me someday.’

It will be. I’ll make it so. Jon and I could do it together. We could be whatever we want to be.

’Princess’ sounded ridiculous. But a warrior princess? Well, didn’t that sound promising?

Far happier with the outlook, Arya perked up visibly and only slightly winced when Beth tore through another knot. “I suppose I could tolerate one morning,” she announced dramatically, which made Beth laugh. 

They fell into companionable silence, save for the occasional tearing sound of her hair rebelling against the brush - and winning. Arya busied herself by daydreaming of Jon by her side, sitting through council meetings, travelling the realm together, visiting the Wall and Winterfell. Wrapped up in one another every night. That made her blush. 

Beth glimpsed at her trance-like smile in the mirror, “Good thoughts, I hope?” 

“The very best,” Arya grinned at her. “Perhaps being a princess isn’t the absolute worst thing in the world. In certain circumstances, of course.” 

Her handmaiden giggled. “Lady Sansa would never believe such words would ever come from your mouth, my lady.” She parted Arya’s hair in divisions, and set about braiding it carefully. “I imagine princesses have the greatest fun. All these feasts and dancing and handsome knights, seeking your favour.” She reddened prettily. “And meeting all sorts of folk, like nobles from the East and the finest actors and artists and having them teach you whatever you wanted and-” Beth cleared her throat all of a sudden, “-not that I dream of such silliness, of course.” 

Arya watched her thoughtfully. Beth could be a princess, she mused, with her long golden locks and her sweet, heart-shaped face. As could Bessa, who was extraordinarily pretty, but forced to be a courtesan, or Graycie, who wanted to be a lady someday, while her sister, Milah, wished to write a hundred wonderful books to be sold in every shop in the kingdoms. They all wanted more, and deserved to be more. It didn’t seem fair that those doors were firmly shut to them - or her, for that matter. 

Arya had never dreamed of being a princess; she’d imagined herself building castles, or being a High Septon, or even a king’s councillor, but certainly never a princess. She’d once told Robb all her fancies when she was nine, to which her older brother had snorted and said, “Girls can’t do any of that. You’re a lady, Arya, don’t you know?” 

Lady, Princess - neither title felt like enough on its own. As if it was only part of the picture; and Arya sought more. She had always sought more. 

“Beth,” she began, ashamed that it was to be her very first time asking such a thing, “if you could be anything in the world, what would it be?”

Her handmaiden hummed noncommittally, focused on the plait. “I take great pride in serving you, my lady.” 

“That’s not what I was asking. And you can’t tell me you’ve always wanted to argue about dresses with me. Go on, I really do want to know.” 

Beth pursed her lips and snuck a quick glance at her through the mirror. “Well,” she began quietly, “there was a time - when I was much younger, you know, as a little girl - when I thought, um, I wouldn’t mind doing a little painting for a living.” 

“Painting?” Arya repeated in surprise. “I’ve never seen you paint! Are you very good? I bet you are! Could I see it sometime?“ 

Beth blushed deeply, fighting a smile. “I don’t practice often, but whenever I have a moment. I’ve just started with portraits, actually,” she confessed. “There’s a merchant who comes by Winter Town every few moons, and he has the prettiest paints, and I try to save enough to buy some. Oh, my lady, you should see the blues he has, they’re exquisite!” 

The girl grew far more animated than Arya had ever seen her in the seven years they had spent with one another, gushing about colours and palettes and other such things that Arya knew little about. It was a sight to see, and she felt a rush of affection for her friend. 

As Beth tied a ribbon around the ends of her braid, Arya spun in her seat to give Beth a meaningful look. “If you want to be a painter, you should be a painter,” she declared. “You shouldn’t be wasting your time dealing with me. I can’t believe you never said a word about this before!”

The smile in response was both sweet and pitying in equal measure. “Women don’t become painters, my lady,” she explained patiently. “It’s never been done before. It’s a silly little dream. It’s not real.” 

“Then make it real! You could be the first!” 

Beth laughed kindly as she reached into her dress pocket for a thick, blue ribbon. “I wish it were that simple,” she told her. “Besides, I do so enjoy being with you, you know. Never a dull moment, is there?” With that, she reached out and tied the ribbon around Arya’s neck. 

To hide the bruising from the guard, Arya realised, that had turned into a sickly-greenish colour as it healed. She’d nearly forgotten about it, in light of the (more enjoyable) bruises she had elsewhere. She squeezed Beth’s hand in gratitude. 

“Well,” Arya announced, jumping up to her feet, “I’m not going anywhere. I intend to be the very first person in the world to be painted by a woman, and pay her handsomely for it. And quite frankly, you’re just going to have to go along it, because that’s an order. Does that sound alright with you?” 

Beth beamed, her entire face glowing. “I suppose there’s no use in arguing,” she laughed. 

“Absolutely not-”

Jon’s voice smashed through the link like a barrage of arrows, shattering and loud and overwhelming. Arya shuddered, stumbling, only barely feeling Beth grasp at her elbow to stop her from falling. 

For a moment, her body wasn’t hers; it was heavy and burning and cold at the same time. Gods, oh Gods, she had never felt this, this sense of near-floating high of emotion. It was if nothing else existed, nothing beyond this white-hot rage and she couldn’t remember ever feeling anything but this. 

And just as suddenly as it came, it vanished. Arya drew a deep breath, and opened her mouth to reply to Beth’s frantic questions-

This time, it was louder, and a fireball exploded in her chest, his voice all around her, hacking at her like she were a dummy on a training ground. 

The world about her receded, and for the first time since they were bonded, since that first blazing moment in the tunnel, Arya felt completely and utterly helpless. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but endure. Jon’s rage had reached every part of her being, dragging her down, and she was sinking, sinking -

‘What’s happened?’ she thought desperately at him. There was no need to reach far for his mind; he was twined with her own so intimately. 

Never ask me this again.

It’s not going to happen.

No. No. No, no, no, nonononononononono -

The room spun around her in a dizzying whirl, the painted dragons on the walls becoming wispy red and orange blurs that flitted and danced before her vision. Between the streaks, she saw the King’s face, ageing through the years, his mouth repeatedly whispering, ‘No,’ over and over.

Duty, duty, do your duty, die for your duty, live for your duty, it’s never enough, it’s never going to change, never leave, never leave, neverleaveneverleaveneverleave- 

Arya realised that she was gasping for breath in a world filled with air. Willpower. That was all it took. Push it away, push it back, though it weighed more than broken dreams and borrowed time; she had to, she needed to, otherwise she’d collapse under the tsunami. She’d be of no help if she was trapped, so Arya shoved their connection away as hard as she could.

Little by little, she felt reality flow back in, until she could see Beth’s worried expression, until she was sure her head wouldn’t burst with the effort. 

Had it only been a few minutes? Arya felt as exhausted as if she’d been in battle for hours. Jon’s voice ebbed away in a cool tide, leaving her a moment’s breath to figure out what went wrong, whether he was alright, what had -

It was as if their souls had collided, and the shock of it knocked her to her knees. Cold, a great cold and moving rush about her - and it set her head aflame. 

Jon

(Hecanonlyhurtyouifyoulethimandyouaretiredsotiredsodonewithitall)

please

(You’vetriedtopretendthathingscouldbedifferentandyou’vetriedtopretendthatyouaren’tdyingeverydayeverydaybecauseyouwereweakweakweakbutnotanymore)

stop

(AreyouproudofmefatherhaveIfinallylearnedtherestraintyoualwayswanted)

The pressure suddenly lessened, and Arya could tell her thoughts from Jon’s again. But a single echo rang through her consciousness, pushing through the drowning darkness like a string of bubbles and setting her nerves on edge:

‘Am I quiet enough for you yet, Father?’

Chapter Text

Jaime Lannister slept deeply, vulnerable in whatever dreams moved his lips and flexed his hands. The sun was hidden away by thick shutters, and the world by a closed door. Only his armour, strewn about haphazardly on the floor, flashed in the dim room. If a small portrait was thrown somewhere in the corner, well, who would notice in the shadows? 

In the light, it might have been a woman, with hair as blonde as his own, posing perfectly like a queen from the songs, with false smiles and glimmering green eyes. 

