Arya VIII

Arya Stark took a deep, luxuriating breath when she walked down to the quay. The smell of home. Though huddled under a thick fur cloak, the chilly air was clean and natural, with none of the oppression she'd begun to associate with the presence of the Others. Gentle waves buffeted the docks of Dreadport, rocking the ships with the rhythm of the tides. If the gods were good, there would be no further war, and she could set her mind to other matters. Winter was here for true, but for how long? Lord Domeric said things might change, truly change. He described a mad cycle where each year had four short seasons of equal length. Could such a thing come to pass? It would make planning her wedding a deal easier, Arya supposed. She would want her mother there, and Jon, and asking them to travel in winter would be folly. How long would she wait?

The buckets of fishheads, fish guts, and other detritus her loyal smallfolk had gathered for her had sadly frozen solid. Well, it was better than the chum rotting in the sun.

She stood, leaning on Brad while they watched Dany's black dragon skim the waters, searching for prey. It turned out that chumming was a bit impractical considering the amount of ground Drogon could cover, or, well, sea.

Her people said the fishing was good here, and the whaling too. They weren't exactly hairy men from the port of Ibben, but the coastal waters yielded a goodly catch, and they even had a small facility for rendering down the blubber into oil. Small boats rowed by Northmen and wildlings together went out all the time, taking many a fat grey whale. Could a dragon do the same?

"I wonder why she's climbing," Brad said at her side. He looked terribly handsome in his pink tunic that clung to the clean lines of his limbs. Her man belonged in her colors, for House Stark of Dreadport flew a banner of a grey direwolf on pink. Our colors, soon enough, Arya thought fondly.

At this distance, it was hard to tell what the dragon was doing, but Dany was shouting commands that carried over the water. High Valyrian. "Do you understand what she's saying?"

He shook his head. "Mayhaps every second word. Braavosi is not the same. To me, High Valyrian seems stilted, overly formal, and they use queer poetic descriptions for mundane things. In High Valyrian, the sea is the 'azure expanse.' In Braavosi, the sea is just the sea. And if you ask me, 'azure expanse' could describe the sky just as well, but in High Valyrian the sky is the 'dragon road.' I only know that much because Ser Domeric made me learn some songs in High Valyrian."

She nodded along, just happy for the sound of his voice. Two children, the red priestess said. Arya wondered what they would look like. Her mother had five, and there was Jon as well, but Arya thought two were just about perfect, a boy and a girl. It was pleasant to think on it as they watched a dragon hunt. "Speaking of Braavosi, it might be good to spread the word to traders that call. The lands beyond the Wall are out of bounds, more so than before." There was trade with the wildlings, she knew, but that was at an end.

"I'll remember," Brad said. While they were talking, Drogon swooped down at a pale shape near the surface. Huge black wings spread wide and worked furiously as the dragon's talons plunged into the churning white water, soon clouded with red. After a splashing struggle, the beast managed to draw a fat grey shape out of the sea and get just barely airborne. Thick black blood leaked down in a crimson stream from the places the talons had sunk deep as Drogon fought to drag the juvenile whale to the beach.

"How in the world is it flying?" Arya wondered aloud. It was not big as whales go, but it was big enough. The dragon almost lost its grip before dropping the pale whale on a rocky strip of land just beyond her town. Thank the gods they were not so high that the whale exploded when dropped.

"Dracarys!" Dany said, and that word Arya knew. Dragonfire. Drogon belched black flames streaked with crimson, roasting the whale alive. It did not scream, which was a mercy. Could whales scream? The only sound they heard was Drogon tearing off chunks of half-cooked whale, chewing and swallowing.

It was not exactly a pleasing sight, to tell it true, but a dragon had to eat. "This saves us an ox, at least," Brad said wisely.

***

"Thank you ever so much for letting me stay here," said the princess that evening. Tonight, their supper was sweet and spicy, strips of beef fried crispy with blood oranges and peppers, plus honey fingers, a street sweet from Tyrosh the princess remembered from her childhood. The Dornish cook at the Dreadfort had trained his apprentice well, and they were enjoying the fruits of it.

