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Winterfell

Arya had always resented her name. Common as it was in the North, Snow took on a sinister meaning when it was tacked onto the end of some unfortunate child’s name. She tried to keep in mind that she was lucky to have a name at all; there were plenty of common bastards who didn’t even know their fathers, but the name of a bastard was not one you wanted, especially in the Hall of honorable Lord Eddard Stark. To be the only thing existing that proved he’d broken a vow made one forget they were anything but that- a mark against his honor.

 Pyke, Rivers, Stone, Hill, Storm, Sand and Waters- the names for reviled bastards in all the other Seven Kingdoms and the Crownlands besides, but none as bitter for her as Snow.

Arya Snow had spent the better part of her fourteen years trying not to let the stares burn her. Some weren’t as bad as others, like the openly curious stares from the smallfolk. Some had become more familiar than the palm of her hand, like the hostile stare of Lady Catelyn Stark. But some would always sting, like the baffled look every time a visitor saw Lord Stark’s natural born daughter with his trueborn children. They never understood why he’d like to keep his shame close. As if she wasn’t alienated enough.

But still, like every other bastard in the Seven Kingdoms, Arya was good at imagining she was someone else. She liked to pretend that she was Lord Stark’s trueborn daughter; she’d even be grateful for the endless hours of needlework and dancing lessons if she could have been a true part of the Stark’s family.

Among fantasies of having an ordinary childhood were fantasies of living as one of those extraordinary warriors from the tales, like Queen Nymeria, or Wenda the White Fawn. She’d always held herself above the romantic tales, the songs that Sansa preferred, but she still couldn’t help being swept off by the idea of fighting for glory or riding as an outlaw.

Especially now, with the utter chaos that had spread throughout Winterfell since word of the King’s intended visit had spread.

According to her half-brother, Jon, the Hand of the King had died of old age, leaving the King without one- and, he suspected, in search of their father to replace him. It made sense. Eddard Stark was the most honorable man in the land, and the wisest, if you asked her opinion. The King could do no better.

The castle was in an uproar over the royal visit, because it was King Robert’s first. Lady Catelyn flew through the castle like a panicked graceful hen, pecking at anything she didn’t consider up to her standards. And for the most part Arya was smart enough to keep out of the woman’s way. She’d watched in amusement as she fussed over each of her children in turn, excluding Robb, who now had a wife to fuss over him. Lady Jeyne Westerling, swelling in the middle with child, was almost as bad as Lady Catelyn with her hair patting and tugging.

The king wasn’t even here and Jon had been sent for two haircuts. The first had unfortunately been unsuccessful, due to the fact that Jon hadn’t let the steward actually touch his hair. Arya had laughed to hear about it later, after he’d come back thoroughly shorn. Her brother was so vain about his head of dark brown curls.

But the period of teasing and cleaning was over. Arya had been hiding away in her room while the rushes throughout the castle were being replaced when Jon appeared at her door. He looked a bit grim.

“Arya,” his voice broke through the din coming from the corridors. She glanced up from the small piece of wood she’d been carving away at with a small knife. It had started out as a large shapeless lump, and had turned into a small shapeless lump, even though she’d been attempting to make a wolf.

She’d been using Nymeria as her model.

The direwolf was a very good model. When Jon, Bran, and Robb had brought the direwolf pups home after going into the wolf-wood to catch a deserter of the Night’s Watch, Arya hadn’t expected to get a wolf of her own. But when everyone else had gotten their pup, Jon had pulled the tiny brown she-wolf from his cloak, holding her out to her. Nymeria was the runt of the litter, and for a few days’ no one knew if she’d survive, but she did, and each day she grew larger and larger.

She waited for him to say something, but he simply stared. “Jon?” she finally prompted.

“Father wants to see you,” he told her.

Arya rolled her eyes. “I haven’t even done anything today!”

He shrugged. “Sure you haven’t put any dung in Sansa’s bed?”

She grinned. “I’m sure.”

“Father still wants to see you,” he repeated. “And I think you’ll want to get there before my mother’s done helping Sansa dress. The King’s been spotted on the Kingsroad.”

She frowned. “Already?” she huffed. “I don’t know why the stupid king is coming all the way north. He’s never come before.” Kindly, Jon pretended he hadn’t heard that. She hopped off the bed, commanding Nymeria to stay in the room and wait for her to return.

“Aren’t you excited to see the royal family, the Kingsguard, and all those fancy lords and ladies?”

“What, from the back row next to Hodor? Why would I want to meet a bunch of silly nobles?”

He smiled. “I’m a noble, you know,” he reminded her.

“Yeah, but you’re also Jon. You’re different.”

Sometimes she felt older than her highborn half-siblings. They could be so naïve sometimes. Arya knew that the court wouldn’t be interested in her as more than someone to look down on and order about. The Starks were her family, and a mostly kind one, at that, but the noble visitors they’d had before had never been kind. “Besides, Sansa has yet to shut up about how handsome the Princes are in weeks. And she hasn’t even seen them yet! They could be complete boars.”

“All the songs say princes are handsome, and you know how Sansa likes songs.”

“Do you think the King brought singers?” Arya asked. She wondered about that, knowing how much Sansa begged for them to come to their father. It was simply too perilous and inconvenient a journey for most of those types to make, no matter how much Sansa wanted to compensate them.

“I don’t know. Mother never mentioned that. I suppose he might have- the Queen might like that sort of thing- but it’s a bit of a waste, isn’t it?”

“From what I’ve heard, everything the King does is a waste,” she grumbled. “Theon told me-“

“Why would you listen to Theon?” Jon laughed.

“Theon said the King’s as fat as a boar and drinks himself stupid nightly.”

“You can’t say things like that, Arya,” Jon warned her. They’d left the privacy of the corridors now, and he was right. She shouldn’t be speaking about the king that way. She closed her mouth abruptly on any further complaints.

“Want to race?” Jon suggested, a wry smile tugging at his lips. It was a jape- they were, by all accounts, too old for such games, but Arya still nodded eagerly. Without a glance back at him, Arya took off running, laughing as she went. She could picture the feigned aloofness on Jon’s face just before she heard the steps behind her, and she laughed even louder when they both skidded to a halt more or less front of Ned Stark’s chamber doors.

When Arya and Jon burst through the heavy oaken doors, they were not met with their father, alone at his desk. Instead, lord and lady Stark stood beside the small window looking out onto the courtyard. Ned was trying not to smile. There was no such conflict on Catelyn’s face.

“Arya,” Ned began. She sobered at how fast his almost-smile disappeared. So this was serious. “It’s imperative nothing happens when the King arrives. Do you understand?”

Of course she did. Arya wasn’t stupid. She’d hardly be pulling pranks on the Queen. But Arya doubted that was all he was asking of her. Out of sight, that’s what he wanted- or rather, that was what Catelyn wanted. She wasn’t surprised by this, only resigned.

“Yes, father,” she answered mildly. Arya had learned to keep quiet, for the most part. It did no good to anger Lady Stark. She would never harm Arya, but she was good at making her feel small. This was the last thing she wanted to argue about, anyway. Arya felt no burning desire to catch the attention of the royal family.

Ned nodded, seemingly satisfied, and took his wife’s arm. Catelyn sent Arya a sharp look, “You’ll stand behind Sansa,” she commanded. Arya nodded. Not next to Hodor, but definitely not out in the open.

With that said, Lord and Lady Stark began gathering their children to greet the royal procession. Sansa and Bran were waiting dutifully in the courtyard, led there by Maester Luwin and Septa Mordane, who’d also towed Rickon along behind her. The poor boy had been stuffed into a formal leather jerkin and his wild red curls had been wetted in an attempt to get them to lie flat. Catelyn gathered him into her skirts as the bulk of Winterfell fell into their positions.

By the time Ned and Catelyn had taken position, Robb stood with Jeyne by his side, her belly swelling with their first child. Sansa looked enchanting in her bright blue dress, and Arya recognized the embroidery along the neckline as her half-sister’s own fine stitching. She shuffled behind her. Sansa was much taller than Arya, which made her feel very neatly hidden away from royal eyes.

It was while she was positioning herself just right, so as to peer through the gap between Sansa and Jon, that they all heard the hoof beats. The sound thundered through the courtyard, announcing what seemed like an army. She could have sworn to the Old Gods and the Seven that the King had brought all of the South with him to Winterfell. Lord after lord, knight after knight seemed to stream through Winterfell’s gates. She tried to pick the king out of the crowd, going off of descriptions in books and her father’s memories, but couldn’t find the barrel-chested man with the long black beard and the burly arms. The only crowned man was old and fat.

Robert Baratheon was not as described. Arya guessed that his tangled, filthy beard hid sagging jowls, and his eyes reminded her of a pig’s. Where was the large, handsome young warrior who had fought a war for her dead aunt’s honor? Where was the jolly, fun-loving king? This one looked washed up. He looked just as old as stodgy Lord Ned.

He needed a stool’s help off of his horse, and when he was off, he didn't even bother waiting for his wife, Queen Cersei Lannister. The Lioness stepped out of her carriage just then, hardly bothered by her husband's abandonment, if her haughty expression was to be trusted. She had hair like spun gold, which fell in intricate braids down to her waist, and a gown of crimson silk. Three golden-haired children followed behind her like ducklings, although the oldest was less of a child. He looked to be of an age with Sansa, and Arya guessed he must be Prince Joffrey, second in line to the throne. Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella both had their mothers look.

But where’s Prince Gendry? Arya wondered. He was the crown Prince, the one Sansa wished to marry. Arya was holding out hope that he was be as ugly as his father, as pig-eyed and fat, but the young man who sprung of his mount and hurried to catch his mother’s arm was not ugly. He looked stiff beside Cersei, but handsome nonetheless. His shoulders were broad, and he looked well-muscled. He couldn't be called fat. A perfect Prince for perfect Sansa, Arya thought. How irritating.

After they bowed briefly, Robert strode towards Ned.

“Ned!” King Robert roared, voice tinged with laughter. He was red-cheeked and grinning as he greeted her father. “Look at you, the North has made you old and fat!”

Father lifted an eyebrow “As the South has you,” he japed.

Robert’s laughter boomed, and Arya watched everyone around her give a sigh of relief. The King moved on to Lady Stark, giving her a brief peck on the cheek.

“How are you Cat?’ he asked brightly.

“Very well, Your Grace,” she replied. Arya couldn’t see her face from where she was, but she knew the smile Catelyn probably wore, polite an completely devoid of warmth. It was the one she wore with all guests.

“Ah, and here’s Robb, yeah? Congratulations!” Robert chuckled, giving Robb a knowing smile and kissing Jeyne’s cheek. 

He shook Jon’s hand and patted Sansa’s cheek. He ruffled Bran’s hair and gave Rickon a piggy smile. All of this happened in only a few moments, as Arya tried to watch as well as keep herself hidden. Cersei Lannister’s greeting wasn’t nearly so enthusiastic, she allowed Lord and Lady Stark to kiss her hand and only spared their children half a glance. Prince Gendry shook Ned’s hand and kissed Catelyn’s, but he followed after his mother. Joffrey and the children didn't even pause. When the greetings were done, Robert’s smile suddenly faded.

“I’ll see her now,” he announced gruffly. The grimace on Cersei’s face told Arya exactly who he was talking about. Her Aunt Lyanna.

Curious, how grief-stricken he seemed, after all these years. It wasn’t as if he’d even known her aunt that well, if Arya had the stories straight. But then, he’d gone to war, rebelled against the Targaryens. It had to have been an act of love.

“The dead can wait, Robert,” the queen told him, but he barely spared her a glance. Her father led the King off to the crypts and Arya fled the courtyard. Mayhaps she could refine the wooden wolf before the feast began.

 Arya had no time to herself before the feast. Almost immediately Catelyn had intercepted her, giving her a brief order to make herself look proper and not dally, which meant that if Lady Stark learned she wasn’t in her room until it came time to go to the Great Hall, she’d face all Seven Hells. It also meant that Arya spent the entire time fretting over how she could possibly make herself look proper.

Arya knew the attention wouldn't be on her tonight, it never was, but considering how important this night would be if Sansa truly wanted to marry a Prince, even less so. Still, she just knew that if she didn’t do as Catelyn had ordered, the Lady would somehow know. She clambered into her best gown, which paled in comparison to most of Sansa’s dresses. This was mostly because Arya had grown quickly out of her first best gown, spilled wine on her second, and gone riding in her third. After she was dressed, Arya braided back her wild hair, draping it over a shoulder and falling back onto her bed.

Nymeria padded towards the bed. Arya had forgotten that Catelyn had ordered the wolves out of sight when the King arrived. Most of the others could be told to stay, indeed it was simple to command all but Rickon’s fierce Shaggydog, but Nymeria resisted commands, and had to be shut in Arya’s room.

Ned had proposed that their direwolves had taken after each of his children. Grey Wind was amicable and playful, Robb’s perfect companion, charming as he was. Jon’s Storm was quiet and restrained, eager to please. Sansa’s Lady was well behaved, Bran’s Summer was curious and active, Rickon’s Shaggydog was a ruffian, and Arya’s Nymeria, the runt of the litter, nature’s version of a bastard, was as stubborn as could be. Arya spared another glance at the lump of wood she’d been carving, which now resembled a duck more than a wolf, and decided to spend the rest of her spare time worrying.

Arya patted Nymeria’s head softly. “Hello, girl,” she muttered. She was already feeling the stifling boredom, the irrational fear that came with large functions. She wished she’d thought to knick a book from Maester Luwin, maybe one about Braavos this time. She also wished she hadn't been banished to her room. It was hardly fair, and Arya doubted the King would be offended by the sight of one bastard-girl. Arya had heard that the King wasn’t short on bastards himself.

But she didn't disobey Lady Stark. She stayed on her bed with Nymeria until Jon knocked on her door. He escorted her only as far as the entrance to the Great Hall, the two parting ways to get to their respective tables. Jon was seated on high, next to Sansa, but Arya sat with the interesting people. It also helped that no one took the time to count how many cups of ale she drank. Father allowed the Stark children only one glass of wine at supper while she could get well and truly drunk.

She barely even watched the Southern king and his haughty family parade up to the table, instead trying to engage in conversation with Mikken, the castle blacksmith.

“There’ll be no sword for you, Arya Underfoot,” he told her adamantly. He even used her old nickname. When she was nine and decided she’d learn to do every job necessary to run a castle like Winterfell, the servants had dubbed her Arya Underfoot. It wasn’t a bad sign, as far as signs went. If Mikken was truly irritated with her, he’d have ignored her completely.

“Well why not? Shouldn’t I be able to defend myself?” she asked.

“You’ll have your brothers, and then your husband to defend you.”

“I’ll never marry,” Arya argued. She drank down her cup, signaling for another. “I won’t tell anyone, if that’s what you’re afraid of. I swear it.”

Mikken scowled at her, and she could tell she was wearing the old armorer down. “It’ll be hard to hide a sword, girl.”

“Not a small one!” she argued.

He only glared.

“If I promise secrecy?” she prompted.

“Not a word to anyone,” he snapped. Arya laughed, hoping he wouldn't change his mind in the light of day.

By the time the night began to wind down, Arya felt exhausted. Nymeria was napping lightly at her feet, directly under the table, full of table scraps and whatever she’d been able to scare the servants out of. The room swum around her, and King Robert’s loud laughter felt like a hammer to her skull. He’d left his seat at the high table around the same time that Queen Cersei had sent her children from the hall. Now he sat only a table away, a kitchen maid planted firmly on his lap. Catelyn had long since ushered all but Robb off to bed, and her father looked exhausted. The only thing keeping Ned at the table was Robert, who, though bleary eyed and swaying, didn't look tired.

He was pawing at his kitchen maid’s bottom when Arya left her own table. She stumbled out of the Hall into the courtyard, unsteady on her feet, Nymeria close on her heels.

“Are you the little bastard girl?” a voice said. Arya spun in its direction, and was met with empty air. “Down here.”

“The Imp!” she gasped, staring down at Tyrion Lannister. He was less fearsome in person than his descriptions gave him credit for. The small man had crooked features and discolored eyes, but he didn’t look like he ate babies or stole souls. He just looked like a dwarf. Still, Arya was tense at the sight of him.

“Yes, that is what they call me,” he answered, giving her a tight-lipped smile.

“Beg your pardon, my lord,” she corrected sloppily, giving a shaky curtsy.

“Someone gave you one too many drinks, didn’t they?” Tyrion asked. His small black and green eyes held cunning that Arya was instantly wary of. He seemed to see even more than what was there.

“I’m not a child,” she snapped, hating his tone, hating the way he was looking at her.

“You certainly look like one,” he countered.

“So do you,” she snapped.

“As I asked before, are you Ned Stark’s bastard?” he prompted, abandoning her slight easily.

Arya bristled. “How is that any of your business?”

“I’m curious- I make it my business.”

“I am Lord Stark’s natural-born daughter,” she admitted after a beat.

“His bastard, then,” Tyrion quipped. “It’s a bit dangerous for you out here all alone, faculties compromised, don’t you think?”

“I’m strong. I can fight,” Arya boasted.

“A grown man?”

“I don’t see any around,” she bit out. “Besides, I have Nymeria.” The direwolf stood at her side, almost reaching her waist.

“Nymeria? The name is apt, I’ll give you that,” Tyrion allowed, shrugging.

“Is that all you wanted, to inquire after my safety?” Arya asked incredulously.

“Honestly?” he asked. “No. I was curious, wanted to see if I recognized any of your features, but you’re a Stark through and through.”

“What else would I be?” she wondered.

“Dornish.”

“That’s just a rumour. Father has never admitted that Ashara Dayne was my mother. Besides, Ashara was beautiful.” Arya had heard the theory before. Her Uncle Benjen had told her Ashara Dayne was her mother once on a visit from the Wall, but she’d never been convinced.

“Rumours are not always lies,” Tyrion assured her cryptically. With that odd comment he turned on his heel, leaving Arya to stare after him for a moment.

Feelings shaken, she hurried back to her room, but the Imp’s strange eyes and accusatory words weren’t left behind in the courtyard. Arya sat in bed that night, struggling to fall asleep, and she wondered what he could mean by that. Was he telling her that it was true, that Ashara Dayne truly was her mother? Or was he trying to hint at the truth of another rumour? What had the Imp really wanted, other than to make her confused and upset?

Calling Gendry Baratheon handsome was useless and obvious. The realm was already well aware how dashing their future king was. This frustrated Arya Snow to no end. It had been good to know that the second son, Joffrey was dreadful, but the same couldn’t be said of Gendry.

She’d yet to speak to him, having decided to keep the relative peace between she and Lady Stark, to keep quiet and not give anyone any reason to punish her. She was rather pleased with herself, actually, and had become adept at avoiding all of the King’s family over the course of their visit. But Jon had made it a point to tell her that Prince Gendry was a good sort. He was polite, friendly, and compared to his brother, as humble as they came.

Unfortunately, this had left Arya entirely unprepared for the King himself, who didn’t seem to share any of his son’s good traits.

She had left behind her rooms in favor of the kitchens late one night, after spending most of her day trying to train Nymeria to fetch, missing both lunch and dinner. His Royal Largeness caught her off-guard in the dim torchlight of the corridor along the way. She’d been startled, completely unprepared for his appearance, and so, he’d caught her off guard.

He looked half-mad, and Arya wondered immediately where his Kingsguard was, where anyone was. Robert Baratheon was at least twice her size, and the hands that clamped down on her shoulders felt like anvils.

“Lyanna?” he choked out. She could smell the strongwine on his breath.

“Your Grace- I’m not-” she gasped, but he wasn’t really there. That look in his eye- he looked like he was years away. All that meant was that she was in much more trouble than it might seem.

“Lyanna! I knew you’d come back to me,” Robert whimpered, pulling her closer. “I’d have been a good husband to you, Lya- I swear it.”

“Your Grace,” Arya repeated, struggling in his grip. She wanted to fight, to scream and scratch, but she could just imagine how Lady Starl- how everyone- would react. It did her no good to humiliate both herself and the King.

“Lyanna,” he repeated, barely a breath, and suddenly his thick, fat lips were on her own, and his tongue was in her mouth.

He tasted like rot and too much wine, like the old drunk man he was. Arya tried to turn her head away, but Robert was persistent. His movements were unsteady, but strong, and he backed her up against the stone wall, warm with the heat from the hot springs. The lines of stone bricks dug into her shoulder bones, and Arya felt like she couldn't breathe.

Robert pulled away to gaze upon her face, and Arya gulped in air.

“Your Grace- I am Arya Snow. I am not my Aunt. Please-”

He cut her off with another disgusting kiss, his left hand leaving her shoulder in order to paw at her breast. She felt her stomach turning, but she could do absolutely nothing while his grip was so strong on her.

Something pulled the King away from her just as his large fat fingers began working at the laces of his breeches. Arya scrambled sideways along the wall, back against it so no one could approach her from behind, and tried to catch her breath.

“Ser Arys, Ser Preston, please escort the King back to his rooms,” Prince Gendry ordered, voice hard. The sight of his son, of his guards must have triggered something in Robert, because his eyes cleared a bit, and he went with them easily.

Before the Prince could say a word Arya started “I didn’t mean-!”

“I know,” he interrupted just as she began to apologize, wincing at the gaping collar of her tunic. She hurried to pull the fabric closer to her chest, face flushing with a terrible combination of humiliation and anger.

“I didn't encourage him. He thought I was Lyanna. I tried to explain.”

“I heard you,” Gendry assured her.

“I didn't do anything wrong,” she snapped.

“No, you didn’t,”

“Good. I-I’m glad we agree,” Arya said, nodding mostly to herself. 

“Would you mind if I escorted you back to your chamber?” the Prince asked. Arya fought the fear the request brought her.

Aiming for indifference, Arya nodded. “If it would make you feel better.”

“It would,” he assured her, laughing softly.

Arya peeled herself away from the wall, glancing back the way King Robert had been led. When the Prince tucked her arm into his, she pulled back immediately.

“I wouldn't presume to walk arm in arm with Your Highness,” Arya explained. Gods, she almost sounded like Sansa. Unfortunately, an impolite bastard was an unhappy bastard indeed. She’d adapted, shedding the boldness of a little girl. Arya Snow had learned manners.

“No one’s about,” Gendry pointed out.

“Someone’s always about- especially with the King here,” Arya replied.

“Fine then,” Gendry relented, arm falling back to his side, although he looked a bit put out now. “It’s good to meet you, aside from the circumstances.”

Arya nodded her thanks. “It’s nice to meet you as well.” Time would tell if that was true, but Arya felt vulnerable in the moment, and could only hope she was safe with Prince Gendry.

“Your brother has told me some tales about you,” Gendry revealed.

“Which one?” she wondered. The pair moved down the hall away from the library. It was on the same floor as her room, but the walk was no short journey.

“Jon. He seems a good sort. My father-” Gendry shot her an apologetic look “-says he bears a striking resemblance to Lord Stark when he was young.”

“My father says the same about you,” Arya told him.

“Yes. I’ve heard as much,” Gendry agreed. He was grimacing in displeasure. Of course, Arya didn't know the King any more than she had fifteen years prior, but she had a feeling that the man had changed, time on the Iron Throne and marriage to a Lannister making him what he was today. At least, that’s what she hoped. He was her father’s best friend, and she liked to think Ned hadn’t befriended the King Robert of now.

“I think you look more like your mother,” she said. It may have been the truth, but Arya said it only to spare his feelings.

“Is that so?”

“Yes. You may have your father’s coloring, but you have the jaw of a Lannister.”

He looked pleased when she said that. She was glad it was true, as well. He and his Uncle Jaime did share some features.

“I’m surprised you took note of my appearance, Lady Arya.”

Arya snorted. “Lady Arya- you mustn’t call me that. It drives Lady Stark mad, the thought that I might be equal to her true born sons and daughter.” She regretted her words as soon as they were out of her mouth. She shouldn’t have said such a thing about Lady Stark in front of a stranger, no matter how kind he was acting in the moment.

“My apologies, Your Highness. I didn’t mean to disrespect Lady Stark. Beg your pardon.”

“We call my brother, Edric, Lord,” Gendry said, seemingly happy to ignore both her transgression and her apology. She took it he meant Edric Storm. The difference was, Edric Storm’s mother had been of high birth. Most people believed Arya’s mother to have been a Dornish wet nurse. Even those who whispered about Ashara Dayne didn’t treat her like a high-born bastard.

“Well things are different in the North.”

The sympathy in his eyes made her uncomfortable. What could he possibly know about what Arya suffered under Lady Catelyn? He was a prince. Arya doubted he’d suffered a day in his life. Even she had nothing to complain about. She was fed three hot meals a day and had her own bed to sleep in. Truthfully, neither of them knew anything about true suffering.

Gendry looked away. Arya couldn't puzzle out the emotion that lingered in his Baratheon blues. But then, she hardly knew this Southron prince. He was a stranger to her.

“It’s been fifteen years, and it feels like he’s mentioned her every day of my life,” he muttered. “Lyanna this, Lyanna that.”

The sudden change both in topic and the Prince’s demeanor took her by surprise for a moment. But the specter of Lyanna Stark was familiar to her as well.

“Father hates talking about her,” Arya found herself saying. Ned Stark avoided talk of his dead sister as much as he could. He’d told her once that she looked like Lyanna, but that was it. Still, the sorrow that the Rebellion had brought upon House Stark would never truly leave Winterfell.

“The King didn't know her like Lord Stark would have. He talks about a fantasy, I think. No woman could be that perfect.”

“Old Nan says that memory taints the past, makes everything seem better. He remembers a perfect woman.”

“The realm thinks my mother is a bad wife, and an even worse Queen, but my mother is only what King Robert made her. How could she be a good wife if he constantly measures her against a dream?”

Cersei Lannister’s distant haughtiness took on a slightly new tilt with this information. Arya supposed that living your entire life being compared to the dream of a dead girl had to be difficult. Arya suffered the comparisons made between her and Sansa well enough, but she supposed it had made her bitter, less willing to act kindly towards her half-sister. Even the comparisons others made between her and the dead woman who was rumored to be her mother could be hurtful. The tales spoke of Ashara Dayne as the most beautiful woman in all Seven Kingdoms by the time of her death. Arya was reminded every day that she was no beauty. Sansa had stopped calling her Arya Horseface only a year ago, but it still crossed her mind almost daily.

“Your Uncle asked me if Ashara Dayne was my mother,” she told Gendry, searching his face for any flash of foreknowledge.

“I take it you’re talking about my Uncle Tyrion. He’s a curious man. But it’s true, that those in the south have always considered her your mother. The Starks aren’t talked about at court very often, but when they are, courtiers love to mention Lord Starks base-born daughter.”

Arya rankled at that. “Why is that the concern of the court?” The idea of a bunch of soft perfumed lords and ladies speaking about her without ever seeing her was insulting.

“It makes for a good story. Honorable Lord Stark forsaking vows to have one last tryst with the beautiful Lady Dayne; it’s romantic. But life’s not a song.”

“No, it isn’t,” Arya agreed, teeth clenching at this new information. She wondered how many of the court had been watching her, looking for any hint at her origins.

They were silent as they came to the corridor which held her rooms. Neither wanted to speak, a peace having settled between the two of them. In the darkness of the corridor, it seemed easier to speak of secrets, but both knew better than it. There were eyes everywhere.

“I’m sorry for my father’s actions, my lady,” Prince Gendry finally said.

“I’m no lady,” she insisted. “And it’s not as if you forced the strong wine on him. You didn't make him drink himself to delusion.” She winced as the words left her mouth, but Gendry was quick to apologize once more. His eyes were soft as he withdrew from her door, giving her the space to open her door.

“Still. I’m sorry.”

Nodding, Arya stepped away from the warmth of his shoulder next to hers.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” Gendry asked. She raised her brow at him.

“Mayhaps,” she answered evasively, afraid of what he’d say if she said no, or if she said yes.

“I hope to.”

So do I.

            As soon as the door closed between them, Arya let her frustration out in a loud breath. If she dug herself any deeper into this bloody hole, she’d be digging her grave.

            She let her body fall onto her bed, staring up at the ceiling and contemplating his words. He hoped to see her again tomorrow. A prince, wanting to spend time with a bastard girl. If he was his father’s son, she might be getting herself into a deep well of trouble. But she dearly hoped Prince Gendry was nothing like his father.

Chapter Text

Winterfell Cont.

It didn't matter how handsome the Prince was. It certainly didn't matter how funny and generous he could be. None of that changed her name from Snow to Stark, but all of these things were repeated over and over by the castle’s servants until that how she thought of Gendry, a fanciful man with too many virtues.

He was nothing like Joffrey at all. Where Joffrey was quick to anger, Gendry’s temper burned slow, where Joffrey was thoughtless, Gendry was always considerate. They even looked different. Joffrey had the bright golden ringlets of his mother, just like Myrcella, just like Tommen, while Gendry had inherited his father’s dark hair. They were almost more at odds than she and Sansa. But while Gendry favored his father in looks, he was still a Lannister, and he loved his mother and her brothers. It was almost like he couldn't help it, just as Arya couldn't help but love Robb and Rickon and Sansa, even if she hated them as well sometimes. It was easy to love those who loved you back, and Jon and Bran had always been her closest friends. It was loving those that didn't ask for it that Arya couldn't stop doing.

Gendry enjoyed watching his Uncle Jaime fight, and the two of them got on well while training. Gendry always took breakfast with his mother, even when it wasn't required of him, and Arya had spotted him from afar, keeping on a amicable, but stilted conversation.

Arya spent her time with him in the library. Tyrion had made the dusty room his second chamber, and Arya had been happy to share, as long as the Imp didn’t speak to her. He wasn't very good at that.

Gendry had visited his Uncle two days after Arya’s run in with the King, smiling easily at Tyrion Lannister. Several moments went by, with the pair conversing quietly, before the Prince noticed the spot Arya had shoved herself into, more of a crevice than another room. A nook.

“Arya?” he’d prompted, smiling curiously. Arya glanced up, just as she’d been doing since he’d entered the library, but this time he was looking back.

Eyeing Tyrion, Arya stood, dipping into a graceless curtsy. “Hello, Your Highness.”

He only frowned, looking uncomfortable. “It’s good to see you again,” he told her. Gendry’s voice was pointed. So he realized she was avoiding him. “Have you met Lord Tyrion?”

“Yes, we’ve met before,” Arya said. She and Tyrion met eyes for a moment.

“Arya and I had a very interesting conversation about rumours,” Tyrion explained. He looked at her like he was laughing at a joke she hadn't been told. Arya’s brow wrinkled in both frustration and confusion.

“Nothing scandalous, I hope.” Gendry’s voice was clear, but his eyes told a different story.

Arya was obviously missing something, but she needed to avoid becoming entangled in southron matters. Curious as her nature was, this was harder and harder each passing day. Still, she was also stubborn by nature.

“Lord Tyrion, I know you’re in the library quite a lot. I’ve found myself in the same position. Would- would you like a tour, as well as an explanation of Maesters Luwin’s method of bookkeeping?” Considering just how confusing the order of books and manuscripts and scrolls could be to someone unfamiliar with Winterfell, Arya thought it a rather generous offer.

It took days to introduce Tyrion to all of their materials, and Gendry accompanied them for each one. She tried to avoid striking up conversations with him, but he had no want for polite subjects to discuss, and his Lord Uncle seemed determined to help him along. She felt like she was trapped after three days, but hadn't been able to retract the offer without seeming rude.

She’d escaped after the final day, having taught the Imp well enough about their collection to rival even Luwin’s expertise, and joined Jon, Robb, Bran and Rickon in the training courtyard.

Bran, at thirteen, had moved on from wooden swords to blunted tourney steel, which, although lacking the sharpness of real weaponry, could hurt on impact. His practice was reserved to training on sacks of straw and lessons from Ser Rodrick or Robb. Rickon, on the other hand, was rather thrilled with his new ability to spar. He and Tommen,who was few years older, were padded past reason, most likely at Lady Catelyn’s behest, and were whacking each other rather sloppily with wooden practice swords. Bran and Robb were running through the movements of a drill.

“Still begging Mikken for a blade?” Jon wondered, sidling up to Arya, perched upon the wall watching her half-brothers. He’d been training, made obvious by the thin sheen of sweat that graced his forehead and the ripe smell coming from his tunic.

“Of course. Although I think I’ve actually worn him down. He’s been muttering about leaving a package in my room for a few days.”

“A blade isn’t a toy, Arya,” Jon reminded her, but he lacked any real conviction. He said it more out a duty than genuine worry.

“I know that, Stark. But I’ve been practicing alongside you and Bran forever. I know how to handle steel,” she argued defensively. “Besides, how will I become a knight without a sword of my own?”

“Please tell me you’re japing?”

“Why would I be japing? Brienne of Tarth is a knight. She’s one of the best.”

“Arya…” Jon sighed.

“If you’re not on my side, who will be?” she wondered. Jon glanced at her, looking contrite, and she let the anger leak out of her voice. “You and I could ride throughout the realm and enter tourney’s as mystery knights.”

“I think my mother may have other plans,” he told her. Their eyes met and held.

“Doubt they’ll be nearly as fun as mine.”

The sound of many feet entering the courtyard made them both glance away. Prince Joffrey and several Lannister men, Ser Jaime excluded, had come to watch Prince Tommen and Rickon spar. Arya sensed a problem and hopped down from her place on the wall.

“Arya, mayhaps you should go back to the library,” her half-brother advised, eyes flicking over the crowd.

“What?”

“Don’t give my mother anything to say. This is no place for a-”

“If you say lady I’ll stay just to spite you,.” Arya warned.

Jon rolled his eyes gesturing towards the stairs. She was tempted to stay anyway, in case the Stark boys needed any help, but the look of stress on Jon’s face caused sympathy. She turned away from the silent tenseness of the training yard to return to the silent tenseness of the castle. But she didn’t actually travel further than voices would carry. She was a rather talented eavesdropper, and used this to her advantage.

When Rickon got in a surprisingly skillful strike with his sword Joffrey’s voice rose in protest.

“You dare to hit your Prince?” he called out.Tommen turned to his brother and Arya could just barely make out the look of discomfort on the little Baratheon’s face.

“We’re practicing!” Rickon snapped impatiently, angry to have his game interrupted.

Joffrey strode forward, and she was sure he was about to pull out his sword when Jon and Robb met him. All three had their hands on the pommels of their swords.

Jon wasn’t quick to anger, but he also wasn’t one to ignore a slight. If either he or Robb even suspected Prince Joffrey might hurt Rickon, or any other Northman, she was sure nothing could stop what they did next.

But they had no chance to do anything stupid. Ser Rodrick stepped in and the situation fizzled out. Arya wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or not. It wouldn't be a horrible thing to see Joffrey hurt.

The whole castle seemed divided and unsettled. Where ever went a group of northmen, there were southerners to goad them into misbehavior. Only Arya and Sansa had yet to be reprimanded by their father. Sansa was already half in love with the Princes and she idolized the Queen, and so she’d been rather careful about her actions so far. Arya was just avoiding trouble because she happened to be avoiding Gendry.

It came as both a relief and a bitter disappointment when King Robert announced they were leaving. With him would go her family. Sansa, Jon, Bran, Rickon and her father would be traveling down the Kingsroad. Apparently Ned had accepted King Robert’s offer to be Hand of the King. Lady Catelyn had decided to stay behind for the birth of her first grandchild and with each passing day Arya felt the panic in her breast increase. The only friends she had were all leaving her.

King Robert was taking her family away.

She tried to accept that from now on her life would be one long game of leaving Catelyn's sight as fast as possible, broken up by brief visits. Not for the first time Arya wished she was a boy. If she were a boy she could take the Black, fight wildlings and go North of the wall.Instead everyone just expected her to wait for someone to settle for a bastard-wife.

Having almost resigned herself to loneliness, Arya was surprised when Sansa approached her in the training yard. The older girl rarely spoke to her bastard sister, a show of loyalty to her mother, and Arya couldn’t remember the last time Sansa had been in the training yard, among wooden       practice swords and sweaty men. But here she was, pretty mouth turned up in a genuine looking smile. Arya wasn’t sure what to think about this new development.

“Sansa?” she prompted when her half-sister didn’t immediately begin speaking.

“I was wondering if… Father suggested, and Mother agreed. I rather like the idea…”she began.

“Yes?” Sansa looked extremely flustered.

“Father suggested that you come south with me,” Sansa tried again. “I’m- offering to make you a lady’s maid. He thinks the position could make it easier to find youa good husband.My mother agrees. Mayhaps even the son of a minor lord…”

Immediately she wanted to refuse. She didn’t want a good husband- and she definitely didn’t want to be Sansa’s lady maid. But something about Sansa’s voice, the expression on her face, it seemed like an apology, as if she wished to make amends.

Besides- her whole family was going south, Sansa included, and while she’d always prefer the North to the South, she didn’t want to be alone.

South it was.

“Sansa…that’s extremely kind of you,” Arya professed.

“But you’re refusing?” she guessed, cheeks flushed with sudden anger.

“What? No, Sansa...I’m, saying yes- and thank you very much.”

“No one thought you’d say yes,” Sansa admitted.”Except for father and I.”

“I’m glad to prove them all wrong,” Arya said.

“Of course you are.”

“I’ll need to pack,”she realized. Turning to her sister, she smiled shyly. “May I beg my lady’s leave?”

Sansa giggled. “You don't need to do that just yet.”

“Thank god,” Arya laughed, and without another word, she jumped up, bolting off towards her room. Nymeria loped after her.

Arya wasn't much for care, but she also knew, from now on, she couldn’t simply look how she wanted. She would be leaving Winterfell- and careless days of wearing her brother’s clothes- to be Sansa’s lady maid. That meant dresses and neat braids and acting like she wasn’t half-wild. She knew how to behave herself until she could escape out to the Godswood, but it was the Seven reigned supreme south of the Neck.

Nymeria was fetching her gloves for her when she heard footsteps behind her. Turning, Arya was met with Jon’s bright smile. He held his hands behind him, and she knew immediately that he was hiding something there.

“What do you have?’ she asked, returning his smile.Jon’s grin widened impossibly bigger as he strode toward her bed. He laid the long bundle of leather down and worked at it’s ties. Pulling each edge away, her brother revealed the most glorious thing she’d ever seen.

The sword wasn’t very large, a little smaller than the ones Robb and Jon used,but when she picked it up the metal was heavy in her hand.It was fine, northern steel, and the grip, though plain, seemedas though it was made to fit her smaller female hand. It was, of course- Mikken had finally given her the sword she’d been begging for.

“Jon!” was all she said, but she needn’t say more.Jon always understood her.

“He said he’d decided you’d need it down south, said you’d been pestering him for ages,” Jon relayed with a chuckle. They both know it was new, she’d only known for an hour. He’d always planned to give her the blade.

“I’d thought he’d forgotten.”

‘Mikken forget about you? You spent most of the year in his forge when you were ten,” he exclaimed.

They were quiet for a moment. Memories from being young made them both wish they’d never have to leave Winterfell, leave the North.       

“I’m glad you agreed to go with Sansa,” Jon finally told her.

“I’m surprised she asked.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “What?” she asked indignantly.

“You two have always been this way.You could have been true sisters had you not both decided that the other wasn’t interested.”

“Sansa wasn’t interested. She did it for your mother,” Arya argued.

“Not true. You never even tried to play with Sansa. Just ran off with Bran,”Jon said.

“She didn't try either.”

“That’s true. I never said it was your fault alone,” he reminded her.

“Well, now I’m trying. Now I’ll be with her constantly.”

“Father hated calling you Sansa’s servant, she did too.It’s simply a title. You’ll be more companion that maid.”

“Don’t tell your mother that,” she muttered.

Jon gave her an apologetic smile. “I’ll leave you to the rest of you packing. You’ll want to keep your new blade out of sight.” He was halfway out the door when he remembered something. ‘What will you call it?”

“Frost bite?” she joked, and Jon waved away her jape. “I’ll call it...Needle. Those southron ladies can have their sewing needles, I now I have mine.”

__________________________________________________________________

Arya had almost finished her round of goodbyes when Gendry joined her. She’d just left Theon with a rather bawdy joke and was heading towards Mikken’s forge to thank him for Needle when he appeared at her side. Tyrion Lannister was just beside him.

“Your Highness,” she greeted. “My lord.” the only thing keeping him from curtsying was the rain that was threatening above them. A storm was close, and she wanted to reach the forge as quickly as possible.Her lack of a curtsy seemed to please the prince.

“Hello Arya,” he replied cheerfully.

‘Lady Snow.”

The smile Lord Tyrion sent her looked guileless,but she didn’t believe that for a  moment. Gendry remained oblivious.

“So where are you going?” he asked.

“The forge. I’d like to say goodbye to our armourer, Mikken,” she answered easily enough.

“A friend of yours?” the Imp asked.

“Yes,” she replied shortly.

“We’d love to come alone. Back in King’s Landing I take frequent trips to the Street of Steel. Smithing is fascinating,” Gendry admitted.

“Don't let my nephew speak for too long. His Highness forgets that his father is a king, not a blacksmith,” Tyrion japed.

“He’s right,” Gendry confessed. “I bring my mother to panic, worrying I’ll run off to become an apprentice in some armourers shop.”

‘When I was a child I threatened to take the black,” Arya remembered.

“Anyone on the Wall can become something, bastard, thief, prince or baker,” Tyrion said. He sounded like he was quoting some old maester in a manuscript.

“Anyone but a woman,” Arya countered bitterly.

“Would you want to take the black?” Gendry asked.The disdain and disbelief he struggled to hide made him sound a little like his mother.

They approached Mikken’s forge and Arya didn’t bother answering that yes, of course she’d take the black if she could. Anything to escape a woman’s life.

“I delivered your request, Miss. I won’t give you another!” Mikken warned by way of greeting. Arya grinned at him.

“I’ve not lost it already,” she assured him. “I’m just along to say goodbye.”

“Oh, and you bothered with the smith? Haven’t come to see me since my gift, weeks ago-”

“A single week ago!”

“But now you’re here to say your goodbyes?” Mikken grumbled.

She knew he meant none of this, it was just good-natured complaining, but Gendry tensed and Tyrion looked like he was suppressing a smirk.