Jaime had spent a good deal of the evening before, as he stood guard at Jon’s door, thinking about Cersei Lannister - thinking, remembering, mourning. Jon’s question about Cassandra Reed had unlocked a wave of emotions that Jaime had been entirely unprepared to deal with. Flashes of memories had arisen; of him and Cersei wandering around the royal library while Tywin had been Hand, looking for a secret place for a tryst. There was the discovery of a journal that had felt like the words of an old friend, of someone who understood. There was the start of his uncertainty, of their future unravelling, when Cersei had seen how the bond could be broken and tore out the pages before Jaime could read them properly. 

You don’t need that, she had said, so calmly. We belong together, forever.

But Jaime had figured it out, in the end. Quite accidentally, too. He had woken up one day, after the very last time he’d seen her, and found himself alone in his head for the first time in six-and-ten years.

It had been…frightening. 

I should tell him in the morning, Jaime had decided then. He needs to understand what his choice means.

The boy had taken him by surprise, asking him about the book so suddenly. Damn him, Jaime had intended for Jon to find out in such a manner that would be impossible to deny. To be given freely that which Jaime had been forced to learn all on his own; the truth, honest and bare-faced as it was, laid out in the words of a dead woman from centuries past. 

Only for him to not even read the stupid book. The audacity! It wasn’t like Jaime just handed out presents like some moron. 

But that was all for later. 

Now, he wanted to sleep. 

And he was lost in it, as he so often was when he was exhausted and had been forced to stay awake all evening. So he didn't appreciate the niggling sound that was distracting him from fantasies of a clean, seductive smile and legs that went on for miles and miles - 

“Lannister.” 

He could feel himself waking and he scrabbled for slumber, back to foggy fantasies and her...

“Up and at ‘em, Jaime. Let’s go.” 

No – it was sliding away from him and the annoying sound was resolving into something teeth-grindingly familiar...he could feel the covers around him, feel the pillow on his cheek – there was no way it was already time for his shift, so why was he being woken? 

“Oi, Lannister! I’m not your damn servant - get your arse up or I’ll have Whent sit on you again.” 

Oh. 

Jaime opened a bleary eye. “That’s a cruel threat,” he grumbled. “It’s not my shift yet. What time is it?” 

Arthur Dayne was looming over him, wearing a cat-like grin. “Time for you to get dressed. The Queen’s given us some work to do.” 

“But I was child-minding all night. I’ve barely slept.”

Arthur’s look said more than a dozen sharp words. “Well, get used to it. You’ll be doing it again all day. Queen’s orders. She’s doubled the guard and Gerold wants to brief us downstairs on our new schedules. Up you get now.” He made an impatient motion which had Jaime muttering darkly as he rolled out of bed. 

It was a few seconds before his brain caught up to what he’d heard. “Doubled the guard?” he repeated. “Why?” 

The older knight shrugged as he moved towards the door. “You know the drill, Lannister. We follow orders, we don’t question them. I’ll see you downstairs. Oh and,” Arthur smirked cheekily, “try not to spend too long on your hair again. We don’t have an hour to waste.” 

“That was one time!” Jaime called after him, Arthur’s laughter ringing down the corridor. 

“Can a man not have a moment to himself?” he complained at his reflection, strapping his white cloak to his back. “I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?” 

oOo

Rickon was bored. 

He had already been awake for twenty minutes, dressed quickly, inhaled his breakfast - and now, had nothing to do until the final joust, nearly three hours later. 

Rickon had always thought the tourney would be more exciting than it had been. It seemed that he mostly did a lot of waiting around for a few hours of jousting, where he was forced to watch prissy doled-up knights poke at one another until they daintily fell off a horse. It was excruciatingly dull. Where was the violence? The drama? The screams? 

The most excitement had been Prince Jon’s injury, and Rickon still hadn’t seen any blood or mangled limbs. Truth be told, the whole thing seemed like an overreaction. It was probably just a bruise that the fancy prince couldn’t handle. Robb would have walked it off, Rickon thought sullenly. Robb would have wiped the floor with everyone and made it fun to watch. Not that Rickon would say it out loud, of course. Arya would have his head. 

Arya, who was off being a stupid lady somewhere, having some stupid breakfast with some stupid princess. And that’s when she wasn’t busy giving moon eyes to some stupid prince who Rickon hadn’t decided if he cared for, yet. 

He couldn’t help but resent Prince Jon for what was happening with Arya. What was happening to all of them. If the prince had just…not paid attention to his sister, maybe Arya wouldn’t have bruises on her neck, maybe Rickon wouldn’t have to keep so many secrets, maybe their father wouldn’t look so sad all the time, maybe maybe maybe -

Rickon sighed. This was going nowhere, and he’d just end up ruining his day with worry. It certainly didn’t resolve the very pressing problem he had at the moment.

“I’m booored,” he sang as he trotted across their bedchamber, eyeing his father at the table, writing away. 

“You’re always bored,” Ned said, not looking up from his letters. He was frowning at the parchment when he caught Rickon peering over his shoulder curiously. “Just some affairs that need handling,” he explained. “The Manderleys have lost some of their grain to wild animals and need our support. Robb has written for advice. Would you care to read it?” 

“Not really.” Rickon wandered back to the window sill.

His father tittered behind him. “You’re going to have to take an interest eventually,” he pointed out with a raised brow. “Someday, you’ll be lord of your own keep. It’s never too early to learn how to manage one’s affairs.” 

Rickon huffed and pressed his nose against the window, watching his breath fog up the glass. With one finger, he started drawing patterns from it. “I don’t want to be a lord. It’s dull,” he whined.

“Then perhaps a knight then?” Ned offered. “Like those at the jousts?” 

Rickon snorted. “They’re all idiots in pretty armour. I bet none of them have ever been in a real fight before. I’m surprised they can even swing a sword! I’ll pass.” 

He heard Ned sigh softly. “The Night’s Watch, then? A ranger like your uncle. It’s an honourable role, one the Starks have served for thousands of-”

His son wrinkled his nose. “They smell bad. Uncle Benjen is fine, but Yoren always smells like stale piss. The men he takes with him smell even worse. No, thank you.” 

“Rickon, you’re impossible.”

“No, just perpetually disappointed.” 

“So young, and yet, so jaded,” Ned laughed. “Tales of blood and betrayal at tourneys are always greatly exaggerated. I assume this one hasn’t met your expectations?” 

Rickon listened to his father chuckle to himself as he turned back to his letters, choosing instead to stare outside. There was a great bustling in the courtyard below, with large groups of guards marching across, servants scuttling out of their way. He caught glimpses of Kingsguard barking orders and the curious faces of guests watching the commotion as they strolled by. Likely in preparation of the feast, Rickon thought idly, to keep any maniacs from breaking in. He almost hoped one would, just to watch the Kingsguard deal with the threat. So far, he hadn’t even seen one of them draw their sword yet. What was the point? 

“Done,” Ned proclaimed, shuffling the parchments together. “Now, how about we head into the city? Maybe find something nice for your mother?” 

Rickon peeled his forehead off the window and beamed at his father. “Can I find a gift for Sansa’s babe, too? I have the perfect idea.” 

Ned opened the door and levelled his son a dry look as they walked out. “You’re not buying him a dagger, Rickon.” 

“Well, can I buy myself a-”

“No.” 

oOo

Aegon hadn’t meant to snoop around Jon’s empty bedchamber. Really, he hadn’t meant to speak to Jon that morning at all. But with everything that had happened, with Arya Stark and Rhaenys and their father - Aegon had found himself outside his brother’s door. It was a habit, he supposed. Jon had always been the calm seas to his hurricanes, offering a placid word or a jape that made Aegon feel a little better, a little more at ease. 

It was the first time that the source of his anxiety was Jon himself. 

When did you start hiding things from me? 

The question had been rattling around Aegon’s head incessantly for two days now, and standing outside Jon’s room had driven him to decide that he was going to find the answer, now or never. 

There was no response when he’d knocked, and he found it empty when he’d pushed the door open. Too restless to do anything else, he’d decided to sit patiently and wait for his brother’s return. 

He plopped down on the unmade bed, dropped his chin into his hand, and tried very hard not to dwell on the fact that he might have just broken his sister’s heart and would possibly lose his brother in the foreseeable future. 

