Fellowship & Fairydust

Thick snow crunched under Arya’s boots as she strode out of the courtyard and across the grounds. She needed open space to train with her new dragonglass-tipped spear fresh out of the foundry. Arya was used to working close up, with her Needle or daggers. Finding the balance and range of a spear would take time, but Arya was patient and deliberate…with the art of combat, anyway.

The wiry young woman smiled to herself, recalling how impatient she had been as a child with sewing and dancing…and her mother’s gentle exasperation with her youngest daughter’s indifferent ineptitude at the feminine arts. For about the hundredth time, in what felt like as many years, Arya wondered if her mother would be proud that she had finally found her skill with a Needle. She wondered if Catelyn would delight in her daughter’s water dancing.

A great roar snapped her from her reverie and Arya whipped her head up to see Drogon, the Dragon Queen’s great beast, soaring overhead. The Stark girl, jaded and worldly though she was, stopped and watched breathlessly as the creature circled once, then landed with surprising grace on the snowy field.

The roiling mass of black scales shuddered slightly, as the dragon lowered its leathery, inky wings, making a sharp contrast against the surrounding sea of white.

Drogon was close to Arya; close enough for her to see his breath steam in the icy air and to watch the Dragon Queen herself slip easily from his shoulders to the ground.

“Lady Arya.” Daenerys approached the younger woman; snowflakes swirled around the willowy, silver-haired woman, settling on her dark furs. “I hope I didn’t startle you.”

“Nothing startles me,” Arya shot back, more sharply than she intended. “Your Grace.”

The youngest Stark daughter did not yet know how she felt about Daenerys Targaryen. As Jon had asked, Arya, along with the rest of the North, had sworn fealty to the Queen, transferring her allegiance from Jon to Daenerys. Arya loved and trusted her older half brother, perhaps more than any other person in the world. If he (and that little firecracker Lady Mormont) were convinced that bending the knee to Daenerys would save them, then ultimately, that was good enough for Arya.

Yet, she did not know this strange woman who was raised in exile. None of them did, except for Jon. And Arya saw the way he looked at Daenerys. Arya could understand the way he looked at Daenerys. The violet-eyed beauty’s charms, along with her illustrious reputation, were quite irresistible. But Arya was wary by nature and she was especially wary of any woman who might hold her brother’s heart. Jon was older than Arya, but in many ways, more naïve. He was certainly more honorable. Arya knew that honor was dangerous. And so she walked toward Daenerys, with snow dusting her hair and with caution and curiosity warring within her.

“I watched you sparring with Lady Brienne yesterday. You don’t move the way Westrosi knights do.” Daenerys smiled admiringly. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

“I learned many things in many places,” Arya replied quietly. “But I learned to water dance from my Braavosi dancing master.”

Puzzled, the Queen furrowed her brow as she gazed at Arya.

“It was a long time ago, Your Grace,” the girl finished.

“Well, your…dancing master…must have been a remarkable teacher,” Daenerys said gently.

“He was,” Arya said, a pang of sorrow piercing her like ice as she remembered the last time she ever saw Syrio Forel, as he fought off a pack of Lannister guards, buying her time to flee and saving her life. “But he never taught me to wield one of these,” she observed, hefting the large spear in her hand.

Arya saw a flash of Drogon’s blood red eye. His screech pierced the air and her pounding heart flooded her ears as Daenerys commanded, “DROP THE SPEAR!”

Automatically, Arya’s hand opened and the weapon fell with a soft thud into the snow. At the same instant, the Queen whipped around to the beast and murmured softly to him, caressing his scales, now sparkling like black diamonds from the icy snowflakes.

Instinct and training had taught Arya when to fight and when to stay perfectly still. She stayed perfectly still while the beast quieted and Daenerys turned back to face her.

“I’m sorry. Seeing you raise the spear—he thought you were threatening me.” Daenerys remembered the scorched fury Drogon had unleashed when Jaime Lannister had charged at her with a lance. “And it may have reminded him…” Her violet eyes clouded with grief. “It may have reminded him of the lance that shattered his brother, Viserion,” the Queen finished. She looked back to her dark dragon. “He’s calm now. He won’t hurt you.”

Perhaps so, but all the same, Arya continued to stay perfectly still while she spoke. “He’s much bigger than the old ones.”

Daenerys turned to Arya. “The old ones?”

“In King’s Landing, when I wasn’t training, I liked to wander the Red Keep. Once I got lost in that dark room filled with ancient dragon skulls.” Arya’s dark eyes flickered to Drogon, icy steam billowing from his nostrils. “Some were so large I could stand inside the jaw and not touch the sides or top. Others were mounted on the wall…”

Daenerys’ eyes widened and she shivered slightly in the biting cold. “My brother used to talk about them. He said they were enormous…terrifying. And I saw them myself…” she hesitated, unsure how to explain that she had glimpsed her family’s dragons’ skulls in King’s Landing, while she was in the House of the Undying in Qarth. “I saw them in a vision,” she said simply. It was the truth.

Arya gave no particular thought to the Queen’s remark. Arya had learned to collect faces overseas and now she stood in her childhood home, feet away from a dragon which would soon be battling the army of the Others, led by the Night King. Why shouldn’t Daenerys Targaryen have visions? The dark haired girl took a deep breath and cautiously moved forward, taking care to step quietly and slowly through the shallow drifts of snow.

