The Game of Cyvasse

A Dance with a Dragon

"Words of such are not wise, Your Grace," she breathed, fearful for him. "The Red Keep, I know, the walls have ears. My father scorned that peril and paid dearly. And now..." Aegon lifted an eyebrow, his puzzlement barely showing on his weary face.

"...and now Margaery is with a child, so you fear someone might slay me. Trust me, my Sansa, if she or anyone else plots that deed, they will choose to wait for me to fill her womb with spare." He dropped his eyes to the floor, ashamed by his own crude tongue. Sansa's heart fluttered; she loved this side of him—gentle soul, a tender need to protect her, even from profanities. Nothing like Joffrey. With Joffrey, it was always only about Joffrey.

Unwilling to show any regret and to fan the flames of his resentment, she drew nearer, almost nose to nose with him. "If you had wed me, Lord Tyrell might have stayed in his great castle, and King's Landing would still be in Lannister hands." The twist of fate gnawed at her heart, but other paths lay in a dark abyss that would devour both her dragon and her kin in one fell swoop. So, speaking truly, she continued, "Now, King's Landing is not in a fright, for the might of Dorne is coming, as are the lords of the Reach, and the city walls are crowded with spears."

Though she knew Aegon was privy to it all, mayhaps even more, she longed to bring some light to his face. Lord Connington was like a father to him, a bond closer than any Sansa had ever shared with her own sire. The river cannot flow backwards, and the sun set for all she might have said to her father now.

"The battle scares me not," he said with a faint smile, reaching out a hand. "Dance with me... my lady, as you did many moons ago in the halls of Maidenpool." Taken aback for a moment, she did not answer forthwith; then took the offered hand, laying her other arm on the back of his black doublet.

Movements were  slow this time, unlike the quickness of the first dance they shared together. Relishing every move, Aegon guided her as if playing an easy melody, taking care with each string of the lute. In unison, time itself slowed down around them; Sansa heard their footsteps in harmony echoing through the great hall, a gentle breeze drifting in from a few open mosaic windows that cast light upon the smooth floor.

The calm sweetness of love in her heart soon gave way to a restless fear. The moment must end, like a dream she would wake from, leaving tender joy on the pillow. To prolong it, she posed a query, "Will you fight?"

"I must," was his obvious answer, but she paid no heed, only smelling the musk radiating from his manly form. Most men carried the foul stench of unwashed flesh, wine-stained breath, and weeks of sweat, but not Aegon; he was always clean, and what lingered of his manliness then was a delight. "The king's presence gives men hope. With my sword on the wall, they will be ready to risk more, eager to show their worth."

The notion troubled her, so she gently pressed fingers on the satin of his back. Aegon felt it, bringing his face nearer, almost touching her forehead with his own. Blindly, they moved in space, as the floor of the throne room was large enough to host a thousand men but not large enough for two hearts.

"Haldon told me you are not as well as you pretend to others," she spoke on. "On the walls, you must go, I know, but let other men lead the charge. Many are more than able; Manwoody, Peake, and Pease."

He surprised her again, giving her a brief kiss on the brow. "The Halfmaester tends to be overly gloomy. His words to me were harsher. 'You'll not live to be an old man,' he said, if I keep tormenting my body with so much injury, but the king's peace is the law of the blade."

Closing the gap, she joined their brows, the soft pale skin of the feeble sun of the north touching the even paler skin of Valyrian blood. "And the king should not be reckless; great men err too. Honor put my father in the grave. If he was just an inch more selfish, he and many more men would live."