What was he feeling? Anger had come and gone. Grief had flitted by. Apprehension was a bird on the wing, and desolation a half-hearted fling. He had been grazed by emotion, and the marks had faded except for fear and sorrow, which were a double-edged blade made of eternity. 

Too many things had happened that weren’t supposed to happen, and what was supposed to come about had not. Happiness for the next stage of his manhood, at the prospects of a new family - amongst other things - were supposed to be getting closer, but it had never felt further away. 

Aegon had been trying to make his way through it all, towards something. He’d been so desperately hopeful that something could be built, mended, grown from the ashes. He was going to be wed. He was going to create guilds for the people. He was going to be a husband, a father, a king. The war was supposed to be a distant memory, Lyanna’s name a whisper in passing. 

But where it was supposed to expand, his world felt like it was shrinking. There was no comfort to having a world so small; it centred solely around his parents and Jon, and the ghost that haunted all of them. It felt like Aegon was just a bystander, like he’d been forgotten. Rhaenys, too, even if she refused to see it. 

‘I am both free and imprisoned. Indispensable, yet utterly invisible. I am not so much myself as I am a character, a performer in a play whose lines have already been written,’ he had said, so many days ago (had it only been days? How everything had changed.) The words had never rung more true. 

Aegon rubbed at his face viciously, hoping to claw his thoughts out of his head. With a sigh, he dropped his eyes to the floor, frowning when he caught a piece of white fabric sticking out from underneath that looked…familiar. 

Gingerly, he picked it up with his forefinger and thumb. It was a woman’s undergarment.

“That little shit,” Aegon murmured with a half-hearted snort. Shaking his head ruefully, he threw the smallclothes back under the bed, careful to nudge it out of sight, and swung to his feet. The restlessness had returned in full-force - as it would, when one learned that one’s chaste little brother might have just fucked a Great Lord’s daughter that he was possibly in love with, while betrothed to another. 

He idly roamed around the chamber, prodding at things. Jon’s taste had always been too bland for Aegon, his possessions sparse. There wasn’t any book lying half-read on the nightstand, no souvenirs littered on the shelves. Just his sword propped up against the grey wall and some parchment thrown carelessly on his desk. One would think the room belonged to a guest, not a boy and man raised in these walls for twenty years. 

Curious, Aegon wandered over to the desk to read the parchments. They were lightly creased, as if someone had rolled and unrolled it repeatedly. The handwriting was rushed, but seemed oddly familiar; a ghost of his own, not quite as slanted and with the t’s crossed with barely any flourish. Peering closer, Aegon caught the heading. 

PROPOSAL FOR NIGHT’S WATCH RECRUITMENT 

“He didn’t,” Aegon whispered, aghast.

The King’s letter flashed in his memory; an assignment to propose a new strategy for finding more criminals to join the Night’s Watch, which Aegon had dismissed. It had been given to him two weeks before the tourney would begin, and Aegon had planned to visit all the brothels in the city, to check on them after six moons away and before the deluge of guests would arrive in King’s Landing. He hadn’t the time for his father’s stupid pity project, some sort of test to see if Aegon was responsible and cared about the realm. 

Who even bothered with the Night’s Watch anyway? Rapists and murderers on some frozen wall, a thousand miles away, when the smallfolk in the city were suffering, right under their noses. He’d ignored the assignment because he was making a point, damn it. What was Jon playing at? 

“I see you made yourself comfortable.” 

Aegon jumped, dropping the parchments in his hand. 

He'd known who the owner of the voice was the moment it spoke, his brows already drawing together. He'd heard it so often, after all, and was astute enough to hear echoes of himself in it; that ringing dry humour, and even a shadow of his arrogance. 

Jon was leaning against the closed door, arms folded with an unreadable expression. 

“I was waiting for you,” Aegon replied hurriedly. “I think we need to talk.”

“What happened to your eye?” A crack in the veneer; Jon was staring at the bruise with open concern. 

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Nothing,” Aegon lied. “Happened in the joust yesterday. Leave it.” 

“It looks like someone punched you in the face.” 

“I said, leave it,” he insisted. “That’s not what I’m here to talk about.”

Jon surveyed him for a moment with a frown, before scoffing. “Get on with it, then. I haven’t got all day.” 

The clipped tones in his voice took Aegon aback, but he moved past it. There were more important issues at hand. 

He suddenly found himself floundering for words. He, the poet with romance on his tongue, was speechless. How does one even go about asking their brother about their supposed soulmate in a tactful manner, anyway? 

So Aegon went with tactless. Straight-forward, honest, and left little room for doubt. “Did you fuck Lord Stark’s daughter?” 

Jon’s face was inexpressive, cold, and unyielding, as though there were ice, not blood, in his veins. “Her name is Arya. And I fail to see how that’s any of your concern.” 

Disbelief spiralled up through his veins at the sheer casualness of the response. It was so unlike the Jon he knew that Aegon barked out an incredulous laugh. “I’ll take that as a yes. I suppose this means I owe you a celebration. For no longer being a maiden, remember?” 

A wry smile quirked Jon’s lips. “Across all the kingdoms, you said. Don’t think I’ve forgotten.”

They broke out into quiet laughter, the oddly frozen air between them thawing. It felt good, comfortable, like a scene that had been played a thousand times over. 

Jon stopped before he did, his grin fading to a shade. His face became a tableau of planes and hollows coloured in grey and shadows, wondrous as a death mask. He had a desperate and hungry look about him, Aegon thought, and the image unsettled him. 

Slowly, he stepped into the room and sank onto his bed, his expression blank. 

“Jon?” Aegon edged forward, tentative. “Are you alright?” 

“No.” There was a bitter twist to his mouth, and the grey light disappeared as he closed his eyes. “Father’s arranged my betrothal. He expects me to do my duty, but I can’t. I won’t. Not anymore.” 

“Jon-”

“I love her,” he said, softly. “I’m not letting her go. Aegon, what am I going to do?” 

It was almost painful to look at Jon; his eyes were so haunted, so full of yearning, and they bore into Aegon with the desperation of a boy expecting his older sibling to fix everything, to tell him that it would be alright. 

Aegon didn’t know if it could be, if it had ever been alright. But they were brothers; they had spent twenty years navigating the world together. He wasn’t about to leave Jon wandering alone in the dark now. 

With a sigh, he moved to sit next to him on the bed and clapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll figure something out,” Aegon told him, quietly. “But you need to be patient. Don’t do anything stupid. Once the tourney is over-”

“She’ll be gone then!” Jon exclaimed. “It could be too late. What if I can’t see her again?”

“I’ll make sure you do. I promise you, I will.” He nudged him with an elbow. “I can’t say I’m not a little pissed you kept all this from me, though. I might have been able to do something sooner.” 

Jon shrugged, a little helpless. “I didn’t even know what this was, until recently.” He ran a frantic hand through his hair, shaking. “It all just…happened so quickly. But I know it’s her. It will always be her. I won’t let her go, Egg. I can’t.”

“Alright, alright, you love her, I get it. Don’t break into song now,” Aegon grinned. He stood and moved towards the window with his hands in his pockets, glancing out at the calm morning sky. “But you can’t afford to make any hasty mistakes. You’re not just dealing with the King here, but Tywin and Stannis. Hardly known for their forgiving nature. I’m not sure Eddard Stark’s in your court, either, to be frank. There’s a lot at risk, brother mine, if you’re certain she’s worth the trouble.” 

“Is that so?” Jon’s voice sounded strange. In hindsight, Aegon should have seen that as a warning. 

But he didn’t. 

“Stark, Lannister and Baratheon.” Aegon whistled. “You really hit the trifecta of men not to piss off, huh?” He chuckled to himself. “Could be worse - could be a damn Frey, or one of those strange swamp dwellers in the Neck. Imagine that?” 

The room fell into silence, darker than a grave. Bemused, Aegon cast a glance at his brother over his shoulder. 

Jon was standing now, and his eyes were frozen over, the deadly cold of an ice-sheet. “I never mentioned who I was betrothed to,” he said in a voice so leeched of emotion, that Aegon knew he was boiling over with it. 

“Jon, I-”

“How long have you known?” 

“I didn’t-”

“How long, Aegon?” 