“Aye,” was her only reply. Mikken’s eyes danced, the closest he ever came to laughter.

“Well, I’ll be glad to be rid of you, Underfoot,” he said. She knew when she was being asked to leave. He didn't look comfortable with a pair of highborn southerners in his forge. Arya nodded, her acknowledgement and promise to get them out.

“I hope to see you again soon,” she told him truly. She hoped to the Old Gods that when they left for the Crownlands they weren’t leaving permanently.

“And I you.”

She left then, Gendry and Tyrion trailing after her, easily blinking away a few stray tears before they could fall.

“He seemed...pleasant,” Tyrion said with a tight twist of his mouth.

“He’s a grumpy old man,” Arya corrected. “But he’s a good sort, and he’s done me a few favors.”

“And the request you asked of him? Does the Lady Snow own a set of plate mail?” the Imp asked.

She gave a hollow sort of laugh but avoided his question.

“We leave for the South in just two days,” Gendry stated. They all knew it, but he couldn't resist filling the silence.

"They’ll be the longest two days of my life,” the Half-man grimaced. But Arya didn't think so. She was sure they’d be gone in a blink.     

Chapter Text

The Kingsroad

She was exactly right. The next two days of packing and preparation were over before they even started, and she soon found herself milling around the East Gate waiting for Sansa. Her sister only came strolling out into the open ground near the East Gate once most of the train was gathered and Ned Stark had gathered their horses,and headed straight for her father. Arya pushed herself away from the castle wall and met the little lady there. She mounted her horse smoothly while Ned helped Sansa onto hers with a gentle hand. Rickon, presumably after a tearful farewell, was ushered out by Septa Mordane, and gathered into their small carriage. The Septa was too old to ride, and her brother was too young. Or, Catelyn thought he was too young. She reasoned that he couldn’t ride for very long, and they’d be on horses for days.

“We’ll be directly behind the Queen’s wheelhouse,” he informed them. “An honor. And Sansa will be able to join if Her Grace wishes.”

Sansa’s eyes widened excitedly. “And is Prince Gendry riding with her? Or does he favor a horse?”

“Robert says Gendry isn’t fond of sitting about in carriages,” Ned told her, smiling. His eyes flicked towards the small carriage that held his youngest child. Cersei Lannister’s was practically double the size of it, painted red and gold.

“He’s not a very good rider,”Arya found herself saying without thinking. Their father’s smile turned wry, but his eyes issued a small warning. Sansa, on the other hand, seemed personally offended by the comment.

“How do you know?” she cried.

She nodded her head in the Prince’s direction. He’d ridden his horse out from the stables, and while he was adequate, Arya knew instantly that could out race him with her eyes closed and her hands bound together.

“I doubt he’d ever need to spend more than an hour on a horse in King’s Landing,” Sansa shook the critique off. But Arya wasn’t saying that Gendry should be a good rider, just that he wasn’t one.

She dropped it in favor of spurring her horse onward when the procession stuttered into movement. Ned led them towards the front, towards the monstrosity that was the Queen’s carriage. The dust kicked up by the wheels brought tears to her eyes. Bran and Jon joined them soon after, and the four Starks all talked together quietly, unconsciously leaving Arya to her own thoughts.

If she wasn’t here by the kindness of her sister she would have begged to go off alone and meet some of the southron servants. She was sure she’d make quick friends. Arya was good at that. But, like Septa Mordane, who doubtless didn't want to be trapped in a carriage with wild little Rickon, Arya couldn't wander off on her own.

That evening, when they stopped at a small inn, all 200 of them, Arya decided she’d be a good maid to her sister. After helping her trudge up the steps- Sansa wasn’t nearly as used to riding for long stretches of time as she was- Arya wasn’t sure what need to be done

“Uh...would you like me to call for a bath?” she asked stiffly.

Sansa turned, looking even more uncomfortable than she was. “No, no I’m fine. But would mind brushing my hair?”

She jumped to the task, drawing a soft haired brush from the pack Sansa had given her, full of her clothes and personal things. This could be an easy job. What could possibly go wrong?

Unfortunately, the two girls underestimated how long they’d gone cold to one another. After a few moments of clumsiness Sansa snatched the brush away, working at her own hair in a twisted uncomfortable way.

“I can do it!” Arya snapped, grabbing back the comb.

“Obviously not,” Sansa retorted, and reached for the brush, but Arya pulled it away, just out of her  seated reach.  “Give it, now!”

The shouts roused the girl’s wolves, and Lady, polite as ever, looked a bit ruffled. Nymeria didn't bother with that. Her teeth were bared in a silent growl.

“Sansa, let me do it!” she exclaimed. If she couldn't brush her hair, how would she ever do all the other things required of her.

“So you can pull all the hairs out of me head?” Sansa cried, at once reaching out for the brush and clutching at her long red locks as if to protect them.

“It’s not my fault it’s so thick! You could use with a pruning,” Arya told her, rather rudely.

“Girls?” a confused voice spoke from the doorway. Ned was watching, frowning deeply at the scene before him. Arya held the hair brush away as Sansa grabbed at her neck and face. They stopped immediately.

“Father,” Sansa rushed to her feet. Arya had the decency to feel guilty.

“There’s food waiting for you downstairs.”

Both girls rushed past him wordlessly. Arya couldn’t bear to meet his eyes.  

It got better as they went on, but Sansa still insisted that Arya do as little as possible. She told her that she was clumsy, inept when it came to women’s work. She said she had the hands of a blacksmith. But Arya knew better. She’d seen Mikken’s hands. Her’s were practically delicate in comparison.

One day, after a night of bickering with Sansa about whether she was any good at sewing- Arya knew she wasn’t but she also didn't know how to let anything go- Gendry pulled his horse alongside her. After a few days on the road, no one took any care where they were in the procession. Gendry weaved through, speaking to anyone who cared to listen. He was kind to the smallfolk, new the names of many of his fellow travelers. She was sure he wouldn’t look out of place talking to Ned Stark’s bastard daughter, so she didn’t bother trying to exit the conversation.

“Hello, Your Highness,” she said rather pleasantly.

“Gendry, please. Just Gendry,” he repeated. But she’d heard him each time he asked and she ignored him anyway. She wouldn’t dare call him Gendry when so many people rode along with them. She wasn't a fool. Arya knew he was only being kind. For some reason he enjoyed spending time with her.

“I’ll call you Gendry when you can stop Lord Tyrion from calling me Lady Snow,” she countered, smiling.

“Trying to tell a Lannister what to do is like ordering a forest fire to put itself out,” he told her with a slight grimace.

Arya thought he sounded a bit grand, like he was trying too hard to be clever, but she liked the sparkle in his eye as he waited for her reaction or reply.

“It doesn’t work and you end up burned?” she provided.

He grinned down at her, and she was tempted to meet his grin with one of her own. But she couldn't find a smile to return to him.The idea that the Lannister’s were so contemptuous towards the crown didn’t sit well with her. Even if it was just a jape.

“So, you’ve spoken to almost everyone on the road with us. Have you met anyone interesting?” she asked. “Or dangerous?”

“If I met someone truly dangerous, no offense, Arya, but you wouldn't be the first person to know,” he told her honestly.

She rolled her eyes. “No outlaws?” when he gave a shake of the head she thought for a moment and then said “What about a baker with a overly cruel smile? Or a butcher whose meat doesn't taste like any you’ve had before?”  

Gendry looked a little bewildered, but in a pleasant way. “Are you- have you just made all of this up? Or is this from one of those books that so fascinated both you and my Uncle?”

She shook her head. “Old Nan- she told us stories every night- she once told a tale about a little girl who fell through a mirror into a world that was the same and different. Her mother’s eyes were black and her father’s were white, and the baker’s smile cut like a knife...so on and so forth. It was, quite terrifying when I was six,” she confessed.

“You were six?” he exclaimed. He looked a bit outraged on her behalf. It felt a bit odd to see him that way.

“That wasn't even the worst one.”

The pair rode alone together for a time, Arya trying to frighten the Prince with Old Nan’s ghost stories while he tried to make her sick with poems of courtly love and nonsense the like that Sansa was always immersed in. But Gendry must have known that too long would be a bit improper. With a warm farewell and a promise to speak again, he trotted his horse towards the King’s place at the front.

She wasn’t alone for very long. To her great annoyance, Sansa had been invited to ride along with Queen Cersei for a time, midday, to be exact, and Sansa had told Arya she must come.

The sisters slipped after the break for the midday meal, and the Queen greeted Sansa warmly with a heavy-lidded eyes and a half-smile.

“Your Grace,” Arya performed her courtesies after Sansa had completed hers and sat down.

“Arya Snow,” the Queen addressed her. She stared at her in surprise. She’d expected the same disdainful she’d always received from Lady Stark. “Sansa told me that she’d offered to take you south with her.”

“Yes, Your Grace. I’m- I am very grateful to Lady Sansa for the- the-”

“Gesture of sisterly love?” the Queen suggested. Arya nodded awkwardly. “Well. If I have any say in the matter, Sansa might become Queen after me. She’ll need a loyal maid to keep her looking the part.”

Sansa was blushing furiously, looking rather pleased with herself. And Arya wouldn't have cared, really, she might even be happy for Sansa, but if she was going to be queen she’d be marrying Gendry and… And what?

Arya just didn’t want to stop being his friends just because he’d gotten married and it wouldn’t be proper. She didn't know when she’d started considering the Prince her friend, but she did. That was it. She didn't want to lose a friend. They weren’t rare to her, but they were hard to keep.

“I’d be honored to be that maid,” Arya said, though it fell hollowly from her mouth. She supposed that would mean Sansa would think she didn’t mean it.

Beside the Queen sat little Princess Myrcella, working diligently at her needlework, but when she glanced up from it she turned to her mother. “If Lady Snow is Sansa’s sister, will she marry Joffrey?”

The Queen’s mouth hardened into a thin straight line and her gaze turned to pierce Arya’s. “Where have you heard her called Lady Snow, dear?” she asked, voice sounding mild.

“That’s what Uncle Tyrion calls her,” Prince Tommen,seated beside his sister, interjected helpfully.

“Arya isn't a lady,” Sansa explained, probably more gently than the Queen would have, but Arya still flinched. “She’s my natural-born sister.”

“So she couldn't marry Joff?” Myrcella asked doubtfully.

“No,” Sansa told her.

After the incident in the wheelhouse they weren't invited back for two weeks. Sansa raged for a while, blaming the slight on Arya’s presence. Arya let herself get angry too, let her petty feelings out when the two fought, but never took it very far. She knew Sansa would get a longer lecture from their father, but she also knew Ned expected more from his natural-born daughter. She was more mature, even if they were the same age.

So what happened next hit her harder than under any other circumstances. After a particularly long argument over a pair of Sansa’s stockings that Arya had tried unsuccessfully to repair, she’d decided to finally escape among the servants and make some new friends. Along the way she’d run into Gendry, who took it upon himself to introduce her to some of the surrounding countryside as opposed to the people.         

“Have all the smallfolk turned suddenly into trees?” she asked, smiling. Gendry turned back to her.His face was open and showed unexplained enthusiasm.

“You haven’t been South before, have you?” he asked. Confused, she shook her head. The last time the Stark’s had gone south they’d traveled to Riverrun, where Lady Stark’s father was lord. Obviously, Arya had not come along.

“What are you on about?” she asked.

“The Neck is mostly swamp. People talk about it as if it’s all just one large bog,” he told her.

“Isn’t it?” Her question was met with a laugh.

“Bogs can be beautiful,” he said.

With that they broke through the scraggly trees that lined the Kingsroad, and she understood what he meant. Surely, at first, it was just as harsh and unpleasant as she’d expected, but as they looked on, as she saw how he took in the land spread before them, Arya understood the charm. There were little purple and green flowers scattered about and all the plants burst in several shades of riotous color.It looked chaotic and lively. She’d always before the clean, hard beauty of Winterfell and the North,but this was nice too.

They went on several excursions like the first as they traveled south at the slow pace of a royal procession. Arya saw that Gendry loved the land they rode over. He’d spent most of his life in the Crownlands, but he was so passionate about his future kingdom. He loved every pebble on the ground just as he loved every peasant. He’d make a much better king than his father.

On the day her life veered sharply from the course she’d reluctantly decided on, Gendry was showing her the Ruby Ford. She’d gotten it in her head that they’d search for the rubies from the armor of the long dead Dragon Prince, Rhaegar Targaryen. it was a childish fancy, but Gendry still agreed enthusiastically.

“You know, if the stones weren’t found ages ago, they’re very likely to have flown down-river,”he told her after a few cold wet moments. He’s rolled his pant-legs up, leaving his calves bare, and taken off his boots. Arya had gone in fully dressed, in a borrowed pair of breeches and her own too-large tunic.

“That’s what they’d like you to think!” she exclaimed, arm stuck in  the soft mud of the river bed up to her elbow.

“They? The rubies?”

“Yes, of course,” she said.

“You’re mad,” he told her with a chuckle. With a smirk, Arya gathered up a handful of mud.  When he turned to scan the stones near his feet, she upended it onto his head, rubbing it in, careful to get it everywhere.

The shock on his face made her laugh aloud.

“I’m eccentric,” she corrected breathlessly. His counterattack was no surprise, and as the mud slid down her face she turned to grin at him.

But it wasn’t a triumphant face that met her curious one. Instead her own lips crashed into his. They were warm,soft, and she responded immediately, unthinkingly. She abandoned her back to the mud  as he snaked his arms around hers.

This was her first kiss. She was kissing a prince. She was kissing Gendry. All the concerns she should be feeling, the concerns she would be feeling if she were in her right mind seemed like pinpricks at the edge of her mind. She didn't know how long they kissed half on the bank and halfin the Trident, but Arya was ashamed to know, afterward, that if it weren’t for the cry of alarm that jolted them apart, she might have let hims have all of her.

Sansa, Joffrey, Tommen and Bran all stood a little ways away from them, solidly on the bank. Tommen and Bran looked surprised, mildly uncomfortable, but it was Sansa and Joffrey that scared her. Joffrey looked...smug, much too pleased for comfort, and Sansa looked as if Arya had stabbed her through the heart.

Gendry stood immediately, looking stricken. “Joff,” he warned, but his dashed off without a word. Arya could practically hear him giggling to himself in delight. Gendry took off after him, leaving Arya to Sansa.

“Sansa, I-” she began, struggling to her feet. She tried to compose herself, but soaking wet and covered in mud, she did a poor job of it.

“I’m going to be Queen,” Sansa snapped.

“I know.”

“He’ll marry me,” she said.

“Yes.”

“You’re just a bastard.” Her voice was getting shriller with each announcement. Bran backed away, looking both concerned and frightened.

“I’m just a bastard,” Arya agreed emphatically, in hopes it would calm Sansa some. She seemed to deflate then, although her the Tully blue eyes that stared at her remained sharp.

“It’s not your fault,” she said. “It’s in your nature. Bastards can’t control their urges.”

“I didn’t-” Arya rushed to tell Sansa that it hadn’t been on purpose. She needed her to know.  

“You couldn’t control yourself,” Sansa pressed. “If I dismiss you, if father sends to back to Winterfell, the Queen will be satisfied,” she said in that same, hard, distinct voice.

Joffrey, looking quite triumphant, returned seconds later. Gendry didn’t come back.

“What did you do?” Tommen asked, looking reproachful. he wasn’t fond of his second oldest brother.

“I’ve told mother!” he taunted. Sansa’s back went straight as a rod.

The children sat anxiously, waiting for the metaphorical dam to break. They didn't wait long. The Queen marched out with her hand on her son’s arm and her face drawn tight with anger. Lord Stark, the King, Jon and the Stark wolves followed after mother and son.

“Where is the girl?” the King barked. He didn't look angry, only exasperated.

“In the river,” Joffrey announced.

Arya hurried onto the bank, eyes downcast. She had no idea what to expect. No one made a fuss about this sort of thing, in the North or the South. Affairs happened all the time, whether anyone thought them  good or bad. None ever got the amount of attention she was getting right now. She felt ashamed, and guilty, but mostly angry. Why was this a special case?

“You little sl-” Cersei started in loudly, but Robert turned a hard stare on his wife and she fell reluctantly silent.

“This is why I was summoned? Because the boy was caught kissing Ned’s girl?” His Grace scoffed. Joffrey’s smirk slipped away.

“Father?” he practically whined.

“You’ve wasted my time on this?” he posed to both Joffrey and his Queen.

“Your Grace,” The Queen interrupted. The grip she had on Gendry’s arm was turning her knuckles white. He was wincing. “My issue is hardly with my son. This bastard girl has seduced him!”

Robert rolled his eyes carelessly, but her father didn’t look nearly so flippant.

“She’s attempted to shame both our family and her’s, knowing full well that Sansa has been seriously considered as Gendry’s potential bride,” Cersei added venomously.

“And you’d like her whipped for a childish fancy?” Robert suggested, voice condescending.

“Your Grace, Arya meant no harm,” Sansa spoke up, voice losing its strength and turning tremulous. “She’s a natural-born daughter. She can’t- She failed to control...certain urges, only.”

“And over the course of this... failing... she’s shamed you and her father,” the Queen countered.

“They’re children!” Robert said dismissively.

“Gendry will be King one day. He needs to have eyes only for his Queen,” Cersei snapped.

Something in the way she said it made the King’s eyes darken, and Arya knew that Cersei Lannister had gone too far, accusing him of adultery right in front of his children. It was one thing to know your children know what you’ve done, the sins you’ve committed, obviously, but quite another to watch them being told. There was no conceivable way the Queen hadn’t known that.

“If it pleases, Your Graces, Arya will be returned immediately to Winterfell,” Ned offered, seeming to understand the window of opportunity where the King would love to anger the Queen wouldn't stay open for Arya Snow forever. She couldn't bear to meet his eyes.

“That sounds agreeable,” the King snapped.

“It wasn't her fault,” the Prince exclaimed. Arya picked up her head for the first time, simply to send him a deadly glare. What was he doing? Going back to Winterfell was hardly the worst punishment that could be thought up for her.

“What?” Cersei cried.

“Mother, it was me. Please, you needn’t send her away.”

“Stop your whining, boy,” Robert ordered sharply. His eyes gleamed with anger. “The girl will go home. And I won;t have her in court, not if you’ve grown so attached. Ned, see she’s wed quickly.”

Lord Stark nodded his agreement. No one dared to argue with the King in that state. Cersei still looked murderous, but she didn't call anything else. She knew she was on loose footing.

The trudge back to the Stark rooms at the inn was uncomfortable for more reasons than just the mud on her pants. Sansa looked stiff, and Jon’s frown was just as deep as father’s. Only Bran walked beside her, offering a comforting hand to gold. She didn't dare take it.

When they’d gotten behind the closed door it fell like they’d rounded on her. The feeling that she was about to be torn apart...it was terrible, and present. She didn’t even poke at the feeling of isolation, for fear that it was swallow her.

“Arya,” Lord Stark said, and she was hit with a wave of hot shame. “What could you possibly have been thinking?”

She shook her head, at a loss for words.

“She wasn’t thinking,” Sansa bit out. Arya saw so much of Lady Catelyn Stark in her in that second that she didn't even have to imagine what the woman would have said. HEr daughter was speaking for her today. “And now she’s ruined everything.”

“Sansa,” Jon implored, but their sister ignored him.

“No. She had. And now she gets to go back to home be as wild as she pleases.”

“You don’t-”

“Shut up, Arya!” He’s half in love with you already. I knew, but I didn't think it mattered. Because you’re my sister. The Queen will never let me marry him now.”

“I didn't mean to!” she cried. Why wouldn't Sansa stop? Why did she want to be Queen so badly? Cersei looked miserable. Couldn't she see that?

“You never mean to. And everyone always forgives you, even though you’re just a Snow, just a bastard!”

The room got deathly quiet. Arya tried to blink away the tears that welled in her eyes so suddenly.

“Your sister will travel back to Winterfell tomorrow night. When she returns, Robb will find her a suitable match, and Arya will marry. There will be no argument. Both of you will be civil.” Ned Stark’s voice was quiet, controlled, and asked for no reply. It wasn’t her dear, kind father saying these things, but the hard and just Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North.

And she hated to disobey him.

Chapter Text

The Riverlands

It was frighteningly easy to slip away from Jon in the confusion of the morning preparations. She knew that no one was expecting her to escape- why would she, she got to go home- but nonetheless, he didn’t even glance her way when she told him she needed to make water. He wasn’t a very able guard.

Arya knew only one thing for certain as she slung her bag over her shoulder, under the shadow of a large oak, she wasn’t going back to Winterfell to be sold to the highest bigger like cattle. She refused to be married to a “suitable” man. Arya didn't care if that was what women did. Sansa could have Gendry. She’d take her freedom. If she was caught, she couldn't imagine how angry her father would be. But she knew that a week of marriage had to be worse than anything this journey would do to her.

Needle hung from the belt at her hips, and she’d thrown her dresses on a few tree branches, in the opposite direction she’d be heading, of course. She’d done it to make from in her back for her supplies and the coin purse, enough to buy passage on a ship. Bandits and highwaymen were more common on the southern roads, but she wouldn't be on the roads. Walking would mean her journey would be longer, but she knew it’d be harder to catch her in the forests. Besides, she’d have Nymeria with her.

She started off quickly, unwilling to sacrifice a head start for any reason, even the fear unfurling in her belly. Arya planned to make her way directly to Maidenpool, look for a ship to take her to Evenfall Hall, and offer her services to Lady Brienne of Tarth.It would mkae Jon laugh, this half-formed plan of hers, but it was al;l she had. She knew that she could be sent directly back to her father as soon as she reached Evenfall Hall. She’d never even met Lady Brienne- never even seen her- but tales of the fierce female warrior who’d inherited her family’s seat unmarried had reached all the way north, and Arya had been fascinated.She was hoping, perhaps, that Brienne could take her on, train her.

The first day of her journey passed without incident, as did the second, but on the third she had a close call. The pounding of hooves were the first sign, and,  of course, she ignored it.Arya was gnawing at a piece of dried meat while she walked, pace slowed, Nymeria trotting happily beside her, and she assured herself it must be a hunting party, unconcerned with a bastard girl from the far north. Happy with that deduction, she didn’t speed up or hide. As they came closer, though, muffled cries of “Arya!” went through the air.

With a gasp, she darted towards the nearest tree. She was not as adept as Bran at climbing, but of their siblings, she was second best, so the low, squat tree she jumped towards, scrambling for purchase posed little challenge. With a desperate gesture, she tried to shoo her direwolf off, away from the horses. Arya heard the voices and the hooves coming closer and closer.

“Go, Nymeria!” she whispered.

She pulled herself and her sack up and weaved herself up onto a clutch of higher branches fully covered in leaves, a perfect hiding place, but Nymeria hadn’t moved.

Horsemen burst through the trees with Jon at the lead just as Nymeria sprinted off in the opposite direction. She let out a quiet sigh of relief. He scanned the area around her, never glancing up at her in the tree. He looked distraught.

“I don’t see her,” he called back to his men. Arya noticed Jory and Harwin and Fat Tom among them- all Stark guards.

She imagined none of the Lannisters were very upset about her running off, and they’d hardly leave the Queen unguarded in search of her. If her father was anyone other than Ned Stark, she that even his men wouldn’t be looking for Arya Snow.

“Maybe she really did go west, milord,” one of the guards, the gruff Helsel, proposed.

“Arya’s not stupid. That was a false trail. I’m sure she came this way,” Jon told him adamantly.

“What would she be doing in the east? Does she mean to beat us to King’s Landing?” Harwin wondered.

“The Gods only know what she’s thinking,” Jon snapped.

She felt bad, up in that tree. She was worrying everyone, ruining everything. Arya had left her family without even a goodbye. She’d come south to be with them, and then left without a thought. But not enough of her wanted to be home in Winterfell to suffer through marriage. Marriage, which would make her a guest in her own home and a distant relation to her own brothers and sisters. That was the issue, wasn't it? Mayhaps what she was doing, the running, was selfish, but Arya had only ever asked her father for this one thing - let her marry when she was ready. And he hadn't.

So when Jon and Jory and Harwin and the rest of the Stark men started off, heading south, probably to return to the King’s Procession. Arya waited. She didn't fling herself to her older brother’s feet, or beg for his forgiveness. Arya waited up in the tree, perched precariously, and watched the grey cloaks disappear through the leaves.

She waited almost an hour before she climbed back down, legs and arms sore from holding on. Her feet were unsteady and she considered stopping for the night, but it wasn't dark enough yet, and there could be no dallying because of some minor set back. Nymeria met her as she continued own.

The forests of the riverlands were young, and the vegetation was green with summer. As she walked along through the trees, Arya gathered berries that she recognized from nights spent pouring over books. She ate them to relieve the rumbling in her stomach, whenever she needed. If not for the circumstances, she would be truly enjoying herself. Even in the summer the North was a cold place, and while the chill of the weirwood and the wolfwood was beautiful and familiar, she rather liked the warm cheer of these southern forests.

Each day she traveled east and a little north, in search of the Trident. She knew that if she only followed the large river all the way to the sea she’d find Maidenpool, but she didn't want to tramp her way into a group of travelers.

For all that she planned not to meet anyone, this couldn't stop it from happening. The first day she came along the river, rushing loudly away from her, she also encountered three hard looking men in a cluster. Arya tried to turn, head back for the cover of trees, but she’d already been spotted.

“Oi, what are you doing out in the wilderness all alone girl?” asked a man in a rather filthy looking cloak.

“Walking,” she snapped. Arya knew she shouldn’t anger them. There were three of them and only one of her. Not very promising odds. But she also didn't want them thinking she was some silly little farmer’s daughter who wouldn't hurt them if they tried anything inappropriate.

“Aye, we can see that,” another said. He had hair like straw. “Where are you tromping off to?”

“Maidenpool,” she answered hesitantly, handing slipping down to grip Needle’s pommel.

“Do you need how to use that?” the filthy-cloaked one asked. He was staring at her with a grin spread across his face. His teeth were also filthy.

“Of course I do. What sort of idiot carries a sword if they don't know how to use it?”

“He does,” he said, gesturing towards the man with yellow hair. With that, the three men laughed good-naturedly. The yellow-haired one laughed the hardest.

“We’re headed to Maidenpool ourselves,” the third, a thoroughly unremarkable sort with brown hair told her. “Would you mind keeping us safe with that fine sword of yours?”

“No thank you,” she replied shortly.

“Now, don't be cross, girl. We’ll be traveling close either way. We’re just offering,” he told her easily.

Arya wondered if this was a trap. They seemed nice enough, these three, but anyone could seem nice enough if they tried. The truth was, these men were strangers. There was no way to know whether she could trust them not to kill her in her sleep, but she also knew that the brown haired one was right. They’d be traveling the same path all the way to Maidenpool.

“If you try anything I’ll gut you,” she warned them.

Nymeria chose that moment to step into the open, and the men’s eyes went wide as saucers as Arya dug her fingers into the wolf’s fur.

The dirty one cracked a nervous, black smile. “Call me Red,” he told her.

“Why?” she asked, staring at him. There was not a spot of red on him. He looked brown, mostly.

“My hairs ginger under all this mud,” he told her, chuckling.

The plain looking one was called Grenn, although he explained that he no particular reason for it, and the yellow haired one was called Artie.

“I’m Arya Snow,” she said, not even thinking to make up a new name for herself. There wasn't much about her’s that would tell them she was the missing daughter of Lord Stark, friend to theking. There were plenty of bastards up in the north, and plenty of Lords willing to father them.

“From the north, are you?” Red asked. “What brings you so far south?”

“I’m going to Tarth,” she told them. By this time they’d stopped all their standing along the river, continuing on towards the port city. The three men kept a brisk pace and Arya was happy for the push. It wouldn't hurt to get there faster.

“What are you going to the Sapphire Isle for?” Grenn asked.

“The Lady Brienne,” she answered simply.

“Ah, yeah, Brienne the Beauty, they call her,” Red laughed. “Fights like a man, I’ve heard.”

“Dresses like one too,” Artie said.

“She’s a great warrior. And she’s won many duels against men who called her a beauty. Plus, she’d inherited Tarth without a husband,” Arya argued.

“She’s a beast, that woman,” Grenn told her.

“Well, good. If the stories are true that’s exactly where I’d like to be,” she snapped.

“And you want to be a warrior yourself, girl? Or perhaps you’d use you training to become an outlaw?”

“Are we walking beside a new Wenda the White Fawn?” Red asked, sending her a falsely frightened look.

“Mayhaps.”

That night, as they lay down for the night, Arya wondered about that. She knew she’d never be an outlaw. It wasn't honourable. With no Mad King or unjust Lords to fight against she’d just be stealing gold that wasn’t hers. But something about the idea was attractive. She felt like Sansa, fantasizing about being in a song, but out here she didn't need to pretend that it didn’t sound fun. She didn't need to act sour and sulky just because she was born a Snow instead of a Stark. But then she imagined Gendry as an outlaw beside her, riding through forests with her and laughing.

Drawing in a shaking breath, Arya willed herself to sleep.

They used the Trident, getting smaller and smaller with each mile, as their guide to Maidenpool. Arya had discovered that none of the three men had ever been out of the Westerlands before now, and were traveling to Maidenpool for reasons they “didn’t feel comfortable sharing with a girl such as yourself” whatever that meant. She didn't pry, instead reminding herself that she herself was hiding some major things about herself from her new companions.

The silhouette of a town rose up on their fifth day together. “Two days away, I’d guess,” Artie told her. Two days. Two days and she’d have a ship . The journey to Tarth would take a week by sea, and she’d meet the lady warrior she’d put on her hopes in.

Arya was heartened to see Maidenpool, even at this distance. Nymeria seemed to sense this, and took to bounding ahead and then rushing back to make certain they still followed her.

“Where’d you get a beast like that, Snow?” Grenn asked.

“I acquired her on accident. She’s loyal, and you needn’t be afraid of her,” Arya assured him.

“I’m not afraid,” he said quickly. “Just curious how a little girl found a wolf.”

“Wasn’t very hard. We found a little while they were still puppies. Their mother was killed. It was lucky they were old enough to be weaned.”

“And who is we?” Grenn asked. She supposed he was trying very hard to be casual with his questions, but Arya would have none of it, instead speeding up to walk beside Red.

It doesn’t take two days, as Artie guessed it would. Instead they’re there in a day. The city sweeps them in from the edge, like a whirlpool.

“We’ll take you to the docks,” Red promised, smiling.

Arya half regretted being parted. She would like to get to know these strangers. But she was headed to Tarth and they were headed to gods knew where, as they still refused to tell her. She couldn't hold it against them, thought, because they knew nothing more than her name, still.

“Thank you,” she professed honestly. It had been a relief that they hadn't taken any liberties with her, but she suspected Nymeria had more than a little to do with that.

When they finally made it to them, the docks were crowded and smelled strongly of fish.

She said goodbye to Grenn, Red, and Artie, and they left her alone on the docks, people rushing around her impatiently.

She could finally get to Tarth and determine if the Lady Brienne would be the teacher Arya hoped for. But she felt weighed down, like someone had stuffed stones in her boots. The moment she stepped foot on the Island she’d be at a stranger's mercy.

Chapter Text

The Narrow Sea and Tarth

Something  about the captain  made Arya’s nose itch. He looked nice enough, and the other passengers didn't seem to notice anything , but she wasn’t eager to board his ship. Still, she did, because his price was the cheapest, and if Lady Brienne decided to deliver her back to her father, she’d need a way to escape the island.

She’d joined on the ugly old ship, called the Shy Maid, by six other passengers. There was a family of three looking to return home, a small reed-like old man who muttered to himself almost constantly, and a pair of hooded men who never left their cabin. Arya knew because she’d taken to watching out for them.

Arya took well to the sway of the ship, unlike a certain direwolf, and it wasn't very long before she was scrambling over railing and up ropes. The crew were cheerfully accepting, and even seemed to enjoy her pestering for a job or task to complete. It was in this easy companionship that she learned they were smugglers who’d decided to make quick coin by ferrying a few passengers. It hardly bothered her, just like being called Snow stopped chafing after her trip with Red and Grenn and Artie. It’s what the captain and his crew knew her as.

It was easier on the road, among other travelers, to pretend that being a bastard didn't bother her. They hardly cared at all about who her parents were. At Winterfell, she needed to act as if her station didn't bother her, and smile while Jon and Sansa and Robb got all of their father’s love and praise, while being constantly reminded that she was a Snow, and therefore less than them. These men didn't care. Half of them were also bastards, and the other half had fathered some.

She didn't mind the others on the ship either. The captain's wife, Ysilla, was kind and cooked for everyone onboard, and the old man, though mad, had an armory of dirty jokes to tell at supper. The only people she never spoke to were the mysterious hooded men. She wondered if they might be some of the rumored faceless men. The Shy Maid was a Rhoynish ship. That was in Essos, just like Braavos.

It was both exciting and disappointing to spot Tarth on the sixth day. It was like the docks of Maidenpool once again, saying goodbye to these friends she’d only just made. When they reached port in one of Tarth’s few towns, she hugged Captain Yandry around the waist.

“We’ll be seeing each other again, I think, wolf-girl,” he assured her.

“How do you know?” she asked, stepping away from the hug to sling her bag over her shoulder.

“I’ve got a knack for guessing correctly. A real help when it comes to dice games.”

She left the ship with that assurance, and took her first step onto the Sapphire Isle. She knew now why it was called that. From the clear sky to the azure water surrounding it, Tarth was flushed with blue. It was  beautiful place, with Summer flowers blooming all around. The town she found herself in was modestly sized- smaller than Maidenpool but bigger than Winter Town- and clean. People bustled about their business as they chatted with friends and neighbors. This wasn't the worst place she could live, she decided, and left the dock behind in favor is an inn.

The Green Goat was large, if not the nicest inn she'd ever been to. The place seemed warm and owner greeted her enthusiastically. He was thin and balding, with a smile not unlike most other merchants, pulled out especially for customers. That was, until he spotted Nymeria.

“Good day, Miss!” he exclaimed, voice shrill. She greeted him back, mayhaps a bit less enthusiastically.

“I’ll need a room for the night,” she told him.

“Of course, of course. And, uh, will you be eating down in the- in the common room?” “Yes. Can i get a tub sent up, as well? I seem to be in need of a bath,” she japed. The man laughed, but Arya doubted it was sincere. It hadn’t been very funny, and he sounded hysterical.

“Will you keep your...hound with you?”

“Oh, don't worry about her- she’ll stay out of trouble.”

The maid who led Arya up to her room seemed far less frightened at Nymeria, and more in awe. The direwolf’s name delighted her, and when they reached her door, the girl asked if she could touch her.

“Of course.”

The same maid brought up her tub, with the help of a few others, smiling brightly and explaining that supper was half an hour from then. She nodded her thanks.

When the strangers had left, closing the door behind them, Arya striped off her travel worn clothes. The tunic and breeches were caked in dirt and her undershirt stank of Nymeria and stale sweat. Pulling a face, she tossed them in a bundle towards the door. She'd burn them later, maybe.

Sinking into the hot water, Arya let out a pleased groan. Her journey had made everything ache, and a fleeting part of her wished that she could have flown to Tarth. It certainly would have gone faster.

“My arms would be tired, though,” she told Nymeria absent-mindedly.

After her bath, she ventured downstairs, after asking her disappointed direwolf to stay in the room. It was the promise of food that kept Nymeria there, as opposed to obedience. Arya couldn't blame her.

The common room was crowded and the noise level was comforting It reminded her of supper in Winterfell. Taking a small table near the stairs. The she turned her attention to the conversations around her.

“The new Hand’s finally gotten to King's LAnding,” and old man told his companions, who looked similar enough to be his son.  

“What took him so long?” he asked.

“Well, I heard some fishwife tell that his bastard ran off with a sellsword. He sent men out to bring her back.”

“What’d he do with her? Was she punished, do you think?” the son asked his father with eyes wide as saucers.

“Well he never caught her, did he?” The man spit, then. “Can’t understand why he’d be off after a bastard. No good, those types.”

Arya grit her teeth, turning instead towards two jolly looking women, red cheeked and laughing.

“Oh, His Lord is handsome, definitely, and mayhaps our Lady-Lord might even pique his interest!” one said, mouth quirked in amusement.

“But I thought he, well… Why would Lord Renly be interested in our Lady?” the other asked.

“Because she looks like a man, stupid!” she replied convivially. “And he visits constantly, you know. I’ve prepared rooms for him twice this moon!”

“Hello!” a girl chirped, somewhere near her elbow. Arya turned. The familiar maid stood above her, plate in hand. “Supper, miss.”

“Thank you,” Arya said, smiling.

“I’m Kira,” the maid offered.

“Arya,” she replied. Kira glanced around, and whatever she saw, or didn't see, made her shrug.  She sat down in the empty chair.    

“Your hound...is it...what sort is it?” she asked cautiously. Arya blinked, looking up from the stew she’d been given. It was thick and flavorful, with bits of vegetables and beef.

“She’s not a hound. She’s a… Well I don’t know…” Arya shrugged. She pursed her lips. No need to draw attention, making claims about owning a direwolf.

“My father is master of kennels in of Evenfall Hall. I just...I’ve never seen a dog like yours…” she murmured.

“My father found the pups in the forest. My brother convinced him to let us keep them,” she explained.

Arya glanced down at her stew, thinking for a moment. Chewing on her lip she considered what Kira had said. “Your father works in Lady Tarth’s household?” she asked.

“Yes!” she replied quickly, eager to accommodate her.

“Is there work in the castle?” Arya asked. She needed a way into the Hall, and she was actually proud of her ruse, simple as it was. Back in Winterfell, her father always needed able-bodied smallfolk to help run the household. She knew the answer.

“I’d think so. They always need more hands in the kitchen,” Kira answered.

“Why don’t you work in the kitchens?” Arya asked.

Kira glanced away, smiling slightly. “I love to meet travelers. This is the only inn on the island. Once I met a tyroshi with blue hair. Mother says that they all have blue hair.”

“I’ve read about Tyrosh. It’s said that the people are so rich that they spend piles of gold to make their hair as colorful as their clothing.”

“Where are you from?” Kira asked.

“I’m from the North,” she answered.

But Arya supposed she wasn’t now. It was one thing to travel south with father, to stay in King’s Landing among Northmen, but she hadn’t just run away from the King, or King’s Landing. Arya had run from a chance to go home. She’d run from the North, and she’d run from her father. She couldn't call herself a Northman now.

“Or, I was…” she continued, swallowing thickly.

“There aren’t many Northman come to Tarth,” Kira exclaimed.

Arya shoveled more stew into her mouth to avoid responding, and the other girl chattered on happily. She described the travelers she’d met, mysterious and interesting men and women. She admitted that Tarth was no major port, not like King’s Landing, but they still got some wild characters. Kira was telling her about a bearded Braavosi who had challenged a bull to a duel in a fit of drunken confusion when Arya finished her supper.

“Could, or rather, would you help get me into the castle?” she asked,cutting the  maid off mid sentence.

“Of course!” she agreed, smiling brightly. “First thing tomorrow morning. That’s when I visit father. I’ll even show you the kitchen!”

“Oh, I don't think that’d be-”

“We could see each other every day! The kennels are very close to the kitchens. And the scullery maids always bring out scraps to the hounds. Oh! I’m so glad you aren't just passing through!”

Arya couldn't get a word in edgewise, so she just settled into the ebb and flow of Kira’s chatter. The maid followed her from the table to the stairs, not leaving her alone until they reached the door of her room. And then she begged to see Nymeria once again. When she finally left Arya to strip  down to her outer tunic, it was with relief that she welcomed the silent companionship of her direwolf.

“Tomorrow I meet Brienne of Tarth,” she whispered. “And I learn what sort of woman she is.”

It took her an hour to drift to sleep, struggling on the itchy mattress. She’d grown accustomed to the dig of rocks into her shoulder blades and the unyielding ground as a bed. This inn had featherbeds.They were awful. When she finally did sleep, her dreams were discomfiting. First she dreamed of running through a forest, the pound of hooves and the sound of Storm’s howl right behind her. She ran and ran but the only got closer. Then she dreamed of a giantess staring down at her from a thrones of sapphires, mouth twisted in a cruel smile as she fed her to the lions.

It was so bad that she was grateful when Kira’s knock jolted her awake. Dressing blearily, she called out to the other girl asking for a moment to ready herself. In her spare jerkin and breeches, she felt almost presentable. Her travel clothes had been returned, washed, but she was happy for some variety. It distracted her from the unease of her stomach. When the maid came into the room, smiling broadly and looking fresher than a daisy, offering breakfast, she grimaced.

“I couldn't eat a thing,” she  exclaimed. “I think I’m a bit nervous.”

“Oh, don't be! Cooks a kind sort. And she’s fair. When I was younger, I’d help a bit, and even though she didn't have to, she’d sneak me a sweet or two when she could.”

Arya nodded, but it didn’t make her feel any better.It was the cook she was worriedabout. They set off from the inn at a brisk pace, and Kira’s chatter made it hard to ask anymore questions, but when Arya caught a pause she said “What’s the Lady Tarth like?”

“Lady Brienne? She’s a good woman. When she became Lady of Evenfall Hall, plenty of people put up a fuss-mostly the men- saying she wasn't fit, but her father named her, and Lord Renly allowed it. They hadn’t a place to complain. My father says she could have made their lives very bad for speaking out, but she never did. Aye, she’s a good Lady.”

She mulled that over. If Lord Renly as she’d heard, was such a good  friend, would that make her more likely to turn her over to the King? Kira said she was a good woman, but would that mean she was mind or that she was honorable. There was a difference. She knew that. Lord Stark was always honorable, but only sometimes kind.

The guards at the gate posed no resistance, only nodding and smiling at the chipper Kira, and nodding to Arya, and it seemed that the maid elicited that response from most everyone. Maids    and guards and knights alike all waved or shouted hello to Kira, and it reminded Arya bitterly of Winterfell. She’d known everyone in the castle, most by name. Kira seemed to know Evenfall Hall just as well. It made her feel like even more of a stranger, an outsider.

“Come along, I’ll show the kitchens. And then you’ll need to have an audience with Lady Brienne. She likes to know everyone who helps the household run smoothly.”