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"We're pleased to have you stay, princess," Brad said gallantly.

"Dany, please. My friends call me Dany, or Daenerys, if you must. We should not be so formal. Going to war together makes us comrades, no?"

"It does," Arya agreed. She speared a chunk of sweet and spicy beef on one of those little tridents, or "forks," Lord Domeric liked to eat with, and popped the morsel in her mouth. Saved her fingers from getting greasy, she must admit. "You can stay as long as you like. It seems Drogon will have fine hunting, so we need not fear for him."

Dany frowned. "I do hope he'll learn to be less messy about it." They ate in silence for a moment, then the princess looked up. "You know, I spent my whole life hearing tales of the Seven Kingdoms, and I never imagined they'd be like, well, this."

"Like what?" asked Brad.

Dany gestured uneasily with her fork. She liked Lord Domeric's innovation as well. "Friendly, I suppose. My brother told me how grand the castles were, Harrenhal, the Red Keep, Casterly Rock, and so forth. He never mentioned the North at all, actually, only saying Lord Stark was cold and cruel."

Arya laughed aloud. "Oh, that's just a pretense. His 'lord's face,' he calls out. Father is kind. Domeric is kind too, though mayhaps not in battle."

"Or in training," Brad added.

"That too. Oh, that reminds me, Dany, I have a gift for you." Arya summoned a servant, who bore an elegant painted box sealed with a ribbon. "For you."

"For me?" The girlish smile on her face made Dany look five years younger. She was a woman grown, with sad, careworn eyes who had seen many a tragedy. It was good to see them light up with delight. After undoing the ribbon, Daenerys lifted the lid, revealing an elegant Bolton Bag, black leather with a three-headed dragon woven in crimson thread. "My goodness! We've heard about these, even in Essos. When I found out there was a man named Bolton, I wondered. They name the bags after him?"

"They do," Arya confirmed. "Here is the first of the 303 designs, Targaryen colors, just for you."

Dany stood up and embraced Arya like a sister. "Thank you," she said, voice rough with emotion. There were shimmering crystal tears in her eyes that caught the light of the candles.

Pure purple, Arya saw. What beautiful eyes those were. This was living. With Brad by her side and a friend like Dany, she could really start enjoying life.

***

The next morning, Arya was holding court. Trade was just starting to pick up again, which meant there was many a dispute to mediate. Barges of goods were flowing down the river and merchant ships packed her docks. It was work, but sweet work, befitting a lady. A bit after the midday meal, a rickety galley that was barely holding together limped into port.

A boy about Bran's age staggered up to the castle and begged an audience. He had a crowned-stag badge upon his breast, the livery of the royal house.

"Do you have news of the king?" Arya asked.

"If it please my lady, I am, was, the king's own squire. Devan Seaworth is my name."

This alarmed her small court, and Symond Frey, who would be her goodfather, suggested they continue privily. It was wise counsel, for young Devan's news was shocking.

"King Stannis is surely dead. I saw him burn up in dragonfire. I know you won't believe me, but it's true." The words seemed to darken her solar, though bright afternoon light poured in through the window.

"What color?" Dany demanded urgently. "What color was the dragon?"

The boy staggered back, not sure what to make of a Targaryen princess up close. "White," he answered after a moment. "It was a white dragon, and there was a man upon its back. He came out of the rising sun, taking us completely by surprise. They fell upon us as the fleet was rounding the Fingers, and much strung out. Others might've escaped, but not many, I wager. As for myself, I had to jump into the sea. It shames me how I left the king to burn, but it all happened so fast. It was a frightful slaughter. The dragon burned any ship that tried to rally the fleet, and the galleys of the foe cut us to splinters. One of the faster ships, Wavedancer, pulled me out, but ill wind blew us off course. We had not thought to find safe harbor here."

Arya was already composing a letter to the Dreadfort and Winterfell in her head. She wanted to relax, and now this. In the words of Ser Domeric: Why won't they let a girl live?