There was little point in a charade, so he dropped it with a sigh. “Not long, I swear. The night you were in the city with Arya Stark-”

“Two days,” Jon whispered, his voice curiously dead. “You’ve known about…about it for two days. And you didn’t tell me.”

“It’s not that simple,” Aegon said defensively, feeling a gulf widening between them, and powerless to prevent it. “This had nothing to do with me. This was the King’s decision; I wasn’t going to be the one to tell you because I barely understand what’s happening myself! Do you have any idea what sort of shitshow this entire ordeal has created? Like fuck me, Jon, if I knew losing your maidenhood would set everything on fire, I wouldn’t have mocked you for it so much.” 

“You’re fucking unbelievable!” Jon snapped. He raked his hands through his hair. “Who else knows about this? Rhaenys?” 

He hesitated. That was all it took. One blink, one breath, one beat - and it was all ashes, bitter ashes. 

Despite the blood-red colours in his clothes, his brother had never seemed so cold to Aegon. “Of course, who else would have suggested Myrcella Baratheon? You’ve all known this whole time, and I’ve - I’m such a fucking idiot.” The storm went supernova in his eyes. “You bastards,” he said in an awful, quiet voice that stunned Aegon to his core. “Oh Gods, you bastards, how could you?” 

Tiny threads of white threatened to move down his face in a train of fire, and if he hadn’t been so utterly staggered, Aegon might have seen the vulnerability in his expression, the icy realisation dawning on his face. 

“Don’t be so harsh on Rhaenys,” he began quietly, cat-careful. “She didn’t know what Arya Stark meant to you. And Father can be relentless when he wants to be. We’re on your side, Jon. We always have been. Nothing’s changed.” 

“Hasn’t it?” Jon’s voice was like raw silk, agonisingly bare, as though he had stripped himself of all feeling. “We haven’t been close for a long time, brother.” 

The barb went home, and Aegon stepped back. “Why would you say that? It’s not true.” Hurt welled up inside him, and he tried to stamp it down. He'd learned the hard way that getting angry made him more vulnerable, less effective. It made it that much easier to say what he didn’t mean, and not say what he’d wanted to all along. 

Jon chuckled, but it was a dry rasping sound. “Right, because you tell me everything, do you?” 

“What’s that supposed to-”

“Why wouldn’t you tell me about the brothels, Egg? That you weren’t fucking these women, but - what was it? Fighting for them? Buying them clothes and playing with their children? What the fuck is that about? Who the fuck are you?”

Aegon rocked back on his heels and stared, dumbfounded, at his brother. “You really want to get into this? Now, of all times?” he demanded. He gave a short, incredulous laugh. “You can’t be serious. This is what you want to talk about?” 

When Jon said nothing, Aegon shook his head in disbelief. “Of all the - fine, if you insist. You want the truth? You don’t know what it’s like, living up to your expectations, Jon. You’re so like Father sometimes, it’s fucking unreal. There’s no room to make mistakes with you. I might not be fucking a whore today, but that doesn’t mean I won’t tomorrow. If I told you the truth, and slipped up, I’d never hear the end of it. It was just easier to let you believe that I was some fuck-up to begin with.” 

He marched over to the desk and grabbed the offending parchments to shove under his brother’s nose. “Because that’s what you think of me, that I’m some moron that can’t do anything right. We both know it. The proof’s right here in my fucking hands! Is that what you want to hear?” 

He wasn’t sure what reaction he was expecting, but it wasn’t Jon rolling his eyes and groaning to himself. “Enough with the theatrics, I had to endure it with Father already.” His smile was crocodile and full of derision. “I don’t take you seriously, Egg, because you’ve done nothing to earn that respect. You’ve had everything handed to you; a birthright to a throne, your mother’s golden child, the chance to do more than just exist. Instead, you blame Father or me because you can’t measure up and pretend that it’s everyone’s fault but yours. You’ll forgive me if I have no pity to throw your way.” 

Fury blazed in Aegon’s chest. The burning was now hard to ignore. “Of course, I forgot who I was speaking to,” he snapped, mockingly. “My apologies, was I stealing your thunder as the wretchedest sod in the castle? Poor Jon, no one’s ever suffered as he has. Poor Jon, so sad, so brooding, because life is so terrible and no one knows what it’s like for him. Nevermind that Rhaenys and I didn’t choose our betrothal, or were ever asked what we wanted. Nevermind he’s a fucking prince and so dear to the King that an army was sent out to fetch his precious Highness - because Seven forbid little Jon should be in danger. Is the silver spoon not to your taste, brother dear?” 

Jon turned away, frustration quivering in every line of his body. When he spoke again, his voice was furiously quiet. “Get out, or I swear to Gods, I’m going to do something I’ll regret.” 

“Have it your way,” his brother muttered, and his voice rang from the walls, though he wasn’t nearly loud enough. His hand was on the doorknob when Aegon looked over at Jon’s silhouette, softened by the daylight streaming through the window. The memories of before, who they were at the beginning - two princes sprinting through the palace together, laughing and sparring and hiding - were quickly becoming only vague blurs of colour, hovering at the edge of what they had become. Had it really been so long ago? 

He should have left quietly, then. If Aegon had been a touch less angry, he might have. But his fury was so consuming, it left little space for logic. And everything that once was infinitely far and unsayable was now at the tip of his tongue and right here in the room.

“My wedding is in two days,” he whispered, against his better judgement. But the words were stuck in his chest, and he needed to get them out, if only to breathe a little easier. “This tourney, all this fanfare, it was supposed to be a celebration - for us. Instead, there’s only one name I hear, only one name everyone cares about. Lyanna.” The last syllables were nearly spat out. 

Jon’s face was like marble, frozen and unreadable. “Don’t mention my mother.” 

Aegon mouth twisted. “No, of course not, I wouldn’t dare speak of oh-so-precious Lyanna. Every moment of my life has been shadowed by the bitch, but sure, I’ll stay-”

Crack. 

oOo

“Can I buy a knife belt?”

“No. You don’t carry knives.”

“But maybe I could, if I had a belt-”

“No.” 

“Can I buy a spear?”

“Why do you need a spear?”

“For hunting. Maybe I’ll be a hunter. Maybe I’ll be the greatest hunter in history, but only if I had a Dornish spear that could only be purchased here, in King’s Landing, on this very day. I thought you wanted me to be successful?”

“Rickon, for the love of your forefathers, enough.” 

Rickon humphed and folded his arms across his chest as he sullenly followed Ned down the corridor. What was the point of shopping if he couldn’t even buy what he wanted? Perhaps Rickon had it all wrong - if he were rich, he’d have all the coin he wanted to buy any damn spear or belt or dagger that took his fancy. And no one could say otherwise. 

It was then that Rickon Stark decided he was going to be extremely wealthy, in whatever form that took. Let his father try and stop him, then. He could build an entire army of only the very best knights in the realm, holding every exotic weapon across the world. That was the sort of future he could definitely get behind. 

Grinning at his daydreams, he happily trotted after his father. 

“We’ll send these off first,” Ned declared, indicating the rolls of letters in his hand, “then we can ride to the markets. Perhaps try some of that famous fish Jory won’t stop hammering about-”

There was a sudden crash as a door slammed open and shut somewhere around the corner. A string of furious curses followed, growing steadily louder, and more nasally. 

“-fucking bullshit-”

“-just had to mention his mother, like a fucking moron-”

“-fuck me, that hurt-”

Ned and Rickon gaped as Prince Aegon stormed into view, clutching his nose and with a swollen eye. There were rolls of parchment crumpled in his fist. 

He skidded to a halt when he saw them, his violet eyes widening. “Lord Stark,” he greeted, as dignified as he could be with blood dripping down his face. “I trust you’re well?”

“Your Grace!” Ned exclaimed in alarm. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, handing it over to the grateful prince. “What happened?” 

Prince Aegon unceremoniously shoved the cloth up his nose and winced. On a closer look, his nose was broken, with his mouth and chin were streaked with blood. The front of his tunic was splattered with red droplets, blurring into the crimson trimmings. One of his eyes was swollen and framed with purple bruises. 

The handkerchief was steadily growing darker already as the prince bestowed a manic grin at them. “Oh, you know, carrying on an old tradition.” 