Evenfall Hall wasn’t much different than Winterfell. The yards were tighter, more enclosed, but the hustle and bustle was quite the same. Kira lead her towards the kitchens, through the large doors and into a wall of intense heat. She began sweating immediately.

“Cook’s right there,” she said, pointing towards a tall woman that was as thin as a whip. It surprised Arya, because the cook in Winterfell had been a pleasant little fat man with thick red cheeks.

“Now, I’m off to see my father. I’m sure you'll be fine.”

She left abruptly, leaving Arya alone in a kitchen full of strangers, feeling like the very air was cooking her.

“Oi, girl!” the Cook called, pointing at her with a small knife. Arya glanced around. Perhaps she was calling to someone else. “Yes you. Dressed like a boy. Come ‘ere.”

Arya started forward, eyes wide. Her hands shook just slightly, and she didn't like how the Cook was holding that knife towards her.

“Kira bring you here to work in the kitchens?” she barked. Arya nodded quickly. The Cook smiled. “It’s like that girl can read my mind. One of my girls went off and got married, left without a word. I’m in dire need. What’s you name?”

“Arya,” she answered simply.

“So you can speak,” the Cook remarked. “Well. Peel these,” she ordered, thrusting a wooden bowl filled to the brim with little red potatoes and the knife at her.  She obliged, taking the small knife and the bowl and setting to work. She was a bit confused, and more than a bit intimidated by the woman, but Kira had said she was kind, and Arya was inclined to believe her.

“How old are you, girl?” she asked.

“Fourteen.”

“You speak, but not much, huh?” the Cook smiled. The answer was no. In Winterfell even when she’d learned to choose her words wisely, she’d never been shy of filling the silence. She shook her head. She needed to stop thinking about Winterfell.

“After you’ve done with those, I’ll take you to the Lady. She’ll want to meet you.”

“We’re meeting her so soon?” Arya asked. She glanced up at her, knife stopping. “What if you decide I can’t stay?”

“You think that might happen?”

“No,” she answered, returning to the task of peeling the potatoes.

The Cook left her to the task, bustling around the kitchen. There were about ten other girls in the kitchen, boiling and chopping and baking. She rushed through the peeling, hands slippery with the juice from the potatoes. Cook was back an instant later, grabbing the bowl from her. She handed it to a pretty girl about Arya’s age.

“Come along then,” she said, grabbing her arm in a solid grip. It wasn’t ungently, but the older woman walked fast, and Arya struggled to keep up. Her shorter legs couldn't match the Cook’s longer strides.

“Are we late for something?” she asked breathlessly.

“Lady Brienne hears grievances and appointments for an hour. We have a few more minutes until that hour ends.”

“Oh!”

She sped up, and  by the time they entered the Great Hall both the Cook and Arya were  sprinting . They burst into the area before the Lady’s seat, where she was readying to leave.

“My Lady!” Cook exclaimed. “Sorry, milady, but I’ve found our new kitchen girl.”

“What?” the Lady asked. She turned back, and Arya’s eyes widened. The woman was taller than her father, with white blonde hair and a face spattered with freckles. She wasn’t as ugly as people claimed, but she was definitely no Cersei Lannister. “Oh, yes. Hello, girl,” she said. The Lady seemed distracted, but offered her a polite smile regardless. She turned to leave once again.

But Arya couldn't let her go. She needed to stop her. Arya hadn't come to Tarth just to become a scullery maid. She wanted to become a Lady Knight. She wanted Lady Brienne to teach her to joust and she wanted to protect the innocent and…

“Lady Brienne!” she called out, stepping forward. “I- May I have an audience?”

She turned around, looking a bit confused. Arya met eyes with her, palms suddenly sweaty and knees shaking. “Of course, girl.”

Arya stepped up, swallowing, and Lady Brienne gestured her guards towards the doors of the main hall. Arya followed. This was her chance. She knew that if Lady Brienne wanted to, she’d return her, and her whole future was riding on escaping if that happened. She categorized the route they took, eyes moving fast over corridors and courtyards.

“What’s your name, girl?” Lady Brienne asked.

She hadn’t lied about her name before, not to anyone she’d met, but she knew that the Lady had to have been made aware about the missing Arya Snow. She wanted to lie, but then she realized that being a liar wouldn’t endear the Maid of Tarth to her cause.

“I’m Arya Snow, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark.”

Chapter Text

Tarth

Lady Brienne stopped suddenly. It jolted their guards, creating a bit of chaos while the woman absorbed what Arya had just told her. Turning slowly, Lady Brienne’s eyes scanned her face. This time she seemed to be searching for something.

“Yes, I suppose you have the Stark coloring…” she began, voice hard. Her brow wrinkled. “Why are you here?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard the rumours, My Lady?” Arya asked. Her hands were  behind her back, mostly so that no one could see her wringing her hands. Biting her lip, she continued after Lady Brienne’s curt nod. “Well, I’m not sure which one you heard, but there was an...incident near the Trident. The Queen wanted me flogged… The King decided to send me back to Winterfell and marry me off.”

“Yes, I heard about this,” Lady Brienne said. “But why are you here, in Tarth?”

“I don’t want to be married!” The words burst out in a single breath, as if she was drowning.

“I...excuse me?”

“I can’t just bow my head and be sold off to the first stranger my brother thinks will have me. I’m not like Sansa. I wasn’t supposed to get married. I was going to stay at Winterfell forever. Or even, just be one of Sansa’s lady maids. I would have been happy to just do that. But not…” Arya paused for a moment to take another breath.

“They sent you back to Winterfell to be married? Because of what you did with the prince?’ Lady Brienne asked.

“I, yes. But, but I didn't do anything, My Lady, I swear it. I would never dishonor Sansa that way. We’ve never been...close, but she’s a Stark nonetheless.”

“I don’t need to know what happened, girl,” the Lady told her, mouth tightening. “I need to know what you’ll ask of me?”

Arya blinked. It wasn’t a promise of any sort, in fact, it shouldn't have been enough to give her hope, but it didn’t stop the hope from blooming right there in her chest. The large woman hadn't outright rejected her. She also hadn't ordered her guards to capture her, which was a blessing in itself.

“I want a place in your household. I want to have a place on your guard.”

“Listen girl, I won’t have any-”

“My Lady, I’m a proficient swordswoman. My brother’s taught me how to handle myself in a  fight. I’m adequate with a bow, as well. And I can ride better than anyone in Winterfell. I’m not japing.”

The Lady stared down at her, face inscrutable, before nodding briefly. “Prove it.”

“What?” Arya exclaimed. She could admit suddenly that this was not what she’d expected.

“Prove your claims. Than we can talk.”

“Who will I face?” she asked.

“Me.”

Arya stood facing the Maid of Tarth, the white-blonde woman towering over her, and Arya worried that she’d not only lose, but humiliate herself in front of the small crowd gathering to watch the two women in breeches square up facing each other. Lady Brienne had allowed her to retrieve Needle from her room at the inn, as well as her pack, and Nymeria. She’d had to toss a few extra coins the innkeepers way after she found the pile of wood chips her dire wolf had chewed away from the bed’s headboard. Otherwise the trip had been short and she found herself before the Lady much too quickly.

“Are you sure you wouldn't like a more appropriate weapon?” Lady Brienne asked, looking a bit concerned. Compared to the other woman’s weapon, a large broadsword that looked tourney blunted, Needle did look like a child’s toy.

“No thank you.”

“Very well.” And with no more preamble, Lady Brienne struck. The heavy sword went for her belly and Arya almost didn't dodge quickly enough. As soon as she’d escaped the first strike, though, another one came, and another, and then another. Lady Brienne moved almost quickly, which was new for Arya. She was quicker than Robb and Jon, who usually relied on strength and skill, forgetting speed, making it easier for Arya to beat them.

Arya spent most of her time dodging Lady Brienne’s strikes, and she worried that would be all she’d be able to do. Staying on the defensive the whole time and never striking wouldn’t prove anything to the Lady. It was as she was worrying that Lady Brienne sent a blow to her side. She reigned in her strength, obviously, or Arya would have suffered from several broken ribs, but the force still knocked her to her knees.

She was kneeling before the Lady when she saw her chance. The woman had glanced up, mayhaps because she didn't think Arya would press the fight on, and the smaller girl gathered her legs beneath her, springing up with her sword held before her. Her jabs came in quick succession. She pulled her arm before any could do damage, but, Lady Brienne doubtless felt the pricks of Arya’s Needle anyway. After this the fight tipped more in her favor. With her confidence back she regained her speed, and Lady Brienne, used to only needing to be quicker than large men in bulky armor couldn’t keep up.

Lady Brienne still won, stopping Arya’s quick slashes and pokes with a sweep of her broadsword which sent Needle flying from Arya’s grip. And she was just grateful to have shown that she wasn’t completely inept. She’d never expected to win, not really.

“Well. You’re no liar,” the Lady acknowledged slowly, handing her sword off to a guardsman. “You could use some work, and you can’t always rely in speed, but you’re not hopeless.”

“Does that mean you’ll take me in?” Arya asked. Her voice was small in the courtyard, tremulous, but Lady Brienne heard her clearly.  

“I don’t need another guard. And I doubt you’d be accepted with open arms by the men who I already employ,” the big woman shrugged. “They have enough trouble with me carrying  about a sword. And you are...very small.”

Arya gritted her teeth, not liking where this was headed. She wasn’t small. She was...wiry...lithe. She’d seen pictures of bravos and dornish spearman. There was nothing weak about being short.

“But…” Lady Brienne continued right through her defensive thoughts. “I don’t have a squire. I thought about fostering one of Rud Gower’s boys. His oldest, Gerald is a friend of Renly’s, and he has a few brothers running about. But I hadn’t asked Lord Gower yet, so it’ll be no problem.”

Arya felt her mouth drop open but was hopeless to close it back up. She stood silent for a moment, something Jon would joke was absolutely impossible. “Thank you,” she finally breathed, worried saying something might make Lady Brienne change her mind. “Thank you, My Lady!”

“Just Brienne will be fine, girl.”

“I’ll have no disobedience. I am...I’m taking a risk here, letting you stay here. And if the King brings his search here, I’ll not lie to him. Do you understand?”

“Of course, my- Brienne!” Arya answered quickly.

“Come along,” Brienne gestured, turning back towards the hall. Arya jumped to follow, tucking Needle through the loop in her belt. Nymeria trotted close behind them. The people that bustled around them, dispersing after watching their match gave the wolf a wide berth. “You’ll need to talk to my Steward about your room, and some new clothes. And I’ll discuss your allowance with him no later than tomorrow, I think.”

“You needn’t go to such trouble,” Arya rushed forward, staring up at Brienne. She didn't need to be a burden.

“It’s no trouble. A knight provides for their squire. It’s expected. If you’re to learn from me you’ll be expected to be clean and well rested.”

“Thank you, Brienne,” she repeated, just to dissolve the remaining guilt. She knew it was correct. Her father had done the same thing for Theon Greyjoy, and he’d been merely a hostage.

“You’re welcome, Arya.”

The Steward’s name was Duran Sarsfield, and he was a great bear of a man. His big black eyes took her in in just a few seconds, leaving her feeling a bit clumsy, though she was only standing there.

He reminded her a bit of her father, oddly. Oddly because he looked nothing like Ned Stark. His hair was white with age and his eyes were dark, and he was made of large cords of muscle padded liberally with fat, where her father was lean. But the simple way he spoke was just like the Lord of Winterfell.

Arya decided suddenly that she liked the man.

“You’re the squire the lads have told me about?” he gruffed at her. Brienne and she had stopped by the kitchen to inform the Cook of Arya’s change of status along the way, so she was not surprised that word had reached the steward before them.

“Yes,,” she agreed readily.

“What’re you called?” Duran asked.

“Arya Snow.”

“Ah. That explains it. Our Lady has a habit of accepting strays without thinking about the consequences,” he explained, scowling. But she heard a note of fondness in his voice.

“I don't wish to cause Lady Brienne any trouble,” she assured him. “I only wanted to learn from the best.”

“What do you want?” he asked, cutting off the smile was wearing.

“Lady Brienne said I should talk to you about my rooms...and some new clothes,” Arya said. He narrowed his eyes at her. “Is there something wrong?” she asked.

“Nothin’. I expect you’re not one for frilly dresses?” he commented, lips thin. She hoped that his thinking face was merely intimidating, and he wasn’t upset at something she’d said.  

“No, I’m not.”

“Good. Breeches are cheaper.”

“Lucky.”

“I’ll send a servant to bring you to your rooms once I’ve found them myself. Anything else you want?” His voice was brusque, and Arya knew when she was being dismissed. But she still had one more request.

“Yes. I just… My...companion...or, my pet… Nymeria. She needs feeding. I’ll do it myself, I just need…”

“Talk to the kennel master.”

With that, he turned away, back to a slip of parchment, and Arya took her leave, knees still shaking.

As Arya approached the kennels she half-hoped Kira wouldn't be there. The girl was a chatterer, which had never bothered equally talkative Arya before, but her escape from her family, she had noticed, and quieted her, and now she found silence could be rather comfortable. She could only imagine the girls reaction to finding out who Arya was.

She needn’t worry. The girl had left, and the only person in the maze of dark halls among the noise of several dogs was a short man with big brown eyes, sort of like a cow. Yes, this was definitely Kira’s father.

“Hello,” she announced as she came through the door. He was watching her, so it wasn’t necessary, but she wanted to be polite to Kira’s father.

“Hello,” he responded, offering a polite, if confused smile. She supposed he didn't get many visitors besides his daughter. “Is there something you need?”

“I’m beginning my service to Lady Brienne tomorrow, and the steward directed me to you.” Then, to make clear her reason for being there, she called for Nymeria, who’d stayed just outside of the building.

His eyes widened for a long moment. “This beast is yours?” he asked incredulously. “Looks like a wolf to me. And a big one, at that”

“Nymeria is a direwolf.”

Shaking his head, Kira’s father said, “I doubt that very much, miss. Ain’t been no direwolves for a very long time.”

“She’s not yet fully grown, and already she’s this big, sir,” Arya argued.

He still look disbelieving, but didn’t press the issue. “And you want her quartered here? She’ll not get along with the hounds, miss.”

“Nymeria sleeps with me. I just want to know when the dogs are fed, if I might bring her along to be fed as well?” she wondered.

He shrugged. “I don't see why not, miss. But I’d keep an eye on her if I were you. Wild animals are likely to turn on their masters.”

‘Thank you.”

“Sir,” she acknowledged with a nod.

Chapter Text

Tarth

The next few weeks were tiring, physically, but Arya knew she’d never been happier than she was in the training yard, muscles straining as she learned, not since she was a small child sitting on Jon’s shoulders.

Brienne was not afraid to push her, and held nothing back. It was refreshing, considering the only training she’d ever had was against Jon and Robb, both careful not to really injure her. Brienne didn't hurt her, and if she was hurt her injuries were tended to, but the older woman expected her to do her best, not pulling any strikes she knew Arya could take.

Arya  was a dutiful student, listening to every small lesson that Brienne imparted, even if it had nothing to do with  fighting, but she was still her brash self, and so her training sometimes hit snags along the way. One day in particular left Arya in a foul mood for days.

They’d worked mostly on teaching Arya how to use a larger sword than the one she had, and Brienne ran her through numerous strength exercises so the blade wouldn't topple her. The Lady had left the girl to just that, drills, with the guidance of the Master-at-Arms, Ser Timund, when Arya grew testy under the chill winds that blew through the courtyard.

“I don’t understand what’s wrong with my sword,” she snapped as she brought the lead weighted wooden sword forward in a thrust.

“It's too small,” Timund, a man of few words, told her simply.

“It’s the perfect size for me!” she responded.

“No good for real fighting.”

“It’s plenty good for it. And I’ll never be able to get one of those big pig-stickers above my waist!”

“Focus and you might,” Brienne called suddenly, striding towards them.

“If you want me to be any good I need Needle!” she pleaded her case to Brienne.

“A good warrior needs only what is around them to fight, Arya,” she reminded her. This was one of the lessons Brienne was trying to drill into her head, but at the moment she was in no mood to be taught.

“Needle will always be with me!”

“You can’t know that. Besides, it’s not as if you won’t learnt to use Needle as well, but for now, I want you to learn how to use larger weapons. Be able to swing a longsword proficiently and you may learn to use your sword properly.”

Arya’s mouth snapped shut and she considered what the older woman had just said. She’d assumed that Brienne wanted her to abandon Needle. But now she understood. “I’m sorry, My Lady,” she said grudgingly.

Brienne nodded back easily.

“Now, repeat that drill three more times.”

Another time Arya’s temper got the better of her, she was sitting next to one of the Guardsman, nicknamed Dyn Dead-Eyes, for the old  paleness of his eyes, when her slurping got her reprimanded by the Lady.

In front of the whole Hall she was lectured on the importance of table manners, and when Arya pointed out that Dyn had his elbows on the table, it was explained to her that if she truly wanted Brienne to teach her to be a knight, she’d need to know her manners. This led Brienne to ask Maester Barler to teach Arya etiquette.

But Arya had already learned manners in her father’s hall, right alongside his highborn children. She knew where her knives went, and how to curtsy to a Lady, or the Queen. It wasn’t that she was ignorant to these things. She just thought they were stupid. Her arguments fell on deaf ears, though, and the Maester schooled her again in these things. She didn’t slurp again.

Most nights Arya was allowed to eat among the men, and she grew to like the rough company of Tarth’s guards. She sat beside Kira’s father some nights, and twice a fortnight the girl herself was there, filling the evening with tales about travelers who’d passed through the inn.

But on nights when Brienne ate with a guests, usually travelling knights or particularly talented craftsmen, Arya was called to serve her lady at table. It wasn't a hard task, and she liked being privy to “important” conversations. Of all her chores that was a favorite. She liked it better than running messages and polishing armor. She knew that was what squires did, but these tasks took away from training.

This was life on Tarth. She still hadn’t decided whether she liked it more than Winterfell. The North was her home, of course, but she had no shame hanging over her head in Brienne’s hall. In some ways Brienne gave her more freedom than her father ever had, letting her do what she loved in the open, even while keeping her to her daily tasks. It helped, also, that Lady Stark couldn't glare down at her with disapproval each time she spoke out of turn or made a mistake.

Arya got on well with Brienne. The Lady spoke with the hesitation of someone who’d once been soft-spoken but had tried to break the habit. Both of them were women who found no comfort in “lady-like” pursuits. She’d never prefer a gown and needle-work to breeches and swordplay. But Brienne did sometimes talk as if at one time being a lady had been all she wanted. This brought back the bitterness of always knowing that Sansa was prettier and better and high-born where Arya was not. Brienne had never had a sister to compare herself to, and she'd never been a bastard, but there was an understanding between them all the same.

And she’d made more friends too, something she’d always been good at. The Cook was one, and sometimes the kitchen-girls would come watch her training, and she’d become friendly with the guardsmen. Among them all, though, was Kira. The girl cheerful, which Arya needed sometimes, when she got too caught up in her own head. The pair had an odd relationship. After her initial silence, while she was still worried about going back to Winterfell, Arya grew comfortable in Evenfall, and became her own talkative self again. This startled the kennel-masters daughter, who’d become accustomed to filling silences all by herself, but it didn’t outright discourage her. Sometimes they found themselves shouting over each other, but it wasn't with any animosity. Arya was happy to have her. Kira felt like the sister she’d always wanted, rather than cold, stuffy Sansa.

But when Kira asked her about the Starks, Arya fell abruptly silent.

“If you don't want to-”

“It’s alright.”

“You don’t have to,” Kira assured her, but Arya only shook her head.

“They’re like most highborns, I think,” she told her.

“And I know much about that, do I?” Kira replied with a quick grin.

Arya sighed. “My father is honorable and his Lady wife is beautiful. Hissons are clever and dashing. My sister is pretty and gracious.” But the quick and false description only made Kira frown.”

“Are you reciting a song?” she scolded. “That’s not a real family.”

“Well they hardly are my real family. I’m a bastard. And Lady Stark hated me.”

“Then don’t tell me about her,” she ordered simply.

“I hardly know my oldest brother Robb. He’s married, and he’s going to be Lord of Winterfell. But he never told on me and Bran when we got up to trouble, and he’d spar with me, sometimes. My younger brother Bran and I are only two years apart. He and I played together a lot. Whenever Sansa would tease me or Jon  was busy, he and I would climb trees in the godswood. Sansa is my sister. We’re the same age, but we’ve never gotten on well. She's very loyal to her mother, and thinks she had to be mean to me. Rickon is the youngest. He’s just a baby. Or, well he’s four now… Jon is my favorite brother, in truth. He’s the only Stark child who doesn;t look like Lady Catelyn. He can be a bit solemn. Sometimes when it was only he and I, I would pretend he was my true-born brother, that I was a Stark.”

Kira stared at her, lips drawn back in a frown. “Have I made you miss him?”

“No. I always miss Jon.”

“Did your mother live in Winterfell?”

“I didn’t know her. But my Uncle Benjen told me once that she was a maid from Dorne called Wylla, and Jon said that he heard my mother was Ashara Dayne, of Starfall.”

“You don't look Dornish.”

“Yes, and it’s said Ashara Dayne was beautiful, with black hair and violet eyes.”

Arya knew she wasn’t Ashara Dayne’s daughter, in her heart. The name held nothing for her, and she’d never wanted to live anywhere but Winterfell. Dorne didn’t appeal to her in the slightest. But she felt sometimes, in her very bones, that perhaps she’d never know her mother. And now she’d put leagues and the straits of Tarth between her and the only person in the Seven Kingdoms who could tell her.

These weighty thoughts stayed with her for weeks, and Arya was sure that the only thing that made her break free was the warning Brienne gave her one particularly stormy afternoon.

“It may be best if you make yourself scarce these next few days, Arya,” she told her. The tall woman had come to her shortly after breakfast during her time with Nymeria.

“Why?” found herself asking, as Nymeria shivered under her hand. Arya had started scratching the magic spot under her chin.

“I should punish you for questioning me,” Brienne joked, giving her a small smile.

“I think you’re too fond of me,” Arya told her.

Brienne barked out a short laugh, before settling again. “An old friend is visiting, again. I’m not entirely sure what he’d do, knowing you’re here with me.”

“Who is he?”

Brienne sighed. “Renly Baratheon. And I’d not be surprised if Loras Tyrell was with him. Renly and I have been friends since we were children,  but he takes advantage my hospitality, using Tarth as a- or.”

Arya shrugged “I’ve heard the rumours.”

“And I shouldn’t be adding to them,” Brienne said, shaking her her head.”Your training will be halted until he knows. it shouldn't be longer than a week. You aren’t confined to your room, but I ask you don’t draw too much attention to yourself.”

“I won’t.”

“Thank you.”

And she’d tried, truly, to keep from sight. When Lord Renly arrived, Arya was in her chambers, scratching at Nymeria’s belly, and Cook had her supper brought to her that night. The second day Arya did drills in her room and waited until she’d heard Brienne and her special guest leave for a hunt to feed the restless direwolf. By the third day she felt the inevitable boredom. She’d found the small library of Evenfall her week there, though, and decided she’d use it.

The cramped space was stuffed with scrolls and leather-bound volumes. The collection wasn’t as large as Winterfell’s, but Tarth was a minor house, and not an extraordinarily wealthy one, so that was no surprise.

She had thought she was alone. Other than Maester Barler didn’t expect anyone to be in the library, and the Maester was nowhere to be seen. But when she past the darkened alcove with scrolls on the most recent histories, two intertwined figures shifted in the shadows. Arya must have made a noise of surprise,because the figures flew apart suddenly. She backed away, an apology ready on her tongue, when one of them stepped forward she she could see him.

Gendry? The name rang through her head for a moment before she realized that it couldn't be Gendry. He was in King's Landing. It had to be Renly. His uncle. Of course. But fear rushed through her then, because she’d meant to avoid him, not seek him out.  

“My lord,” she gasped, falling into a stiff curtsy, which felt odd in breeches.

“What did you see?” the other figure asked, revealing itself. The slim young man didn't look that much older than her. He had curling brown hair and delicate features. He was beautiful, actually. Arya knew this must be the Knight of Flowers, Loras Tyrell.

“Nothing, my lord. I swear!” she assured him, hoping to remove herself from this situation as  quickly as possible.

“You’re not in trouble,” Lord Renly said, voice significantly softer than his paramour’s.

“My lord’s I saw nothing. And I won’t tell anyone I saw you here,” she said, mirroring his calm tone almost instinctually.

“If you didn't see anything…” Lord Loras began, but he trailed off into a mutter  with a look from Lord Renly.

When Renly turned back to her, he said, “I can reward you for your silence, girl.”

Arya swallowed loudly, because he was watching her too closely and she was terrified he’d know her, somehow. “It’s alright, my lord. I won’t tell. I don't need to be bought.”

“How noble,” Lord Loras snapped.

“Well, if you’re sure…” Lord Renly trailed off, eyes narrowing, “Do I know you? You’re awfully familiar”

“No, my lord,” she replied quickly.

“Run along,” the Knight of Flowers ordered, rolling his eyes at his companions puzzled look.

Arya did as she was told.

She ran back to her room and didn't leave for two days. Cook sent up girls with each meal, and Arya peeled off most of the skin on her lips in her nervousness. When a knock came at her door the evening of the second day she almost jumped out of her skin. Lady Brienne didn't wait for her to open the door, pushing it open and leaning against the frame.

“I made one request, Arya,” Brienne said from her doorway.

Her eyes flew to the other woman, face screwed up in puzzlement, followed closely by guilt and worry.

“It was an accident, my lady. I swear. I only went to the library. I was going mad stuck in my chambers.”

“Lord Renly asked Duran about a skinny girl in boys clothes with grey eyes, said he had a request of her. I’ve put him off a bit, I think, but I don't want you out of this room until I-”

“Brienne?’ the subject of their conversation strolled out of the shadows of the corridor, and Brienne stepped forward involuntarily, into Arya’s room, to make a space for him in the doorway.

“My lord,” she growled, shooting Arya a look, which she took to mean keep silent. “Did you want something?”

“Actually, yes. You see, your...ward?”

“Squire,” Brienne corrected roughly.

“A female squire?”

“She’s a female,” Arya blurted. Brienne’s eyes narrowed in warning.

“Are you arming the peasant girls now, Brienne?” Renly japed. When she didn't respond with more than a grunt he continued. “Your “squire” and I met a few days ago. She walked in on a private conversation, and when I was trying to convince her not to spread what she heard around, I noticed just how familiar she was.”

‘Oh yes?” Brienne replied. Her face was bright red.

“Your squire looks like a Stark,  you know,” he told her.

“If you don't say anything I won’t say anything either,” Arya offered, tacking on a hasty “my lord” afterward, mayhaps to soften the threat behind her words.

He was quiet for a time, looking either shocked or amused or maybe both. His sudden laughter made Arya lean towards amused, but one could never be sure.

‘What, Brienne, you expected me to run off and tattle to my brother?”

“I wasn't sure if-” she started.

“You’ve been a better friend than I deserve, Brienne. And my brother is a fat drunk ass. I was in court when he and Lord Stark returned. It was awful.”

“Is my family in trouble with the king?” Arya asked.

“Oh no. But there are whispers. That you seduced the king, or that you’re your dead aunt come back from the grave.”

“That's not true,” she exclaimed.

“Well, you look like neither a seductress or a spirit, so I’m inclined to believe you.”

“The court is rarely concerned with the truth,” Brienne assured her.

“The Queen was mildly upset that it was a northern girl that drove her son to distraction, and it was blown wildly out of proportion. But your family is quite worried about you, you know?”

“Are they,” Arya snapped impatiently. She needed no reminder that she’d ran off.

“You ran off into the wild, even though you were being sent back home. Your older brother, the solemn one, he only just convinced everyone you hadn't been abducted.”

Of course Jon knew. He’d always known exactly what she would do, exactly what she was feeling.

“And why are they searching so hard for a natural-born child,” Brienne asked. Arya knew she didn't mean anything by it.  

“It’s just the Starks. The King’s mostly forgotten about her, really. or he would have, but the Prince spends almost all his time with the young Stark, forgetting his duties.”

“That’s not my fault!” Arya argued. “He’s just being stupid.”

“He’s quite smitten with you,” Renly said. He was taunting her.

Balling her hands into fists, Arya jumped up from the bed.”He’s going to marry Sansa. She’s pretty, and she can sing ,and her mother is a Lady.”

“Your pretty Sansa isn't marrying my nephew,” he told her.

“What do you mean?” Brienne asked.

“Why?” Arya snapped, feeling a weight settling in the pit of her stomach.

“Sansa Stark’s been betrothed the Edric Dayne. A punishment for that wolf debacle.”

“What?”

“One of your massive pet's attacked Prince Joffrey. The Queen was livid. Littlefinger told me it was Lady Sansa’s wolf. It went rabid and mauled the little shit. The beast was killed and the King offered your sister’s hand to the Dayne’s in the same night.

“Lady wouldn't do that!” Arya exclaimed. “The Queen lied. Or- or Littlefinger did!”

“Arya,” Brienne warned.

“She was just angry because I kissed Gendry, that Sansa tried to help me!”

“I think I’ll leave you to your treason,” Renly said, staring down at the raging girl.

“You won’t say anything?” Brienne asked.

“Not unless they offer me a lot of coin,” he joked.

“Thank you,” Brienne said.

Arya stared at them, still brimming with anger, with shame, and with guilt. Sansa must be heartbroken, without her loyal Lady. She had no idea what she’d do without Nymeria.

“Arya, calm yourself. You won’t be marching on the Red Keep.”

“The Queen murdered Lady!” she cried. “And she married Sansa off to Edric Dayne.”

“She is the Queen.”

“She’s a monster.”

“We’ve just escaped from actual trouble, I won’t have you speaking treason. Promise you won’t go whispering rebellion into the ears of the smallfolk?”

Arya sighed, falling back onto the back. “I swear it.”

Chapter Text

Tarth and the Narrow Sea

Arya was in Tarth for two years. Her fifteenth name day came with the news that her sister was now a married woman. Sansa was now the Lady of Starfall, and Robb was now twice a father. His oldest, a boy named Rickard, was now the older brother of a little girl. It came from a smiling Renly. Her sixteenth birthday came with more news. Sansa was pregnant with her own child. Renly brought this news as well. She felt sorry, to be so disconnected from her family, getting her news from rumours brought to her by the ever-happy Renly Baratheon. But then, if she’d gone back to Winterfell, she’d be getting her news from letter anyway, and she’d be markedly less happy.

She found that even though the well-dressed man brought precious information about the Starks, Renly’s visits, frequent as they were, were not her favorite parts of her life. She’d gotten quite adept with her larger sword, although she’d always prefer Needle, and the muscles in her arms were quite impressive. She once showed Kira, only half-japing, just how large they got when she flexed them. The maid had laughed until she cried.

And that wasn’t the extent of her training either. She could now hit a moving target from horseback with her bow three times out of five, and Brienne had promised her a new bow when merchants next came to market, or they found themselves in Maidenpool. And the lady had trained her at the tilt. Arya was getting better and better with the quintain, though she still got clobbered every now and again.  

She was a rather intimidating person now, and getting deadlier each day, but as the days past and she learned more and more, all she could feel was restless. It was maddening, knowing how to do all these things, being able to protect herself, and having no use for it, other than impressing Lady Brienne at the next lesson. Even Nymeria picked up on, taking to running off into the forest and coming back days later with blood in her mouth. The direwolf had never attacked cattle, but Brienne didn't like her running free like that. Arya didn't tie her up though, because she knew the feeling of being trapped, was feeling it now, and hated to lock Nymeria into her room for hours on end.

Brienne sensed this discontent- she had to- but she never did anything besides scold them both. It started feeling very much like being lectured by the Lady Stark, and Arya wondered if she was cursed to being a horrid disappointment. It was slightly over dramatic, she had to admit, and she tried over the next few weeks to shake the feeling off, but the arrival of Renly and his dreadful news did little to alleviate any negative feelings she had.

“Your father and the King got into quite an argument, you know,” he said, at supper that night.

With other visits, Arya served, but when Renly was there, Brienne allowed her to sit with them. She’d reasoned at first that Renly could tell her what he’d learned any time during his visit, but the Lord of Storm’s End spent most of his time wasting time with Loras Tyrell to update Arya on anything.

“About what?” she asked, suddenly anxious.

Renly had told her before about the King's temper, which Arya had certainly seen a bit of on the Kingsroad. She didn't trust her family’s safety to him any more than she trusted the Queen. 

“Daenerys Targaryen. The Spider’s been whispering in my brother’s ear. Supposedly she’d married one of the Dothraki horselords.”

“So?” Brienne asked. “The Dothraki aren’t sailors.”

“I’ve never said Robert was smart. He’s paranoid, so, he ordered the girl assassinated. Lord Stark...disagreed, rather loudly, and publicly. He threatened to step down as Hand.”

“He did?” Arya gasped.

“Yes, but I doubt anything will come of it. That was months ago, and they’ve kissed and made up now,” Renly told her. “Robert needed Ned’s help in negotiations with Loras’s family.” He stopped them to take a long gulp of wine.

“Negotiations about what?” Brienne prompted.

“Margaery’s dowry. Robert’s finally convinced his son to marry her,” Renly said, turning his smirk on Arya. 

Arya tried to school her features, hoping not to display just how shocked she was to Brienne and Renly. What exactly she found shocking about this escaped her. The match made sense. The Tyrell’s were a great house, wealthy, with all the grain of the Reach in their hands, and Arya had heard tell that Margaery Tyrell was incredibly beautiful. If Loras was any indicator she was. It was a perfect match for a prince and Margaery was exactly what Arya decided a Queen could be. This was mostly because the only queen she’d ever met was Cersei Lannister and she couldn't imagine any alternative.

“My sister could have been a better queen than Margaery Tyrell,” Arya stated, instead of what she actually wanted to say.

“Maybe she’d have been a different sort of queen,” Brienne said diplomatically.

“Sometimes different is better,” Arya countered.

“I think Margaery’s very charming,” Renly offered. “She understands the court well.”

Arya wondered if Margaery understood Gendry well. She wouldn't profess to knowing him perfectly, but Arya had spent a great deal of with the Prince. She knew that he thought smithing was fascinating, that sometimes he visited the blacksmiths on the Street of Steel in King's Landing just to watch them work. She knew that he felt torn between his parents and she knew that was a horrible horseman. Did Margaery know these things? She doubted it, but then, Arya had run off to an island, so she had no idea what this strange girl knew or didn't know.

“There will be a tourney for Gendry’s name-day. That's when my brother's announcing the engagement. It’s a Grand Tourney. The Martell’s are coming from Dorne and the winner’s purse is 50,000 gold dragons.”

“50,000? Lord Stark can't be happy about an expense like that.”

“Another reason for their brief falling out.”

“Will Loras be competing?” Brienne asked.

“Of course. All the young knights and lordlings will compete. How about you? Will you be leaving your lonely isle to win some gold?”

Brienne was silent for a moment, glancing quickly at Arya. “I’ll need to think on it.”

Later that night, Arya lay staring up at the darkness above her, head spinning. She was shifting rapidly from hoping to return to King’s Landing to see her family, to see Jon, to see Gendry, and wanting to stay away from them all.

It didn’t truly matter what decision Arya may have made that night, though, because three days later, hours before Renly was set to depart, Brienne was done thinking. She announced the journey at breakfast in the Great Hall, and preparations commenced. Arya was reminded of the days before they’d left Winterfell. She remembered Sansa’s request, which had seemed like the start of a mending in their relationship, remembered joking with Jon about the look on Septa Mordane’s face, and she suddenly knew that for all the fear she felt about King’s Landing and the Red Keep, she yearned for the company of other Northmen. It had been two years and a handful of months since she’d seen another Stark face, and she missed Jon. By the Old Gods and the New she missed Jon

She marched up to Brienne, before she’d even packed her bags, before she gathered any of the things she’d need, and she made one request. “I’d like to bring Kira.”

“The one with yellow hair, the kennel master’s daughter?”

“Yes. If she’ll go,” Arya replied uneasily. She didn’t want to uproot her friend, and she wasn’t asking for a maid. But she despised the thought of leaving her on the island when Kira spoke so much of wanting to see the world.

Brienne was quiet for a moment, thinking, before she gave a quick nod. “That’s fine. But I expect her to be well behaved. You as well.”

“My lady,” Arya said, both in acknowledgement and askance.

“I’m not sure what the reactions will be, to your sudden reappearance, and I can’t have you inciting anything more than what is coming. I want to be able to trust you.”

“You can,” Arya promised.

Kira wasn’t due at the castle that night for supper, so after Arya had left Lady Brienne and gathered her things, she made the short trip into the village and to the inn. Her friend was in the common room, two platters rested against each hip as she brought stew around to a few weary looking men. The girl spotted Arya at the doorway and waved her toward the kitchen.

Jayne, the innkeeper’s wife was standing before a large pile of dough, working at it with large strong hands. She smiled at Arya, used to seeing the girl coming to call on her maid.

After a few moments Kira entered the kitchen grinning at her, looking a bit puzzled.

“What are you doing down here? Isn’t Lord Renly still visiting?” Kira asked.

“I’m going to King’s Landing. I-I’m going to see my family,” Arya replied immediately, voice loud with excitement.

Her friend’s face filled with both happiness and disappointment, and Arya rushed on. “I want you to come. To King’s Landing. With me. I asked Lady Brienne. And she’ll allow it, if you behave well. But if you don’t want to-”

“Why wouldn’t I want to go? You’re offering me a way off of Tarth. And King’s Landing. You know, I’ve heard it’s as beautiful as it is smelly.”

She was intensely relieved. It was all settled then. And she wouldn't feel guilty for dragging Kira along to face her troubles along with her. Arya let out a breath and smiled at her.

“I’ll just tell Gid,” Kira said, turning back to the common room door.

“I’ll tell Gid, and I won't let him say no, neither,” Jayne said from her place with the dough. She landed a hard smack to it’s surface to emphasize her words. Arya’s smile grew wider.

“Thank you Jayne,” they chorused, and both girls rushed towards the back door.

Brienne was telling Renly how suprised she was that they’d managed to get everything on the boat on time when Arya came on board. It had been two years since she’d set foot on the rocking surfacer of a ship, but it took her only seconds to become used to it again. Nymeria had no such acclimation, and she was sure that the direwolf would be put through a week of discomfort, unfortunately. Kira cooed at Nymeria, patting her head, but it was no comfort to her.

Servants had already loaded their things, but Kira had her bag clutched at her side. She was looking about nervously.

“What’s wrong?’ Arya asked.

“I’ve never left Tarth before.”

“We’re still here. The ship hasn’t left yet,” Arya pointed out.

“Still.”

Her friend didn’t seem like she was very eager for conversation, so Arya led her and her direwolf down to their cabin, a small space which smelled like fish.

“Go back on deck, if you want,” Kira said after a few moments. She nodded.

Her second time on a ship wasn’t much different than her first, although the company was a little better. Not that she spent much time enjoying it. Arya was spending an awful amount of time by herself, watching the horizon for land like a hawk. Her body thrumming with tension as the days went on.

She hadn’t seen any of her family in two years. Sansa was a mother and a wife now. Bran four and ten, practically a man grown. Rickon would be four, and Arya was slightly afraid that he might not recognize her. They all had to be different, didn’t they? She certainly was. All except Jon. She couldn't see him ever changing. Jon was just Jon, her brother. She hoped with all of her heart, anyway. And she was fearful of what her father would do. Part of her wondered if he might send her North, even after all this time. She needed him not to be angry, just like she needed Jon to be the same.

Not to mention Gendry. He was going to marry Margaery Tyrell, and she just knew he would be different. He’d be a drunken idiot like his father. He’d be rude and arrogant like Jaime Lannister. Or perhaps he’d be flippant and bitter like Tyrion Lannister. He wouldn’t be the Gendry who’d showed her how much he loved his kingdom. He wouldn't be the Gendry who kissed her in a river.

All the worrying exhausted her, and it resolved nothing. She’d never change anything by moping about like an idiot. Of course, telling herself that, repeatedly, didn’t improve the situation. Nothing did, not Brienne offering to spar with her, not Kira’s questions about high lords and ladies, not even Renly’s teasing.

Nothing broke through her horrible worry, that was, until land was sighted. It came with the realisation that there was no way they’d turn back at the last second, and these precious days of routine and ordinary activities were all she had before they got to the Red Keep and the mysterious fate that awaited her. Arya began sparring with Brienne, coming closer each day to beating her, and she answered all the questions she could for Kira, and she teased Renly right back. For five days she tried to spend as much time happy as she could, only brooding about Gendry and her father and the King right before she went to sleep, and then they made land.

The ship docked in King’s Landing and Arya was hit with a wave of terror that came along with the smell of human excrement and stale sweat.

Beautiful as it is smelly my arse, she thought, staring around at the filth. She wished they could turn back.

Chapter Text

King's Landing

Renly departed first, reasoning that he would draw attention away from Arya and Brienne. Everyone knew, though, that the reason for his haste to return to the Red Keep was the Knight of Flowers. Loras almost always came to Tarth with him. This time however, he'd stayed in King's Landing, to be with his sister during negotiations for her hand.  That hadn’t stopped Renly, of course, but he was just Renly.

   Without the Lord of Storm’s End and his baggage, Arya could have sworn the boat rose several feet out of the harbor. It also made unloading their things that much quicker than previously. Kira again clutched her bag to her side, watching the city with wide eyes, but she didn’t look nervous now. She looked in awe. She supposed she should be as awed as her friend, but Arya was just resentful. This was the stinking filthy city that had changed everything, home to the filthy stinking King who’d wanted to sell her off to the highest bidder, the Queen who had wanted her flogged. She just didn’t see the allure.

Brienne sent out a man to gather horses and another man to find an inn. Arya wasn’t sure how tourneys worked. Her father had never held one before, and they'd never interested her enough to read about them. She knew that the high lords would have rooms in the Red Keep. She wondered if the lesser lords would have quarters as well. She supposed Brienne could just be taking measures to keep their profiles low. But then, they’d come to the city for a reason, beyond the 50,000 dragon purse.