Drogon was indeed calm now. As both women watched him intently, he blinked slowly, his enormous eye shuttering once, twice. He slapped his long, powerful tail down into the snow and dragged it side to side through the powder, seeming to delight in the sensation of the fluffy cold crystals against his body.

As Arya watched the creature, she couldn’t help but smile. She appreciated the rather absurd display of its power coupled with its unconscious whimsy.   “I’m sorry about your other dragon.” She remembered how devastating it was to lose her direwolf Nymeria so long ago.

Daenerys’ mouth tightened in a hard line; her violet eyes misted slightly, then hardened. “I will destroy the Night King—at any cost,” she said quietly. “But I do not regret saving your brother—and the others,” she finished, meeting the Stark girl’s inscrutable gaze.

“Jon trusts you with much more than his life,” Arya said evenly. “He trusts you with the lives of his family, of his people.”

“And I trust him with the lives of mine.” Daenerys paused and laid her hand on Drogon’s massive jaw. She watched Arya carefully. “Would you like to touch him?”

Arya’s eyes widened slightly as she looked from the silver haired Queen to the ebony behemoth. She advanced carefully. Drogon blinked and turned, catching the girl in his red gaze. Arya could feel his hot breath melting the snow and ice clinging to her jacket. She stared into his massive crimson eye and saw herself reflected in the inky pupil. Arya imagined she could see back through the ages to Aegon’s dragons…and to the creatures now reduced to dusty skulls…and finally to Drogon himself, raining fire on the army of the dead…her brother huddled on an ice floe.

Arya stretched out her hand and brushed his scales with her fingertips. They were as hard and glassy smooth as obsidian. She marveled at the sensation, realizing that truly, the beasts were living, heaving, breathing dragonglass.

“Trust is more rare than dragons; and it will be even more valuable in the Great War to Come,” Daenerys observed. “I did not grow up with a large family…or a loving family.” Her breath hung in the frigid air as she gave a mirthless laugh. “Or any family…save for my older brother, whose temperament most people compared to that of Joffrey Baratheon.”

Still caressing Drogon, Arya looked to the pale woman, this time with genuine feeling. “I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

Daenerys smiled slightly. “I made my family …out of fire and blood.” She looked at Drogon, her hand moving gently across his neck. “My dragons were born after I took them into the flames. And when I walked into that fire with my dragon eggs, I had to trust…something…some ancient power…some destiny I didn’t yet understand.  My people–Missandrei, Grey Worm and all the others–they joined me after I killed the slavers who held them in bondage. When they chose to follow me, they had to trust my leadership…my honor…and our ability to forge a shared destiny.”

The Queen gazed evenly at Arya. “We will have to trust each other in the coming struggle.” She suddenly smiled and looked up at wonder as the chilly flakes began to swirl around them; Arya realized with a start that Daenerys was as mesmerized by the Northern snow as Arya was by the massive dragon undulating under her hand.

“Stark and Targaryen,” Daenerys continued softly. “Ice and Fire.” Drogon hissed quietly, his steamy breath warming Arya through her furs. “Ice and Fire,” she repeated, more quietly, almost to herself, her violet eyes now far away. “I still don’t understand everything I saw. But I do understand that, by either fate or design, we share a destiny.” The woman looked back to Arya. “We must fight. We must win. And we must trust each other.”

The Stark girl met her gaze without expression. “I trust Jon. And Jon trusts you.” She arched her brow. “And it seems Drogon now trusts me.” She looked back at the great dragon, now pressing itself against Arya’s hand, as a cat would rub its head against her hand.

Daenerys broke into a wide grin. “And do you trust him?”

Before the girl could comprehend what she was proposing, the Queen turned and stepped lightly onto her dragon’s shoulder, murmuring to him softly. She turned back and reached out her hand to Arya.

The young woman gulped quietly. She very, very carefully retrieved the precious dragonglass spear from the snow, and discreetly slipped it into the case on her back. Arya contemplated Daenerys’ Targaryen’s outstretched hand. She let her eyes wander from Drogon’s jaw up, up, up to the Dragon Queen’s face, already perched high above. Her violet eyes bloomed with determination, encouragement…and–Arya detected–challenge.

Her skin was hot, almost feverish, against Arya’s chilly hand. The Stark girl clasped Daenerys’ hand tightly as she found her footing on Drogon’s slick scales and scrambled up his broad, powerful shoulders.

Arya had no sooner settled herself upon Drogon’s back, wrapping her hands tightly around the tough ridges dotting his hide, than the dragon spread its massive wings, beating them against the frigid air. Arya watched the snowy ground recede beneath them as they lifted up and adrenaline flooded her brain, making her feel delirious and more alive than she had at any time in her short, strange life.

Bran had rambled some nonsense about flying…about seeing the Raven…or being the Raven. As Arya scanned the fiery tops of the ancient weirwoods and watched Drogon’s shadow darken the bright snow blanketing her home, Arya wondered if Bran’s flying felt anything like this pitching, roiling, terrible exhilaration.

Daenerys was saying something; something Arya could not hear over the pounding of her heart and the rushing of the wind. It didn’t matter. Arya felt Drogon respond to the Queen’s commands. She felt Daenerys pressed protectively against her. Arya felt their bonds—dragon and rider; Ice and Fire; Stark and Targaryen. She did not understand this destiny, but in that moment…for that moment, she trusted it.

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