Ned raised his brows. “Tradition?“ he repeated dryly. 

“My wedding’s in two days, as you know. Which means my face,” he waved a hand over the mess, “is open season! All for good luck!” Prince Aegon turned to Rickon suddenly and clapped a cheerful hand on his shoulder. “You look like a strong boy. I’ve got still one good eye. Fancy a crack at it? Everyone’s had a go, so why the fuck not?” 

There was something insane about his expression, but Rickon wasn’t one to turn down an invitation. Eagerly, he stepped forward - but was shoved back quickly by his father and given a glare for good measure. “I think, Your Grace, it may be best to see a Maester,” Ned said gently. “Your nose looks broken and the blood loss may be…affecting you, somewhat. Would you like an escort?” 

As Prince Aegon raised both hands to gingerly prod at his face, the rolls of parchment tumbled to the floor. He didn’t bother to look. “Fucker has a good swing, I’ll give him that,” he murmured to himself, flinching when a finger prodded his nose. “Much obliged, Lord Stark, but I’ll take it from here. If you see my sister, tell her she’s welcome to take a shot at me, if she likes. Seven knows she’s wanted to for long enough, and I’d hate for her to feel left out.” 

With a smile filled with blood that might have been charming on any other occasion, but gave him a deranged look, he stormed off.

“Wait!” Rickon called, snatching up the parchments on the floor. “You forgot this!” 

“Keep it!” the prince responded. “Or burn it, who even gives a fuck anymore?” 

Father and son watched him leave in befuddled silence, turning to glance at one another only when he’d slipped out of sight. 

“This is a weird place,” Rickon finally declared. “Is that supposed to be our next King?” 

“Aye,” Ned nodded with a peculiar frown. “That’s the one.” 

“I can’t wait to tell Robb that I almost punched the future King in the face.” 

“You will tell him no such thing,” his father chastised. 

“But he offered!” 

“It was rhetorical, son.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” Rickon huffed. His father took the fun out of everything. Pouting, he looked down at the parchment in his hands and made a face. “Gross, he bled all over this.” 

There were droplets of crimson spattered across the rolls, and Rickon was quick to hand them over to his father with a grimace. Ned carefully unfolded one and read the first line, his brows raising into his hairline. “This is about the Night’s Watch,” he said, surprised. “And its recruitment.” Quietly, he resumed their walk down the corridor, Rickon on his heels, skimming through the writing with interest. “A promising idea,” he murmured. “Certainly worth looking further into…”

Ned trailed off, thinking aloud to himself as he read further. Rickon stopped listening, too busy imagining how upset Arya was going to be when he told her she’d missed a chance to potentially punch a future King in the face. Perhaps this tourney wouldn’t end in total disaster, after all. 

Chapter Text

“Are you quite sure you don’t need to lie down?” Beth whispered in her ear as they followed the palace guard.

“I said I’m fine,” Arya rushed, reddening. “It was just…the heat, that’s all. I won’t have you fret over me all day.” 

The truth was far from it. Arya desperately didn’t want to be alone, not without distraction, after being swept away so suddenly by Jon’s anger. After all that had happened, she had fallen into a false sense of security; that their bond - golden, bright, beautiful - wouldn’t offer anymore surprises. They were in control, they had learned the truth, Jon was her soulmate. Wasn’t that enough? 

‘This thread that binds us hath becometh a noose around mine neck,’ Cassandra’s diary had said. Arya had thought so once, too, but everything was different now. It was, it was, it had to be. 

And yet - there she had been. Snared like a sparrow in a cage of sunlight; a small, helpless thing in a golden, sparkling mesh that was more than just a dream. It was imprisonment. 

Jon had hardly responded to her, either. It was like he was hidden behind a fog, but she sensed every flicker of his dark mood. The anger was so hard to ignore, the rage, the burning. There were no words, no real thoughts, only this. She wondered if it was why he couldn’t hear her, like she’d been yelling into a void for the last half hour. 

And then the pull. The need to find him, to see if he was safe and alright was driving her to near madness. It was as if she were made of a thousand different strings, and something was yanking at them harshly, making her body feel strange and uncomfortable. 

Find him, that voice whispered, that damned voice that had bedded down so deeply into her mind, she couldn’t tell it apart from her own thoughts. Find him, find him, find him - 

I know, she told it. I’m trying. 

He was supposed to be with his father, but Arya had reasoned to herself that barging into the King’s solar was perfectly acceptable for someone in her frantic state, and she’d offer all the necessary apologies later. She had even torn open her bedroom door to run off, to Beth’s shock, when she’d found two palace guards waiting patiently to take her to Princess Margaery. 

Disgruntled and swallowing down the hysteria, she had followed. They would have stopped her before she made it halfway to the King, anyway, she thought sourly. 

As they approached a large golden door, Arya shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself. If Beth noticed her face pale, she said nothing. 

“I’ll be alright,” she told her handmaiden again. “Go on, I’ll see you soon.” 

With a quick squeeze of her hand, Beth curtseyed and left. 

“Princess Margaery is just through there, my lady,” one of the guards said with a bow. “We must attend to our posts now. Good day.” 

With a nod, she watched them march down the corridor and thought, yes, perhaps she could slip away now and look for Jon and no one would -

The door opened. 

“There you are!” a cheerful voice exclaimed. “Ladies, our guest of honour has arrived!” 

With a wince, Arya turned to see Margaery Tyrell standing in the door, one hand resting on the frame, the other holding a cup. A wide smile curled her lips as she beckoned. 

The dress she wore was made of a pale gold silk that pooled at her feet and gleamed against her skin. Her brown hair was strung with sparkling gems and pinned perfectly back, with soft strands gently brushing either side of her heart-shaped face. She was strikingly beautiful, there was no doubt about it. Her dark eyes had a hint of hypnotism matched by a sultry voice, and the sunlight hanging around her silhouette put her features in soft, stunning relief. 

Astoundingly, Arya felt underdressed and unsurprisingly, wildly unprepared. Feeling far too much like she was walking to a chopping block, she followed the princess in. 

To say she was blindsided by the glamour of a celebration breakfast by Margaery Tyrell would be an understatement. 

Beneath a ceiling of jewels and crystals that sparkled like bubbling champagne, a vast rainbow of colours greeted her eyes where dozens of flowers hung around the room, filling the air with sweetness. Large stone vases towered in every corner, nearly as high as the ceiling, and intricately carved with glittering gemstones. One side was an open veranda, overlooking the vast palace gardens. It was there that a long, decorated table sat, piled high with food and more flowers. Twelve ladies sat around it, dressed in their finest and sparkling under the brushed blue skies like jewels beneath the sun. 

It was a sight markedly different to anything her mother had organised at Winterfell, with its humble stones and hearths that everyone huddled around comfortably, guests and strangers alike. The thought made her a little sad. 

So Arya took a deep breath. She could expect nothing more than verbal knives at worst, and horridly dull conversation at best, but that didn’t ease her nerves. Facing a horde of highborn ladies without her mother by her side was no small task. Catelyn Stark wielded courtesy like a weapon, and Arya had witnessed her silence a room with a pleasant smile, and lords twice her size blush in shame with a single word. Arya had always loved to see it - so long as nothing was directed at her. 

I can do this, she thought to herself, fiercely. I’m her daughter, too. How hard can it be? With that, Arya raised her head high. 

“…told him that I did not need his coin or his so-called connections-” Jeyne Mallister’s drawl cut off as if guillotined. “Well now,” she said softly. 

They all whipped around. Silence had descended on the room, sudden as a blizzard. Some expressions were curious, some were touched by haughtiness as they surveyed her, some had lips curving like feathers in meaningless smiles.  

Don’t let them faze you. They don’t matter. 

The silence lasted, hallowed, until Margaery ushered her to an empty seat next to the head of the table. “May I present, Lady Arya Stark. We’ve been so eager to have you with us, please do sit! I’m sure we’ll all be fast friends here!”

Stiffly, Arya dropped into her chair, Margaery assuming the head. She looked beside her to see a pretty, blonde-haired girl in a pink dress, staring at her empty plate as if it would burst into flames. She seemed to be around her own age, with large green eyes and porcelain skin that reminded her of a doll. 