   The men returned within half an hour, the first  with several horses. The second returned with significantly less gold and news of a few clean rooms at a reputable inn. Brienne traveled with only a few guards and fewer servants, so she had gone to the trouble of getting rooms for them as well. But Arya and Kira would still be sleeping with their lady, for safety’s sake.

The older woman had scoffed at Arya’s pleas. “I’m quite capable of protecting myself Arya. If anything, you’ll be the one in need of protection.” but in the end she’d allowed it, giving her a small smile and nodding in an indulgent way.

The small party mounted their new horses and made their way to the inn. Arya set Nymeria to walk closely behind them.The two years on Tarth had only seen the direwolf grow bigger. She was larger than most dogs, now, and could be rather intimidating when she wished.  It was a risk, walking her through the crowded streets. But Arya could hardly leave her to wander the docks so she simply hoped Nymeria wouldn’t draw any unwanted attention, as unlikely as that was.

The inn certainly looked clean, and the innkeeper dressed richly. When he saw Lady Brienne’s man he waved the group on towards the stables, where they left the horses, before returning to the inn proper. Arya followed behind the lady and Kira followed behind Arya, to the room they’d share. It was well furnished, and there were two small cots beside the larger featherbed.

They spent their first two days in the inn while Brienne supervised Arya in her arm exercises. The hours passed slowly, and Kira’s endless questions became sometimes impossible for Arya to answer. When the girl started asking especially detailed questions about the Martell line Arya finally snapped.

“I don’t know! How am I to know that?” she shouted, stepping back from Brienne to glare at her. Kira’s eyes widened and she sat up straighter on the featherbed.

“Arya!” Brienne scolded.

She let out a grunt of frustration. “I’m sorry. I… We’ve been in this room for so long.”

Kira nodded, letting her shoulders relax. Brienne watched them both for a moment, weighing something in her head, perhaps.

“I’ll take you to the tourney grounds tomorrow. I doubt the construction had been finished but there is always plenty of activity near the lists.”

“Can we pass through the Street of Steel along the way?” Arya asked, remembering something Tyrion Lannister had said almost three years ago in Winterfell.  

“Sure,” Brienne replied, watching her suspiciously. “It’s along the way, if I remember correctly. What do you want on the Street of Steel?”

“Someone told me about. I’m curious.”

They left the inn mid-morning, and re-entered the crowded city streets. Brienne seemed to vaguely know where they were going, which made Arya wonder just how often the lady visited King’s Landing. She couldn't imagine it being very much. What business would the rough looking, soft-spoken swordswoman have at court?

The clang of hammers and the rush of heat were the first signs that they were nearing the Street of Steel, the lane of armourer’s shops, both grand and dingy. The second sign was the glint of the sun on polished metal. The larger shops displayed more elaborate pieces of armor and weaponry, some decorated with gold and engravings Mikken would never have been able to manage. But even the small shops showed talent, or at least, what Arya saw as talent. She was no expert in metal working, but she thought she could recognize a well-made blade if she saw one, whether is was jewel-encrusted or not.

Knights marched about in new armor and lordlings toted swords they had no idea how to use. Kira watched them all like it was the most exciting thing she’d ever seen, but Arya was looking for someone, not enjoying the sights.

A chuckle broke her concentration. Turning, she watched Brienne laugh down at her. She’d expected her to be suspicious, the older woman watching her watch the crowd, but she’d never expected her to find it funny.

“What?” Arya snapped. This drew Kira’s attention, who began staring at the pair of them.

“The Prince’s engagement is being announced in a fortnight. Do you really think he’ll be wandering the city?” she asked.

“I wanted to see Tobho Mott’s shop.”

“Renly has told me about his nephew’s odd fascination with this particular craft,” she admitted, staring down at Arya. Her expression was shifting from mirth to something akin to sympathy and bordering on pity. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be making your presence known to the Prince. We should move along.”

Arya’s nod was curt and her pace as they continued on towards the tourney grounds was brisk. All three of them were silent. Kira didn’t pipe up with questions every several seconds and Brienne didn't answer them. Arya still searched the crowd around her, but now she kept her head turned as she did.

They reached the tourney grounds several minutes later, and were met with a crow. Brienne had been right about it being busy, even without all of the structures erected. Ladies strolled the grounds and important looking men walked along arguing. She had an idea of what most of the half-finished wooden projects would be, but Brienne still explained them for both she and Kira’s benefit. Arya would be participating in a fortnight, and it was best to be prepared.

Her mood improved as they walked about, and she breathed in the semi-fresh air, which had almost escaped the stink of the city. The sun beat down but it felt nice on her skin, and by the time Brienne had decided they should return to the inn, she had forgotten the trouble on the Street of Steel. This made the walk back much more pleasant.

That night at supper the conversation was light and pleasant, and the guard, Den, even dared to teach Arya an extremely silly song about a woman’s knees while Brienne was distracted.

She woke up feeling rather cheerful, yesterday’s troubles and tomorrow’s forgotten for a time being. Her small cot was comfortable and the blanket was warm, and neither Brienne or Kira snored too loud. Breakfast came with a knock at the door and the smile of a young servant girl. Arya shoveled the porridge into her mouth, feeling hungry after a full night's sleep. Kira was laughing at the mess she made when Brienne cleared her mouth. She wondered if she was about to be scolded, but the look on her lady’s face was not stern. Instead she looked...guilty.

“I’m receiving a visitor after breakfast. Arya, I’ll want you with me,” she announced when the two girls sent her curious looks.

“Does Renly have news?” Arya asked, grinning. “Or maybe gossip”

“It’s not Renly. And before you start asking, no, I won’t tell you who it is. Kira, I give you leave to walk about the city if you’d like, but ask Den to escort you, and be back by sunset.”

“Will “the visitor” be here until sunset?” she wondered, staring at Brienne.

“I don’t know.”

They finished their breakfast silently. Arya’s shoulders were tensed as she wondered just who could be coming to see them. Renly and Loras were they only one’s at court that knew about her. Unless they weren’t, and Brienne was going to turn her over to the King after all. Two years of training, for nothing. Her eyes stayed on Brienne’s face as she tried to determine what the woman was planning. She certainly did look like she was hiding something.

Lady Brienne led her out of their room and down the stairs. Kira followed at a distance, stopping to knock softly on the door the guardsmen were sleeping in. Arya followed Brienne into the common room, where she opened a door, which led to a hallway. Through there she opened yet another door. The room was empty, and she let out a nervous breath.

“Why can't you tell me who we’re meeting with?” Arya asked.

“Arya…” Brienne sighed, moving into the room and sinking into a chair. She put her head in her hands just as a knock came at the door. “Come in.”

Arya spun around, finally taking her eyes away from the older woman to watch the door. It came open slowly. On the other side of the door was a solemn looking man with gray strands in his dark brown hair, and a pair of hooded gray eyes in his long, honest face. He wore a plain doublet in the northern style and he looked surprisingly pleased to see her.

“Arya?” he asked, although the tone of his face revealed that he already knew it was her.

“Father?” She turned back to send an accusing look at Brienne, but the woman wasn’t looking at her. “What are you doing here?”

“Lady Brienne asked me here.”

“She told you I was here?” she asked, but of course he wasn’t lying. She should never have come to this rotten city.

“Arya, she told me you were on Tarth as soon as you made your presence known to her,” Ned explained, stepping into the room. She noticed suddenly the new wrinkles on his forehead and around his mouth. He looked tired.

“Why did you let me stay, then? Why didn’t you send me home?” she snapped, backing away from him. “Will you send me back now?”

“Arya,” he sighed, stepping forward again, arms out as if to calm her. “I never wanted to send you back. But the King ordered it, and I could hardly disobey the King.”

“Why didn’t you come for me on Tarth, then?”

“Brienne told me about you to protect you. If I hadn’t know where you were I wouldn’t have been able to keep you hidden.”

“Arya, I never meant for you to be sent back home. I was trying to help,” Brienne told her, her voice muffled by her hands.

“You knew where I was all along?” she asked. She was still upset. Actually, she was furious, but without the fear of being sent home, some of the tension left her body. “Why did Jon continue to look for me?”

“Your brother doesn’t know. I never told him. It was best that only a few people knew.”

“What will you do now?” she asked, crossing her arms in front of her chest and staring up at him.

“Arya, I don’t want to force you to marry. My father...he made that mistake with Lyanna, and we both know how that ended. But you cannot stay in the city. It.s.it isn’t safe for you in King’s Landing. You should return to Tarth”

She gave a small, harsh laugh. “It was only a kiss. I highly doubt that the Queen even remembers me. I’m.. I’m nothing. I’m just a bastard. Why should you high lords care a lick about me? I just want to perform in the tourney. I want to be a warrior.”

“It isn’t about the kiss, Arya. This is bigger than you know. There are...powers at play. I don’t think anyone in Robert’s court is safe. I’m not entirely sure that Robert is safe. The King is lashing out. I won’t have you on the other end of his anger.”

“It was never the King who hated me father. What reason would he have to be angry at me?” she asked.

“I told you, there is more to this then you know.”

“Then tell me. I want to know!” Arya shouted. His eyes widened, and she realized that that was the first time she’d ever raised her voice at her father in anger. Arya had always had a mouth that got her in trouble, but she’d always been exceedingly respectful to her lordly father. “You cannot leave my in the dark in this. Not if you want to protect me.”

“It is...it’s complicated, sweetling. And if you knew… This could hurt you.”

“Tell me!”

“I will, someday. But not now, Arya. I cannot,” he said, voice bare with the need for her to understand. But she couldn’t He’d said himself, she didn’t have enough information.

“Well I cannot leave. I came to compete. And I came to see my family,” she told him.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he told her, but she was done listening.

“I won’t leave.”

Ned’s face softened a degree and he nodded, obviously seeing the stubborn set of her jaw. She would not budge. “Could I ask you to stay hidden?” but after a moment he added, “Of course not.”

“I’m sorry,” she told him, realizing that she meant it. She hated how tired her father looked, how King’s Landing had aged him, and she hated to be the source of his frown. She’d always loved her father, respected him, but she would not let him hide things from her and send her away, not when she’d finally almost convinced herself that it was right for her to be there.

“Would you at least take rooms in the Tower of the Hand?” he asked.

“I thought you wanted me to stay hidden?” she replied, frowning up at him.

“If you won’t stay hidden I’d rather you stay close. And you want to see your brothers and sister. They’re staying in quarters there as well.”

“I’d need to gather my things…”

“I’ll have your things sent there,” Brienne offered, speaking up for the first time in several minutes. She’d straightened in her chair, watching father and daughter with an odd expression in her eyes. “And Kira can stay with me.”

“Thank you, again, Lady Tarth,” her father said.

“Will I return with you,” Arya asked. She needed time, more time, before she saw them again. But she couldn’t delay this forever, could she?

“That’d be best,” he said.

In the end her father agreed to have servants sent for her things, and Arya brought only a small bag with her. She took the horse Brienne had bought when they’d departed the ship and Nymeria followed close behind as Ned led her towards the Red Keep. It loomed above the city, large and menacing. As they got closer her palms became slick with sweat. She was getting stares from the smallfolk around her, dressed as she was in men’s clothes, with a sword at her hip, and she could only imagine what the lords and ladies of court would make of her.

She was spared finding out, though, as she and her father slipped quietly through the gates. Ned Stark needed only to shoot a single look at the men at the gates when they opened for him, and he rode his horse straight towards the courtyard before the Tower of the Hand. A groom Arya recognized from Winterfell only vaguely took their horses and began leading them to the stables as the entered the Tower. He took her to the solar where several people sat around the large table, all eating and talking and smiling pleasantly.

They all looked up as Ned entered, smiling at his arrival, that is, until they spotted her behind him.

“Arya?” Jon said, rising from his chair abruptly. He hadn’t changed, thank the Gods, at least not very much. He was still lean and dark haired, and he still frowned with his large dark eyes. He might have been a little taller.

“Jon!” she exclaimed, rushing towards him. At the last second he opened his arms and she lept into them, squeezing tightly. He didn’t let her go for a few long moments, and she closed her eyes, letting herself pretend that she was a little girl again, trailing after Jon and Robb. When he finally let her down on her own to feet, she turned to the table at large and was troubled by what she saw there.

It seemed that all the Starks had been sent for. Lady Catelyn sat stony-faced at the end of the table, watching Arya with sharp eyes. It was no welcome sight, seeing her father’s wife, but Robb, sitting beside her, watching his half-sister carefully, was. He was handsome as ever, though the beard was new, and his wife Jeyne sat beside him, face serene for all the tension in the room. There was a little girl with red hair and brown eyes sitting in her lap.

Bran sat on Catelyn’s other side, and though Arya couldn’t see his legs under the table, she was sure he’d grown a foot taller. He looked a man now, truly, and she imagined he made all the girls swoon, with his bright blue eyes. Rickon, little Rickon, sat beside another little boy who looked the spitting image of him. She assumed this was Robb’s eldest son, three now. His name was Rickard. Rickon was a boy of five and he looked at her in confusion, obviously not recalling who she was, other than someone who looked very similar to his brother Jon. And last was Sansa, who looked even more beautiful at seven and ten than she had as four and ten. Her was shining and braided intricately on top of her head. She was dressed in blue silk, flowing and free, in a style Arya recognized distantly as Dornish. Her belly was swollen with child, and she remembered Renly telling her just a few months ago that Sansa was expecting her first child with Edric Dayne of Starfall.

Their direwolves lazed about around their feet, the whole pack. Only there were two missing. Nymeria trotted forward and snuffed at Greywinds paws. Suddenly the wolves were a large pile of fur on the floor, excited yips coming out of the mess every once in a while. Now only Lady was missing.

“Arya, where have you been?” Jon demanded, bringing her attention away from examining her siblings and their wolves.. “You’ve been lost for two years!”

Jon wasn’t one to raise his voice if didn’t have to,  never had been, but his voice was raised now, and if the expression on everyone’s face hadn’t been enough of an indication to her, this display by her older brother was.

Ned spoke up before she could, “Arya was on Tarth.” He didn’t elaborate, but Jon wouldn’t settle for such a simple answer.

“What were you doing on Tarth?” he asked, obviously confused.

“She...I wanted Lady Brienne to teach me how to fight,” she answered sheepishly.

Sansa gasped and Robb scoffed at the revelation, but it was Lady Catelyn that spoke up. “You risked your father’s position and his safety for a childish fantasy?” Her voice was cold and her face was a mask of rage.

“Catelyn,” Ned interjected, but his wife didn’t heed him.

“She’s a selfish little girl, nothing more. She shouldn’t be here, Ned. There’s no telling how the Queen will react to seeing the girl again. And the King! He sent her away himself!”

“I will speak with the King, and he will handle the Queen. This is not a discussion, Catelyn,” she admonished her.

Arya winced, knowing nothing good would come from this. Her father had never argued with his wife in front of her, or in front of anyone, she was sure. Lady Catelyn would not take it kindly, and this would only increase the woman’s hatred for her.

Lady Stark stood, taking her eyes away from her husband and leaving the room with a sweep of skirts. Sansa moved to stand up and join her mother, but Ned gestured for her to stay. “Why don’t we catch up with your sister?” he pleaded. She must have seen something in his face that Arya did not, because Sansa nodded, face softening, and sat again.

Arya stood awkwardly, still half in the circle of Jon’s arms, wondering if she should sit or not. Her question was answered as her brother led her to sit beside him. He’d taken his mother’s seat and she’d taken his.

“Did you really go to Tarth so Lady Tarth would teach you to fight?” Bran asked, leaning forward in his chair. He was watching her curiously, without any ill feelings on his face or in his eyes.

“She did teach me. She taught me more sword-work, and she improved upon my archery. And she taught me… She taught me to ride with a lance.”

“Is Arya Underfoot hoping to win the Prince’s Tourney?” Robb laughed, but the serious look she leveled at him killed his amusement. “Arya you can’t ride in the Prince’s Tourney!”

“Why? Brienne has ridden in tournaments before. She’s won, too!” Arya argued.

“Lady Tarth brought no horses, Arya, she never intended to let you ride. Besides, such a show. It might anger the King, if a woman wins his son’s tourney,” her father told her.

“I-” she began, but then she thought on what he’d said. He was right. It wasn’t safe. But if she’d wanted safe she could have returned to Tarth when he’d requested it. Still, she had no mount… “Then I won’t ride, but I can still compete in the archery competition. Anyone can enter the archery competition.”

“Arya, you ran off, disobeying an order from the King himself. This is foolish,” Jon told her, ever logical, but she only shrugged it off.

“Father said he’d talk to him.”

“Father cannot always curb the King’s ire,” Sansa spoke up for the first time, voice soft and sweet. She was watching Arya warily, but there was no hatred in her eyes, as she’d expected sometimes, late at night. “He killed Lady, even after I begged him not to, after father tried to intervene,” she added, eyes going misty for a moment.

“I… I’ve heard a little about the incident, Sansa. I’m very sorry,” Arya told her, pushing all the sympathy she felt for her sister into the inadequate words.

The older girl nodded politely, and a hush fell over the table once again. The Starks and the Snow and the Dayne were silent as they mourned their fallen sister. Ever a Lady.

Chapter Text

King's Landing

After the awkward dinner, Arya retreated from the room to wander the halls. She had no idea where her quarters were, but every second spent with her father and her half-siblings felt like an intrusion. She was the stranger, the one that didn’t belong. Even Jeyne was more of  Stark than she was.

The corridors were bare, not as she’d expected. She supposed, considering her father occupied the tower now and Jon Arryn had occupied it before, there was no reason it would be overly decorated, but she had several expectations for the Red Keep, one of them being ostentatious. As she moved about the halls, peeking discreetly into every other room, not sure what she was looking for, she came on a set of steps. She began climbing, and reached a whole other floor. It was a Tower, so this was no surprise, but the figure standing in the center of the hall, back turned towards her, was. She clutched her chest in surprise, and her gasping alerted Lady Stark to her presence. She turned and her face hardened right before Arya’s eyes.

“So now I’m being followed?” she asked, raising a single imperious brow.

“Pardon me, my lady. I was only looking for my chambers,” Arya said, dropping into a curtsy, made clumsy by her lack of skirts.

“There’s an empty room beside Bran’s. I suppose Lord stark will want you in there.”

“Thank you, my lady,” she responded politely.

Catelyn watched her warily before speaking again. “Don’t thank me, girl.”

“May I...” Arya began, pausing to search for the right words, “May I take my leave, my lady?”

“No. I’ll show you to your room so you won’t be wandering about,” she answered, spinning on her heels. Arya hurried to catch up, but Lady Stark was much taller than her, and she wasn’t slowing to accommodate the girl at all.

The room was at the end of the long corridor, the door just like all the others. Her things weren’t there yet- she’d just arrived an hour ago- but the sheets were turned over.

“Do you have things coming?” Lady Stark asked, staying behind in the hall while Arya entered her room.

“Father said he’d send servants after dinner for my things…”

“Very well. I’ll have it sent to this room.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Arya answered dutifully. She expected the woman to finally leave her alone, but she persisted to stare in at her, eyes narrowed.

“It would have been easier, you know, if you didn't look like a Stark,” she announced icily.

Arya turned her head, waiting for the woman to explain herself.

“If you had looked like someone else’s child I may have been able to think of you as a ward. I could have treated you as I treated Theon.”

She was silent for a moment, turning the words over in her head. She wondered what that would have been like, but she doubted the truth of it. Catelyn Stark hated her for one reason, and it wasn't how she looked. Besides, it wouldn't have made her feel better, being an outsider in her own home, looking like no one she knew, and being constantly out of place.

“But you do. You look just like your father, just like my son. You were a mark of shame on our marriage. No one can blame me for how I’ve treated you,” she continued.

But Arya could. Arya could blame her for every cruel word and cold glance. When she was a young girl, Catelyn had been able to bring her to tears with only a word, or a look. She’d gotten better at ignoring it, but her time on Tarth had made her calluses towards the treatment fade away. She was blistering now. She didn't tell Lady Stark any of this, only watched her with the eyes that looked like her father’s, hoping it was enough of a punishment.

“You make me wonder if he still loves her. You make me doubt him,” she snapped, stepping into the doorway. Catelyn looked like she was going to cry. “And now you’re going to stir things up at court, put my children in danger.”

The silence stretched between them for a long while, until Arya realized that Lady Catelyn was waiting for her to reply. She wanted to shout at her, she wanted to explain how her cold treatment made her feel. She wanted to cast the blame on her father, on the woman who was her mother, whoever it was. Arya wanted to say all the impolite, vulgar words she knew and watch Catelyn flinch back and sneer with disgust. But she knew her place. She was in no position to say any of those thing to her.

Instead, she apologized. “I’m sorry, my lady.” Her voice held little of the anger she felt, and she hoped her face didn’t express any at all.

The older woman sighed, face relaxing into something she could only describe as haggard, and she left Arya standing in the center of her room.

The next day was a struggle, but it wasn’t like a sword fight, like something she understood or could even help with. Arya had only a little experience with this. She’d grown up knowing that her words could get her in trouble, in her low position, but she’d never learned how to use them to get her out of trouble, not with anyone other than her father. She couldn't understand diplomacy. Her father had once been quite like her in this regard, but the King’s court had forced him to learn fast.

Ned had promised her on her first morning in the Tower of the Hand that he would speak with the King, excuse what she had done. He was going to ask for leniency and make sure she was free to walk about the castle without being accosted. He intended to have Renly’s voice supporting his, and Arya hoped that he’d get it. She found that she trusted the frivolous young lord and wanted to know she had his regard.

She didn’t know exactly what to do with herself while her father spoke to the King, and had decided to stay hidden away in her room until her father returned, but then Jon came to her door to invite her to breakfast with him. Arya was polishing Needle when he appeared.

“Will your mother be there? I wouldn’t want to intrude,” she said. In fact, she wanted to avoid the woman, and spare her own bruised feelings.

“Mother and Sansa have been invited to breakfast with Margaery Tyrell and some other ladies at court,” he told her. The name made her stiffen, but her brother didn’t seem to notice. “You should come down, Arya. Robb and Jeyne won’t stay much longer. Robb wants to get back to Winterfell as soon as he can.”

After a beat she nodded, hurrying to put away her blade and follow him down the hall. Her brothers were seated around the table when she and Jon descended the steps. Bran was shoveling food into his mouth and Rickon was tearing a rasher of bacon apart and feeding pieces to Shaggydog. She grinned.

At the head of the table her oldest brother and his wife sat with their heads together, whispering. Jeyne had a small bundle in her arms and Rickard was sat just beside Robb. Jon sat between Jeyne and Rickon, leaning down to tell the young boy not to feed his wolf at the table.

Arya hesitated, wondering about taking a place, but the smile that little Rickard sent her spurred her forward. She sat down beside him. “Hello,” she greeted the table.

Bran was the first to reply, and his words showed a mouthful of food. Robb scolded him, sounding remarkably like their father.

“Excuse these ruffians, Arya,” Jeyne said. “I’m sure you were happy to escape this sort of behavior when you were on Tarth?” If anyone else had said these words to her, she might have suspected some sort of barb, but her good-sister's eyes were clear and kind.

Arya smiled and shook her head. “No one in the Seven Kingdoms could make eating look more like a battle than Stark boys,” she said. It was something that Septa Mordane had said frequently, particularly about Jon, but when he’d grown out if, it fit very well with Bran and Rickon.

Jeyne giggled, arms moving the bundle in her arms. Arya was drawn to the small sleeping face that poked out. It was the same little girl from last night, now clutching at a small woolen blanket and sucking her fingers in peaceful slumber.

“This is Branda,” Robb offered, smiling down at the little girl. Arya thought for a moment, searching back in her memory. Branda was a year old, if she remembered correctly.

“She’s beautiful,” she said sincerely.

“Yes, well, you’ve missed a lot, during your time away,” Robb told her, glancing significantly at Jeyne’s middle. Arya noticed for the first time that the young Lady Stark’s stomach swelled slightly with a third child.

“At this rate, Robb, Rickard will have at least fifteen brothers and sisters before he’s full grown,” she joked, willing him not to press her with the inevitable scolding. It was only a matter of time.

Robb must have sensed her desire to avoid conflict. All he did was laugh.

“I think Robb plans on beating as all at this in particular,” Jon told her, dropping his voice into a conspiratory whisper. “No one’s explained to him that it’s not a competition.”

“No one told Walder Frey either, apparently,” Bran piped up. He was grinning wickedly.

“Are you comparing me to Walder Frey?” Robb asked, playing at offense.

“Lord Frey approached father about a marriage for Jon the other day, you know,” Bran told Arya. His eyes were sparkling with mischief. Her head turned and she met her older brother’s eyes.

“How grateful you must be, Jon!” she japed. He smiled crookedly at her, cheeks reddening.

“I think if father ever agreed to that I might have to run away myself,” he said.

It was only a joke, but it sent them all into an awkward silence. Arya tried to tell herself that he hadn’t meant anything by it, but the thought nagged at the back of her mind. And the others watched her. She saw the accusations there. Their silence carried on throughout the meal, broken occasionally by the clink of plates and knives.

They were just finishing up when Lord Stark returned. His face was void of expression, which was no comfort to her, and they all froze, waiting for him to say anything. He didn’t, but the small nod was enough of an answer.

She was forgiven. Her shoulders sagged, and she let out a tense breath.

“How did he look?” Robb asked. Ned glanced around the table, eyes cautious. His oldest son’s face changed with understanding. “Jeyne, would you mind taking Bran and Rickon with you and the children?”

“Father!” Bran complained to Ned, mouth twisting. Arya felt bad. He, only a few years younger than her, being shielded like a little boy.

“Go along, Bran,” Ned said gruffly. He looked like he wanted to send Arya off too, but that was a little too late now, wasn’t it?

They all left, Jeyne herding them along, frowning her own displeasure at being left out, but not raising one complaint. Arya supposed Robb would tell her of their talk later.

“The King is not one to forgive easily, Arya,” Ned warned. “But he is beset by Lannister’s, and doesn’t want to lose my support. And Renly had something to say as well, and I think Robert wanted us to leave the matter alone, after a several minutes of discussion.”

“Was he...did he have conditions?” Jon asked, brows drawing together.

“He requested she stay out of trouble, and keep out of the Lannister’s way.

“But they haven’t said she needs to be trapped in the tower, right?” Jon clarified.

“Of course not.”

“Good.” Jon said. “ How would you like to come to the training grounds with me?” he asked Arya, turning to look at her.

“Let’s see what Lady Brienne taught you.”

“Are you sure that-” Robb began, but their father waved him away.

“Better to just get on with it. No reason to prolong the inevitable shock of it all.”

“Shall I tell Bran and Rickon?’ Robb suggested.

“Arya’s choice, I think. You should see Bran now, though, sister. He’s gotten better with his sword.”

“Of course they can come!” she answered.

So, with her agreement, Ned called the boys down to go with them to the training yards. Robb and their father stayed behind. both were busy with their own work.

Jeyne offered to come along so that little Rickard could watch them all training, something he loved to do in Winterfell, but Jon assured her that they wouldn’t put her out. he pointed out that he knew she’d want to greet Sansa and Lady Stark when the returned. arya had to admit- she looked relieved.

Bran was pleased to have been invited, walking along beside Arya and Jon, reprimanding Rickon each time the younger boy ran too far ahead.

She felt so odd being one of the older siblings, being looked up to. She wondered if Jon or Robb ever this way when she’d rushed about after them.

Bran joined Rickon in front of them, his excitement getting the better of them.

“You’ll all be staying here after Robb returns to Winterfell?” Arya asked.

“Yes. We’ve visited, during the time you’ve been...away, but never for long. The journey north is too long to make very after,” jon replied.

“And yet Robb came for a tourney?” she asked.

“He’s come for many reasons. One being the engagement. Another being...rumblings in Essos.”

“Rumblings?”

“Daenerys Targaryen has gathered an army. Aegon Targaryen is still alive. They have dragons.” They’re fairy stories. But the King still worries.”

“After his fight with father, King Robert needed to know that the north would still defend the throne,” Arya finished, nodding her understanding.

“Yes.”

“How do you know for sure that the Targaryens aren’t a threat?’ she asked.

“Aegon Targaryen is dead. And so are the dragons.” Jon answered simply.

“And direwolves never venture this far south,” she replied, glancing towards their four direwolves trotting just behind the youngest Stark boys.

Once they reached the practice yard Rick and Bran swarmed them, making it impossible to speak any more on serious matters. But as they gathered practice swords and helped Rickon to choose the perfect practice dummy- a surprisingly arduous process- Arya kept thinking about it.

She’d grown up knowing everything there was to know about Robert’s Rebellion, the story of her Aunt Lyanna. Stolen by a “filthy, evil” Targaryen. Her father, KIng Robert, and Lord Arryn, the heroes of the tale trying, but failing to rescue the maiden from the tower. It was exactly like one of the stories Sansa had always been so fascinated with.

But Arya just couldn’t believe it all. From all she’d heard about Lyanna- how fierce, brave and capable she was- it was doubtful that Rhaegar would have been able to just take her. Of course, the alternative, that they ran away together, it was unspeakable.

And besides, in stories, there was always a villain. The villain was pure bad, the villain had no redeemable qualities, and they certainly didn’t rally a generation later and reclaim their stolen throne.

“Come one, Arya, Jon said you’d show us what you could do!” Bran exclaimed.

Jon and Arya’s sparring session had lasted longer than either had predicted. She’d been thrilled to see that they were almost evenly matched, and, what she lacked in technique she made up for speed.

Towards the end they’d attracted a crowd, and she’d felt entirely uncomfortable attracting attention only a few hours after her father had told her not to. But it wasn’t until familiar laughter boomed across the yard that she faltered. Her sword fell, just for a moment, but it was enough for Jon to gain the advantage, and with a merciless move, Arya ended up on her backside in the dirt.

Jon grinned down at her.

“So, Stark, your sister is gone for years and her first day back, you greet her with violence?”

Gendry.

Her heart stuttered in her chest, but Arya couldn’t reveal anything. Not a single thing. With a grunt, Arya shoved to her feet, turning to the Prince and sinking into a bow. Jon followed after, although his bow was much shallower.

“Oh, I don’t think Arya would have it any other way,” Jon assured the Prince.

“I’m sure you’re right.” Gendry turned his gaze to Arya, bright blue eyes taking her by surprise. She’d forgotten… She’d forgotten what it was like, spending time with Gendry. “You’ve become quite the threat, Arya.”

“I’ve been practicing.”

“Should I be worried?”

“Of course not, Your Highness.”

“Is that where you ran off? To learn how to thoroughly throttle someone?” he asked. And she knew what he wanted from her. But Arya couldn’t tell him where she’d been. It had been a very long time since she’d seen him. She couldn’t trust the man he’d been. Not when it could put Renly, her father, and Brienne in danger from the Lannisters.

“Among other things,” she evaded.

“Well, I’d love to test out your skill another time. Within the week. Does that sound agreeable?”

“If you wish, Your Highness.”

“All you Starks. So proper. I think your father might call my father ‘Your Grace’ till the day they both die, no matter how close they are. And Jon’s just the same.”

“I’m not Stark, Your Highness. And I’d prefer if-”

“Of course, I understand,” Gendry rushed to reply.

“Arya! Arya!” Rickon cried, rushing up and pulling at her tunic. “Come and watch me shoot!”

She peered down at him, smiling. How had he known just when she’d needed to get away. Jon had been completely oblivious, and he was standing just beside her.

“Begging your pardon, my lord,” Jon said, “But I think we’re late for an engagement.”

Gendry laughed good-naturedly. The sound sent shivers down her spine. Arya wanted to bottle that sound so she could listen to it whenever she wished. “I understand. Tommen insisted I attend an afternoon with he and his cats on his nameday last year. This is much more sensible.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“Well, I’d better be off, anyhow. My mother was going on about fabrics yesterday. I’m sure I’ll be discussing the merits of brocade in wedding clothes until supper. I...hope to speak soon, Arya.”

Arya’s the best shot in the Seven Kingdoms!” Rickon told everyone at dinner that night.

Ned and Catelyn had been invited to dine with the King and Queen. A more awkward affair Arya had never encountered, although the two women might bond over their mutual hate of Ned Stark’s bastard.

What that meant was that there was one empty setting that night at dinner. Edric Dayne had assumed the second one. He seemed a good sort, constantly turning to smile fondly at Sansa. He was handsome, too, with pale blonde hair and intelligent blue eyes. This was exactly the sort of marriage that Sansa had always wanted. She had her loving, handsome lord who doted on her.

And their brothers all seemed to enjoy his company. He reminded her bit a of Jon, the way he thought before speaking, something that did not come naturally to her, so was always fascinating when she experienced it.

“In every single kingdom?” Robb asked incredulously. “And you know that beyond a doubt?”

“She split an arrow!” he responded assuredly. “I can’t wait to tell everyone.”

“It takes me a few tries to split an arrow, Rickon. Proper ranged fighting is about speed.”

“Didn’t take you that long,” Bran piped in.

“Is that all you did on Tarth?” Sansa asked. Arya waited for the judgement, the derision, to appear on her half-sister’s face, but it didn’t. Maybe she was simply curious. And maybe all love was not lost between the two of them.

“I waited on Lady Brienne- though she never truly reinforced that. And I had lessons in swordplay and history and...etiquette.” She pulled a thought at the memore of hours of sitting up straight at table because she slouched too much when eating.

“Sounds like something you would despise,” Sansa said, sounding utterly confused.

“Afterwards I got to whack at things with a sword. It helped.”

“I just will never understand you, will I?” she asked, bemused..

They exchanged small smiles, both tentative. Arya felt a surge of hope.

“You’re returning soon?’ Edric was asking Robb, just as Arya returned her attention to the table at large from Sansa. “Yes, Just after the tourney, we hope to set off to Winterfell.”

“We have the same plans,” Sansa told them. “But we’ll be going back to Starfall after the wedding. I’d like to show Margaery my support.”

“You and Margaery are good friends?” Arya asked.

“Quite good.”

“I’m glad,” Arya said. “And how do you like Dorne?”

She supposed that it must’ve been awful for fair Sansa to leave her entire family behind. She wondered what exactly had enraged Cersei Lannister and foiled the match between her and Gendry. She knew that it had something to do with Joffrey, but had no idea of the details. She assumed it had to have been bad.

“Dorne is wonderful,” Sansa exclaimed. “The weather is much more predictable than up North.”

“Sansa has charmed everyone in Starfall. And Allyria is constantly visiting. I know its purely to see her.”

“Your aunt loves you just fine, Ned,” Sansa responded, but her cheeks still flushed from the compliment.

“We’ll let her preference be left to the imagination,” he teased.

“Do you have an prospects, Jon,” Sansa turned suddenly, giving her brother a smile that Arya might have described as wicked on anyone else. Arya turned to look at him curiously.

“Sansa-” he began, but the soft-spoken young woman gave him no time to protest.

“If you never make a decision, you’ll die, old and alone, up in the north.”

“Father wants him to marry one of the Mormont women,” Robb commented from the end of the table. Jon turned a sharp glare towards him, but the older man didn't seem to notice.

“A Mormont?” Sansa asked, looking disappointed. “Those women who live all alone on that dreadful Isle? Father’s not considering a southern lady at all?”

“Why would he?” Arya wondered. “You’ve all married southerners. If it goes much longer, father’s bannerman might come to unfavorable conclusions.”

“This is dreadful talk, you know,” Jon exclaimed. He must have been uncomfortable with the concept of getting married, even if it might be in the distant future. Arya could sympathize, to a point, but she doubted that the King himself would insist that Jon marry someone.

“What about the tourney, Sansa?” Ned asked. “Wasn’t Margaery telling you a little about it?”

Arya spent the days waiting for the tourney spending as much time as she could with her family. She’d gotten leave from her father to ride out to the inn Brienne had been staying in to visit a handful of times. After spending time with Jon and Robb and Bran, and even Sansa, the girl couldn’t help but forgive the woman who’d made it possible. Kira had been thrilled to see her and tell her about all she’d seen, and Arya found herself wishing she could bring the maid back to the palace with her. But there was hardly any room for Arya there, with Catelyn’s disdain. She couldn’t be inviting guests.

Gendry had held her to her promise, unfortunately, and a few days after their first reunion, he’d invited she and Jon to the training yard. She’d wanted desperately to refuse, but couldn’t think of a probable way to do it. A bastard girl couldn’t refuse a royal invitation. But this wasn’t staying away from Gendry in any form. What they were doing may seem fine to the casual onlooker, old, albeit unlikely, friends spending time together after years about. But the court didn't know about the kiss that day on the bank of the Trident.

She’d gone, and lost politely when they’d crossed swords, but she’d begged leave almost immediately. Jon had made excuses for her after she left, something he’d told her later that night. But there was no running from the Prince forever.

Gendry found her one day on her way towards the dark paths underneath the castle. Bran had whispered to her about dragons, and something inside of Arya had filled with wonder. It was like a sort of memory from long ago, like the way she felt when Nymeria burrowed into her side at night. An affinity. A servant had been happy to point her in the right direction, and she’d just found a set of stairs when he grabbed her arm.

Arya gasped, twisting away from her as yet unknown attacker. “Gendry!”

“I didn’t want to let you get lost in the dungeons,” he explained sheepishly, dropping his hand.

“I wouldn’t have gotten lost,” she protested

“Every time we speak it is an argument,” Gendry said, but he didn’t look particularly bothered by his realization.

“Perhaps you should just admit that I’m right, Your Highness.”

“What, that you would not get lost?”

“No. About everything.”

He laughed softly, stepping forward to peer past her down the steps. “What were you searching for, anyway?”

“Dragons.”

“Oh, is that all?” he japed. “Those stairs wouldn’t take you to them, you know."

"I would have found my way there eventually."

"Arya, you are the most stubborn person I've ever met," he said.

She smiled up at him, and his eyes shifted. They darkened, and she recognized that look. It looked like the day she'd... The day everything had changed. A shameful part of her wanted to stay still, let him lean in and touch his lips to her. She'd been hungering for that feelings since he'd given it to her the first time. But she'd seen where this left her, and she had no where else to run to this time.

Stepping back abruptly, Arya cleared her throat. "I think I should return to the Tower of the Hand. I promised my father I wouldn't be long."

She regretted her choice the in next instant, but there was no going back now. 

That was probably a blessing.

Chapter Text

The Red Keep

If that had been the last time she’d seen Gendry, Arya’s heart would have been a roiling mixture of regret and relief, but it wasn’t. It was as if he’d suddenly decided that all he wanted to do, amidst the preparations and chaos of his impending engagement, was spend time with her. He covered it up- rather shoddily, by inviting Jon along. Jon didn’t seem very comfortable with the state of things, and spent most of his time rejecting the requests. So any official meetings or time spent together was thwarted

But Arya was ashamed to admit that she stopped avoiding the prince soon after Jon started to. She wasn't interested in official meetings. She walked the halls of the castle, her promise to avoid its inhabitants completely forgotten. Gendry found her in the doorway to the library only a week from the tourney, and his hand landed on her arm without a thought. She tugged him into the darkness of the room and towards a cranny holding ancient looking scrolls.

The kiss she’d avoided last time had only heightened the sensations of this one. Gendry’s mouth was soft and hard, both at the same time, lips pressing urgently at her own, and his hands were everywhere. Admittedly, her hands strayed from his shoulders as well, but she was half out of her mind.

“We shouldn’t,” she said, jerking her head away from his to stare up at him. “I- I promised I wouldn’t. And your mother…”

“My mother had made enemies of most of the court. and my Uncle Tywin isn’t very happy with her at the moment. My father feels no fear, defying her.”

“Gendry- If it isn’t your mother, it will be the Tyrells.”

“Tell me you want to stop,” he ordered, voice taking on a tone Arya had never heard before. “Say it, and I’ll leave you alone.”

“I…”

After her failure to answer, he didn’t hesitate at all, kissing her with all he had. It left her breathless. When his slick tongue brushed against her, she opened without hesitation. A new feeling pooled in her belly, a warmth and a tingling she found frustrating.

They had to have been locked together like that for at least half of an hour, before Gendry finally drew away from her. She pressed her forehead to his and tried to regulate her breathing.

“I- I should be going. My father wanted to speak to me…”

“Wouldn’t want to keep the king waiting,” she chuckled breathlessly.

He smiled, drawing away to stand straighter and fix his clothing. She did the same, unwrinkling her tunic and re-lacing the ties of her undershirt.

“We shouldn’t do this again,” she said after a moment, wincing when her words were met with silence.

“Arya…”

“We shouldn’t… But I want to,” she admitted.

He grinned, tugging the bottom of his doublet and pulling the fabric tight over his chest. “Good.”

They met every day, in any small, empty, shadowed place they could find. It was curious to Arya, how much time they could spend unfound, when they were in a crowded castle. But she didn’t question it, too busy...too busy spending as much of her time as she could with Gendry. She knew it would have to end eventually. Whether it was because they were discovered or because he needed to do his...duty, to Margaery.

One night, in the godswood, blanket spread underneath them, staring up at the wide, strong branches, Gendry’s hands in her hair, Arya told him about her time on Tarth.

“You know what it is to hold a weapon in your hands and know that you can protect yourself,” she shrugged, as if it was the easiest thing in the world to know. “Before, when I was younger, I yearned for that, I needed to know that I wouldn’t have to depend on men forever.”

“I never really thought about it,” he admitted, staring down at her, lips quirking in a half smile.

“Well of course not.”

“But I think I like the idea. I’d love to know that Myrcella could walk freely, unaccosted, because a man wouldn’t dare to touch her.”

“Would she want that?” she chuckled, imagining the overly polite princess swinging a sword or wielding Needle.

“I’m not sure. But Uncle Jaime told me a story, a little while after you’d gone to Tarth, about my mother…” He paused for a moment, thinking before he spoke. “My Uncle has always been gifted at sword play, and when he was younger, it was hard for him to find a proper sparring partner. All the other boys were either bloody awful- his words- or too afraid to hit the son of their liege lord,

“The only person who know Jaime well enough to really best him in any sort of way was my mother. It- I know it sounds odd, thinking of my mother as anything but what she is now, especially for you, but she wasn’t always like this… Even when I was younger she was a bit, softer. I imagine as a child she was delightful,” he laughed. Arya’s expression turned skeptic, but he held up a hand. “Just try to imagine it.”

She shrugged and gestured for him to go on. “They trained together in secret, and she was quite good back then...that it, until Grandfather Tywin caught wind if it. ‘The old lion was livid’ Uncle Jaime said, took mother’s practice sword away and separated the two of them for months.

“A part of me suspects that mayhaps my mother dislikes you so much because you were born with the ability to make at least some choices. And the choices you don’t have… You’re brave enough to make them anyway.”

She blushed under his scrutiny, but when she tried to lower her eyes, Gendry put a finger under her chin and lifted her face to his. Gendry leaned in a pressed a gentle kiss to the side of her mouth. “You’re the bravest girl I’ve ever known, Arya Snow.”

She cherished every second with Gendry, even as she struggled through the rest of it. Escaping the attention of court was terribly difficult, considering the only thing they bloody well did was gossip. But Arya was good at keeping quiet and tucking herself away, especially in fear of death or the like from Cersei Lannister. Gendry’s words about his mother might make her soften towards the pictures he painted of a trouble and bitter woman, but it didn’t change the dislike she had towards the Queen. And in a castle like the Red Keep, you were still wont to accidentally stumble across those you didn't like.

She’d turned a corner and spotted Tyrion Lannister at the end of the corridor. Not her favorite person, but neither was he to be completely avoided. She didn't mind his courtesy towards her, even if it was half mocking. So Arya had continued on down the hall. But then Queen Cersei, who had been walking with her brother, appeared, and now she was trapped on a course towards the two.

“Arya Snow?” Tyrion exclaimed when he recognized her. She bit back the groan she wanted to let loose, dipping into a deep curtsy before the Queen and the Imp.

“My Lord,” she greeted. “You Grace.”

When she looked up- reluctantly- she spotted the look on the Queen’s face, as if had smelled some bad milk.

“I was so thrilled to hear you’d turned up in the city,” Tyrion said. She didn’t know how true that was, but Arya nodded, smiling down at the lord as a sort of polite thank you.

“Come along, Tyrion, you needed me to see this contraption so badly- now show it to me,” Cersei snapped from her position just beside her younger brother. She was sneering down at Arya.

A barely contained rage rose up in Arya, but there was nothing she could possibly to. Threatening her hurting the Queen was foolish, the actions of someone who wanted a quick, cruel death by beheading.

Tyrion sent Arya a look as if to say ‘Do you see what I must put up with?’ and bowed once in farewell. “I’ll be seeing you, Arya.”

“It would be a pleasure, my lord.”

But that was, thank the Gods, the only time she ran into the Lannisters. It seemed that her mistake had been, if not forgotten or forgiven, at least pushed aside in favor of other matters.

She wished it was her only struggle in King’s Landing, staying away from the powerful and the well-known. But her family was a source of tension as well.

Robb was leaving just after the three-day tourney, and he’d drawn her aside one day to speak on duty and honor, remind her that what she’d done was nothing to be proud of. And she’d understood his motives, understood why he’d done it. But still, it rankled.

Ned Stark always struggled to reprimand his bastard daughter, and his other children knew that. Robb was only assuring himself that Arya would never do something like that again, that they were all safe.

And Lord Stark, there were shadows behind his eyes now. Jon said it was worries about Daenerys Targaryen in Essos, all while swearing to his half-sister that there were no dragons in the world. Apparently the King and his councilors didn't agree with Jon Stark at all. Not if they were addressing the problems in their chambers.

And her father always seemed just on the verge of telling her something extremely important, staring at her sadly, sometimes looking like he’d seen a ghost. The whole thing was unsettling.

But not nearly as unsettling as her sister. Sansa had been unduly kind to her, and Arya tried hard to spend time with her sister, if only as a sort of apology. The problem was that, when Sansa wasn’t at dinner with the Starks, she was with Lady Stark, or Margaery Tyrell. She wasn’t eager to spend time with either of these women.

Still, one afternoon when the castle had grown unbearably hot and Gendry had asked to wait until nightfall to meet, Arya had sought out her sister. All of her brothers had been occupied and Brienne had taken Kira to the Great Sept of Baelor. Apparently her two friends had become friends themselves. She was pleased that Kira didn’t feel abandoned, what with Arya off in the Red Keep.

Arya arrived at Sansa and Edric Dayne’s apartments knowing well that Catelyn was busy cooing over her grandchildren and sewing with Jeyne.

She knocked gently and waited a beat for the door to open. Sansa’s smiling face greeted her, looking flushed with laughter. “Hello?”

“Are you busy? I could come back,” she rushed to say when she realized that her sister probably wasn’t alone. She could hear someone through the door.

Sansa sobered immediately, face clearing of her smile. “You don’t need to leave,” she said after a moment, opening the door wide enough to let Arya past and stepped back.

She stepped through tentatively, the acute feeling of being an intruder making her wish she’d never come around. What was she thinking? Maybe Sansa had been kinder than when they were children, but it wasn’t as if they were true sisters, sharing secrets and friendship.

“You must be Arya!” a voice exclaimed from a small table in the center of the room. The apartments given to the Dayne’s were pleasant, large, and well-appointed. The bed was separated from the rest of the room with large, wooden screens, polished to shining.

The voice was attached to a stunningly beautiful woman with long, golden brown hair and full plump lips. She rivaled even Sansa in looks, although the sort of prettiness was different. Sansa was pure, with pink skin and blushing cheeks. This girl was lightly tanned by the sun, with a look in her eyes that held promises men would never be able to resist. Being in the room with them made Arya feel nine again, all graceless movements and tangled hair.

“You- I’m sorry, I’m not entirely sure who you are?” Arya asked, legs locking in place a few feet from the table while Sansa returned to the chair just beside the stranger.

“That’s a new feeling. I’m so used to everyone recognizing me by now,” the woman laughed. “I’m Margaery Tyrell.”

Arya’s blood ran cold and she hurried into a deep bow to hide the shock on her face as best she could. “I- I’m sorry, my lady. I-”

“You’ve never seen me before. I understand.” Margaery smiled up at her. “It’s wonderful to meet you, by the way. Sansa has about a hundred and a half stories about you.”

“Most of them unflattering, I’m sure,” Arya quipped, trying to calm herself down. She shifted from foot to foot. The feel of Gendry’s hands on her waist flickered through her head, and her lips burned. She wasn’t sure that she was guilty. By all accounts- those accounts that came purely from her envious mind- Margaery Tyrell was a scheming, younger version of Cersei Lannister. But still, being in the same room as the woman she’d helped to shame- at least privately shame- was uncomfortable to say the least.

“You’re sister is fond of you,” Margaery assured her.

“What changed?” Arya asked, turning to Sansa. The red-haired young woman looked pleased that Arya had yet to embarrass her- if only she knew- and she grinned at the two of them readily.

“I think that you’re time away increased my affections towards you. Without you there to put mud in my shoes or mess my favorite gown, it was easy to remember that you’re my only sister, natural-born or else.”

Arya stared at her, surprised. Sansa didn’t sound anything  like she used to. “That doesn’t sound like Sansa Stark speaking.”

“Well, she’s been in Dorne for a year. They’re much more accepting of bastards. Aren’t they, Sansa dear?” Margaery asked. She laid a small hand on Arya’s arm, smiling at her. She saw, suddenly, that this was Sansa’s greatest friend. And she was...what she was doing with Gendry.

The guilt came then, along with the fear. There was no returning to that brief moment of time before that kiss in the library, but-

Could she stop what she’d been doing with the prince? Her heart ached at the thought if it. Ever since she’d been a little girl that she wouldn't marry and fall in love he way Sansa would, but what she felt for Gendry, it seemed as if she loved him. Mayhaps it was, as Sansa said, the distance she’d suffered through for two years that made her feelings for him so intense. But it didn’t change the feeling. Margaery couldn’t love him like she did… Could she?

“Are you excited, my lady, to announce your engagement?” Arya asked. She needed to know, needed to see…

“Oh thrilled! Prince Gendry is a wonderful man,” Margaery gushed, “And so handsome.”

Arya deflated. She did seem rather excited. But then… Was she likely to disparage the heir to the throne in front a low-born stranger?

After Lady Margaery left some time later, claiming to understand when two sisters need time alone, Sansa turned to her, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Why are you acting so oddly, Arya?” she asked cautiously. It looked as if she didn’t truly want to know, was just acting out of duty and curiosity.

Arya offered her a small smile, shaking her head. “I just don’t understand how you are friends,” she lied. It was easy, because it was a truly puzzling thought that had been running through her head for days.

“What do you mean? Isn’t she funny?” Sansa asked, smiling just at the thought of her friend. “What makes you think I wouldn’t?”

“Oh, she’s exactly the sort you’d like, Sansa… I just…” Arya almost didn't want to say it, didn’t want to ruin the truce they’d come to. “She has taken your place.”

“My place?” Sansa asked.

“You place as-”

“I know what you mean, Arya. But Margaery didn’t take that from me,” Sansa interrupted, stiffening in her chair.

Arya swallowed thickly, guessing suddenly where this might go. She was ready for the accusations. And she wouldn’t deny them. It was her fault. Her’s and Gendry’s.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, leaning towards the redheaded girl, reaching out a hand.

Sansa’s head whipped up to look her in the eye, eyes widening and mouth stretching into a surprised grin. “No, I don’t mean you, Arya… What you did… It was just a mistake. You were a girl. We both were.”

“You never did anything like that,” she reasoned, shrugging and looking down at her lap. “You’re a proper high lady.”

“You think me entirely boring and empty-headed, don’t you, Arya Snow?” Sansa asked. She stood, with a little difficulty, wincing at the pain in her back. Arya’s eyes found the areas stretching the material of Sansa’s gown and she studied it.

“Or course not,” Arya replied instantly. But admittedly, she had, for a very long time. It made sense. Even now, all pregnant, Sansa looked perfect, like a painted, mindless doll. But that was a cruel way to see someone.

“Well, you think I’ve never wanted to kiss someone?” she asked. “Of course I have. I’m just better at denying the things I want.”

“But if my kissing him didn’t ruin your chances with Prince Gendry, what did?” she wondered.

Sansa paced a few feet away from the table and then back again before she spoke. Her tone was hesitant, fearful, but determined.

“A few months after we had gotten to King’s Landing, I started speaking to a…man, who lived at court. He was around my age, and handsome. He wasn’t Prince Gendry, but he was of high birth. But I’d heard about his reputation. He was known to be...cruel. Prince Gendry had been kind to me- he felt extremely guilty about us catching you two in the Trident. He was gallant, and for all that we shared no great friendship, I think he preferred me over Margaery.

“This lord, as soon as he realized that I might be Prince Gendry’s bride, became very persistent that I make known any affections I had for him. It was like...like he needed to have whatever the Prince did. It was an obsession.”

“Who?” Arya asked. Sansa silenced her was a look.

“When I refused him, he was upset, but it didn't stop him. After a month of pursuing me, finding me alone in the corridors, following me about the garden, he finally approached me a second time. He…he threatened me. Told me that if I didn’t agree to declare my love for him and ask father to consider a proposal from him, he’d…make sure I was “removed from the running” made unsuitable for a prince.

“He threatened to rape me. Of course I couldn’t say yes, and a Stark does not respond to threat. But he was a lord and I was a lady, and he attacked me. Fortunately, I never went walking alone without Lady as a companion, and she attacked him in turn. It certainly got his attention. She bit him and he went running.”

“Was it…” Arya’s eyes widened in understanding, recalling what Renly had said all that time ago about Lady attacking Prince Joffrey. “He ran to the Queen?”

“Of course. And she was livid. Of course, so was father. But all King Robert did was tell everyone to shut up and then, a few days later, he had Lady put down. he claimed he couldn't have a feral direwolf running around his castle. I was told about my betrothal to Ned a few weeks afterwards.”

“I’m so sorry, Sansa,” Arya told her.

“Why? I love Ned,” she replied truthfully. “He is a good, kind man, and it could have been worst. They could have given Joffrey what he wanted.”

“No they couldn’t have. Father would never have allowed that.”

“Mayhaps,” she shrugged, smiling sadly.

Arya shook her head in confusion. She had no idea just what she’d do without Nymeria, her constant companion for so long.

Perhaps Sansa was stronger than her, in some ways. She would be able to let Gendry go. She certainly wouldn’t be putting either of them in such danger. Arya sighed. She had something to do.

The Tourney day greeted all of King’s Landing with sunshine and clear skies. It was funny that the weather could be so much at odds with how she felt.

She rode down to the pitch with Jon, who had been bullied into riding in the lists by Bran and Rickon. Their brother wasn’t really the sort to right a tilt, but Jon was a competent rider, and he was strong, so Arya supposed he just might do passably well.

He insisted on putting on his own armour, reminding Arya that he was no “pampered southern lordling.”

“I’m sure plenty of pampered southern lordlings put on their own armor,” Arya countered, turning to pour Jon a cup of water. It was lukewarm, having been sat out for a few hours, but she knew he’d need it. It was only going to get hotter as the day went on, and armor was not very forgiving in the heat. He was already sweating.

“Name one.”

“Well, Brienne is no lordling, but she never let me help her with her armor.”

“I think that’s different.”

“How?”

“She’s a woman,” he answered simply.

“So?”

He shrugged instead of replying, turning back to his buckles.

“Sansa and Margaery told me a little of-”

“You…” Jon interrupted, but then paused, as if cautious of what he’d been about to say. After a few moments of silence, finally he continued “When did you speak to Sansa and Margaery Tyrell?”

“Only yesterday. It was...odd.”

He nodded in heartfelt agreement.

“Anyway, as I was about to say; They told me a little of the riders today, but do you know the rest?”

He took a moment to reply, but it was in the affirmative, and soon he was listing off names he thought she’d recognize. “Trystane Martell rides, as does Ned. Loras Tyrell, obviously, and Jaime Lannister, along with the Mountain. Beric Dondarrion, a few Florents a Frey, and the Prince.”

And that was not even considering the mystery knights who would traditionally arrive on the second day of the Tourney.

“And who do you think will win the day?” she asked.

“Besides myself?” Jon asked drily. She nodded, smiling easily. “Loras or Jaime, most likely, though Gendry had improved tremendously.”

“What about the Mountain?”

“The Mountain,” Jon grimaced. “Hope I don’t draw him.”

They were silent for a few moments, and Arya watched Jon finish up with his armor. “You should go, get a good seat and watch the melee,” Jon told her.

She nodded, turning to exit. “Good luck!”

It was as Arya was traveling towards the tiltyard to watch the melee and await Jon’s first ride- she was praying to the Gods that he didn’t pull Gregor Clegane’s name- that she spotted Gendry in his armor. And the sight threatened to stop her in her tracks.

The suit was of a high-quality, not surprising, but it was simple and practical, nothing at all like the beautiful, elaborate armor so frequently seen in tourneys. It wasn’t covered in enamel, or jewels, or fine detailed scroll-work, like what Loras wore. It some ways, it might make him look plainer, but Arya preferred it. She could guess that it was still some of the finest steel in the Seven Kingdoms.

She must have been staring at him for some time, because his eyes suddenly found hers across the way between tents. He grinned, all flirtation in the blink of an eye. Without even realizing what she was doing, Arya approached his tent. Gendry widened the flap to let her step through, following shortly behind her.

“I missed you last night,” he said, mouth close to her ear, breath hot on her neck.

“Gendry…”

“More regrets?” he teased, hands snaking around her hips.

“I met Margaery Tyrell yesterday,” she admitted, sidling away from him, trying to catch her breath.

“What? Why?”

“Well, I didn’t do it on purpose!” she responded defensively. “She was in Sansa’s rooms.”

“And…” he began, gritting his teeth and meeting her eyes for a moment. He flicked his gaze away just a moment later, staring instead at the ground. “And what did you think of her?”

“She’s pleasant, for a courtier. And she’s...witty.”

“Yes, yes she’s always pleasant, and witty. And she’s the most insincere woman I’ve ver met. Including my mother.”

“She’s a proper lady,” Arya countered.

“And she comes with all the proper ambition.”

“She’s from a great house.”

“So are you.”

“Gendry-” Arya took a shuddering breath, “That’s different.”

“How? How is it any different? You’re descended from the Kings of Winter, better than any Tyrell. And your father is more loyal to mine than Mace Tyrell.” He stepped towards her then, taking her face between his hands, staring down at her imploringly. “Besides, Uncle Tyrion told me about the rumours. You could be Ashara Dayne’s daughter, and she was a high-born lady, even greater than Margaery Ty-”

“I’m too bloody lowborn for you, Gendry!” Arya cried, voice turned shrill.

He shut his mouth with an audible clack, and his eyes left hers once more. The Prince’s hands fell away.

“I- I’m not good enough for you. I could never be a queen.”

“Then- Then I would not be a king,” Gendry suggested, voice turning desperate, face reddening with frustration.

“And leave the kingdom to Joffrey? Gendry he’s… He’s your brother but he’s a-”

“Monster.” Gendry nodded reluctantly in agreement, blue eyes sparkling with unshed tears as he realized what this meant.

“What we’ve done is dangerous. For both of us. Your father could lose Tyrell support, and I know no one believes the Targaryens could ever return, but if they did… He needs Tyrell support.”

“And you could lose your head. My mother… I do not think she would be satisfied with you being sent North once more.”

“Gendry, I don’t want to stop, you know. I… I love you… But you’re going to be a good king, and you’ll have fine sons with Margaery Tyrells. Mayhaps they’ll be pleasant courtiers, but I think you could- I think you could make them honest.”

“Arya, you don’t have to-”

“It’s alright. Years ago, I thought you might marry Sansa. This is… much easier to stomach.”

“I’m so sorry,” he mumbled.

Arya shook her head, stepping into the circle of his arms, and looked up into his eyes once more. Gods, they were so blue. “Don’t be. I would never have married you anyway,” she japed.

She smiled and kept on smiling, even as he took her in one last kiss, not anything like their others. This one was gentle, free of desperation or fear. This was a farewell.

Chapter Text

King’s Landing in Turmoil

After that, Arya wasn’t entirely sure what to do with herself. Nothing had ever felt this bad before, nothing had ever felt this much like a hole in her heart. It infuriated her, how bereft she could feel, considering how quickly she’d fallen for that stupid, handsome, prince. Her way back to the stands was slow, meandering, as she tried to get a hold on her feelings. Funny, wasn’t it, that she’d lived longer without Gendry than with him, and still, it felt like a part of her had been torn away.

There was relief there, the knowledge that she wasn’t putting her life at risk each time she met him in the dark, and sorrow. But those were two very apparent things in her mind. It was the underlying feelings, the ones she held close to her, not daring to let them meet the light of day, that troubled her. The rage she felt, the utter indignation. She’d only just realized that...that she loved Gendry Baratheon, Gods damn it. And this life wasn’t fair , the life of a bastard girl. Indeed, the life of any girl was not a fair one.

She missed the melee in her melancholy. Arya found herself oddly upset about it, mayhaps a bit too upset- although didn’t she have reason to be?-, picking up from the smallfolk surrounding the spot she’d nabbed for herself that it had been a close competition, with Yohn Royce managing a victory against nearly four-and-forty other men, wearing his ancient bronze armour proudly.

She watched Jon thoroughly trounce a weasley Frey when it was his time, watched Loras Tyrell win against each opponent put to him, and she watched the crowd bet furiously on each bout and the Tourney at large.

Sansa was up in the stands, near the King’s seat, cheering uproariously for Jon and Edric while Margaery sat beside her, supporting her own brother with a voice rising in volume. They looked so pretty up there, all those lords and ladies, like nothing in the world had ever troubled them, and not for the first time, Arya envied them, hated them, resented all that these highborns had.

And then she had to laugh, because really, hadn’t she been blessed as well? Growing up in a castle with lords and a lady, being taught by the same Maester, eating the same food, living the same life. Compared to the bastards down in Flea Bottom, Arya had the same charmed life as all those over-stuffed lords. She didn't know if that made her feel better or worse.

That night at supper the table chattered happily. Jon had advanced to the second day- he looked absolutely miserable about that- as had Edric, and Sansa was quick to shower praise on them both. Catelyn even looked happy, face flushed and smiling at her children. Arya could hardly bear all the cheer in the room as she quickly shoveled food into her mouth. The archery contest would be just after the crowning of the Queen of Love and Beauty, and Arya was trying to keep up her strength so she might walk away with the purse. Plus, at the moment, she was feeling a nudge reckless, and wouldn't mind making a spectacle.

It was the realization that she was inches from shouting at all of them that rushed Arya to bed, and her dreams were disturbing that night. Images of her own head on a pike on Traitor’s Walk, and Gendry draping a Baratheon cloak about pretty Margaery’s slim shoulders made any true rest impossible, and she woke with the dawn.

Mayhaps ‘twas fate that saw her out in the training yard the same time as him, but Arya suspected it might have been the cruel hand of one of the gods, Old or New.

It wasn’t Gendry- if it had been, she had no idea what she might have done. No, it was the King standing in the morning fog, an odd sight, considering Arya had safely assumed that the man rarely rose before noon. He noticed her immediately, unfortunately, and a small, sad smile spread across chubby cheeks. He didn't look like the drunken, whoring fool she knew he was, just an old man, and Arya felt herself softening towards him, just for a second. It was the only reasons she didn't retreat immediately back to the Tower of the Hand.

“Hello, girl,” he greeted. As he moved closer, she observed the two white knights behind him, watching the King vigilantly, waiting for any threat. She wondered, bitterly, whether they’d stop a threat made by their charge?

“Your Grace,” she fell instantly into a bow, lowering her eyes to the ground and trying to order and collect her thoughts. She’d come out looking to be alone .

“Now don’t you worry, girl. I’ve no intention of harming you,” he assured her. She didn’t know if that was comfort or not.

“Of course not, Your Grace,” she replied, straightening again, but her eyes did not meet his.

“My advisors warn me that I’ve become obsessed with the Targaryens, did you know that?” he asked, but as was the nature, sometimes, of morning talks, the king didn’t want a reply. Arya didn’t give him one. She was taken by surprise by his candidness. Other than his morbid fascination with the similarity between her and her aunt, Arya hadn’t ever gotten the impression that the king liked her. All she’d done to him was create even more trouble between he and his wife. But mayhaps Robert Baratheon was the type to spill his secrets to low-born girls early in the morning.

“Even you father tells me I’m paranoid. But shouldn’t he know better than anyone? He’s too good a man, to not harbor any hatred for them, even after that bloody Dragon Prince stole his sister from us,” Robert swore then, crossing his arms across his broad chest. “He’s too good a man.”

“My father believes in justice, Your Grace, not vengeance,” Arya said cautiously. It was a risk to say the least, but he only sent her a sharp look.

“I’m not giving them anything they don’t deserve, those Targaryens. All of these ambitious houses, and none understand the threat put before them. I will not let one of those silver haired bastards sit my throne.”

And there was nothing to reply, nothing to say to that declaration. In the silence the King strode away to do whatever had woken him so early in the morning

Arya thought on her conversation with the king- if you could have called it a conversation, for truly, she hadn’t done much speaking- for the next few hours as she flew arrow after arrow into the target’s center. She felt entirely confident in her abilities, if a little tired, but she couldn’t help thinking about a silver haired rebel coming and killing Gendry in battle.

Brienne had invited her to sit in the stands as a member of her household, and Arya accepted. She might have been leery, imagining how Lady Catelyn’s face would have pinched at the sight of her, if it weren’t for the nerves she was suffering for entirely different reasons.  The tall woman had a knack for predicting winners, an almost supernatural talent, truth be told. but even after some prodding Arya could not convince Lady Brienne to place any money on the riders.

“Loras will win, and everyone knows it. No need to take such an easy bet,” she said with a shrug.

“There’s no one saying you shouldn't take an easy bet,” Arya argued, but her faithful, honorable teacher could not be persuaded.

The mystery knights appeared early in the day, all of them rather unimpressive looking, but it was a tall one with a leaping frog on his shield that unseated Jon. Her brother didn't seem very upset, turning to the audience with a shrug of his shoulders and accepting his defeat easily. His eyes met her’s in the stands and Arya couldn’t help but send him a  teasing smile. Her older brother was too much like their father to care about winning a tourney.

Later into the second day of the lists, Edric and Loras rode against each other, but the entire crowd knew who’d come away from the match. Arya turned from the two men on their horses to watch Sansa instead, who was holding a hand to her stomach and wincing in a fond way, for her husband. Margaery was cheering wildly, once again, without a care for who her brother faced. But perhaps Arya was being cruel in her assessment. Perhaps Margaery just wanted her brother to win. It didn’t make her some great villain.

The Florent riders and most of the Mystery Knights were gone by late afternoon and Trystane Martell lost to Lord Beric, who was unhorsed by Jaime Lannister, who was unhorsed by Loras. The last match caused quite a commotion in the stands. That left only Gendry, Loras, and the Mountain.

“Arya,” Lady Brienne leaned towards her to speak over the crowd. “Loras had drawn the Mountain’s name,” she said, sounding concerned. And truly, it did sound quite unlucky. Each opponent that the Mountain had faced had been flung from their horse, and while Arya had to admit that Loras was almost as good a rider as she herself was, the large Clegane had no match in brute strength.

The crowd fell silent as the two trotted out into the field, Loras with his prancing mare, Gregor Clegane with his greathorse. The bets stopped as the match begun, and Margaery Tyrell’s cheers cease. Both men took position, readying themselves for the call. When it came, the horses burst into motion. But something was a bit off with Clegane’s hulking stallion. It reared and sidles, never coming to a full gallop. The stands erupted in confusion just as the Mountain was displaced from his mount, not by a lucky strike of the lance from Ser Loras, but by the horse itself. The stallion had gone mad and threw his rider in an attempt to catch the mare.

As the Mountain climbed to his feet, Arya and Brienne glanced nervously at each other. No telling what might happen. That didn’t mean she was surprised by Clegane’s roar. He wasn’t exactly a man known for restraint. He lifted his sword above his head and cleaved the horse’s head clean off. Arya felt herself becoming sick at the unnecessary cruelty. But that was not the only head he wanted apparently. The mountain attacked Ser Loras, still mounted, with his greatsword, bellowing about underhanded tricks.

“Be still, Clegane!” King Robert yelled over the crowd’s worried murmuring. His roar cut through, and the big man, though seemingly reluctant, did stop his attack before it could truly begin. With a sharp cry, the large man stalked off the field. Afterwards, the match was given to Loras, obviously, which meant that the Knight of Flowers would be riding against the crown prince.

It seemed quite like the match people would be writing songs about.

But first, of course, Gendry had to defeat the very last mystery knight. He bore a shield painted with a simple ring of gold, and his armor was mismatch. But Arya recognized that the pieces were well cared for. The knight was slender and not overly tall. Could have been anyone, though. Still, the crowd whispered excitedly about who it might be.

That was, everyone except for Arya, who was much too busy watching Gendry come onto the field. She’d watched every single time Gendry had ridden against another, and each time he had one. She had no doubt he’d win once more. Watching the horses thunder towards each other, though, was still nerve-wracking. But Gendry disappointed no one, using his blunted tourney lance to lever the mystery knight from the saddle. The man hung in the air for a split second before crashing to the ground with a clutter of armor jostling against itself. The stands erupted in applause.

And after that, it was only a matter of rushing the mystery knight off the field to nurse wounds both to his pride and his body.

“He’s greatly improved,” Brienne said conversationally. “Renly told me a few years ago he could barely sit a horse.”

“He was awful,” she remembered, but then. realizing who they were talking about, Arya quickly quieted down.

“The archery contest ends the day,” Brienne remarked, stiffly.

“Yes.”

“You’ve entered?”

Arya nodded. After the night she’d had...the day she’d had, Arya would appreciate the physical exertion.

The pitiful, strained conversation stopped suddenly when they heard the king bellow. Both women turned and looked at once. Robert was standing, face flushed with anger, as Lord Baelish whispered something in his ear. Suddenly, without a word, Robert was gone, his Small Council summoned away as well.

If Arya didn’t know any better she’d say Queen Cersei looked shaken by whatever she’d heard. Standing, the Queen called attention to herself. “The Tourney will not continue today. I am afraid the prince has been called away.”

It could have ended at that, but fear settled quickly over the crowd as the queen was hurried out of the stands by her guards, and chaos followed the fear quickly. After weeks of overcrowding in anticipation of the Tourney, and then the excitement of the Tourney itself, the crowd was like spooked horse. And it didn’t take any more prodding for them to stampede. The chaos that followed was frightening. Smallfolk rushed to return to their relatively safe homes and the lords and ladies all scuttled towards the Red Keep.

Arya and Brienne tried to stick together but were parted by the rush and crash of bodies. Arya tried, for a time to return to the large woman size, but Brienne called out to her over the noises of the crowd, “Get to the Keep. I’ll be fine.”  

She ceased her struggle towards her, then, in favor of following the crowd towards the castle. It struck her, as she watched the others around her, that everyone looked the same now. The highborns looked just as desperate for safety as the commoners. there was no distinction and rank in the riotous crowd.

“Arya!” Jon called out just as he reached her side.

“Jon,” she responded, wrapping around him in a fierce hug. “What happened? What startled the Queen so?”

“I don’t know. Father’s gone with the King. Robb was able to get Jeyne and the children to safety before the panic started.”

“Well this is all on the Queen’s head, dismissing them all like this.”

Jon nodded, looking disgruntled.

‘Should we-”

“We need to get to the Keep and find Robb.”

“What about Sansa?”

“I saw her with Margaery Tyrell, I think.”

With her worries assauged for the moment, Arya let her brother muscles them through the streets of King’s Landing amongst the panicked crowds.

‘What could have made the King abandon the Tourney?” Jon asked after a time. Both of them were straining, the distance of the Keep worsened by the press of bodies and their lack of horses.

Arya shrugged, searching her mind for anything. It made her gasp, the sudden realization.

“He- the King...he was worried about Targaryens this morning. He was awake at dawn, when I went out to the training yard. He was talking about Targaryens .” She already knew that Jon wouldn’t think much of Robert’s worries, but still, Arya felt the sharp tug of pain in her belly at the thought.

“Arya,” he huffed, pulling her away from the flailing arms of a plump old woman dressed in rags. “He’s been worried about them for years.”

‘Well, we’ll find out eventually, then.” Arya replied. They slid between the spaces between two shacks and were met, finally, with the sight of the Red Keep. It was a short run before they finally reached the Heavy metal gates. A crowd of guards were slowly but surely allowing entrance to the highborn members of the crowd. Jon showed them towards the front, shoulders squaring as he approached, Arya recognized his bearing. He was acting his part as a young lord.

“I’m Lord Jon Stark of Winterfell. Let me pass.:

The guards barely even blinked at the request, rushing to let them through, into the entrance yard.

With their entrance secured, Arya and Jon glanced briefly at each other before once again breaking into a run.

When they reached the Stark guards standing at attention before the doors of the Tower of the Hand, they scrambled to a stop. Arya was breathing heavily, as was Jon, and the guards watching them with concern, Fat Tom stepping forwards to steady her as she tried to catch her breath.

“Did Robb return safe? Is everyone alright?” Jon asked.

“Yes, my lord. Jory escorted Lord Robert and Lady Jeyne in just a little while ago. The children as well”

“Was my father with them? Was Sansa?”

“Just your mother, my lord,” Fat Tom said.

Jon sighed, gesturing Arya through the door into the tower. “We need to talk to Robb.”

And there was no delays in that, as Robb burst into the corridor as soon as he, presumably, heard them enter.

“Good. We were worried you’d been caught up in the chaos.”

“Robb, what’s happened?” Jon asked without pause.

“I’m sure you don’t want to hear it, but I don’t know. Mother doesn’t either, and she’s out of her mind with worry.”

She wasn’t the only one. When they entered the sitting room, Jeyne was trying to calm the children down. But Branda was crying inconsolably and Rickard looked close to tears himself. Bran sat silently on the couch looking deep in thought and Arya moved instantly to join him there, leaning her shoulder against his in silent comfort.

“Do you think we’re in danger here in the south?” Bran asked. “I have...a bad feeling about this all.”

“We all do, little brother,” she replied simply. But the truth was that she had no reply. She felt the same way. The only people who knew a thing about what had worried the King and Queen were behind the doors of the small council chamber.

The Stark family waited for Ned into the small hours of the dawn, moving only when Jeyne and Lady Stark decided the children should be abed. Arya winced when they ushered Bran off as well, ready to defend his place with the men and women grown, but decided against it when she saw the exhaustion plain on his face. Let him have a few more nights being a child. If her fears were ever realized, Arya knew that he’d need to grow up very fast.

Still, Ned didn’t return to the tower until golden light started leaking in through the windows. His lined face looked haggard and there was a curl to his shoulders he hadn’t had during the Tourney. Lady Stark rushed to his side, concerned hands grasping at his arms, even as his sons asked for news.

“What’s happened father?” Robb asked, voice low. Jon stared intently, waiting for the answer. They all did, truly.

“The worst. Lord Varys and Lord Baelish delivered word of foreign ships at our shores. They say Dothraki screamers have landed all along the coast, and Dragonstone is under attack.”

“Dragonstone?” Robb asked.

“Aye. And the ships.... They bear Targaryen standards. They’re announcing their return and their intent.”

“How have they brought Dothraki across the sea?” Jon asked. “And how can we be sure they truly are Targaryens?”

“We don’t know. But… the Martell’s fled in the night. They’re gone. All of them. All the Dornish in fact.”

“Sansa?” Catelyn gasped, face paling at the very idea that her daughter had turned traitor of the throne.

“We don’t know anything, not yet. But Robert is calling aid to him. He is...well, he’s furious, and righteous. The King is satisfied to be proven right, even as his blood boils.”

"We're at war."

Chapter Text

At War

If Ned Stark’s children had learned one thing, it was a strict sense of honor, and Catelyn Stark had always impressed the importance of duty on them. So, whatever anyone might say about Sansa Stark, they could never say she wasn’t an honorable lady. Even as she fled King’s Landing in the night with her husband, Sansa did her duty by him. But that wouldn't stop her own personal disapproval.

“Ned, if we return to Starfall, we become traitors to the Iron Throne. We should not stand opposed to King Robert.”

“I owe my loyalty to the Martells. And Dorne has all but declared for the Targaryens.” Ned replied, his face a stony mask.

Sansa’s husband was a good man, one not prone to rages, but she knew that he could be incredibly stubborn when he wanted to be. There’s be no budging him in this. But that wouldn’t stop her from trying.

“You also owe your loyalty to the North. Your wife is a Star,k of Winterfell! You can’t expect win, Ned. Robert and my father won the crown as simple rebels- child rebels, at that. They’re not children anymore, and they have the whole might of the Iron Throne behind them.”

“There are things you couldn’t understand, my Northern Lady. Up in snowy Winterfell they know that King Robert is just and good, that the Targaryens were depraved monsters…”

Sansa stared at him, astonished, frightened by the implication of his words, that this wasn’t the truth.

“In Dorne, we remember. We remember that the Targaryens were not always bad, that Rhaegar Targaryen loved Elia Martell and that he gave her two children- children that the Lannisters killed. And Robert ordered that.”

Sansa flinched, realizing suddenly- how could she have not known- that Dorne chafed under Baratheon rule, harboring rebellion in its very heart. She hadn’t known that they awaited a Targaryen to take back the Throne. Maybe this was worse than she’d expected. Maybe her family was in more danger than she’d first assumed. Perhaps she was the safest Stark in Westeros.

Arya had always dreamed of proving herself in war. She’d lost count of the daydreams she’d had about winning her knighthood on the field of battle. She’d never imagined that war could be like this .

Once the King had announced his call to arms, things had happened fast. Jon and Robb had been sent North to gather their banners, and their father had ordered Jon to offer a marriage to the Mormont women. It had come as a shock to Jon, and Arya as well, but apparently Ned had decided that, after marrying his eldest children off to southerners, he must assure their loyal northerners they’d not been forgotten about. While father had always said there must always be a stark in Winterfell, King Robert had not felt to the need to bend to this particular superstition, so with the eldest Stark brother’s arrival back in the North, their ancient keep saw the first Stark face in a whole three months.

Arya had to think that this war was, in part, caused by the absences of a Stark in Winterfell, no matter how small this seemed in the grand scale of war, she knew that direwolves were not meant to live in the South.

Jeyne and the children stayed in King’s Landing. The journey North wasn’t safe for them, and when Catelyn traveled to the Riverlands to secure the Tully’s influence over the riverlords- particularly the Frey’s- Rickon and Bran were left behind as well.

But while Arya did feel sympathy for Bran, thinking it a shame that father felt he needed shielding, Arya couldn’t but be happy that they were safe. That is, for a time. But everything changed when Brienne told her that she’d be returning to Tarth.

“I need to return to the defend the smallfolk. I should have gone weeks ago, but Renly held me here,” she explained. Arya assumed it was her way of requesting her return. But Brienne killed that hope almost as soon as it sprouted. “Your father made it clear that you’re to stay here. I agree. Tarth will be dangerous, and you’re not ready.”

Arya rankled at this. “I am ready. You made me ready. I trained for years. And I’m a stupid simpering little girl, to be afraid of the sight of battle.”

“You think little girls are the only ones afraid of battle, Arya? That shows me that you’re not ready. But even if you were ready, it’s not my choice. Your father wants you safe.”

But Brienne would get no reply. Arya left the Maid of Tarth standing in the courtyard beside her horse and didn’t bother to see her off to the sea the next morning. The only bright spot in the entire situation was that Kira stayed in the relative safety of the Red Keep, taking in a position as a maid in service to the Starks. But Arya didn’t truly speak to her either.

She was wretched company, in fact. And she realized that she was being irrational and childish, further proving that she wasn’t ready to fight, but to know that her father thought her inept and ill prepared was infuriating.

He still saw her as the silly little girl she was before she ran away, covered in mud and playing at swords with her brothers in Winterfell. Even Brienne didn’t support her.

She  was required to spend  most of her time in her chambers, as being anywhere else only put her into a foul mood. She took to playing with Nymeria and railing against everyone when Kira would listen. The maid understood her plight, blessedly well in fact. The girl had dreamed of going off and discovering the world. As a simple maid, that hadn’t been very likely. The difference was that Brienne had given Kira her opportunity while she’d taken Arya’s away.

Ned wouldn’t even allow her to venture into the city. And all of the newfound concern for her confused Arya. Growing up as her father’s bastard, she’d been accustomed to a certain freedom that his legitimate children had not gotten. To have it taken away from her because he feared she’d run off again- this time to join in the war effort- felt like a betrayal.

In fact. Her father had successfully kept her shielded from anything concerning the war. All she’d had a chance to learn was that a leader claiming to be Aegon Targaryen had threatened to call Daenerys Targaryen with their three dragons onto the battlefield if Robert the Usurper did not surrender. King's Landing waited with bated breath, searching the skies for signs of dark shapes, but when there was no dragons, there was no surrender.

It wasn’t until Ned came to her chambers that Arya heard anything of real worth. She gave a thought to ignoring his knock, but she needed to hear the news he might bring. She opened the door, sure she looked quite surly.

“Dorne has finally declared for this false Aegon Targaryen,” he said by way of greeting. He looked haggard as he sunk onto her bed. Arya took the place beside him, but she kept a certain distance between them. “There’s no word from Sansa, but Starfall stands with Dorne.”

Arya bowed her head. Their family was flung far across the kingdoms, and none of them were truly safe, but Sansa’s situation was most precarious. King Robert hadn’t made it clear whether she would be punished once the war was won, but that might be because he didn’t want to alienate the north.

“And Jon?” Arya asked. She hoped to get as much information out of her father as possible.

“He’s taken Jorelle Mormont as a wife. He’ll stay in Winterfell while Robb marches south with our troops. It’s helped to consolidate the North, but Roose Bolton has caused no small amount of trouble. He wants to take advantage of Robb coming south. Jon will put a stop to it.”

“How are the Stormlords faring? Has the Reach made their intentions clear?

“The Stormlords are barely holding their own against the Dothraki,” Ned replied. “Arya, you must understand...this is a very dangerous time for us. For you.”

She shook her head. “You’ve said that before. Father, what aren’t you telling me?”

Ned stood, a sigh rushing out of him as he turned away from her. “I know that I have kept you in the dark, that I’m keeping things from you, but Arya, this is the only way I can keep you safe.”

“I don’t need to be kept safe. I’ve never needed that. I need to be allowed to prove that I can protect myself, father.”

“Arya…” Ned trailed off. The way he said her name, it was the same way he’d said it a million times before. He was exasperated, trying to be stern, all while hiding that smile he got whenever she got brash, like she reminded him of someone.

“Who...who do you see when you look at me?” she asked, voice small. But she would not shy away from this. She needed to know if she was her mother, in any way. She’d grown up being told she was a Stark through and through, but Arya knew there were different parts of her. Stark blood didn’t burn as hot as hers did. You need only look to her father and Jon to see that. “Is that why you’re shutting me away from the war?”

“I see Arya. But...I also see Lyanna.”

She sat up a little straighter, eyes widening. Her father had never dwelled very long on his dead loved ones. He never spoke of his brother, his sister, and his father, lost in the Rebellion, or his mother, lost only a few years before that. “Do I truly look like her?”

“You’re a perfect image. And you act so much like her. You’re as fierce as her. But you’re also as foolish as Lya was, Arya. War is not a chance to prove yourself. It’s not a challenge. War is a terrible, terrible waste. The most we can hope is that whoever it is, claiming to be Aegon Targaryen dies quickly, before anyone needs to be hurt.”

“Father, it’s been months, and we’ve lost a good deal of men… People have already been hurt.”

He nodded, and Arya wished, not for the first time, that she could smooth the lines in his face for him, that she could carry his worries. If she hadn’t heard him speak his dear sister’s name, if she hadn’t seen how tired he was, Arya might have finally worked herself up and ran off to war… But now she found herself ready to sit and wait, to spare her father any more pain. For a while, anyway,

The war was not as easily won as the King liked to believe. Gendry hadn’t realized just how much trouble they were in until his father had finally agreed to send him to the front. His arrival happened to fall in line with that of the Northern troops. He led his own force of Lannister soldiers- a small force to be followed by Tywin Lannister and the bulk of his men- while Robb Stark rode before a fierce group of men swathed in furs.