“Hello,” Arya offered with a smile. “And you are?” 

The girl looked up, startled at having been spoken to. Her gaze flitted along Arya’s figure before her expression hardened. “Myrcella Baratheon,” she said curtly, before turning away.

Arya blinked at the cold reception and inwardly sighed. Hell, she had tried.

On her other side, Margaery was clearing her throat. “As some of you may be aware,” she began, “my darling brother and his wife, Sansa, have just had a son! Isn’t that wonderful?”

There was a dramatic gasp before the ladies gushed their congratulations all at once. 

Margaery preened for a moment, before raising a hand to silence them. “Sansa, poor dear, couldn’t make it to the tourney. Alas, we must make do with this lovely breakfast in her honour, while she visits us in spirit. But we do have her sister here, which is such fun! Why, we’re practically family, aren’t we, Arya?” 

“If you say so,” Arya replied with a pained smile.

“Oh, you would all love Sansa,” Margaery continued. “Willas finds her to be delightful. She wrote to me, actually, the day after she told him she was with child. The story is quite the riot! There was a horse, of course, and a rather unusually large case of spiced wine, and- oh, listen to me prattling on as if her sister isn’t sitting right here!” She gave a practiced laugh. “Arya, why don’t you tell it?” 

Thirteen faces turned to her expectantly, and Arya, who had been only half-listening, looked back at them in alarm. “Tell what?” she asked, confused.

“The story, of course, of Sansa telling Willas she was with child. I imagine you know all about it!” 

She didn’t. Arya didn’t know a thing, in truth. As the years past and Sansa and her were no longer little girls chasing after one another in the snow, they had grown distant. They were rarely even in the same room, save for mealtimes, with Sansa always with their mother and Arya rushing about outside. Once Sansa moved away to Highgarden, the letters to Winterfell only arrived addressed to their parents, the important details of which were shared with the whole family. It wasn’t that Arya didn’t want to write to her sister, there just…wasn’t anything to say. And she imagined Sansa felt the same. 

Margaery was Sansa’s ideal, Arya thought. The sister she always wanted, but never had. Gracious and beautiful and ladylike, everything that she wasn’t. Arya imagined they wrote to each other constantly, about dresses and stupid needlework and all the stories she never thought Arya deserved to know. She imagined Sansa was relieved to find a replacement for all those unsatisfying years in Winterfell. 

Of course, it didn’t bother her. Sansa was allowed to write to whomever she damn well wanted, even ever-perfect Margaery, with her perfect hair and her perfect smile and her perfect -

“I don’t know the story,” Arya said simply. “Sansa never said a word to me.” 

An awkward silence blanketed the table, and Margaery’s painted smile faltered. She cast a quick glance around at the other ladies murmuring amongst themselves and changed direction. “Well, perhaps for the best, then. It may not be a story to share, personal as it is,” she declared. “Shall we eat?” 

With a sigh of relief, there was a bustle as several hands reach for the tarts, the fruits, the eggs, the porridge, the dozens of other confectioneries peppered around the table in stacks. Plates were piled eagerly as everyone reached for whatever they could, regardless of whether a peach tart ought to have an omelette shoved on top of it, or worse, bacon grease. 

Arya was picking at her small bowl of porridge, if only to be polite. Next to her, Myrcella was doing much the same, though Arya noticed her casting hesitant glances towards her every now and then. Down the table, most of the ladies had their heads bent together and were giggling quietly. 

“Is Princess Rhaenys not coming?” Myrcella suddenly asked.

Margaery, who was in deep conversation with another, shot her a disinterested look. “She had other business to take care of,” she explained with a shrug. “There is a wedding in two days, after all.” 

“Does she need any help?” Myrcella asked, brightening. “She must be so busy, with the tourney and the wedding, yet she handles it with such grace. If she needs anything, I’d be happy to-”

“Calm yourself, Myrcella, she isn’t even here,” Jeyne scoffed. “Save the idol worship for another day, when you’re not sitting in front of my eggs.” 

There was a tinkering of laughter around the table. Myrcella blushed, threw Jeyne a hateful look, which only Arya saw, and ducked her head.  

“Oh, a wedding, how exciting!” The woman next to Margaery clapped her hands in delight, dissipating the tension. “Oh, I’m sure Prince Aegon will be so dashing. I can hardly wait!” 

“Speaking of babes and handsome princes,” Jeyne said delicately, dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “Can we expect a darling new dragon from you anytime soon, Your Grace? Prince Viserys would surely have the most handsome sons.” 

Margaery’s expression froze. To anyone else, the change was imperceptible, but Arya was sitting so close and could see the distaste tugging the corners of her lips down. “I suppose I haven’t been blessed by the Gods, yet,” she said evenly. 

Arya swallowed a snort. She had seen Viserys through Jon’s memories and it was very hard to imagine anything being blessed around such vileness. 

“Oh, I could do with a little less blessing. I’m with child again,” a stout lady sighed, to the sympathy of the many faces surrounding her. She was short and pleasant-looking, with dark ringlets tied up in a bow. A small purple brooch with six silver bells was pinned to her chest. The sigil of House Belmore in the Vale, Arya remembered. 

“For heavens’ sake, Teressa,” Jeyne rolled her eyes. “You already have nine daughters, and you can’t stand any of them. Was moon tea really so difficult to find?”

“Thomos won’t let me,” Teressa whined. “He’s always dreamed of having a son! I haven’t given him an heir yet, so I can’t exactly say no, can I?” 

“Why not?” Arya blurted, without thinking. “He can’t punish you for something you can’t control. And you have heirs - nine of them.” 

Teressa’s eyes grew comically wide, as if Arya had just demanded she cartwheel off the veranda. “Girls are not heirs,” she said slowly, as if speaking to a stupid child. “And I must give him a son. It’s my duty. Don’t you understand?” 

Jeyne bestowed a small, nasty smile. “Oh, don’t bother, Teressa. Rules are for us, mortals. Lady Stark doesn’t believe they apply to her.”

Arya’s jaw tightened so hard, her teeth ached. If she didn’t engage and ate her stupid porridge, she could leave early and find Jon. That was what mattered. Finding Jon. Then all would be well. 

“Speaking of which,” Jeyne continued idly. “How is Prince Jon? Sorry, just Jon, wasn’t it? Or do you have a fun little pet name for him, now?” 

Myrcella stiffened next to her. 

Ignore her. Eat your porridge and leave. Then find Jon. Everything will be fine once you do. 

It was took a herculean effort not to respond. Instead, Arya stared angrily into her bowl and imagined the oats were Lady Mallister’s stupid face as she smushed it with her spoon. 

“-just like Lyanna. I suppose whores run in the family-”

“-I heard one of the servants say they caught them shagging in the corridor once-”

“-I think she’s using him to get to the King, as his new mistress. Out with the old, in with the new-”

“-how vile, using the poor boy in such a manner, disgraceful-”

She had thought she was angry before, but now fury scorched through her body like lava spat from a volcano, swamping her, but mingled with a heartrending, awful sense of hopelessness. What was she thinking? She couldn’t be any sort of princess. Dealing with such - such whispers everyday, even walking down the hallway? The thought was unbearable, it sent such a visceral reaction coursing through her that she wanted to scrabble back to the safety of her room. 

And not the room in the Red Keep, impersonal and alien and so unlike her. Her room in Winterfell, with all her belongings and the quilt that Old Nan made her, in the castle filled with people who loved her. She missed her mother, she missed her home, she missed it all so much, it ached.

Distantly, she heard one of the ladies quietly say, “Do you think it’s witchcraft? They still worship trees in the North, you know. So barbaric! Maybe they did a little blood sacrifice for some royal favour?” 

“My, that makes sense!” Teressa whispered in awe. “For the King and his son to pass on so many beautiful ladies - like yourself, Jeyne, as exquisite as you are - for such savagery. It has to be magic! What do you think they sacrifice?” 

“Children, mostly,” Arya said loudly, still staring into her bowl. “Babes are ideal, of course. The younger they are, the more potent the spell. Shame they’re so hard to come by.” Her voice was hard, and when she looked up at Teressa, her eyes were harder. “You have nine, don’t you? I needed three to get Prince Jon to bed me. I imagine I’ll need five to get him to wed me. Leaves you with plenty to spare, doesn’t it?” 