“Bit warm for those, isn’t it?” Gendry called out amicably.

“Not where we’ve ridden from,” Robb responded in kind. “I don’t envy Jon up there in Winterfell, hunkered down with his new wife.”

“And why’s that? Are Mormont women particularly unpleasant?”

“I’d not say that. Jorelle is pretty enough. But she reminds me too much of Arya. Wild as a wolf, and twice as disagreeable.” Gendry laughed along with the eldest Stark, but there was no mirth behind it. As quickly as his good mood had come, it was gone again with thoughts of Arya. He’d never found her disagreeable.

“Dragon!” a man screamed from a distance away from the two men. They ducked immediately, as did the whole camp, as a sounds of fear rose up from the men. There was chaos among them as they all searched the sky. A dark spot winged itself across the horizon before Gendry’s eyes.

“It’s a bloody dragon!” Robb exclaimed, mirroring Gendry’s own thoughts. “Seven Hells. A real dragon.”

The Prince turned to one of his men. “Fetch me a raven. My father needs to hear about this.”

Dragons. Word had reached them a few days ago, but the Red Keep was still shaken.

They’d all just assumed that this supposed Aegon Targaryen was lying about having dragons. But word from the front spoke of huge winged beasts approaching their forces, closer each day. They’d seen at least three. One would have been terrifying enough. But three.

Arya had thought that court had been empty before, but the halls were practically deserted now. The only houses with any true presence were The Tyrells, the Baratheons, the Starks, and the Lannisters. Everyone else had retreated back to their own lands.

Arya’s eyes were open as she walked the halls, watching everything. It was easier than sitting in her room and sulking, gathering all the information she could just by paying attention .

For instance, she’d watched an overly paranoid Queen Cersei trying to convince her husband that Prince Gendry was not safe going to battle. She’d overheard a conversation between Olenna Tyrell and Margaery about staying away from pretty girls and learning to please her husband. Arya hadn’t truly understood that, but the idea of her laying a hand on Gendry made her fists clench. Arya had even run into the infamous Spider.

The silk-draped and perfumed Varys has been floating down the corridor, in his way, when Arya had happened upon him.

“Aw, hello!” he greeted her, pausing on his way to wherever it was that Varys spent his time.

“Hello,” she replied. She was unsure if she should curtsy, if he outranked her, but Arya was Arya so she left the notion alone, sticking to a simple nod.

“How are you enjoying your time here?” he asked, smiling prettily at her.

Arya’s brow wrinkled with confusion, but she tried not to dwell on his words. Varys spent every minute of his day playing odd games with people. She would not overthink herself. “Just fine.”

“I was truly surprised when you did not return to Tarth with Lady Brienne. I was under the impression that you’d taken up the position of her squire.”

Arya frowned. “I did. But Lady Brienne didn’t think I was ready for real battle. My father agreed.”

“Your father...he takes quite an interest in you, my dear. It’s odd, considering.”

“Considering he’s a lord and they’re not known for taking responsibility for their actions?” she prompted.

Varys gave her a small, amused smile in reply, before choosing his next words. “He had no responsibility to take you in. It’s within his rights to turn you away, even now. No. it’s odd because of you’re mysterious origins.”

“What do you mean?”

“We were several years into a rebellion when you came along, my dear. No one is sure who your mother is, and Ned Stark isn’t very forthcoming. Interesting that he’d become so protective during another such rebellion.”

“Speak plainly,” she snapped. “You think you know who my mother is? Is it Ashara Dayne?”

“I never said that. I think I know who your father is. More than anyone else.”

“Varys!” Lord Baelish strode towards them before Arya could press the Spider for more information. She huffed and shot Little Finger a scathing look before rushing on towards the Tower of the Hand.

“What have I done to that girl?” Baelish exclaimed, but Arya had gotten too far away for her to hear any reply Varys might have given.

“You’ve never mentioned your mother,” Arya said. She stared up at the stones of her ceiling. Kira lay next to her, and she felt her head turn towards her before the maid spoke.

“No, I haven’t, have I?”

“I don’t mean to pry, Kira.”

“I know, Arya,” Kira sighed. “No offense, but you’re quite oblivious, you know. You’re kind- sometimes too kind- but I don’t think you spend much time thinking about how others feel.”

“I was just-”

“I know... My mother died when I was a child. I don’t remember much about her. Only what my father told me.”

Arya turned to look at her friend, eyes wide. She’d always known they were kindred souls, but the feeling of having to wonder what a mother could possibly feel like… That was a feeling Arya always carried. It was familiar, and Arya was sorry she’d dredged that feeling up for her friend. “Do you know what she looked like? Did she look like you?”

Kira smiled. “You mean do I look like her? Yes. Papa says I’m her spitting image.”

Arya nodded. “I don’t look like my mother. I’m a Stark, through and through.”

“Would you want to look like a stranger?”

She’d asked herself that question before. When she’d been quite young, one Sansa's tittering friends had said she looked like a horse, and Arya had found herself wishing she could look like Ashara Dayne, because she was sure no one have ever called such a great beauty horse-faced. And when she grew older, she wished for just a clue to her mother’s identity.

But now…”I’m happy to look like a Stark. I love my brother Jon, and sometimes I can just pretend we’re true siblings.”

“You are true siblings. That’s what I don’t understand about you highborns- don’t interrupt, Arya, because you’re a highborn too, everywhere it counts- you care too much about how a child was born, you don’t stop to realize that a child was born. My grandmother used to say that every child was a gift from the Mother, that we should be grateful, no matter the circumstances of their birth.”

“Kira, sometimes I’m struck with how incredibly clever and kind you are,” Arya breathed, laying her head against her friend's shoulder.

“Well pay attention, because you should always be struck by how incredibly clever and kind I am.”

Arya’s laughter burst out before she could stop herself, and soon the two were laughing hysterically, both of them realizing that the joke was not nearly as funny as the laughter itself. The hysteria was interrupted, however, by the sound of shouts coming from the floors below them. They sat up in bed, laughter dying instantaneously.

“What’s happening?” Kira questioned, face clouding over with worry.

“Nymeria!” Arya called out sharply. The large furry shape that was Arya’s direwolf suddenly appeared beside the bed, staring at her master attentively. “Come on.”

“Arya!” Kira called after her, but she was already out the door, Nymeria close on her heels.

She made her way down the steps two at a time, not even considering she might not be welcome to the commotion downstairs.

The commotion downstairs appeared to be an impromptu Small Council meeting. She stood stock still as five pairs of eyes landed on her. Along with her father and the King, Arya counted Little Finger, Varys- the pair were an unwelcome sight after the event of that afternoon- and Renly.

“Arya-” Ned began, but the King’s eyes lit up at the sight of her.

“Maybe this girl will give me the answer I want, Ned. Her vote can count for yours,” Robert barked. She paled, regretting coming down the stairs more than anything. “Come along, come closer, girl.”

Girl , he called her, like she didn’t have a name. But she came forward nevertheless. She took a place just behind her father. He sent her a warning look, and she wondered what she was getting herself into.

“Dragons. Fucking dragons.” King Robert shook his head. “And your father wants to send a diplomat to talk to these silver-haired bastards.”

“And my brother wants to risk his soldiers attacking fire-breath monsters!” Renly announced. The man looked exhausted, as well as completely disinterested in this obviously heated debate that had just recently been taking place at the small round table.

“No man can hope to defeat a dragon. We must reach an agreement. Something. That or we need to devise a strategy to defeat them. We cannot continue as we have.”

“Is it bad?” Arya asked, voice low. “Is... Robb safe? She asked. But that wasn’t the only warrior she wanted to ask after. Prince Gendry was out there, fighting dragons as well. Her heart jumped at the thought of word coming back that he was hurt, or worse… Or worse.

“No one is safe. Not now,” Little Finger said ominously. “But if we had a way to kill these dragons.”

“And what do you suggest. If our men aren’t being harried by those damn savages, they're being attacked from above!”

“I agree with Lord Stark, Your Grace. We need a...subtler approach if we are to succeed here. I think a diplomatic envoy would be beneficial, as long as a few well placed agents went along with them.”

“What are you suggested, Varys?” Ned asked gruffly.

“Perhaps an assassin's blade will find the heart of Aegon Targaryen , my lord.”

“An underhanded trick,” Renly scoffed, but he didn’t look entirely opposed to the plan.

King Robert looked unimpressed, but he raised no objection. Her father did, though. “Your Grace…” He began, but Robert shot him a look.

“We won’t have a repeat of what happened between us before, Ned. Varys will make the arrangements. I won’t let the bastard carry on tearing apart my kingdom. And once we’re done with him, we’ll properly punish the damned Dornish traitors.”

Arya’s breath came quick as she watched these plans being made. King Robert made the decision to murder men without a thought. He dismissed his hand and underestimated dragons, for Stranger’s sake. Was he so foolish as to think ending the war was as simple as thrusting a knife at a rebel in the dark? Arya knew it wasn't. 

Chapter Text

When Dragons Attack and Tragedy Strikes: An Interlude

“A diplomatic envoy?” Cersei said through gritted teeth. Margaery placed her hands in her lap, settling back in her chair in preparation for her future Good-Mother’s tantrum. The girl had learned early on that the Queen was a truly temperamental woman, more likely to shout and scream about something she did not want than to work for what she wanted. Margaery knew the value of kind words, but she wasn’t about to interrupt the Queen to tell her that.

Unfortunately, since the war had descended on King’s Landing- and indeed, on the Seven Kingdoms as a whole- Margaery had been expected to spend even more time with Cersei that she’d had to before. Her grandmother had wanted her to keep an eye on the woman from the time she’d appeared at court, but that was different than the way the court ladies were expected to huddle together, for safety or perhaps to keep them out of the way of the men, with their important, important duties.

“The King is incredibly wise to think of it,” she said mildly. “It could save countless lives.”

“It’s cowardly. My father could crush those savages. Every day that Robert twiddles his thumbs and hesitates, my son is in danger. He risks your future, as well,” Cersei pointed out, voice bitingly cold. “I know how ambitious you Tyrells are. Wouldn’t want to pass up being queen, would you?”

Margaery simply smiled, not bothering to respond to the woman. Cersei was simply lashing out, saying foolish things that Margaery would never voice in a thousand years. But no one would ever call Cersei subtle.

Still, Margaery couldn’t help but worry. Cersei was right. Every day that Gendry was out in the field put his life in danger. She was fond of him, truly. Part of the attraction was his position, but Margaery also thought he was rather clever, and handsome. There was his odd fascination with Sansa’s bastard sister, but the Prince was much too honorable to act on any attractions. Margaery was sure that she’d set him straight on their wedding night. No one could resist her when she put her mind- and her body- to the task of winning them over.

“I fear for Gendry’s life for the same reason as you, Your Grace. Tremendous affection for him.”

“I’m sure,” Cersei replied shortly. Suddenly she turned to the maid hovering at the edge of the room. “More wine.”

Margaery had to fight not to roll her eyes at the older woman.

“Do you fear for Sansa Stark?” Cersei asked. “Weren’t the two of you rather close?”

She was cautious with her next few words, unsure what the Queen could be fishing for. She knew the question wasn’t simply the Queen asking after her feelings. Maybe she was trying to catch her sympathizing with traitors.

“Sansa Dayne has made her decision. She remained loyal to her husband. As I will remain loyal to my betrothed and his family. To the Iron Throne.”

“How patriotic.”

She let out a small breath, sure she’d passed the hardest test the Queen would throw at her during their short midday meal. But then Cersei began again.

“Your family are filthy opportunists. You may think you’ve fooled us, but I will not let you hurt my children. Charm my husband and my son all you’d like, but I will watch you.”

“Your Grace...I- I just remembered that my grandmother asked me to attend her today. I’m sorry to leave on this note, but I would request your leave?” Margaery asked, barely keeping her voice from shaking. The Queen had just threatened her, openly. And while Margaery would like to believe her position rather stable, she knew that there were no guarantees. It was much safer to avoid Cersei Lannister from then on. Or at least for the rest of the day.

The Queen waved her away, smirking, and Margaery left the room quickly, back ramrod straight. It was only when she’d made it several lengths down the corridor that she allowed herself to let out a heavy, frightened breath. Her grandmother needed to hear about this, soon.

Arya was taking the shortcut through the royal wing to the kitchen in search of something sweet when she saw Margaery Tyrell leaning rather heavily against the smooth stones of the wall. She could see no way to avoid the ladY, so she took the initiative.

“My lady?” she said, announcing her presence along with posing a subtle question- what are you doing? it said.

Margaery looked up quickly, face smoothing. Arya hadn't exactly caught the previous expression, and she cursed her inattention.

Still, she admired the girl's ability to hide her emotions. She knew she had no such ability. In fact, Kira had remarked earlier that day that Arya looked rather scared, and when she’d tried to rid her face of the expression, the other girl said that now she just looked like she was in pain.

“Hello, Arya. How are you?” she asked politely.

“Fine, my lady. And you?”

“Absolutely fantastic,” she answered easily, but there was a knowing look passed between the two of them. Both of them recognized that it wasn’t true. “Though, I have just come from a meal with Queen Cersei. That was...not as fantastic.”

Arya couldn’t help the smile on her face, but the other girl shared her amusement. Treason was not so worrisome when it was shared.

“I’m sorry to hear that, My lady,” she replied.

“Yes. Well, I really must speak to my grandmother. I’ll leave you to get on your way,” 

Arya nodded and Margaery swept off. She stared after her for a moment, but soon she was reminded of her grumbling stomach. She resumed her walk to the kitchens, and, fortunately enough, met no one else.

The cook reluctantly handed over a particularly stale berry tart when Arya asked, but he was quick to turn her away when she asked for something to share with her direwolf.

“I cook for the King of the Seven Kingdoms, not your bloody hound, girl,” he hissed.

Arya scrunched up her nose at him. “She’s not a hound, She’s a direwolf!”

“Aye. You damn Northerners and your wild beasts. The maids won’t shut up about those damn dragons attacking the countryside, but they ignore your giant beasts roaming the grounds.”

With a huff and a roll of her eyes, Arya left the kitchen as abruptly as she’d come in. The cook was just a bitter old man. She doubted anyone else cared half as much as he did. Nymeria wasn’t dangerous, not like a dragon. She was a good girl.

 War was hard enough for the men who fought in it. But the people who suffered in silence were the smallfolk. It was their homes that were being ravaged by dragon fire, their livelihoods being ruined by the merciless looting of the Dothraki.

Gendry detested seeing his people's suffering, but, since the arrival of the bulk of the Lannister forces, since his grandfather’s arrival, he hadn’t been able to protect them as much as he would have liked.

Tywin had always been Gendry’s least favorite Lannister- Uncle Tyrion was his favorite, Uncle Jaime his second favorite, and his mother third, followed by Uncle Kevan and those lot- but there was a mutual respect between the two of them. Gendry recognized his grandfather’s wisdom, and Tywin acknowledged that Gendry wasn’t as much of an idiot as his father or Joffrey. Still, the old man wasn’t exactly kind. He spared no thought to the farms he razed, only thinking of ridding the Targaryen men of resources.

Gendry had never seen such carnage. He’d never realized just how sheltered his childhood had been, because war was frightening. He was not too proud to admit that. He imagined himself telling Arya that he was afraid of battle, watching her stare at him like he was mad, even while she wished she could take his place. She was filled with bravery. He needed that dearly now.

Robert had sent word of a diplomatic envoy to Tywin. The old man had been confused at first. There was nothing diplomatic about King Robert, but after a few moments of heated discussion with his war council, Tywin came to the understanding that it must be a plot that couldn’t be explained by raven.

“I’m sure that eunuch whispered this plan into your father’s ear, boy. He’s not smart enough to think of it himself.”

“Do you think it's smart, grandfather. Could killing their leader truly win us the war? What if he has a successor?”

“Exactly. We need to be assured that whatever Robert is planning to do won’t risk our soldiers. We can’t afford another loss.”

“It’s those damned dragons,” Lord Buckler spoke up. His heavy face was scarlet with frustration. “Every time we claw a victory from those horse-fuckers the dragons appear.”

“Exactly. How do we know that killing their master won’t put us at more risk from the dragons?”

“I don’t know, grandfather,” Gendry replied. He shook his head. How could they fight against beasts that were thought to have left their world altogether? They were the stuff of legends. His father expected them to fight the stuff of legends.

“No point killing ourselves over it. There is no easy solution. You’re all dismissed,” Tywin ordered. He sounded weary. He sounded irritated.

The lords stood in a great wave and filed out of the tent as fast as possible. They’d been stuffed inside the command tent for most of the day. Tywin had wanted any detail they could give him. And then he’d wanted ideas.

“Gendry, I’ll speak to you tomorrow, at daybreak,” the Lannister patriarch told his grandson sternly. Gendry nodded shortly, bowing respectfully, before he followed the rest of the men out.

He made his way wearily towards the mess tent, hoping for a bit of supper before it got too cold. He’d been surprised to find that the stew they served in the camp, while sinister looking, was genuinely good, better than a good deal of things he’d eaten at elegant feasts.

“Gendry!” Robb Stark called from a few lengths ahead of him. The man was gesturing with two hands, each of which held a steaming bowl. He jogged towards him. Robb had been pointedly absent from the strategy meeting. Tywin had been mildly annoyed but had forgotten rather quickly about it. Still, Gendry wanted to ask after his absence.

“Seven bless you, Stark,” Gendry exclaimed as he took the second bowl from Robb.

“I thought you might be in need of a hot meal after that ordeal.”

Gendry grinned. “How would you know?”

The man’s head ducked for a moment before he looked back up. “I received a raven from my mother, who received a raven from King’s Landing. From my wife.”

Gendry’s brows raised. “Who was the raven from? And why didn’t you receive this raven?”

“The raven was from Jeyne. And I don’t know why she wrote my mother first. I’m now a father three times over.”

Gendry grinned even bigger, clapping the eldest Stark on the back with all of his strength. A bit of stew from Robb’s bowl sloshed out the side. “Congratulations, my friend!”

“Another girl,” Robb explained further.

“Ah. Better luck next time,” Gendry replied reflexively. He realized uncomfortably that he sounded like his father.

“I wish Arya had heard you say that,” Robb japed. “She’d have your hide, Prince or not.”

He shook his head regretfully. “Yes, I know.” He sighed. “What is the babe’s name? Has it been decided yet?”

“Jeyne had decided earlier, yes. She’s calling her Eleyna, after her sister.”

“Nice.”

“We certainly have enough people to name children after,” Robb said.

“And I’m sure you’ll have enough children to recreate the Book of Lords, the rate you’re going.”

“As long as we get through this,” Robb replied. Both of their smiles faded quickly.

There was a chance they would not. Even Tywin Lannister wasn’t entirely sure how they’d proceed through this war. It was so far and away from anything they’d faced in a very long time. They’d yet to see this man claiming to be Aegon Targaryen, had yet to see a soldier that wasn’t Dothraki, but they’d seen enough of the dragons to last Gendry several lifetimes.

“Well, good thing you have something to look forward to. It will keep you motivated,” Gendry said, knocking shoulders with his friend.

“So do you,” Robb said. His mind flashed instantly to an image of Arya, hair a mess, eyes alight, wearing a dusty shirt and dirty breeches. Something to look forward to. “You’re betrothed to the Rose of Highgarden.”

Blinking, he tried to shove away any thoughts of Arya. That would be the last one he’d allow himself from now on. “Yes. Margaery is quite the motivation.”

“No need to look so morose, Your Grace. I’m sure you’ll live to see Margaery become your wife.”

Gendry forced a laugh and took a spoonful of stew into his mouth so he could avoid having to reply.

They began to walk as they ate, neither filling the silence. Jon had told him once about a year ago, that marriage and children had calmed Robb down considerably. He explained that both he and Theon Greyjoy had been spirited boys, always chattering and getting themselves into trouble. Only in the past few years had Robb become the man Gendry knew.

Gendry liked this version of Robb. He preferred Jon, for the very fact that Jon was closer in temperament to Gendry, and because Jon wasn’t- well, hadn’t been- married. But Robb was a good sort. He liked that the eldest Stark could be silent for longer than a moment. Growing up in the Red Keep, among the perfumed lordlings of the Court, Gendry was used to chattering, simpering idiots being his only companions. It wasn’t until he’d met his Uncle Stannis that he found someone like him, less fond of words, fonder of actions. And it wasn’t until he met the Starks that he found someone like him who he actually liked.

Northerners knew the value of words. They weren’t quick to waste them.

But eventually, Gendry knew, they’d be pulled into some sort of conversation. This took the form of settling a grievance between two Knights, which may have dissolved into an all-out brawl if not for his Royal intervention.

“Sers, I think you should withdraw,” he suggested. But the way he spoke made no room for argument. If there was one thing he’d learned from his father, besides how to alienate your wife or how to drink yourself stupid, it was how to make a command sound preferable to disobedience. “No room for squabbling with dragons about.”

Both of the men hurried to obey, falling over themselves to bow deeply to their Crown Prince, and turning tail as quickly as possible, both heading in the opposite direction.

“Ridiculous. We’re already fighting a war. Why do they want to create strife in camp?” Gendry remarked irritably.

“Tensions are high. We have no warning as to when an attack will come.”

Unfortunately, and perhaps a little ironically- the Gods loved that, didn’t they- that’s when the trumpets blared in quick bursts of three, the signal for dragons.

“For Seven’s sake!” Robb cursed. Gendry shared his rage and exasperation, but there was no time for anger. He bolted in the direction of his tent. He still wore his armor- he rarely took it off anymore- but he’d left his warhammer beside his cot, deciding a sword was adequate enough for War Council.

He had made it halfway when he saw the shadow begin to swallow up any light coming from the sliver of the moon. The torches flickered as wingbeats sent gusts of wind rocketing along the ground. The great beast was impossible to truly make out, but he’d seen them in all their terrible glory in the months past. He knew how they looked. He got a glimpse of someone on its back though, a new development, before the column of fire blinded him to anything else.

It wasn’t aimed at him. Instead, the fire shot towards the center of camp. This was where the most important lords and commanders were tented. It erased all doubt from his mind that these beasts were being specifically controlled. A human had made that decision. A human with tactical knowledge, or at least some level of intelligence. It made perfect sense to target the leaders of their army.

There were several camps all throughout the Stormlands. But this was the largest, as well as the most important. They’d been specifically targeted.

Gendry realized all of this in a few moments. Then, he realized that he needed to save whoever was caught in those flames. He needed to find his grandfather, and he needed to find Robb. He raced towards the flames without another thought, and he saw as his soldiers began to do the same, eyes wide and reflecting the flames in the dark.

“We had our best troops in that camp. We had 300,000 men when we started this fucking mess!” Robert bellowed. “They matched us. With their savages and their sellswords. And now-”

“Brother-”Renly tried to interrupt, but Robert spun on him, eyes burning.

“Shut your mouth, you damn idiot,” he growled. “Ned, how many died?”

Eddard Stark looked like he’d aged about twenty years in the span of three days. Word of the attack had been delayed by the fact that most of the men who would have written to King’s Landing, commanders and Lords, were dead. They’d been targeted by dragon fire. Ned had never even heard of such a thing, dragons being selective about who they slaughtered.

“We don’t know yet, Your Grace. They’re still recording the losses. They estimate about 10,000, though.”

“10,000.”

“Yes, Your Grace. Among them...Tywin and Kevan Lannister, Lord Harwood Fell-”

“Enough,” Robert barked. “What word do you have of my son?”

“Gendry was unharmed, Your Grace,”

“And your boy...the oldest. Does he live?”

Ned stared at his old friend for a moment, feeling as if he’d suddenly recognized him. Robert and he hadn’t been true friends since he’d returned North all those years ago. But still…

“He was wounded. He’ll live, I’ve been assured, but they took him to Riverrun to ensure that. Gendry wrote himself. He says that he wishes to withdraw our forces. We must retreat to the Riverlands. I agree. Traveling inland might not defend against Dragons, but we could relieve the pressure from their forces.”

Robert took a seat, the wood groaning with the sudden weight. His mouth disappeared with his beard and his brow was heavily lined with worry. “Give the order, Ned. And bring my boy back. I need him here. Jaime Lannister can take his father’s place at the head of my Army, and Renly can take Gendry’s.”

“Brother-” Renly began again, but Robert glared at him.

“No argument!”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Make the arrangements, Ned.”

“Of course, Robert.”

Ned rose, exiting the Council chambers as quickly as possible. He needed to write to Catelyn. He needed to reassure Jeyne, and he needed to make sure Arya knew nothing of the attack until he told her. He was ashamed to admit that he’d been giving her only measures of the truth. He knew that if he had any hope of keeping her here, of keeping her out of harm’s way, he must keep her from hearing all that was happening.

He knew Arya well. He knew how much the girl cared for others. If she knew what those soldiers were facing, what was being done the smallfolk, no one could stop her from running off to fight for them. His Arya would fight for the entire world if she could.

And for all that he’d resisted it, the court had changed him. Ned wasn’t the simple, honorable Northern man he’d been when he’d arrived. He’d learned that to survive at court was to play politics. He’d been calculating in his mentioning of his sister Lyanna. It pained him to use her memory to keep Arya safe. But it was what she would have wanted. Lyanna would understand more than anyone else why Arya must be shielded. Ned would do his duty. To all of them. To his wife, to his good-daughter, to Arya Snow.

Ned wrote to Catelyn. He requested information about Robb’s state. He asked if Robb knew any more than Gendry was able to tell. He went to Jeyne and explained what had happened. The girl was exhausted and worried sick, clutching her new baby girl for dear life, but Ned eased her mind.

“Robb will be fine. And his mother won’t let him return to the fight after this. You have nothing to worry about, dear girl.” He emphasized this with a smile, placing his head on his new granddaughters soft, downy head. So beautiful. So vulnerable. His job to protect her from all of the world’s evils.

“Thank you,” she said, eyes wet with tears. Ned knew she believed him. He understood that women were emotional after bringing babes into the world. It made him                             comfortable enough to leave her with her maid and her child.

Next he must speak with Arya.

Sansa woke to blood on her sheets.

Ned Dayne woke to his wife’s screams and her desperate cries for help. His hands were on her shoulders in seconds, asking her what was wrong, what she needed.

Thankfully, the maids heard her screams and came rushing in. It gave him the jolt he needed to think through the instant panic.

“Sansa. Sansa my dear, you must tell me what’s wrong!” But she needn’t explain, because then he saw the blood.

“Call the Maester!” Ned shouted, even as he redoubled his efforts to catch his wife’s attention. “Sansa! Sansa look at me!” but she was crying hysterically, calling out for her mother, for the Mother, he wasn’t sure which. Ned would have liked some divine intervention himself. He was choked with fear. For his wife, for the babe that she bore for him.

Maester Clayse burst into the room moments later, rushing to the bed, looking both confused and terrified. Both his Lord and Lady appeared to be in hysterics and there was blood on their sheets. Lady Dayne was clutching her stomach and wailing, and Lord Dayne was shaking her as if to wake her.

Sansa stopped screaming when Maester Clayse began examining her and Ned stopped shaking her. Her tears remained, but they were the silent type. Ned paced while the older man did his work. It was obvious rather quickly what had happened. Still, the Maester did his work. He called the maids in to clean their Lady of her blood and when she’d been put into a new nightdress- Sansa still hadn’t spoken- he tried to explain.

“My Lady-” he began, voice weak. There was no good news he could deliver that night, no cure or treatment. “My lady...you’ve lost the child. I’m terribly sorry.”

Sansa’s shoulders sunk, her head falling into her hands, and Ned rushed forward, enveloping her in his arms.

“I- I want my mo-” she began, but her voice broke and she couldn’t continue. Her voice was robbed of her and she didn’t know if she wanted it back.

Ned was horrified to realize that what she wanted- what she needed in her hour of need, was what he couldn’t give her. Sansa wanted her mother. She wanted her mother and Ned had made them both traitors to the Iron Throne. He’d chosen the wrong side.

Sansa just wanted her mother.

Chapter Text

When Staying is Not a Choice

“Robb is fine, Arya. He’s been taken to Riverrun to recover, and our troops are retreating further inland.”

“Inland doesn’t stop dragons!” Arya spit. She was pacing, wringing her hands, doing anything to stop from screaming. She shouldn’t be here, stuck behind the walls of the Red Keep while tens of thousands of men died. She should be helping, caring for the wounded, fighting off Dothraki, doing something. Robb was hurt and Gendry was out there somewhere, risking his life. And Arya sat by while butchers and whores and innkeepers and bastards suffered.

“I know, Arya. But it's what we can do. Robert is...receptive to Varys’s idea to send a diplomatic envoy now. He agrees that it’s all we can do. “

“How can he negotiate with someone who killed so many of his people? The man is a monster, father. And he’ll want the King’s head. He’ll want all of you gone. Every house that fought as rebels.”

“I don’t think Robert intends to actually negotiate, Arya,” Ned explained carefully.

“It’s an assassination attempt,” Arya realized suddenly. She scowled. “He can’t set all of his hopes on the success of an assassin.”

“No, he can’t. But there are ways to...placate this Dragon Rider. There’s always something.”

Arya stared up at her father, hesitant to say what she was thinking, but knowing that she’d say it anyway. There was no use hesitating for very long. “Father, before you came South, you’d never have settled for an assassination attempt. The North does not placate. The North does not play games like the South does.”

She’d always admired her father. In fact, she’d adored him. For all that Ned Stark was distant, beholden to his lady wife, and solemn, he was a good father. He was honorable and kind to the smallfolk. He did his duty and he upheld the values of the North with each action he took as lord. This was not that Ned Stark.

The look in his eyes told her he knew that. Oh, gods did he know that. She regretted her words immediately, but there was no way to take them back.

“The South had changed us all, Arya. For good or bad, we have changed. But there’s more to this than Robert, or anyone, could ever understand.”

“Like what?”

“I think, perhaps, that this could truly be Aegon Targaryen. I have no proof, and little reason, but I remember, clearly, something someone told me a long while ago, which has haunted me ever since. This could be Prince Rhaegar’s true son.”

“If it is?” Arya watched her father with rapt attention, eyes wide.

“I couldn’t begin to predict. But, mayhaps, it’s why we are struggling against his forces.”

“What do you mean?”

“Targaryens have always been...more than men. Everyone in Westeros grew up on legends and songs of their exploits.”

Her father’s words worried her. Even hours after he spoke them, they ran through her head. She knew what he meant. The Dragonknight, Aegon the Conqueror, and any number of other fierce Targaryen’s had been written about hundreds of times. She’d be sorry to admit it, but even Arya had sat, fascinated as they were told the tales. She had laughed at how taken Sansa was with silly stories, but she’d been just as intrigued by Visenya and Rhaenys Targaryen as her half-sister was by tales of the Dragonknight and his beautiful Queen Naerys.

These thoughts drove Arya to distraction, and when Kira had fallen asleep on the bed beside her, she sprung up. She needed to move, to do something. Otherwise she’d go mad as King Aerys.

Her feet were light as she escaped the Tower of the Hand and journeyed deep into the Keep. Arya was good at moving soundlessly. Years of slinking through the halls of Winterfell, hoping not to be noticed had made that easy. She didn’t know where she was headed, just that she needed this. It was only after she began descending that Arya realized she was exploring. Just like when she was a child. Maybe if she learned its secrets, the Red Keep could stop feeling so dangerous.

 It got colder the further down she traveled, and damper. The steps were slippery, and Arya had fallen three times before she had the idea to remove her shoes. It made her steps even softer. All the better for sneaking.

After several moments of going down, down, down into the heart of the castle, she reached the bottom of the stairs. It wasn’t nearly as dark as the stairs had been. She saw a few torches studding the wall, throwing odd shadows against the wall. It looked li-

When she was past the wall, she saw them, and for a moment her heart stopped. Arya resisted the urge to scream... She saw dragons, jaws gaping, as if waiting for their next meal. It was only moments later that she realized these weren’t dragons, but dragon skulls. Her breath came softly and she stared in awe. She’d heard about these. The only remnants, only proof that dragons had once existed. A little useless now, considering.

She wanted to run from them, to return to her bed, but something drew her nearer, some urge that Arya was familiar with. It was the urge she got when she took the stairs at a run, when she raced her horse past it’s limit, or when she’d kissed Gendry any number of times. This was her urge towards danger. Because her mind knew that these dragons weren’t capable of hurting her, but her body didn’t.

With shaking knees and cold hands, Arya approached. When she was close enough she raised a hand, bracing herself. And then her fingers were stroking the largest of the skulls, hand skimming the dry white bone of a single, huge tooth. This beast must have been magnificent. It made her, if only for a split second, want to see the real thing, to compare these new dragons to what this one must have looked like in all of its glory.

Arya imagined herself on its back, feeling the heat of its body against hers as she soared. It spoke to her, spoke to her heart and soul. It made her dread the fact that someday, if they managed to win this war, they’d need to kill those dragons. It made her want to weep. Imagine how free she could be on the back of a dragon. Who could hold her then? If she had a dragon no one would dare question what she wanted.

She had immersed herself so fully into this fantasy of huge wings and soaring above the earth that she didn’t hear the footsteps before it was too late. When she did, Arya spun around, hand going to her hip before she realized that Needle was beside her bed. She cursed herself silently for the mistake. She could have brought Nymeria, at least.

When she realized that the person who’d taken her by surprise was the Spider himself, Arya wasn’t sure if she was relieved or not. There was still danger present in this.

“Lord Varys?” she prompted, voice hard, but still quiet.

“I’ve been waiting to see you alone all day, my dear,” he replied. This raised the panic in Arya’s heart tenfold. That sounded ominous at best and dangerous at worst.

“Why?” she asked harshly. “What do you want?”

“To speak to you. To ask you some questions,” he told her. She couldn’t see his hands, but then, he wasn’t the sort for blades. If he was going to hurt her, he’d use something, or someone, else to do it.

“I don’t know anything important,” she warned him. “Why would you ask me anything?”

“Oh, dear, I’m sure you know some very important things,” he assured her. “But truthfully, I have some things I’d like to tell you.” 

“Like what?” she snapped. Why was he drawing this out so terribly? She wanted him to stop dancing around these things he’d like to tell her.

“First, my questions, just so I’m assured you’ll answer them. Does that sound reasonable?”

She nodded carelessly, eyes large and trained on the eunuch’s smiling face. Hurry up, you sweet-smelling snake, she thought unkindly.

“How much do you know of Robert’s Rebellion?”

“Everything. I’ve heard the tales.”

“No, not the tales. I mean, how much do you truly know?”

“It started because Rhaegar Targaryen stole my Aunt Lyanna and his father burned my Uncle Brandon alive when he came to demand her back.”

“Ah, but girl, it had started even before that,” Varys told her. “It started the moment that Rhaegar Targaryen placed the Crown of Love and Beauty on your beautiful aunt’s head. He passed up his wife, Elia Martell. He passed her up for some Northern girl the court had never heard of.”

“Why? Lyanna was a great beauty, but he already had a beautiful wife.”

“Oh, and she was, but Rhaegar was a romantic sort. Prone to fanciful ideas. And Lyanna was a wild, fanciful girl herself.” Varys gave her a knowing look. “It would be easy for such a girl and such a man to fall in love and flee together, as if they were characters in some silly song.”

“Lyanna didn’t love him!” Arya exclaimed. “Rhaegar stole her. My father told me that. My father wouldn’t lie.”

“Maybe he didn’t know. He came too late to save her. Mayhaps she did love Rhaegar.”

“But that doesn’t explain why she died. Besides whether she loved him or not, the Prince couldn’t simply take her.”

“Ah yes. She was Robert Baratheon’s betrothed, wasn’t she? Not her own woman anymore. Not free to choose.”

“That’s not-” she began. Because she didn’t think any woman should be a prisoner. Not to her betrothed, her father, her husband, or her brother. But Varys pressed on.

“Do you understand, then, why Lyanna Stark might run off with the Dragon Prince, dear girl? Even if she did not love him.”

“What does it matter?” she asked.

“Well, if she went with Rhaegar willingly, the tale that claims that he killed her aren't very sensible, are they? Why would he kill his lady love?”

“I don’t-”

“He didn’t. Lyanna was trapped in that tower for most of the war. More than most, actually. And that leaves a fairly large gap in the tales. Anything could have happened.”

“Like what?”

“Perhaps what killed her.”

“You don’t know what killed her,” Arya reminded him. “If Rhaegar loved Lyanna, then you don’t know what killed her.”

“A child.”

“Lyanna didn’t have a child.”

“That we are aware of. But women die in childbirth all the time, dear girl. And any child born of Rhaegar Targaryen would become an instant target of Robert’s. Their caretaker would need to keep them a secret.”

“So, perhaps- and you’re not even sure- there might be a purple-eyed bastard out there who found some dragons and now he’s trying to take the place of his legitimate half-brother and steal the throne from the man who killed his father?”

“Any child from Lyanna Stark would be several years younger than Aegon Targaryen, child. No one could mistake that. No, I think the man who assaults our coasts is the true Aegon Targaryen.”

“That’s what my father said. He said that-” but then she stopped herself, because this was Lord Varys, and she shouldn’t be free about what her father told her in confidence with this man.

“Don’t bother, my dear. I’ve already heard your father’s opinion on that matter. We’re in agreement for a reason. And your father knows more than he lets on. It was he who found your Aunt Lyanna in that tower. If there ever was a child, he’d know of it.”

“Does he? Did he tell you?”

“Of course not, my dear. But what I’ve told you, why I’ve told you… You’re a clever girl. I know you are. My sources tell me you are. Why would the Master of Whispers confide in a bastard girl unless that bastard girl was important to what he was plotting?”

“Plotting, what are you plotting?” she asked desperately. She needed to know this, needed to focus on him, instead of his words. Because his words were getting more and more sharp with each syllable.

“The Seven Kingdoms is at its best while a Targaryen sits the Iron Throne.”

“It’s also been at its worst,” she argued.

He nodded his agreement reluctantly. “My girl, you’re more like Lady Lyanna than you realize. And that’s very important to some very important people.”

“What do you-” but her words were cut off by the rough, gloved hand that covered her face. Even as she let loose a scream it was muffled by the person who’d snuck up behind her. She jerked in a pair of iron-like arms, but it was no use. Whoever it was that held her was much bigger. She could tell.

“Now, do be gentle, boy. There’s no value in hurting her,” Varys warned as he stepped closer to her. He lifted a small cloth to her mouth. It smelled oddly sweet, and it made her mind fuzzy. Just as she slipped under, Arya heard the Spider’s last words to her. “Pardon this, my child.”

She woke up with a pounding headache. It might have been because she’d been crying all night. She hadn’t gotten any sleep in days. How could she? Sansa stared down at her coverlet clad legs, eyes skipping over her stomach purposefully. It hadn’t been very large yet, and Maester Clayse said that the- that the babe would cause no complications after this but…

Wasn’t this complication enough?

Ned had wanted to stay with her. She saw in his eyes that he wanted to stay and comfort her, but then he’d been ordered to gather his men and meet with the rest of the Dornish forces as soon as possible so they could move on the Reach, and he hadn’t been allowed to refuse.

“We’ve broken from the King, Sansa. We can’t break from the Martells as well.”

She had nodded her understanding, but she didn’t understand. She didn’t. Because as she lay in bed, all Sansa could think about was slipping away in her sleep just like her babe had slipped away. She’d wanted to call this one Lyarra, after her father’s mother. It was still too soon to name any little girl Lyanna, and she didn’t want to see that faraway look in her father’s eyes when he thought of his sister, but Lyarra was pretty. And if it was a boy…

Well, she’d had a very good idea that it would be a girl. Disappointing, in its way, because Sansa had always wanted to do her duty to her husband and give him sons, but she also wanted a few daughters all her own.

And this…

Sometimes, after a losing a child, women could never get pregnant again. The thought terrified her. She could just imagine what they’d say of her. She’d be a failure. And she loved Ned too much to face him if she was barren. She’d always been a perfect lady who performed her duties perfectly. But being a mother was a true test, and she’d failed, as far as she could see.

She wanted Catelyn. She wanted Catelyn Stark with all the strength of her heart. She could imagine her mother, hands in her hair, comforting her, explaining that sometimes the Seven tested us, that sometimes they needed to be sure you wanted something, truly wanted something, before they gave it to you.

It made no sense that she would have this trouble. Her mother had given her father five strong children and had never lost any of her pregnancies.

“My lady, you must get out of bed,” Maester Clayse said, voice timid, in lieu of a greeting. He’d told her the night that it had happened that she needed a few days’ rest, but when a few days turned into a sennight, he’d tried to explain that too much rest might cause an affliction of spirits. She was sure he’d be saying such a thing to her now. That’s why she tried to block out his words.

“My lady, I understand that you’re upset but-”

“You are dismissed, Maester,” she croaked. She’d ruined her voice with crying.

“It’s not- My lady, you’ve received a raven.”

That made her sit up. Blinking her eyes and trying to clear her throat a bit, Sansa stared up at him. “A raven?”

“Yes, my lady. It’s from Riverrun.”

She frowned. “My mother wouldn’t risk writing to me unless-” She gasped. “Give me the message. Now.”

“Yes of course,” he began, taking the small scrap of paper from some sort of pocket among his robes. She tried to remind herself of her courtesies, and it was the only thing keeping her from snatching it straight from his hands.

She skimmed the parchment swiftly.  Her mother’s familiar script made her heart hurt, but she tried to ignore that and focus. Catelyn told her that things were dire, that Robb had been injured, that he was fine- but… Jeyne had given him a daughter. She stopped for a moment, gasping for breath. A little girl…

“Fetch me something to write with,” she ordered. “I need to send a reply.”

“My lady-” he began, but this fool had nothing to say that Sansa wanted to hear. She repeated herself. He scurried out of the room to do her bidding.

Arya groaned. Her eyes hurt. Her damned eyes hurt, and something sharp was banging against her thigh.

“Are you awake?” a voice asked, and she tried to turn in its direction. She couldn’t open her eyes. Each time she tried, a burst of pain tore her head apart.

“Bloody spider,” she hissed. She was met with a soft chuckle, which made her want to vomit. “Don’t talk. You’re making me sick.”

“Sorry, my lady.”

With a jerk, Arya tried once again to open her eyes. This time, she managed and found that she was in a small wooden room. The edges of everything were fuzzy and the light coming through the square on a wall felt like it might melt her eyes out of her skull, but she could still see, at least a little.

“I’m not a lady,” she growled through clenched teeth. It was a test of her will that she was screaming right now.

“Right, they still haven’t…”

“Who are you? Where am I? Why am I here?” she asked the questions in rapid succession as her eyes adjusted to the room around her. When they had, she took in her surroundings. She was in a small, well-kept room, and the rocking sensation hinted at it being on a ship. She lay on a rope bed, a thick feathered bed, which seemed a bit out of place, between the frame and her body. And there was a woman sitting in the corner furthest from her, watching her intently. The source of that irritating voice. In fact, the voice wasn’t very irritating at all, it was rather beautiful really, but the Maiden herself could have been singing sweetly to her and would have made her ache just as badly.

The woman was older, probably of an age with her father, and she was beautiful, with light eyes, perhaps blue, and an angular, unflawed face. Her hair was tucked back into a Septa’s headdress, but Arya could tell by the few stray strands that it was dark.

“Which of those questions would you like me to answer first?” the woman asked, smiling dryly.

“Who are you?” Arya pressed, not meeting her smile.

“I’m called Septa Lemore. It’s very nice to meet you.”

Arya had never had very good experiences with Septas. She instantly soured on this woman. “Where am I?”

“You’re a very brusque girl, aren’t you?” Lemore commented, but she wasn’t unpleased. “You’re at sea, of the coast of Sunspear.”

“Sunspear?” she exclaimed. “How long have I been drugged.”

“A few days. A pair of very strong men rode very fast to get you here.”

She said that like Arya should be grateful. She scoffed. “Why? If you think you can ransom me, you’re an idiot. I’m a bastard, and I’m a girl.”

“I’ll fetch your host. He’ll explain,” she answered. But it wasn’t much of an answer. It left a sour taste in Arya’s mouth. Lemore stood, bracing herself against the definite rocking of the ship and headed towards the door Arya was ashamed to realize she hadn’t noticed. As her back turned to Arya in order to fiddle with the lock, Arya shimmied into a sitting position.

She tried to get the woman’s attention with yells, but Lemore did not turn around. As the door closed, she cried out “Who is my host?”

Chapter Text

A Prince and His Rose

Arya fumed with anger. If that damned Septa thought she’d just sit still while her stupid host took his stupid time coming down to meet her, she’d be sorely surprised. Arya huffed as she tried to pull her legs under her and regain her footing. Unfortunately, her body didn’t want to cooperate. Whatever Varys had forced on her was having lingering effects, making it next to impossible to make any significant movements. She could blink, and breathe and twitch her toes, but she couldn’t lift herself off the bed.

She roared in frustration, but that just made her head hurt. But so did thinking, and keeping her eyes open. So she yelled again. After a few seconds, the pain faded, so Arya kept up the screaming. She screamed curses and oaths and she described how she was going to kill whoever was holding her in graphic detail. She yelled for Jon, for her father, and for Nymeria. And then, when her throat began to hurt and the lock in the door began to rattle, Arya stopped.

The first thing she saw when the door cracked open was silver-hair. Two people, both of them silver haired. But their faces weren’t lined with age, and their eyes weren’t cloudy. They were young. And their eyes were purple. She cursed.

“What the hell do you want with me?” she demanded, trying uselessly to get to her feet. “You bloody Targaryens! You stole the wrong person, idiots.”

“Are you not Arya Snow?” the taller one, a man asked. Arya turned a critical eye to him. He wore clothing that would have looked more welcome on a common sellsword than the so called Prince Aegon Targaryen. But he looked the part otherwise. The hair and the eyes spoke for themselves, but he also held himself in a familiar way. He held himself like Gendry, back straight, shoulders out, with an air of confidence that most people couldn’t manage. He held himself like royalty. She hated him already.

She turned then to his shorter companion. This must be Daenerys Targaryen, his aunt. She was petite, but her face looked like it had been crafted as a depiction of the maiden. She was as beautiful as Sansa at her prettiest, and she had eyes filled with fire. It helped that she was dressed like a Dothraki warrior, with the same amount of skin on display. The only way her differentiated was that her chest was covered by a small leather vest. Arya blushed at the way this woman looked.

“That’s my name. But I don't know why you stole me. I don’t know anything, and they won’t pay to get me back, and I’m not important,” she finally, scowling up at the pair of them.

“Jon said she wouldn’t know,” he said, turning to his companion.

“Jon? How do you know Jon?” Arya barked.

“Lord Jon Connington. He’s our chief advisor. We don’t speak of that northern lordling you call brother,” Aegon said dismissively.

She glared at him. “You’re not making any sense!”

“It was probably safer if she didn’t know, of course. If no one knew,” Daenerys pointed out.

“What are you blabbering on about?” she asked.

Aegon turned to her, face softening for a moment before that distant, princely expression returned. “It wouldn’t hurt to tell her now, would it?”

Daenerys hesitated for a moment before answering. “Mayhaps we should tell her now. Better to be quick, yes?”

“Do you want me-” he began, beginning to look a little uncomfortable. “You’re much better at words, Aunt.”

“Don’t be foolish. You can be quite eloquent,” she said, raising a brow imperiously. It looked ridiculous, watching this small young woman trying to intimidate this strong, tall man.

“Sorry. Yes.” He turned back to Arya, clearing his throat.

She had the dimmest, most distant idea of what he was about to say to her, but something inside of her was resistant to this realization. She didn’t want to know hear what he was about to say. She didn't want to know anymore. It was too… She wasn’t sure what it was.

But she didn't want to know.

“My caretakers told me, when I was a child, that I wasn’t the only Targaryen left, that I wasn’t alone,” he began.

Arya shook her head. “You shouldn’t even be alive, let alone any others!”

He flinched. “Yes, I know just how peaceful the world has been, believing me dead. Good King Robert saved you from the big bad Targaryens.”

“Better Fat King Robert than Burn-People-Alive Aerys,” she reminded him. Daenerys- Aery’s daughter, Arya remembered suddenly, tensed, but seconds later her face cracked into a small, wry smile.

“My father would have been a good king,” Aegon argued. “He was a good man. I remember.”

“You were a baby!”

“I was small, but I still remember. He was kind.”

“He stole someone. He was a silly romantic.”

“If you’d let me continue-” he growled.

Arya threw up her hands in frustration, and realized with a started that she could throw up her hands. Her arms were beginning to regain their mobility. Her legs were still numb, though, on closer inspection. Deciding that stalling was a smarter plan than simply yelling, she nodded brusquely for him to continue. The look of triumph on his face made her glare even harder up at him.

“My caretakers told me that I had an Aunt and an Uncle. They’d escaped Westeros via Dragonstone, days after Daenerys had been born. And they’d grown up in the same city. They’d moved on by that time, of course, benefiting from the kindness of friends who wished to set them on their throne. I was about twelve when they discovered me. Daenerys was ten. Viserys was eight and ten.”

“Must have been upset,” she commented.

“Excuse me?”

“He must have been upset. He was gonna ride back to Westeros and win back his throne, and all of a sudden you come back, and it’s your throne now, not his.”

Aegon nodded briefly. “He was quite...incensed. Viserys died a few years ago, at the end of my blade.”

“You’d think a house as small as yours would try to avoid killing each other.”

“We have,” Daenerys said. “But my brother was an unstable man. They’ve always said that when a Targaryen is born, the Gods flip a coin. On one side greatness, the other, madness.”

“Might have something to do with all of the incest.”

“She’s a mouthy one, isn’t she?” Aegon snapped.

“She’s spirited. Like her mother, apparently.”

“You don’t know my mother,” Arya scoffed. “No one knows my mother. Besides my father, and he’s not telling.”

“He wouldn’t,” Daenerys said, giving Aegon a meaningful look.

“My caretakers told me of my Aunt and Uncle, but it was Daenerys who told me of my sibling.”

Arya’s eyes turned on the woman questioningly.

“A magister from Pentos, Illyrio Mopatis, told me the tale of Prince Rhaegar, my brother, and Lady Lyanna… And another friend of ours assured us that he spoke the truth.”

“Do you mean Lord Varys? He already told me about this ridiculous theory. He told me about their alleged child. But if you think I know about a secret cousin, that I’d tell you if I did, I won’t.”

“Varys said you were clever. He said you were an admirable girl,” Aegon said, sounding dismayed.

“Are you saying I’m not?” she asked frostily. Not only was he a fool, he was also rude.

“You ignore things that are clear as day. We aren’t asking you about a secret cousin. And we aren’t doubtful that my father had a child with Lyanna Stark.”

She shook her head, refusing to let him do this, to ruin everything. “I’m a bastard. No matter what you tell me, I am Ned Stark’s bastard. I am Arya Snow.”

“No, you aren’t. You’re Arya Targaryen.”

Margaery watched the courtyard eagerly, waiting to catch sight of her betrothed riding in, Gendry had been called back to King’s Landing by his father. Everyone whispered about how foolish it was, but it wasn’t like the armies weren’t still being ordered about by very important men. Margaery understood the mechanism of court, she understood lots of things. But she didn’t understand why they needed their Prince to risk his life for no reason.

It would be much better if Prince Joffrey rode off to war. The odd young man with his dangerous look and his odd hobbies bothered her. She knew he was a bad sort, and she thought that they’d all be better off if he fell in battle.

She had been worried for a sennight about Cersei Lannister’s threats, and she wanted to alleviate that worry. The best way she could think was to spend time with her Prince. It helped to remind herself that she would be queen one day. The best way to do that was to stare at her handsome Gendry’s handsome face.

When her family had set her to the task of wooing the Prince, she’d looked at it as a challenge she was ready to take on, as the chance of a lifetime. She liked Sansa Stark well enough, but the girl was too naive by half. There were no makings of a Queen in the redhead.

But then, things changed. Prince Gendry was kind, and funny, and handsome, and Sansa was a pretty, clever little lady with a very surprising sense of humour. There was no way about this. Margaery was stuck between a rock in a hard place.

That is, until dangerous little Joffrey had decided to threaten Sansa while her massive beast of a dog was watching. Then it was much easier. Sansa married that pretty Lord Dayne and there was no one left for Prince Gendry but her. Her father had been ecstatic. In fact, he’d been so excited Margaery thought he might soil his smallclothes.

War had a way of running things though, and while she would have been planning her wedding and thinking of ways to undermine the Queen if it had waited just a few months, Margaery was doing much more of nothing that anything at all.

But when there were dragons flying about, her particular skill-set wasn’t of much use.

While she was wading through these thoughts, though, a clamor was rising from the courtyard. She snapped to attention just in time to see Gendry’s horse gallop through the palace gates. She even got an excellent view of the way his body moved as he dismounted.

She stood up from her cushioned chair, pressing forward and meeting Gendry eagerly, before he could move very far from his horse at all.

Dipping into a curtsy, Margaery stared up at him from heavy-lidded eyes, smiling seductively. “Your Grace. I’m so happy to see you. I was very worried about you.”

The Prince gave her a warm, if distracted smile. “It seems everyone was. But I’m no fool. I can defend myself.”

She rose from her curtsy, rushing to explain, widening her eyes dramatically “Of course, my prince. But war is a frightening thought for me. It’s hard to remember how brave you are when I’m afraid.”

His smile faded. “Of course. Pardon me, Lady Margaery. I did not mean to sound so rude.”

“Oh, no, my prince. Still, I must admit, my mind is finally at peace, knowing that you’re safe, beyond a doubt.”

“I appreciate your concern a great deal, my lady.”

Margaery smiled up at him, offering nothing more. She wanted to see if he’d take the initiative.

After a moment, he did. “May I escort you somewhere, before I return to my room? I confess, riding has made me a rather inappropriate companion, but I’d be happy to do it.”

“I think you look rather dashing actually. And if you’d care to deliver me to my Grandmother’s pavilion, I’d be incredibly grateful.”

Gendry offered his arm. “Of course.”

They started in the direction of her grandmother’s domain, and she glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. “Are the King and Queen aware that you’ve returned?”

“I doubt it. But they can wait until after I’d washed the road from my skin.”

“Are you quite sure they’d like to wait?”

“No. No my parents aren’t the waiting types. But there’s nothing for it. I’ll be completely honest, my lady. I’m a bit cross with them.”

“Whatever for, my prince?”

“They’ve called me back to court at the worst possible time. Our armies have been robbed of their best commanders.”

“Of course. I’m very sorry for your loss, my prince. Lord Tywin was an incredible man. A wiser and more knowledgeable man will be impossible to find,” she offered the condolences as sincerely as possible. But in truth, the Tyrell’s- particularly her father- were quite happy to have the old lion out of the way. With Tyrion Lannister as the new Lord of Casterly Rock, it would be no surprise if the little lecher spent all of his family’s gold on whores and Arbor gold. Good for the Reach, bad for the Westerlands.

“Yes, well, he was quite the man. Unfortunately, a lot of other, very wise men died with him, and I should be with my soldiers, helping to relocate them.”

“You must understand, though, my prince, that the King’s best move is to keep you out of harm’s way. If the crown prince dies…”

Gendry grimaced. “Then Joffrey takes the throne. That’s a good point. That’s the last thing I want to let happen.”

Margaery offered him a small smile. Best not to agree to heartily, but there was no reason not to share in the jape.

As they passed the outer layers of the castle, the corridors became more crowded. Margaery steered their conversation away from serious topics, instead inquiring after his journey, filling him in on some of the goings on of court. She was in the middle of telling him about his youngest brother’s new collection of kittens when Lord Stark caught their attention. He was rushing down the hall, looking uncharacteristically panicked.

“My lord?” Gendry called out, hurrying them towards Lord Stark. The older man quickly bowed, looking distracted.

“Your Grace.”

“Is everything alright, Lord Stark?” Margaery asked tentatively. The man looked like he might faint.

“Yes, My lady. I’ve only…”

“Yes?” Gendry prompted when Lord Stark’s words failed him.

Eyes jumping between the two of them, as if weighing whether he should tell them, Lord Stark didn’t reply for a good few moments. Finally, he spoke. “It’s Arya, Your Grace. I believe she’s gone off into the city. I forbid it...But Arya-”

“Forbidding Arya anything is the perfect way to get her to do it,” Gendry said, smiling fondly. Margaery fought not to roll her eyes. She’d heard rum ours about her prince and Lord Stark’s bastard daughter. She’d noticed how interested in her he was. But really, she didn’t understand the attraction. Margaery had spoken to the girl only once, and she’d seemed nice enough, but she wasn’t half the beauty that Sansa was.

“I’ve sent a few men to look for her,” Lord Stark said. “I’m sure they’ll have her back before long.”

“I’m a bit confused,” Margaery said. “Arya’s a part of your household, of course, but…” She let herself trail off, making it look like she’d thought better of her comment. Let them both fill in the blanks. No need to puzzle out why he would waste resources on his low-born daughter. She wasn’t particularly interested. What she was interested in was how he’d react to being questioned about it.

He gave her a sharp look, but said nothing.

“My Lord,” Gendry said, “Would you like help? I could send a few of my father’s men-”

“No thank you, Your Grace. It will be quite fine.  Have you spoken to your father?”

“I was escorting Lady Margaery to her grandmother’s pavilion. I planned on seeing him as soon as she was delivered safely,” Gendry replied, the lie slipping easily from his lips. Margaery was impressed. Sometimes Gendry seemed too good to be true. It was nice to see he was capable of playing games, even if it was a minor one like this.

“Glad to hear it, Your Grace. The King was urgent matters to speak with you about. I’m sure he’ll call a Council meeting fairly soon. Now, I must be on my way. Good day, Your Grace,” he gave Gendry a bow. “My Lady.’ He nodded in Margaery’s direction.

“He seems rather on edge,” Margaery commented when the stern man was out of earshot.

“Lord Stark is a hard-working man,” Gendry explained. “He bears a lot of my father’s duties, as I’m sure the court is aware.”

“The King is a lively man. Of course he has the Hand to handle the details.”

“Yes. And Lord Stark does a very good job of it.”

 They walked the rest of the way in amicable silence, and when they reached the open arches leading out to Olenna Tyrell’s small Rose Court, they turned to face each other.

“Thank you kindly, my prince,” Margaery simpered sweetly.

He offered another of his warm smiles. “It was my pleasure, my lady,” he assured her.

“Well, I’m sure you’d like to hurry along to speak with your father,” she japed, eyes sparkling with mischief, just like she’d practiced in the mirror. He grinned.

“Of course.”

He bowed and she curtsied and they parted ways, and Margaery felt even more secure that she had the Prince right where she wanted him.

Sansa had felt a determined sense of duty from the moment she watched the raven fly off with the missive to her mother. Mayhaps what she was doing was wrong, ignoring her husband's words, betraying him, but Ned had betrayed her and the Throne long before her. Sansa loved him dearly, but she would not lose her family for him.

Unfortunately, she could not go through with her plan all by herself. These servants were loyal to the Daynes first and foremost. They would not obey her in everything. Hence the letter. She’d reached out to her mother for help.

If word reached her mother in time, perhaps Tully men could retrieve her, or at the very least, Sansa might send word of troop numbers.

In truth, Sansa felt like Arya in this. Her half-sister’s contrary spirit had filled her as she wrote her letter, and it fueled her desire to help her family in any way she could. She knew Arya would have done the same.

As children, the two of them had fought about everything. They’d truly disliked each other. But she’d always admired how fearless Arya could be. The girl could face anyone if she put her mind to it. And Sansa could use her bravery right now.

Her babe was gone, and she was ready to betray her husband, all while dragons flew through the skies. Her father had told them once that one could only be brave when he was afraid. Well, she was terrified.

Sansa had thought that everything could be perfect, while they awaited the Tourney. Even when Arya came back, Sansa’s happiness wasn’t damaged. They had started to get along rather well. Arya had come back different. She’d been taller, and prettier, and polite. And Sansa had changed too. Her experience with Joffrey, her marriage to Ned, they’d all made her mature. It was easier not to fight with her half-sister.

Even though a part of her had been terribly disappointed that she’d never become the queen, she was happy that she’d never be Joffrey’s victim again, and she could stay far away from the Lannisters.

But this war had ruined things. And she was on the wrong side of things. Dragons of no dragons, Sansa was hard pressed to believe that the Starks would lose. The North was strong, and dragons couldn’t win a war all by themselves.

She kept telling herself, as she waited for her mother’s reply. Dragons weren’t everything. The King’s armies were more than enough to defeat them. They had to be.

Chapter Text

Family

Bran tried to focus on the history laid out on the table before him. He’d spent a majority of his time reading while his family were flung far and wide. But the way his father was acting was rather distracting. Lord Stark had sent Rickon, Rickard and Branda off with Septa Mordane to see baby Eleyna, but he’d let Bran stay with him, reading at his desk.

            Ned had already sent Stark men out to look for Arya, and there was little they could do but wait while they searched for her. Still, his father was pacing the small space of his solar. It was puzzling. Eddard Stark was not the sort of man who paced. He either took action, if he could, or he sat patiently until something could be done. It was something Bran had been proud to take from him.

            “Father, is everything alright?” he asked cautiously. Truthfully, since the war had started, he’d been kept in the dark about everything. It could have been frustrating, but he’d tried to immerse himself in other things, like keeping after his brother, his nephew, and his niece while Jeyne was abed with Eleyna, and reading everything he could get his hands on about dragons. He’d avoided Arya, because she’d been in a permanently foul mood, but now he wondered if he should have sought her out. He had a good idea of where she was. He knew his half-sister. And if he knew anything, she was probably on a horse, halfway to the Riverlands.

            “I’ve sent word to Robb at Riverrun that he must keep his men aware that Arya might make an appearance, and I sent a raven to Lady Brienne. But I’ve no idea why Arya would have run off.”

            “It’s Arya, father.”

            Ned turned to him, giving him a small, tired smile, but he still looked worried. “That’s right my boy.”

            “If Robb and Lady Brienne are looking out for her, won’t she be safe?”

            “I don’t know, son.”

            Bran glanced back down at the tome he’d been reading only moments ago. It was a rather dry recounting of the Dance of Dragons. But it wasn’t nearly as interesting, or as terrifying, as the war raging just a few leagues away. And Arya was probably out among that.

            He’d always admired her fighting spirit. She’d spent almost as much time reading as Bran did, but there wasn’t half as much enthusiasm behind it. She’d always seemed half ready to jump out of her seat and go riding. But she’d fought through it just to read about people who’d surpassed the circumstances of their birth.

            “Why don’t you go along with your brother, Bran,” his father said, dismissing him abruptly. Bran frowned, closing his book loudly, but the stern look on his father’s face when he did that made little room for argument. He left without a word, in search of Rickon. It seemed he’d be playing nursemaid again.

            But just as he was descending the stairs on his way to Jeyne’s chambers, he was met with a page. “Where’s Lord Stark?” the page asked breathlessly.

            “In his office,” Bran replied.

            The page rushed past him, and Bran finally noticed the small bundle of parchment in his hands. He wondered who it was from. If it was a raven, who had sent it. It couldn’t be word of Arya quite so soon. She’d left too recently to already be in the Riverlands, and his father had only just sent ravens of his own.

Unfortunately, Bran knew that it was highly unlikely that he’d find answers to his questions. No one answered his questions anymore.

“Where’s Ned?” the King demanded. He had summoned his council, and even though half an hour had passed, only a few of the bloody busy-bodies had shown up. Gendry, seated beside him and looking rather grim, shrugged his shoulders.

“Don’t know, father. I think he was looking for his daughter.”

“His daughter? Lady Dayne turned tail with her husband months ago!”

“His natural-born daughter, Your Grace.”

            Robert sent his eldest son a sharp look. Gendry looked too interested in the bastard girl for his casual words. The King had thought that his fascination with her would fade the longer they were apart. Of course, he’d hoped that at this time, the girl would be up north, with a husband to give her babies and keep her from getting into trouble. He didn’t like to look at her. She looked like Lyanna had, and it made him uncomfortable.

He only grunted in acknowledgement and turned to the rest of his councilors. “And where’s Varys?”

“I haven’t seen Varys in quite a few days, Your Grace,” Baelish rushed to tell him. Funny that Littlefinger was eager to tell him now, but hadn’t been so eager when he’d first noticed that eunuch missing.  

“And Renly departed for the front this morning.”

“I know that,” Robert growled. “I’m not that old yet.”

The door creaked open in the silence between his question, and he turned to see Ned enter, grim-faced. The man was colder than the Wall these days, but he was still his old friend Ned. And he was the only bloody man he trusted in this rotten court.

After Ned arrived, they settled down to business, even without the rest of his Council. He allowed himself to pay less attention as Gendry filled them all in on the attacks and explained the new hierarchy.

“We have new commanders, but, father, I’m needed out there.”

Robert turned to his son, “I want you here, boy. I don’t need my heir dying out on the battleground. And you’re useful here. You can help my Council.”

“Help your Council...what do you mean, Your Grace?”

“I mean he’ll take my place.”

“What?” Ned asked. “Robert, you can’t-”

“I bloody well can, Ned,” he growled. “I won’t stand by while those whoreson Targaryen’s tear my kingdom apart. I should’ve been out there fighting from the very beginning.”

“We’ll be without a King!” Ned snapped. “Robert, it’s out of the question.”

“You’ll remember who you’re speaking to, Ned. I killed Rhaegar with a massive blow from my hammer. His so-called son is no match for me!”

“He’s half your age, fitter, stronger, and he has dragons, Your Grace.”

Robert sputtered, furious that Ned would question him like this. The man he’d only moments ago declared was the only one left that he trusted. And he was calling him a fat old man. As if Robert wasn’t still one of the best warriors in this fucking country.

“I’m- All of you, out!” he shouted, glaring daggers at his old friend. Baelish and Pycelle and Ser Barristan all followed his orders, rushing out. But Gendry stayed put, the stubborn little arse. He looked worriedly between his father and Ned.

He’d been witness to their last fight, when Ned had threatened Joffrey, the little prick. Robert hadn’t disagreed. His second son was a little shit, but he couldn’t allow the man to threaten his family. Even if Joffrey had threatened little Sansa.

No doubt Gendry wished to intervene in a second falling out. Robert didn’t give a fuck. He wasn't nearly as mad as he was then, and he didn’t need Ned calling him weak in front of his son. “Out, boy!’ he roared.

Gendry bowed and dashed out of the room, red in the face with anger.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Robert barked. Both he and Ned stood from the table, facing each other.

“I’m making you think, Robert. Gendry’s a smart boy, but he’s not ready for the throne. Don’t thrust it at him in the middle of a war.”

“The boy’s got to learn somehow. And I belong out there on that battlefield.”

“No you don’t, Robert. We’re not as young as we used to be. We must leave the glory of battle to the young men of this generation. You and I must rule, not fight.”

Robert still simmered with impotent rage, still lusted for a good bit of blood, but he understood what Ned was saying. The damned bastard was right. He was always right, even when they were boys.

Robert sunk into his chair once more, letting out his breath. “What’s become of us, Ned?”

Ned mirrored him, sitting down himself, and Robert noticed, as if only suddenly, that Ned looked old. He imagined he must look the same- if not worse. “We’ve grown into the old men we made fun of as boys,” Ned answered.

“I was a strong, brave young warrior once. I was going to marry your beautiful sister and rule as Lord of Storm’s End. We were going to be good-brothers. Instead I got this damned crown, and I married Cersei fucking Lannister, the shrill bitch.”

“You chose that, Robert.”

He hung his head in shame. “I know. I know.”

But things had seemed so clear when he was a young man. He’d been mourning for Lyanna, and he’d thought Tywin Lannister and his damned daughter were the key to everything. Now he was surrounded by Lannisters, and he was sick of this. He was sick of everything.

“I won’t go to battle, Ned. But neither will Gendry. I meant what I said. He needs to sit on the Council. He needs to learn how to take my place. I won’t live forever.”

“Of course, Robert. We’ll teach him. Together.”

“He would have been your nephew. I could see it. There’s so little of Cersei in him. Not like the others.”

Ned looked at him, eyes alight, like he’d said something important. But Robert attributed that to memories of Lyanna. He stared down at his hands as his friend stood from the table.

“I need to return to the Tower. I’m awaiting word about Arya, Your Grace.”

“Of course.”

He didn’t even question his friend’s devotion to his bastard girl. Robert had half a dozen bastards at least. And he’d never even met most of them. But then, Ned had always been a better man than him.

Gendry had waited much too long to see his mother. Cersei turned her face so he could give him a kiss on her cheek, but she pursed her lips at him, forcing him to speak first.

“I’m sorry mother. Father wanted me to join the Small Council to update them on the war efforts.”

Cersei frowned even deeper. Robert shouldn’t have sent her son off to war in the first place. He was the heir to the Iron Throne. He shouldn’t be running about like a common soldier, where a stray arrow or spear could cut his life short.

“You had time to escort your betrothed. You should know better than to lie to your mother, Gendry.”

He bowed his head in acknowledgement, and she let her anger melt away in order to survey him.

“You’re alright?” she asked, voice softening. He looked up at her, his own frown remaining in place.

Her oldest son was a strong, silent man, and she doubted he’d ever share what was troubling him, but she had some idea. Jaime had told her once how terrifying battle could be. It shocked even the bravest of men. She was sure that Gendry suffered from the same shock. He shouldn't though. Her rage towards Robert increased tenfold.

“I escaped with fewer wounds than some, mother.”

Cersei was reminded of her father then. She’d felt odd when she’d heard of his death. Tywin had been a cruel, cold man, and there was no love lost between them, but Jaime suffered at his death, and part of her did as well. The only Lannister completely unaffected was Tyrion. But then, of course the little monster didn’t care. He’d inherited Casterly Rock. She wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that he’d orchestrated the entire thing.

“Yes. But the King was a fool to send you off at all.”

“Perhaps. But I don’t think he’ll allow me out into the field again. He and Lord Stark are having words about it right now.”

“Are they?” she asked, eyes lighting up at the implication. While Ned Stark and her husband were thick as thieves she had no influence over him. But when they quarreled, she could get things done. Mayhaps this was a good thing. She might be able to deal with the Tyrell problem.

“Mother...I was going to go look after Tommen and Myrcella. I’ve missed them quite a lot.”

She nodded her assent, pretending not to notice that Gendry pointedly left Joffrey out of his request. The two of them had never gotten along.

Cersei loved all of her children fiercely, but she did not love them all equally. Myrcella and Tommen were easy to love, truthfully. Myrcella reminded her so much of Jaime, and Tommen was such a sweet boy, sometimes it confounded her that he’d come from her womb. Gods knew she was not sweet.

But Joffrey and Gendry... Gendry was a good, solid boy, and he was always so open and honest, but he looked just like his father, and he had never depended on her very much. He’d admired that ridiculous busy-body Jon Arryn so greatly, and he’d been so close to Tyrion. And Joffrey...Sometimes he reminded her of herself, but sometimes she saw the wretched cruelty he possessed. She loved him so much, but she recognized that he was not a good boy.

Gendry had been her first child, and it wasn’t until she held him, looked into his red, wrinkled face and seen his pretty blue eyes that she realized how much a mother could love a child. But when she’d had Joffrey… He was a thing that she and Jaime had made together, and so he was sweeter, without the stain of Robert on him. How was she to know how he’d turn out?

Cersei sighed, taking a sip of her wine. She would not let that little Tyrell bitch trap Gendry in her vines. The girl reminded Cersei of herself at the same age. And Gendry was an honest boy. No. It wouldn’t do. For all that Cersei hated the Starks and resented what that beast had done to Joffrey, Sansa would have been a better match. She was a simple, romantic girl, and she had no more ambition than her stern, Northern father. She would have been much easier to handle.

And she knew that the Tyrells were not to be trusted. They were too clever not to have thought out their position in this war. Even now, they could be planning to switch sides, even if it meant allying with Dorne.

She took another sip of wine, trying to cease these thoughts. She listened to the tinkling of Tommen’s giggles as they drifted towards her from the garden. She could picture Gendry lifting the boy up and carrying him around so he felt like he was flying.

She would do anything to protect her children. And she knew that the Tyrells were a threat.

Arya’s time on the ship was surprisingly short. Apparently, they’d been there only temporarily. As soon as Aegon had dropped that heavy truth on her head, they’d told her that they were going to Sunspear. As Dorne was their most vocal and key ally in this war, besides their armies, obviously, it made sense that they’d be hosted by them, but Arya knew nothing about what to expect.

She’d done extensive reading on the open, free culture of Dorne, which allowed for far better treatment of bastards and mistresses- called paramours by the Dornish-  than was seen in most of the other Seven Kingdoms. But she knew nothing of the Martells besides their names. Reading about a culture was different than meeting the people.

It didn’t help that she was still in a state of shock. She put up little to no argument when Aegon bent and pulled her into his arms so he could take her off the boat. She couldn't walk yet, and she was rather busy staring, wide-eyed up at him, trying to pick apart his features and find one that she shared with him. She was dismayed to see that his nose looked incredibly familiar.

“Are you going to keep staring?” he asked gruffly. She swallowed hard. Shook her head, and turned away. But moments later her eyes were drawn back to his face.

She couldn’t help it if she was a bit confused. Arya had lived her whole life knowing just a few things. She knew her family, she knew her name, and she knew that she was a bastard. Of course there was more than that, but those three things were the most important. But all of that had changed. Every single one of those facts were no longer true.

Men in Targaryen colors, a few armored old men that Arya had never seen before, and that rotten septa all went to land with them, forming an entourage behind the three of them. A silent entourage. Arya didn’t bother demanding any introductions. She didn’t really care to meet them.

They reached land quickly, and a group of people with dark coloring- some that Arya recognized from the Red Keep- stood before them in a courtyard. There, there was Oberyn Martell, and Trystane Martell, and the pretty young woman must be Arianne. So maybe she knew more about these Dornishmen than she’d first thought.

Aegon slowly lowered her until she was standing on her own two feet, making the height disparagement between the two of them even more pronounced. She and Daenerys stood on either side of him. Arya saw the message this might send, putting him front and center. Considering she barely knew these people, that she was a captive, she didn’t truly care who the Martells thought was in charge. But...Aegon had deferred to his aunt several times. It made her half-wonder who was truly in charge.

“Your Grace,” a man in a wheeled chair called out. Aegon, still holding her shoulder, stepped forward and nodded in greeting.

“Prince Doran. I must offer my thanks. You were kind to offer to host us. All of us.”

“Of course,” Prince Doran answered. He was grey haired and something about him reminded her very suddenly of her father. Of course, he looked nothing like Ned, they were as different as North and South could be, but he looked, however it sounded, quiet. She couldn’t describe the feeling, but she could tell he was a man of few, but measured, words.

The people around him bowed low, and Arya almost stepped back in shock. Of course, Aegon’s hand on her stopped that, but the sight of people bowing before her was highly unsettling.

“We’ve spoken before, but I don’t believe Princess Daenerys has been formally introduced to you or your house.” He gestured to his aunt, who smiled warmly, offering her own small nod.

“Your beauty and your strength in battle have already reached us, but it is excellent to meet you,” Prince Doran said after a pause, his voice thoughtful. “This is my own family,” he continued, gesturing towards the people surrounding him.

“My daughter, Princess Arianne Martell, and her brother’s Quentyn and Trystane.” His children stepped forward. The boy she’d recognized before was Trystane Martell, just as the young woman was Arianne Martell. Arya had never seen the older boy. He was plain looking, and he frowned at them deeply, while at least the rest of the Martell’s offered smiles, whether they were kind or not.

Another man, perhaps a few years younger than the Prince stepped forward. “I am Prince Oberyn Martell, Your Grace,” he bowed to Daenerys for a second time, brown eyes sparkling, white teeth flashing with a smile.

The next few introductions interested Arya for several reasons. First, Oberyn Martell introduced his paramour, Ellaria Sand, just as he would a wife. Second, he introduced his bastard daughters- all of them were daughters- just as proudly. They were presented right alongside his brother’s high-born children. They weren’t hidden away so as not to offend their king.

She respected these Dornish customs more and more. And she’d like to like these people. But she had to remind herself that she was a captive. They had taken her from the Red Keep against her will, and theirs were the very armies that threatened her family's lives.

A heavy silence descended on the two groups as Arya realized she’d yet to be introduced. It occurred to her that the Martell’s had a few reasons not to like her. If the way Aegon told the story was true, her Aunt Lyanna- her mother- had seduced their sister’s husband and given him another child. She was a stain on Elia Martell’s marriage.

“And this is my sister, Arya...Targaryen,” he stumbled over the name, but did not stop. “We’ve only just met her ourselves, actually.”

The Martells were silent for a long, painful moment, and Arya could guess what they were thinking.

But then Prince Oberyn smiled. “Elia would not allow us to turn away your sister, Your Grace, even if it was not the one she would have expected.”

Aegon seemed to relax a little, and the smile he wore suddenly seemed much sincerer, as if he’d been prepared, before, for disappointment.

“We’ve prepared a feast to welcome you to Sunspear,” Prince Doran announced. “We’ve readied rooms so you could prepare for it beforehand. The guards hall are open to your men”

“Thank you, once again,” Aegon said. But the Prince only shook his head, offering him a smile.

“A servant will take you to your accommodations.”

After polite goodbyes between the Martells and the Targaryens, a pair of grooms came forward to lead them to said rooms, their entourage  following closely behind them. When they reached the chambers, all lines up down a single corridor, Aegon ordered all of them- save his men-at-arms, who sent to the guard’s hall- into his own rooms.

“Arya, it’s best if we speak to you beforehand,” he explained as they all piled into the room. It was nicely appointed, and not small exactly, but nine people made it feel a little cramped. She found his actions odd. Her father and Robb would never do something like this. It was inappropriate to bring all of your servants into your private chamber simply to speak to them.

“First, I think there are some introductions that need to be made,” Daenerys cut in. “She doesn’t know them, Aegon. It could make her feel a bit more comfortable. Right, Arya?” she asked.

“I’d feel much more comfortable if I hadn’t been abducted,” she replied, but there was no real bite behind her words.

“This is Jon Connington,” Aegon said, sending her an off look. She recognized the name. She thought he might have been a loyalist during the rebellion, but he didn’t look particularly familiar. He had bright red hair and a smattering of equally red stubble on his chin. He could have been a bit older than her father. “He was my father’s greatest friend, and he’s advised me well.”

The man looked at her with distrust and suspicion, but he still gave her a small bow.

“This is Haldon,” he continued, gesturing to the aging man, hair tied tightly away from his face, in the robes of a maester. Notably missing, however, was a Maester’s Chain. “He is our Maester. Or, half-maester,” he corrected, sending Haldon a sly grin.

“Princess,” Haldon said. She blushed at the title, ready to tell him she was no princess, but Aegon didn’t pause.

“Rolly Duckfield, the first member of my Kingsguard.” he told her, indicating the ginger-haired, brawny knight tucked away behind Lord Connington.

Next was the very, very fat man covered in jewels, with a well-oiled, forked beard. “Illyrio Mopatis had always been one of our staunchest financial supporters. Truly, he hosted me for the first few years of my life.”

“But even though Aegon stopped after Illyrio, there was still a member left. The Septa Arya had soured to so quickly stood silently near the door, watching with shining eyes.

“What about her?” she prompted. Aegon’s face flickered for a moment, but she couldn’t tell what emotion he tried to conceal. His face was much too new for her to read.

“I call myself Septa Lemore now, but I told you that. Once, I had a different name.”

“What was it?” she asked impatiently.

“Ashara Dayne.”

Arya gasped, eyes going wide. “But-”

“Yes, I know. The tales of me, now, they say I killed myself, and perhaps I let them think that for a reason, so that I could protect dear Elia’s babe and keep him safe while Robert ravaged the Seven Kingdoms.”

Arya stared at the woman in wonder. She’d spent so long under the impression that if her mother wasn’t some nameless whore or kitchen wench, she just might be Ashara Dayne. It didn’t matter that now she’d been told her mother was her dead Aunt Lyanna, because Ashara Dayne was the mother of her fantasies.

“I...I thought you were my mother,” she admitted, voice small. “That’s what everyone thought.”

Ashara nodded, giving her a sad smile. “I only knew Ned Stark a short while...but I loved him dearly the entire time. I did not bear him a child. It wasn't meant to be, I’m afraid.”

She shook her head. It seemed like too many shocks in such a short period of time. She felt light-headed and weary.

“I-” she began, but she could find no words.

“It’s a lot to take in,” Daenerys acknowledged, but Arya knew that.

“Princess, what they’ve told you is true. Ned and I encountered each other. He sought shelter with me, near Starfall, both of us with very important babes in our arms. I was going to board a ship to Essos with little Aegon, to take him as far away from the Iron Throne as was safe. And Ned carried Lyanna’s child with him. He came to me weeping, he and Howland Reed, explaining that his poor sister was dead. He had her body, as well, the poor man. He explained that protecting the little girl in his arms was the last promise he’d made to his sister. He called her Arya and said he’d name her his bastard. If she had purple eyes he’d leave people to think she was my child. I wouldn’t be there to contradict him, either. You are Arya Targaryen, my dear.”

She stared at the false septa through eyes blurred with tears. She couldn’t help the tears that fell upon her cheeks. To discover her mother just to find that the woman was long dead was heartbreaking. It was so bloody unfair. Princess or not, she was an orphan. It was absolutely no substitute for knowing her mother and father.

She turned to Aegon, heart aching, grief stricken, and she hugged him. He was a strange man, he’d kidnapped her, and he led the army that threatened her family, but...but this was her brother. He true brother. It appeared that she’d always only have half-siblings, but still. She pulled him to her tightly, and even though he hesitated, Arya still felt his arms slide around her, felt his chin nestle on top of her head. She was so wrapped up in him that she didn’t hear the door open and close on Aegon's makeshift small council.

Mayhaps this was irrational, and at a later time, she’d analyze this, but at this moment, Arya let herself stop thinking. She let the tears fall, and she clung to him.

Chapter Text

No More Hiding 

There were no men from Riverrun. Sansa tried to stamp down her fear. A part of her, a childish part, had hoped that her mother would be coming to save her, but Catelyn’s letter didn’t come with knight’s in silver armor ready to protect her from the big bad world- a world which now included her husband.

Sansa, my heart breaks for you. My dearest child, I wish you’d never experienced such a thing. I would send men if I could, dear one, but we cannot risk taking you from Dorne. Robb won't hear it, and your Uncle Edmure will not hear it. But I assure you, you’ll be safe in Starfall, and Robert will surely pardon you when the war is won and done. He cannot blame you for doing your duty to your husband.

But, perhaps for the first time, Sansa knew her mother was wrong. Perhaps Catelyn was only assuring her safety because she wasn’t allowed to send men for her- her mother had made it clear that her brother and her Uncle had forbid it- but Sansa could not hear this. So she wrote another letter.

Sansa would not wait in Starfall, where it might or might not be safe. She would take her fate into her own hands.

She prayed to the mother before she sent her next letter, hoping that or words would reach the God’s ear, and turn her words into what she needed them to be. She wrote to the reach, to Margaery’s family, imploring them to rescue her. She’d taken up correspondence with Margaery’s eldest brother Willas, during the very depths of her fall from grace, just after the fall-out from the incident with Joffrey, and before she married Ned. She’d kept it up even after she was married, finding Willas very clever.

She hoped that she’d become enough of a friend to him for the request to even be considered. And if that was too much to ask for, she prayed that he’d at least find some political advantage.

In the meanwhile, Sansa prepared herself for flight. She packed a few of her things, trying to keep in inconspicuous. She also began dismissing her maids, until the only girl left to attend her was a particularly loyal young girl who’d she’d always been fond of. While she wouldn’t dare to tell the girl her plan, she felt safer than the others.

She considered replying to her mother, explaining her new plan, but thought better of it. Better not to alert anyone who might try to talk her out of it. Her nerves were frayed as it was.