Teressa squeaked. Several ladies looked ready to faint. 

The silence that settled between them was awkward, but Arya had never felt better. Calmly, she spooned porridge into her mouth and reached for a plate of strawberries.

Like a crack of thunder, a loud snort shattered the moment. 

Bemused, Arya looked to her side to see Myrcella howling in laughter. Clutching her stomach, she rolled around in her seat and breathlessly gasped, “Your - faces - so - scared - I can’t believe - you fell for it!” 

Hesitantly, Margaery joined her, albeit more subdued and in politeness than any real amusement. One by one, the other ladies relaxed and smiled at each other gingerly, blushing at their foolishness. Teressa and Jeyne simply cast furious glares at Arya, their expressions growing darker when she flipped a rude gesture their way behind everyone’s back. 

Once she’d calmed a little, Myrcella turned to her apologetically, her flushed cheeks and bright eyes enhancing her loveliness. “I’m so sorry I was rude earlier. I should have realised those rumours were ridiculous. People come up with all sorts of rubbish, and it’s never very nice, is it? My father’s always telling me not to listen to idle gossip, and he’s right.” 

“Oh,” Arya said in surprise. “Don’t worry about it. No harm, no foul.” 

Myrcella grinned at her as she dropped her voice, “I can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted to see someone shut Jeyne up. I’d do it myself, but I can be so horridly shy. Her and her little group can be so cruel.” 

“You should have been there when I accidentally set a cat on her,” Arya laughed. “That woman absolutely despises me.” 

They giggled and whispered together for the rest of the breakfast, ignoring the others, and the anxiety tying Arya’s stomach in knots dissipated a little. If she could come away from this breakfast with a new friend, she supposed that meant it wasn’t a total disaster. And perhaps not all ladies in the Red Keep were like Jeyne Mallister. Maybe they were a little like Myrcella, who breathlessly laughed at all of Arya’s jests and sweetly offered to share the last slice of pie. That would make it all bearable. 

As the breakfast drew to an end and their plates were cleared away, Myrcella clasped her hand tightly. “You must come visit me in Storm’s End!” she insisted. “I’d love for you to meet my mother. You remind me a little of her, I think you’d really like her.” 

It was the first time another woman had invited Arya to their home, and she was beside herself with excitement. “Of course! And you must come to Winterfell! I’ll show you the godswood, and all the secret places to hide, and you can have your own coat made of fur. My mother would love to have one made for you!” 

Myrcella nodded happily and beamed at her. As Margaery stood to bid farewell to everyone, she suddenly slapped a hand to her cheek and exclaimed, “Oh wait, don’t leave! I just remembered - I’m supposed to make an announcement. I have some exciting news to share!” 

Throwing a brilliant smile Arya’s way, she stood and took a deep breath. “It’s been confirmed for a few days now, but there was never the right time to mention it.” She sighed in contentment and reached out to squeeze Arya’s hand. “I feel so much better about it now, I admit. I’m so thrilled, I can barely get the words out!” A becoming blush touched her cheeks, and she was glowing under the sun, her hair as golden as the halo of light. 

“Go on,” Margaery encouraged. “We’re all listening!” 

“I’ve been betrothed to Prince Jon! The King asked me for specifically, can you all believe it?” She let out an excited squeal, and framed her hands around her face. “I can hardly believe it myself!” 

Amidst the rush of congratulations, Jeyne grimaced and muttered, “Well, this is awkward,” to her companion. “I look forward to the show.” 

Arya might have heard her, if the world hadn’t grown painfully, painfully loud. 

I’ve been betrothed to Prince Jon. 

That wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be right. Jon had asked her to wed him. She had been in Jon’s head, his very soul, and he hadn’t known. It didn’t count if Jon didn’t know, so Myrcella had to have it all wrong. She must have confused him for another. 

A hollow began to widen beneath her ribcage, tearing open with a sudden, shattering certainty. The man she loved was going to wed another. 

Her world crumbled in dust about her. Every dream, every hope that had been held like threads of a fragile web that she had been slowly, foolishly weaving - visions of council meetings with him and changing the world with him and being with him, openly and without hesitation - every thread was snapped and she was left alone and falling and falling and falling - 

‘Arya,’ Jon’s voice was a caress against her soul. ‘Come to the library. Everything will be alright, I promise.’ 

oOo

Jon stood on the courtyard balcony and felt the summer wind on his face and on the smarting skin of his bruised knuckles. He welcomed the heated air: it blasted through him, blowing away the cobwebs of feelings that he did not want to examine, the thoughts that were too troubling. There was only the warmth and its sensations.

Every moment of that dreadful morning had been seared into his mind; his father, his brother, his sister. One act, that one betrayal haunted him. Rhaenys, in particular, had opened a chasm inside him. Her betrayal had sliced open the cage of his heart and out poured everything he was, every shred of hope and every savoured memory. 

And he was left empty. It was the only way he could tolerate it. All thoughts ceased, save for the moment when his father had told him of his betrothal. Over and over again, it played, every tiny detail made massive under his furious eyes. 

Below, he watched the flurry of guards scuttle around to their posts. A new rotation had already been set, with two groups of guards patrolling every corridor at any one time. Jon had caught his horse being unsaddled and lead somewhere else, followed by a small chaos at the gate as crowds of guests were forced to wait until the Master of the Horse had cleared them to leave the castle. 

“Know what all the fuss is about?” 

Jon turned to see Edric Dayne strolling up to him, hands casually shoved in the pockets of his breeches as he eyed the movements below. He whistled as he caught the queues of horses below. “No one’s getting in without being caught, that’s for sure.” 

Or out, Jon thought darkly. 

“Say, um, I’ve been looking for you for a few days now,” Edric began, nudging his elbow. “You’re a hard man to pin down. I wanted to tell you how sorry I was about your injury. I was rooting for you to win the tourney, truth be told. What’s the verdict?”

“If it was up to the Maester, I wouldn’t leave my bed for moons. I’m not allowed to touch a sword, either.” 

Edric sighed. “That’s a damn shame. Listen - if there’s anything you need, or anything I can do, let me know? Anything at all.” 

Any other time, Jon wouldn’t have minded the Dornishman’s company. He was the closest thing that he could call a friend, admittedly; and they had hardly spoken since their evening together on Rhaenys’ Hill. Now, however, Jon was far from a conversational mood. 

“Of course,” he said, with a grateful nod, hoping that he’d leave then. “Thank you, Edric.” 

The young knight smiled at him, but his brow suddenly furrowed when he caught something over Jon’s shoulder. 

The unmistakable sound of armoured footsteps clanking against marble caught Jon’s attention. He looked over to see Ser Manly walking with purpose, a barely-suppressed expression of glee on his ugly face. Behind him, two Gold Cloaks followed, one holding a dark bundle in his hands.

“Your Grace,” Ser Manly greeted with cheer. “Just the man I was searching for.” 

“Ser Manly,” Jon barely nodded his head. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

The vicious glean in the knight’s eyes set Jon on edge. “Why, I’m here to give you my report, Your Grace, as requested last night. I’ve found the man who attacked one of our own, and brought him to justice.” 

“Attacked?” Edric piped up in shock. “Who would attack the City Guard?” 

Jon’s blood ran cold. “In one night?” he asked suspiciously. “I fail to see how that’s possible. When was his trial? Where is your evidence?” 

“No need for all that faff,” Ser Manly waved his hand dismissively. “We have two witnesses, and the man who was attacked himself. He’s awake, in case you were wondering. I remember you were wrecked by concern for his welfare.” The tone was mocking and the two men behind the commander glanced at each other quickly. 

Jon bit back a scowl. “Well, go on, then. Who was he?” 

At Manly’s nod, one of the men stepped forward to hand the bundle over. 

A sickening recognition lurched in his stomach. His heart hammering, shock shook his hands and he nearly dropped the fabric on the floor.

It was his silk jacket, the one he’d given to Jacke after their sabacc game. There were still glimpses of paint on the edges, some of the fine, black material peeking through - but it was nearly all hidden beneath large stains of dried blood. 

“Jacke Waters,” Ser Manly declared, satisfaction ripping his voice. “He stole a hundred silver stags from Olyvar here, then went ahead and stole this bit of finery off the back of a well-meaning merchant. Beat one of the guards to near death when he tried to stop him.” He tutted with a shake of his head. “The lengths men go to for some spare coin. Shameful.” 

Edric gasped in horror. “By the Seven, that’s horrible! What did you do with him?” 

“Fortunately, our two lads here caught him in the act and spent a sleepless night searching the city for him. He confessed immediately once found, of course. He won’t be troubling us anymore, my lord. We made sure of it.”

“Took forever, didn’t it? Beast of a man like that,” one guard in the back whispered to another, who sniggered. 

Jon heard them all as if they were underwater. He fingered the material gently. It was supposed to a gift, something to ease the man of his worries. Instead, Jon had handed him his death warrant. He had tried to help, and condemned an innocent man for his efforts. 

What good was a prince like that? What could such a man do for the realm, for the people, on his own? He was a fool. A blind, helpless fool, and his foolishness now had a body count. 

The guilt felt so like grief, and Gods, did he know grief well. There was a tidal rhythm to grief. He had withstood the waves for many years, long before he’d even known what it was. He carried it in bones, born as he was from the dusts of death, blood, and madness. Sometimes, it barely knocked him down, sometimes it tried to drown him in his own despair. Grief came, grief went, and he endured. 

But this was different. The guilt would never fade. It wasn’t a wave, but a piercing knife that lodged itself in his chest and would not budge. No one could fight this. No one could have any kind of defence against the storm that crashed through him. And he didn't want to fight anymore. He didn't want to feel the pain, and the anger and the dull, insipid safety of endurance any longer. He was tired of blind rage, of grief, of fury. He was tired of it all. 

And through that flood came a wild, frenzied thought. A realisation, a plan, a future. 

When Ser Manly reached for the bloody jacket, Jon pulled away. With a neutral expression, he nodded at the commander and said, “Good. The matter is settled then. On your way now.” 

It was a cold dismissal, and the knight knew it. Jon wondered if he expected him to cry, to yell, to flounder with guilt. Instead, his reaction had taken all three guards by surprise. With a frown, they bowed and backed away, Ser Manly’s face twisted in a strange mix of dissatisfaction and pride. Jon watched them leave, the fabric in hands weighing heavier than a tangible nightmare. 

“Edric,” he said suddenly. “I need a favour.” 

“Of course,” the Dornishman replied. “Name it.” 

“See if you can wheedle any information from your uncle about the changes to the guard’s routine. In particular, the third floor corridor on the south-east wing. I want to know who’s watching it, and when. Be discreet.” 

Edric gaped at him briefly, before giving an uncertain chuckle. “You’re not serious.” His grin faded when Jon raised a brow at him.

“‘Anything at all,’” Jon repeated with a level stare. “Isn’t that what you said?” 

“Yes, but - but I was thinking you could stay at Starfall,” Edric argued weakly, “or - or maybe a new horse.” 

Jon clapped him on the shoulder, almost sympathetically. “Should have been more specific. So, can you help me or not?” 

Edric fidgeted on the spot, casting nervous glances around the empty hallway, hoping for a distraction. When none came, he sighed reluctantly, “Alright. But I want to know what you’re up to. If my uncle finds out that I helped you do something you’re not supposed to, he’ll have my head. He might not even let me finish my training.” 

Jon felt a little terrible then; Edric would come through, he knew. Edric always did, honourable and reliable as he was. Jon was quite fond of him, but not enough to tell him everything. The less he knew, the better off he’d be. “You worry too much,” he said instead, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve got something stashed there that I need to fetch. What with Pycelle and the Kingsguard breathing down my neck to stay in my chamber, I just need a little privacy. A few minutes, that’s all. Satisfied?” 

Edric swayed. “What do you have stashed there?” he asked, suspiciously. 

“Wine. Lots of it,” Jon lied. “My own collection. The Queen would never approve.” 

“Oh. That’s not too bad,” his friend grinned widely, his shoulders relaxing in relief. “Sort of like that time we pinched some of Lord Connington’s ale when we were four-and-ten.” 

“The good old days.” 

“They were, weren’t they?” Edric laughed, shaking his head fondly. “Meet me here in around an hour. I’ll tell you what you need to know.” 

Feeling a sudden rush of appreciation for the young knight, Jon shifted the jacket under one arm and patted him on the shoulder, declaring, “You’re a good man, Edric. Thank you.” 

With a faint blush, Edric waved him off and muttered, “Don’t mention it.”

Once he’d left, Jon turned to take another look at the courtyard, and dwell on the plan that beginning to take root in his head. Ever since he was a child, he had constructed for himself a perfect self-repressive mechanism. Not one of his true desires had ever prevailed, and he had always found a way of channeling every yearning. Now enough, he said to himself, let it all explode, me first of all.

He gave the first, genuine smile all morning since Arya had left his room, to no one in particular, and moved away from the balcony edge - 

Jon never anticipated what happened next. All he knew was that something smashed through his shields like a black arrow of horror; beyond colour, beyond sound, beyond sense and into pure feeling that nearly knocked him to the floor. The world was white and sizzling despair and worst of all, a sorrow that tore at all he was.

He was reeling, his world filling back in slowly, speckling into focus. And he ached. He ached, and he froze and he writhed. It was Arya, her emotions flushing into him, their bond nearly painful as it left him pinned by something he couldn’t fight. 

Just as quickly as it came, it vanished, leaving him gasping for breath and ready to keel over. He hardly had a moment to collect himself when a need threatened to overpower him, to find her, to find her, find herfindherfindher - 

‘Arya,’ he whispered into the fog. ‘Come to the library. Everything will be alright, I promise.’ 

oOo

In the library, it was almost as if nothing had changed since that day he and Arya had sought answers, a lifetime ago. The silence here was safe and filling, like that of a sacred space. The scent of old books and resin was comforting, the tables and chairs neatly arranged. He knew its nooks and niches, walked its narrowed aisles with surety. 

It was empty, as he thought it might be. It was the last day of the tourney, and only a few select Houses were invited to attend the wedding itself. For all other guests, nearly none thought to waste the last opportunity in the city scouring the dusty archives, which suited Jon perfectly. 

He went down an aisle close to the centre, where the history of the Targaryens sat proudly on velvet-laid shelves and hidden behind glass cases with gold frames. It was the largest section in the library, in pristine condition and filled with hundreds of heavy tomes. Jon passed all of them with barely a glance, until he reached the very end, where rolls and rolls of wrinkled parchments were stuffed into rows of cubbyholes along the wall, reaching all the way to the ceiling. Jon silently counted the shelves, and shuffled down on his hands and knees to poke an arm into the hole. With some manoeuvring, he extracted a long roll, fraying at the edges, and stood. 

It was an awkward weight in his arms, the parchment rough on his fingers. Cradling it carefully - for its contents were precious - Jon stepped into the shadows and deeper into the library, where he wouldn’t be seen by wandering eyes, should anyone walk in. 

Spreading it on a table, he pored over the details. It was a series of plans of the Red Keep, aged with time and the only one of its kind.

He had discovered it with Aegon once, while they were in the middle of their lessons and supposed to be studying old battle plans of the kings that came before. It was shoved unceremoniously in one of the shelves, and Aegon had found it accidentally while they were playing involuntary hide-and-seek with their Maester. They had known, immediately, what a precious find it had been. 

It contained every hidden passage built by Maegor I to enable him to make a quick escape, should his enemies ever trap him. Some were so small that a grown man would have to crawl through them, others passed close to other rooms, allowing a hidden person to eavesdrop on conversations. Rhaegar had those sealed off early in his kingship, Jon knew, and most were well-known to either the Hand or the Kingsguard to ensure security. 

There was one Jon had seen in the map, so many years ago, but had never managed to find. It was somewhere in the third corridor of the south-wing, a way to leave the Red Keep and come out onto the cliffs facing the sea. There had to be some sort of mechanism involved, but Jon had never put any real effort in finding it. What was he supposed to do with the cliffs? The only passage that had ever really interested him had been the one leading out into the city, but Jon dared not use that. The Queen had to have known about it, and she would have had it guarded now, he was sure.