It had occurred to her previously that her actions might be a result of her ordeal. It made sense that such a loss might make a woman act erratically, but she didn’t look kindly upon her motives being questioned- even by her own mind- and so she cut that thread of thought off before it could continue to unravel. She had to steel herself for this. There could be no room for doubt.

Arya Snow- Arya Targaryen-  was a fierce girl. Aegon was sure of this, even as he held her while she wept. The small bits of fierceness he’d seen previously confirmed everything that Varys had relayed about her.

Her arrival in King’s Landing had been a major factor in the time frame for their attack. If she hadn’t appeared, they probably wouldn’t have waited much longer, but he’d wanted to hold off until he was sure of where she was. They’d had a vague idea beforehand, that she was in the Stormlands. Not exactly safe. But Varys had sent word immediately after her appearance in the capital.

 Growing up with Ashara, he’d asked his foster mother about his family, and along with his parents and his elder sister, Aegon asked about her. She told him all she could, that she was a girl with dark hair, and that she was his sister. But that was about it. He’d spent night picturing his family, and she was right there along with Elia Martell, Rhaegar Targaryen, and poor little Rhaenys. As a man severely lacking in family, Aegon found himself incredibly protective of what he did have, and he’d known vaguely of Arya since he was a little boy.  The fact that the girl had been living as a bastard upset him.

He’d moved away from this yearning, the older he got, and Daenerys had helped somewhat to fulfill his need for familial attachments. But having Arya here…

Connington had been confounded by Aegon’s obsession- as he referred to it- with finding his final family member. He didn’t understand that Aegon needed Arya if he was going to win the war. Daenerys understood, though. She knew that the dragon must have three heads. And Arya was that third head.

She wasn’t all he’d been expecting. She didn’t look like a Targaryen at all. He recognized her nose, a bit, and if you looked at her eyes just right, you might call them lilac, but she was no Targaryen. But she was beautiful in her own way. And she was fierce as any dragon.

He knew that Arya would be an amazing dragonrider. But he also knew that she’d take some convincing.

Suddenly, Arya moved in his arms, pulling away so she could look into his face.

“This doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten about the kidnapping,” she said. He could tell she was trying to sound cross, but her lips turned up at the corner. She was doing it again, the staring thing, where her big eyes scanned his face, looking like they could see into her soul.

“We must prepare for the feast,” he said, reluctantly dropping his arms and stepping back. It felt wrong, letting go of her, after waiting so long to meet her. He’d been fearful, on the ship, that she’d hate him, that she’d look past the blessing of gaining family and focus on the well...the abduction. Perhaps it hadn’t been the best approach…

Her lips stopped curling up. “I won’t help you hurt my family,” she told him. “Mayhaps you deserve the throne more than King Robert and his Lannister lions, but I won’t help you kill for it.”

He nodded, not willing to press the issue at the moment. He didn’t want to ruin this. “I believe Daenerys has a gown you may wear.”

Arya made a face. “I’ll never escape the gowns, will I?”

He laughed, but said nothing. With a half-hearted roll of her eyes, Arya withdrew from the room. He hoped she’d go to Daenerys.

Aegon wasn’t sure if there was a danger that Arya would run away- they’re first meeting had been mere hours ago, he remembered- so he advised his men, even before she’d awakened, to keep a very sharp eye on her. He could just hear Connington’s voice in his head You don’t know this woman, Aegon, sister or not. And he was correct in that. But he liked to believe that blood could win out.

After a few minutes, Aegon called his entourage back in. They had been loitering in the hallway, of course, but they’d remained close by in the extended rooms made for servants. It rankled that such people would be relegated to servant accommodations, but he had to remember that even their allies didn’t know their true identities yet. Aegon would rectify that tonight.

Jon began speaking even before he was full inside the room. “Letting her roam the hallways by herself, Your Grace? We don’t know this girl. I know she’s your sister, but she’s a stranger all the same,” he growled.

“I know, Jon, I know. But she was only going to Daenerys’s rooms so my aunt could help her dress for dinner.”

“Ned Stark is a good man, and I’m sure he raised Arya well, Jon,” Ashara demurred.

“Yes, yes, I’m sure she’s loyal and honest. But that only means that she won’t turn traitor, even if it means becoming a princess.”

“It means she’ll value family above anything else,” Ashara countered. “Besides, she seems clever enough to realize that she can’t escape the Martell’s hall. One unarmed girl against a castle full of men-at-arms?”

Aegon shook his head. “She’ll stay. I know it. It’s...the other things, she’ll need to be convinced of.”

“You wanted her to be your third, Your Grace,” Jon pointed out.

“In time, she’ll see.”

“We don’t have time. Rhaegal becomes more and more unmanageable each day. You say she needs a rider, Your Grace,” Illyrio piped up for the first time, looking more than a little panicked.

“Perhaps…” Ashara began, but she paused, face thoughtful.

“Yes?” Jon goaded her, looking impatient.

“Explain the situation to her. Tell her the truth, that if Rhaegal goes untamed for much longer, it’s a far greater risk than anything she could do on dragonback.”

Aegon smiled. He wanted to grab her, spin her around, and kiss her on both cheeks. Ashara had a great knack for solving Aegon’s hardest problems. It was one of the reasons he loved her so dearly.

“Genius! I’ll speak to Daenerys tonight about it, and tomorrow. Tomorrow we can call the dragons to Sunspear.”

Arya stared at herself in the looking glass, feeling quite disarmed. Daenerys had a fairly foreign fashion sense. Everything that Arya knew about modesty had been learned in the North, and truthfully, between the Dornish and Daenerys, Arya felt like the only one balking at all of the exposed skin.

It felt odd, being the only one concerned about propriety. She suddenly felt a very small sliver of sympathy for Catelyn Stark.

The gown consisted of several layers of long, gauzy fabrics. The first layer was deep blue, but the underlayer was gold. It hung from the shoulders, in knots, leaving an uncomfortable amount of her chest uncovered, along with her entire arm. She’d never been this exposed before, barring when she washed herself.

“I can’t be seen in this! It’s indecent.”

Daenerys sent her a look. Of course, the dress she wore was in the same style.

“Not- not on you,” she amended, blushing terribly. “You look beautiful.”

“I have a varied wardrobe, but things like how we dress are very important, Arya. I’m wearing this because it is similar to how the Dornish women dress. We must find common ground with them. They’re our only allies, at the moment.”

She nodded, as if she understood, but Arya thought it was a little silly. As if how she dressed would make or break the war effort, would save her or anyone she loved. But perhaps Daenerys knew better than she did in this matter.

She kept the dress on. It was that or her dusty, dirty breeches and tunic.

Dorne was warm, but she still rubbed at her arms. It felt unnatural, being so bare to the world. Unfortunately, she had no time to adjust. Just after Daenerys had helped her bundle her wild hair into a passable knot at the back of her neck, a knock came at the door.

“You look quite nice, Arya,” Daenerys promised, stepping away and towards the door.

“Well you look beautiful,” Arya laughed. Arya might manage quite nice, if she wore foreign dresses and hid how tangled her hair was, but she’d never be beautiful. Margaery Tyrell was beautiful; Sansa was beautiful...Daenerys Targaryen was beautiful. Arya was...fierce and brave, when she could be. That was why Gendry and she… Because who could choose Arya over Margaery Tyrell based solely on beauty?

“Why thank you!” Daenerys exclaimed, smiling warmly. But the compliment meant little to someone like her. Of course she was beautiful. She had to know that. She stepped out into the hall completely unaffected, stepping to the side to allow Arya to follow.

Their fellows waited there, Aegon at the head, redressed in a formal version of his previous clothes. They reminded her a little of how the Lannister men dressed, with the fitted coat and the odd collar, but his seemed...finer, somehow.

He looked at her and smiled slightly. “I’ve been told by various sources that it’s very hard to get you to wear a dress,” he pointed out, looking smug.

“Yes. I may be stubborn, but I’m not stupid. I’m not the sort to say no to dragons.”

She ignored the fact that she was suddenly one of those dragons. He offered her his arm, and she wanted to refuse. He and Daenerys would make such a pretty pair, striding into the hall together. But she didn’t know how to politely refuse, so she laid her hand gently on his forearm. Daenerys joined arms with Lord Connington, and Arya couldn’t help but feel bad.

In a way, Arya had replaced Daenerys. The woman was still a Targaryen Princess, still a dragon, but she was no longer next in line. Arya was Rhaegar Targaryen’s daughter. By Westerosi law, she came after Aegon in the succession. She blanched when she realized this, and tried to remind herself to talk to them about that after the feast. She needed to put a stop to that if she could, if she needed to.

Under this new weight, Arya barely paid any attention to their walk. And so they processed towards the feast hall with Arya unprepared for the sheer amount of people. The Martell’s weren’t the only noble families in attendance. It looked like most of the Dornish houses were present. It made sense, of course. These people would want to know the King they were supporting. They’d want to assure themselves they weren’t getting another Mad King.

A servant rushed forward at their arrival into their ante-chamber.

“Your Graces! Prince Doran and his family will be along very shortly!” he squeaked, looking absolutely terrified. Arya tried to offer a kind smile, but he dropped his eyes as soon as he noticed she was looking at him.

It felt odd, seeing this man so frightened of her. She was just her. She was just Arya. But now that meant she was Princess Arya Targaryen.

Her smile shriveled.

Aegon nodded his acknowledgement of the servant, but no one had a chance to raise any complaints, because moments later, Prince Doran wheeled in with his children and his brother in tow. The Sand Snakes, Prince Oberyn’s daughters, were not included, which disappointed Arya, but she was sure it was only because they were not sitting with them at the high table.

With the arrival of the Martell’s the procession into the hall could start, which would signal the beginning of the feast. Arya and Aegon would walk in first and take the two seats of honor, a fact that made Arya highly uncomfortable. Next would come Daenerys and Prince Doran, and the rest of their companions would fall in line behind them. This was explained to them quickly by the same extremely nervous servant. Arya assumed he was not used to this sort of event as he could have been. When was the last time Dorne had housed a King or Queen? Perhaps before this steward could grow a beard.

As the procession began, the hall fell silent. The crowd of people quieted almost unnaturally fast. It was then she noticed that most of these faces were male. It only took a few seconds for her to piece together what that meant. The forces attacking the Kingsmen in the Stormlands were Dothraki- how they’d been convinced to join to the campaign Arya had yet to learn- and a few soldiers who could have been sellswords. But no Dornish had appeared yet.

These were the commanders, the generals, the soldiers of the Dornish armies. These were the men who would fight for Aegon and Daenerys. This was their army. Well, some of it, anyway.

She only saw a few of the Dornish ladies- or who she presumed to be Dornish ladies. A part of her, a part she’d only just realized was there, was hoping to find Sansa in this hall. But the red-headed girl was not there.

Arya released a heavy sigh. Did that mean Sansa was tucked away somewhere in Dorne, safe from the fighting? She hoped so.

Aegon helped her up the steps of the raised dais and pulled out her chair for her. She sat down nervously, wringing her hands in her lap, as he sat down beside her. This felt wrong. She yearned to run, to escape before she ended up doing something she regretted. She didn't want to care about her long-lost brother, because that put the brother’s she’d grown up with in danger.

She certainly didn’t want to sit here in this dress and look pretty so these people could hurt Gendry, or Robb, or anyone in King’s Landing. But she was already sitting, and Aegon kept glancing at her like he couldn’t believe she was real.

Neither could she.

Margaery Tyrell was frightened. It pained her terribly to admit it, but the young princess-to-be worried that Queen Cersei would kill them all before she was ever wed.

She hadn’t repeated her threat of course. The Lannister crone knew that once a threat was made, it was best to let it fester, so she hadn’t needed to repeat herself. But there were other things. The woman was acting erratically, drinking from dawn to dusk, and keeping her children practically imprisoned in her rooms with her.

Margaery found almost no time that Gendry wasn’t attending to his mother. If he wasn’t with the Queen, Gendry was in the Small Council rooms. It was irritating, but more so, it was frightening.

It was one thing when Cersei only seemed jealous or hateful. But this new paranoia wasn’t anything her grandmother was used to. The Tyrell’s dealt with cunning enemies, not mad ones. Plus, Olenna had confided in her a particularly chilling rumor. Queen Cersei had made some inquiries with some unknown parties about obtaining wildfire. That did not bode well.

 There was also the minor problem of veritable chaos at court. Most of the nobles had left, leaving only the closest, richest, and stupidest families in King’s Landing, with little to no supervision. In times like these, Queen Cersei should have stepped in, but there was no chance of that happening.

These people were sheep, waiting to be led. But the shepherds were busy with things that were a little more pressing.

Margaery could think of a millions things more pressing, actually. But, she knew how to twist a situation to benefit her. They were at war. It was prudent to remember that. And no one was hurt worse by war than the smallfolk. So, killing two birds with one stone, Margaery began organizing a charity outing for several of the young ladies at court, making sure everything ran smoothly and the orphanages of King’s Landing benefitted just as much as her reputation did.

It was there that she realized the rocky ground they were all standing on. The whispers of the urchins on the streets suffering as the little food they already had was gathered up to feed the armies, as well as the merchants who saw massive drops in profit as all trade with Dorne stopped, told her two things.

One, King Robert was not loved by his subjects. They saw him as a fat, greedy old man, controlled by the Lannisters, who’d stolen the throne from the good, kind Targaryens. They forgot so easily Mad King Aerys.

Two, the whispers ceased when you threw a few dragons their way.

She wondered if Varys bothered to tell his King that his people cheered for every Targaryen victory, hoping they’d fell the Lannister’s and the fat old King.

Margaery came back from her trip into the city feeling even worse. She quickly made her way to her grandmother’s makeshift throne, in their private garden. The younger cousins, the pretty, empty-headed things, hurried away when Olenna gave a flick of her hand.

“What is it, my dear?’ the old woman asked, displaying a rare bit of tenderness for her favorite family member.

She sank into the chair beside her grandmother and thought through her words. “I’m sure you already know, grandmother, but I’ve been out in the city.”

“Visiting the slums with all those little ninnies. Your father told me,” Olenna confirmed, wrinkling her nose. Not at the slums, Margaery was sure, but at her father.

“I heard the words they speak; the house they support.”

“You heard that they wish for a Targaryen victory? Of course they do. They forget what life was like under King Aerys, but they know life under the thumb of the Lannister’s must be worse.”

“But we can change that. I’m going to marry the Prince. If we shift their view- If we make them think that we have much more say than the Lannisters-”

“We will still not have the power they do, whether the smallfolk think we do or not.”

“Well then, what can be done?”

“About the support of the smallfolk? Probably nothing. But if we want a head up on those bloody lions, we’ll need to be assured of our safety, whoever wins this war.”

“What do you-” Margaery began, but then it dawned on her. It was no shock. Her grandmother had proposed far worse forms of treason before. “We’ll play both sides?”

“If you don't marry a Baratheon king, we’ll get a Targaryen king instead,” Olenna answered smartly.

“How will we manage this? Won’t they want a show of support?”

“We need only make our interest in their cause known. We could write them.”

“But they are supported by Dorne, grandmother,” she warned. The Reach had quite a hatred for their southern neighbors.

“Foolish rivalry. I won’t let it kill our house,” she dismissed easily.

Margaery felt herself smile. If the Queen of Thorns felt this plan was a smart one, well, who was she to question her, truly.

The Targaryen’s were an impressive sight. It was obvious from their first meeting that they were a unique group. Aegon, the young, handsome warrior with silver-blonde hair falling to his shoulders, a short beard of darker blonde outlining his jaw. Arianne had been struck by his looks, and secondly, by the way he carried himself. He held his shoulders proudly, not afraid to speak before them. A true king. Not like the bumbling fool sitting the throne now.

And Daenerys, the short, gorgeous woman whose hair matched his exactly. She held herself much the same, with that Targaryen pride. She may be the daughter of Mad King Aerys, but her face was a calmly intelligent one. No spark of madness lit her eyes. They both inspired confidence and loyalty. Of course, even if they’d been less than perfect, her father and her uncle would still fight for them. They were ready to serve their nephew and win him back his throne.

The third Targaryen presented was a bit of a shock. Arianne had recognized something in the girl's face, even if she’d never seen her before. But it had not prepared her for the way her father looked when attention was called to her. The air was tense around them.

Her name was Arya, apparently. She was only a little taller than her aunt Daenerys, with long, dark brown hair and a steely, steady gaze. She didn’t look very much like a Targaryen, in all honesty. She was pretty, albeit in an unconventional way, her eyes too large and her nose too long to be considered beautiful in the usual sense. 

She could not immediately understand just why the air was so tense around them, and then she realized how she knew that face. That was a Stark face. A northern face. This was the daughter that Rhaegar Targaryen had gotten from long dead Lyanna Stark. She’d heard the stories from her Uncle Oberyn. The Silver Prince had dishonored Dorne and earned the ire of the North in one fell swoop.

A rather daring move on the part of the Targaryens. She held her breath, waiting to see how her father would react.

 But Prince Oberyn stepped in before he could, welcoming the girl warmly. She wondered how genuine his words were.

After they’d sent the Targaryens off to their rooms, the Martells moved as one to her father’s solar.

“That was Lyanna Stark’s daughter?” Arianne had asked, voice quiet.

Oberyn’s viper eyes had hidden any emotion, but she knew he’d be truthful. “That was Aegon Targaryen’s sister.”

And that had settled it.

Now, sitting diagonally across from the girl at dinner, Arianne couldn’t take her eyes away. Her uncle had told her that she looked remarkably like her mother. She could see why someone could love her, but she couldn’t see starting a rebellion over Arya Stark’s odd beauty.

 Conversation around her was stilted. Daenerys and Aegon seemed rather eloquent, and Arianne found herself laughing at some of Princess Daenerys’s quips, but Princess Arya was silent, muscles tense.

“Prince Doran,” Aegon announced. He may be addressing her father, but the way he spoke made it clear he wanted everyone’s attention. She turned to him. “I must admit, I neglected to introduce some of my people.”

Her father tilted his head questioningly, but stayed characteristically quiet.

“Among my party are two people of high-birth. My advisor, Lord Jon Connington, I’m sure you know. He was a great friend to my father.”

After a moment of shocked silence, her father nodded his head to the red-haired man at the end of the table.

“And…” Aegon’s expression changed, only for a second, but she missed the emotion it displayed. She cursed her inattention.  “This is Lady Ashara Dayne.”

This time the quiet lasted much longer, and it extended much further than the high table. Aegon had unconsciously raised his voice as he presented the beautiful dark-haired woman in septa’s robes. The entire room of Dornish vassals had heard her storied name. The woman’s cheek burst with color, but she kept herself composed.

“Lady Dayne?’ her father asked, eyebrows so high she thought they might disappear into his hairline.

“Yes, Your Highness,” Lady Ashara Dayne said, bowing her head slightly. “I- I must apologize for this...deception. But, you see, I was tasked by your sister to protect her son with my life. I couldn’t very well hide him while they searched for me.”

No one had a reply to that. No one, it seemed, except Princess Arya. “It seems that all of us have been forced to hide and lie to keep our lives.”

She sounded sad. She sounded bitter, and Arianne looked at her for the first time with something other than apprehension. Too busy comparing her to her brother and her aunt, Arianne had forgotten that the girl had been raised a bastard. At least they’d known their true names. She’d thought herself base-born.

“Too true,” Aegon agreed, looking down at his sister sympathetically. Arianne saw true affection there.

He raised his glass, casting his voice out once more. “I propose a toast, tonight, my dear friends and allies!”

They mirrored him.

“To House Targaryen, to Dorne, and to Lady Dayne. No more hiding!”

“No more hiding!” Arianne called out with the rest of them, his words soaring through her. The south had hidden their rage against Robert Baratheon and his Lannister masters for far too long.

No more hiding indeed.

Chapter Text

Here Be Betrayal

After the revelation of Ashara’s identity, the Dornishmen had been surprisingly calm. It spoke to the trust they had in him, and it was incredibly encouraging. Jon had told him since he was a boy, that while the people lived in fear of King Aerys, they truly loved Prince Rhaegar. His father was a man capable of inspiring love in his people.

For the first time, he knew the trust of his followers. The Dothraki and the Golden Company fought for him because of his promises of rewards. But these men and their foot soldiers were fighting for him. They wanted to win him his throne back. It was a powerful thing.

As the music was struck up, notes carrying high through the air, the dancing began, giving everyone a chance to step away from their tables and speak to one another. There weren’t enough women for everyone to be partnered, but it was no trouble.

Ashara had stood up and moved through the crowd, greeting people and stopping to speak at every turn. Daenerys had struck up a conversation with a mixed group of minor lords and ladies, and the Martell’s all mingled easily.

Aegon knew he should be speaking to his men, moving through the room and trying to speak to everyone he could, but Arya sat, stiff in her chair, making no move to rise.

“Are you alright?” he finally asked.

“Feasts look different from up here,” she answered simply, voice tight with...with something . He cursed the fact that he didn’t know her well enough to understand what might be troubling her. “If I was permitted to feasts…” she trailed off, but he saw a hardness appear in her light eyes, and she pressed on, “If Lady Catelyn allowed me to sit at feasts, I sat at a lower table, with the servants.”

He was surprised she would share this with him. Obviously, being a bastard had hurt her. She needn’t admit that to him. But he was grateful she had. He placed a light hand on her arm. “I’m sorry.”

She stared at him in shock. “You wandered the free cities as an exile. At least I had a home.”

He shook his head, chuckling. “I don’t think we should hold a competition on who had it worst, sister. Our Aunt would win, no matter how hard we suffered,”

She quirked her head at him.

“Her brother, our Uncle Viserys was a dreadful man. He… He sold her to a Dothraki chief when she was young. He had no idea she’d be safe with him, but he did it anyway. After he died, Daenerys and the horse lord grew to love each other. And then he died,”

She gasped. He nodded, frowning. “We have the support of the Dothraki for two reasons. One, I have promised them wealth beyond imagining for their help. And two, they fight in Khal Drogo’s memory, for his fierce dragon widow.”

Arya’s eyes sought out their aunt, fascination and wonder apparent, and Aegon smiled proudly. Aunt Daenerys was quite the woman.

“Arya,” he said, suddenly forgetting his smile. “You are no bastard. You never were a bastard. You’re a princess, and this is where you belong. No one may take that from you.”

Not even king Robert.

He spent the rest of the night trying to get his sister to journey from her chair. He managed to get her to travel off of the dais by enticing her with the presence of the Sand Snakes. It hadn’t been hard to see the way she’d been looking at them earlier that day.

She met them with a twinkle in her eyes. Aegon was delighted at how she reacted to them.         

“Nymeria!’ she exclaimed, grinning. “I named my direwolf Nymeria!”

“A direwolf?” Nymeria Sand responded, sounding incredulous. “You have a direwolf?”

“All the Stark children do. Our father… Lord Stark found a litter of them in the forests north of Winterfell. Their mother had died. There was a pup for each of his children. And I received the smallest of the litter. She’s a beautiful beast,” she said, smiling affectionately.

Aegon had heard about the huge monsters the Stark children called pets. He’d known that Arya had one. The court of King’s Landing had a few choice things to say about these beasts. But he hadn’t realized how much she cared about her wolf. It saddened him that he’d forced her to leave the wolf.

“That’s mad, Lady Nymeria told her seriously.

Elia Sand snorted. “I think it’s perfectly logical. What better weapon than a giant fucking wolf?”

“Elia!” Tyene chided half-heartedly, but she looked interested in the concept of a giant wolf as well.

Elia gave Aegon a quick bow of deference and a muttered apology, but her heart wasn’t in it. He waved it away with a grin. He was just happy that Arya was enjoying herself.

Once they’d entered into a very enthusiastic discussion about weaponry, he felt confident enough to withdraw and start making his rounds. But first, he needed to talk to his aunt.

It was a challenge drawing Daenerys away from her audience, but when he did, he bowed his head so he could lower his voice.

“Aunt, it is imperative we speak after the feast.”

“Is there something wrong, Aegon?” she asked, sounding concerned.

“No. No. But we’ve thought up a solution to our Rhaegal problem.”

Her eyes lit up. “What?”

“Not here,” he said, shaking his head.

She glanced at him, eyes alight with concern, but she didn’t press him for details.

Still, Aegon felt her gaze on him for the rest of the night, as he moved about the hall, speaking to these men who’d pledged themselves to fight for him. He was disappointed when the night began to wind down, but he had to admit that the prospect of getting into bed and sleeping the next few months away was intriguing. He’d been tormented by a distinct lack of sleep since the beginning of this war.

But there were other things to attend to before he could rest. He deposited Arya off at her door and waited until she’d closed the thick wood before he continued on to Daenerys’s room.

“Aegon, what is it,” she exclaimed, as soon as he’d crossed the threshold.

He grinned at her. “I’ve kept you in suspense, haven’t I, Dany?”

“Don’t call me that when I’m mad at you,” she commanded good-naturedly.

He sat down at her small carved table, pouring himself a cup of Dornish wine. “It’s about Arya. And...Rhaegal.”

His aunt’s smile faded slowly and she joined him at the table. “What about them?”

“Ashara thinks we should explain to Arya how dangerous Rhaegal is without a rider. He’s arguably more dangerous without  her than with her. If we could only get her to agree to ride him, I think we might sway her.”

Daenerys stared at him for a moment without speaking. He stared back. Finally she spoke. “You mean to threaten her in order to win her over?”

“Threaten her? I mean to warn her!” he exclaimed, voice rising in his rush to defend himself.

“You’ll make a veiled threat, you’ll convince her that the only way to save her loved ones is to do as we say.”

“No! It’s not a lie , Dany. If she doesn’t master Rhaegal quickly he could-”

“It’s not as dire as they all think. I have control of Rhaegal. Arya doesn’t need to-”

“But she does . Don’t you understand? The dragon must have three heads .”

The prophecy hadn’t always mean this much to him. It had been a half-formed cluster of words in his mind, a memory he didn’t care to recall, but then he’d met Daenerys. She told him of her dreams, of his father. And suddenly it meant something. Arya was the key to this. She was important for plenty of reasons, but this one was what would make the difference between becoming king or dying on the battlefield.

Daenerys’s face fell. She understood. He knew she did. “It’s not the right way, Aegon. If we force her hand, she might betray us.”

“She couldn’t. Besides, I have no intention of killing her family. The Starks may have rebelled, but they suffered greatly under the Mad King. Even we can admit that.”

“And what if she wants you to spare them all? What if she can’t bare the death of even Robert Baratheon?”

He had no response. Aegon was sure she wouldn’t ask that… But how far would she go? He didn’t know who she loved, who she couldn’t bare losing. He couldn’t imagine there were many. For truth, he didn’t have many people he cared that much about. Neither had he had a very traditional childhood, though.

“I intend to call the dragons to Sunspear tomorrow. I’ll speak to Arya at first light.”

Daenerys glanced away from him, avoiding his eyes. Her shoulders lifted, once, in acknowledgement, but he knew he did not have her approval. Unfortunately, he’d need to move forward without it.

Margaery looked up from the raven her grandmother had given her, eyes wide. “This is real?” she gasped.

Olenna sent her a sharp look that Margaery recognized. It was the woman’s way of asking if she was daft. She turned her eyes back to the small slip of parchment in Willas’s neat, even hand. It couldn’t be real.

“Lady Sansa wishes to flee Starfall?”

Olenna nodded. “And she asks for our help.”

“Are we going to give it?” Margaery asked. Sometimes, her grandmother made small moments of political importance become lessons of a kind, asking Margaery to suggest a solution, but in war, there was no time.

Olenna Tyrell was blunt with her answer. “Of course. We’ll rescue the girl from Dorne- as quietly as possible, and we’ll take her to Highgarden. Where she will remain. If need be, we’ll hand her back over to the Dornish. She might become a rather valuable hostage.”

Margaery nodded in understanding. Lady Sansa was their key to enter the good graces of these Targaryen invaders. Of course. It was unfortunate, though, that they would need to treat Sansa as a pawn. She was a lovely, trusting girl. She’d spent much too much time at the mercy of others. “Brilliant, grandmother!”

‘I know, dear.”

“My lady,”Mira Forrester piped up from the edge of their pavilion. Margaery and Olenna both turned towards the handmaiden.

“Yes, girl?” Olenna snapped, looking rather cross. Margaery’s heart fluttered as she too wondered if Mira had heard anything important.  

But Mira’s face was unworried and open, and Margaery knew she was no liar. Obviously she had nothing to hide.

“The Queen requests the presence of Ladies Olenna and Margaery Tyrell in her chambers at once.”

The two of them shared a look. Margaery’s rather confused, and Olenna’s only mildly irritated.

“What’s the foolish woman want now?” her grandmother muttered. Margaery flashed a sweet smile. Mira curtsied away after delivering her message.

“Should we wait a while, grandmother?” Margaery asked. It might be good to keep Queen Cersei waiting, to remind her that they were not entirely at her beck and call.

“No. No need to stall the inevitable. Besides, I’m rather curious what the Lannister might want to discuss with us.”

Ned stared down at the tome spread out in his desk, eyes burning from overuse. Black of hair. Black of hair. He felt ill, with this new knowledge. But he had no idea what to do with it. Honor demanded he bring the Queen’s crimes to the king, but logic held that if he did that, they’d fall into chaos. If Robert executed his wife, he couldn’t be sure that they’d be able to depend on Lannister troops in the field. It also mean that Robert would be down two possible heirs. He could just imagine how it would affect Prince Gendry.

And in all honesty, Ned would not allow any more children’s blood on his hands. Not after the last time.

He had enough to worry about without having to deal with any vengeance Queen Cersei might try to enact on him. He had to look after his children and his grand-children. Ned had already lost Arya. He needed to know that Bran and Rickon, and Robb’s family were safe in the Red Keep.

He had an inkling where Arya was. It didn’t it any less worrisome, of course. He knew nothing of this Aegon Targaryen, other than the fact that he waged war against them. Targaryen’s were too unpredictable. Ned wasn’t sure if he wanted to kill Arya or marry her. But he had no resources to spend on the search. He’d let the court think she’d run off to battle, letting their assumptions that she was a willful unwomanly child take over. Better than the alternative.

He’d spent months listening to how Robert wanted to deal with the Targaryens. He wanted to rip Rhaegar’s son limb-from-limb. What would he want to do to Arya. Arya, who was the only evidence that Lyanna had run away with the Prince  so she could escape her impending marriage.

Glancing down at the pages once more, Ned couldn’t help thinking that every woman Robert was promised to chose someone else. For all that he was famous for his whoring, Robert had no true knack for women. He had bastards stretched across the continent and only one true-born child among them all.

“Lord Eddard?” the Prince spoke from the doorway, looking sheepish.

Ned’s gaze shot to the young man’s eyes, so much like his old friend’s eyes. “Prince Gendry! What brings you here, Your Highness.”

Gendry stared at him for a moment, as if hesitant to broach the subject. But then, seeming to steel himself, Gendry took several steps into the room, glancing behind himself and closing the door. Ned understood suddenly that the boy was afraid of being overheard. It was a specific kind of frustration that this brought to Lord Stark, that a young man like Gendry had had to grow up in this viper’s nest.

“I came to you, Lord Eddard, because I was wondering if you had any success locating Arya?”

Ned looked at the boy, who looked so much like Robert at that age, and wondered. Because he’d known there was more to what had happened on the Trident. There had to be. It seemed they were doomed to repeat history, if the look in the Prince’s eyes were any indication. Curious.

“I await word from Riverrun and Tarth, Your Highness,” he answered. He hated to keep it from Gendry, but both Brienne and Robb had written back just recently to say that there was no sign of her.

“I’d like if you kept me updated,” Gendry said, voice plaintive. But Ned could not allow this to go on.

“Your Highness, I don’t know if that is such a good idea. I’m sure Lady Margaery and your father require all of your attention.”

Gendry’s shoulders slumped momentarily, before he cleared his throat and backed away towards the door. “Of course. You’re right, Lord Stark.”

And that was that. The Prince left immediately. Ned’s eyes found the evidence spread out before him once more. Black of hair. No mention of a foolish affection for Stark women.

Arya slept restlessly the night of the feast, dreams filled, ironically enough, with fire and blood. Visions of her loved ones being burnt by dragon fire haunted her, and she found herself to be the source. No matter how much she learned about her brother, no matter how much she might grow to trust him, she had to remember that he was going to go through with this war. He would not turn back for her.

Which meant she had to do what she could. Unfortunately, in her dream, she could not resist Aegon’s murderous orders. She watched as her father was consumed by flame and Jon was felled by a dornishman’s sword. Her heart ached, and she woke up from her sleep covered in a cold, uncomfortable sweat. Her breathing was heavy. A glance towards the windows told her it was a little bit after dawn, and she sighed with relief. Better to wake up now and stay awake than try to fall back to sleep. She wasn’t sure be able to.

Trying to calm her still-racing heart, Arya rose from the bed, rubbing her arms roughy. It wasn’t cold, but goose-bumps traveled up her arms. The air felt... alive almost. She shuddered, hurrying to the large armoire. Daenerys had explained that there were a few things she could wear in there, comfortable things, until they could provide with a full wardrobe befitting a princess. She wasn't exactly looking forward to a wardrobe befitting a princess.

Pulling the intricately carved doors aside, Arya was relieved to see a few trousers in there, along with a rather nicely cut tunic. They were comfortable, but they looked almost formal. She liked the idea of wearing fancy men’s clothes instead of having to suffer through a night in a dress. She wondered if she might have a closet full of outfits such as these. Come. it was a wardrobe befitting her, if not a princess.

She tugged the well-made clothes on and hurried across the short distance to the door. The hall was empty when she entered it, and a flash of resentment surged through her, but soon her reason squashed any urge to escape. She had to see this through and try to reign her brother in as much as possible.

Traveling along the wall of the corridor, more out of cautiousness than a desire to remain unseen, Arya kept an eye out for her companions. She yearned to speak to Ashara Dayne. She knew that, apart from her father, or-  the thought made her cringe- King Robert, the older woman was the only person who could truly tell her about her mother. Ned would be the best option, because Gendry had told her once, a long while ago that Robert had forgotten what Lyana was truly like.

But Lord Stark certainly wasn’t there.

While searching for Ashara, though, Arya happened upon another Dayne. The last Dayne she’d want to see at this moment.

“Edric!” she exclaimed, hand reaching up to hold her heart, as if it might escape her chest. What he was doing in this corridor, Arya could guess at, but she didn’t ask. Instead, thought of Sansa pervaded. “Where’s my sister?” she asked.

He stared at her a moment, obviously just as shocked by the sight of her as she was by him. “Arya. I- it was quite a sight, seeing you up on the dais,” he told her, ignoring her question. She brushed the words away impatiently.

“Where is Sansa?” she repeated impatiently.

“Starfall,” he answered dazedly. “I- I took her their at the beginning of the war. Safer, considering she’d a dornishman’s wife. No use putting her in danger from the Usurper.”

Arya stared. “You left her alone ? What about the babe? It’s due to come along very soon, isn’t it?”

Ned blanched then, clearing his throat. “The babe…”  but he trailed off, voice dying in his chest.

Her heart fell, understanding crashing over her like a wave. The thought of Sansa, pretty, perfect Sansa losing a child was terrible. For all that Arya had spent her childhood envious of everything Sansa had, she could not have wished this on her. Because Sansa had wanted nothing  more than to have a child. She let out a distressed sound, and turned angry eyes on her no-longer-sister’s husband.

“Still, you should not have left her. Think of how she must feel.”

“She-” but Arya stopped him with a hand.

“No- she needed you, and you’ve come here to fight a war against everyone she loves.”

He narrowed eyes at her, and she saw the accusation there, but Edric Dayne was no fool. He couldn’t say what he mayhaps wanted to. She was a princess now. But she wished her’d say it, so she could deny it. She hated these silent  accusations much more. Of course she was doing the exact same thing. But it wasn’t her choice. Just by existing she gave House Targaryen one more heir, one more person to rally around. To return to King’s Landing now would be suicide. She could only imagine what King Robert would do to her.

“Princess!” a voice came from a little ways down the corridor, past Edric. She glanced up and into the face of Illyrio Mopatis, who was smiling at her. She didn’t like the look of this fat man. He made her feel uncomfortable

“Yes?’ she replied feeling awkward with the new title.

“Aegon waits for you in the courtyard. He’s sent a servant to fetch you, but I thought I’d walk with you, as long as that’s alright?” the last sentence was a cheerful question. She wondered if he could sense the tension between her and Lord Dayne.

Nodding absentmindedly, she let Illyrio lead her away from the dornishman. She felt suddenly very tired, the effects of her terrible night of sleep, no doubt.

They made short work of the walk to a courtyard she’d yet to see, through halls she was unfamiliar with. He walked rather quickly, and she kept pace, anxious to see just what her brother wanted.

The bright, hot sun beat down on them as she stepped away from the shelter of the palace walls. Aegon and Daenerys stood, alone, in the courtyard, as she approached them. It was only when she was within arms length of her brother that she noticed Illyrio had stayed behind. She glanced behind herself, brow furrowing in confusion, when Aegon’s hand snaked out and took hold of her arm.

“Arya, we’ve called you out here for a…regrettable reason. But it truly can’t be helped,” Daenerys said, mouth tight and eyes apologetic. Arya was even more confused than before.

“What?’

“You’ve forced our hand, Arya. It’s far safer if she simply agree,” Aegon said cryptically. Arya tried to wrench herself from his grip, but his hands were like a manacle around her wrist.

He gave a long, loud whistle into the sky, and her stomach fell. The thunderous sounds of massive wings on the air sounded, and Arya’s muscles tensed with terror. Flashes of fire and destruction wracked her brain. She stared at Aegon, eyes wide.

“I will not do this,” she told him, voice hard, but he ignored her, eyes trained on the clouds above, the place she would not look.

Until a roar wrent the air, and she glanced up to see a massive green beast flying closer and closer. She screamed.

King Robert’s bellows carried throughout the Red Keep, driving Margaery to distraction.

She and her grandmother had left their talk with Cersei Lannister shaken, to say the least. Olenna hid her fear well, but Margaery could tell there was some there. The woman had threatened them, once again, openly. There was no placating her. Even Gendry’s arrival had not stopped her. But her son had, eventually put a stop to it, simply threatening to call upon the King. Cersei had shut up quickly, then. But she’d looked at her son so hatefully that it had unsettled even the Queen of Thorns, who herself wasn’t too fond of her own son.

But King robert didn’t bellow at his Queen. Instead, his anger was directed once again at one named Targaryen. But this time, it was a Targaryen none had expected. Tales of Aegon Targaryen presenting his long lost sister to a host of Dornishmen had reached the Red Keep just hours ago, and the King was livid.

What angered his was the fact that the girl was none other than Arya Snow. Ned Stark’s supposed bastard daughter had been elevated rather swiftly into the role of princess.

The Stark’s had turned up surprisingly absent as the news came. It made them look ever so guilty, but she couldn’t help but understand where they might be coming from. Too stay would mean death.

Because it had become painfully obvious that Ned Stark, true and honorable Ned Stark, who would never tell a lie, had deceived them all .  He’d harbored a little Targaryen for years, with none the wiser, and had, apparently, delivered her back into the arms of her brother just in time for the man too take back his throne. It was all rather scandalous, and Olenna Tyrell was only too happy too take the opportunity too broach a sort of truce with the Targaryens. They’d send a tentative message south, making their openness too an alliance known.

Because without the North, without the Riverlands- because of course the Tully’s would through their support behind the Starks, of course they would- Robert had no hopes of surviving this. And the Tyrell’s were no fools. They knew how too choose a winning side. She was sorely disappointed to lose the chance to marry the Prince, but her silly, bumbling father was quick to promise her a marriage to this new Targaryen King. Better to be Queen then, Princess, yes? Margaery thought so. 

Chapter Text

Flight

Jon had never thought he’d live to see the day that Lord Eddard Stark would be declared a traitor to King Robert Baratheon. His father had impressed upon him- on so many different occasions- the importance of honor. He was a good, honest man, if not always kind in the traditional sense. Fiercely loyal to those he called friend.

When he recieved the letter from his mother, the letter explaining Arya’s birth and his father’s subsequent deception, he understood. His father had rarely spoken about his long-dead sister, but when he did, it was with true affection. And it so happened, it was always in connection to Arya. It seemed glaringly obvious, then, that she would be the daughter of Lyanna Stark.

It was the Targaryen bit Jon was having trouble wrapping his mind around.

Catelyn had also gone on to tell him, in her letter that the only reason Ned had revealed this life-changing secret because it appeared that Arya had run off to join her new found brother. The brother who had sent dragons to kill her family.

This was not the Arya that Jon knew. She would never do such a thing. No matter that she wasn’t a true Stark, that now, technically, he wasn’t her brother. She was a loyal girl. She’d always been a loyal girl.

“Is something amiss, Jon?” Jorelle asked.

He looked up at his new bride, cracking a rare smile at the sight of her, hair still mussed from sleep, sitting up on his bed.

She was beautiful, and funny. She never failed to make him laugh. Jon had gone into this marriage merely resigned to his fate, but if he was forced to marry anyone, he was rather glad it was Jorelle.

“News from my mother.”

“About?” she asked, inching forward in bed, offering him a glimpse at pale, smooth skin. He blushed and ducked back to reread the words before him.

“My sister. Or- Arya…”

“Oh? Is everything alright?”

“No. It seems she’s gone missing.”

“Again?’ Jorelle asked, raising a single brow in an expressions of disbelief. “She’s quite a runner, isn’t she?”

“Mother says she’s joined the Targaryen host. It apears that the King had been informed that Arya is a Targaryen.”

Her eyes widened in shock. “Your family-”

“They are safe. My father had the forethought to flee once he’d realised my- Arya had gone missing. They’ve retreated to Riverrun.”

“What does this mean?” she asked. “Will this...does your father intend to join the Targaryen cause?”

Jon’s head drooped a bit. He didn’t know. The territory they’d entered into was unfamiliar. How his father would have reacted in the past couldn’t possibly be how he’d react now. It was unfortunate, but he’d almost become an entirely different man.

“I don’t think so. But we can assume he’ll withdraw troops, at the very least. I doubt he wants to risk King Robert hurting Arya.”

“I’m sure the King will be out for blood,” Jorelle agreed. Jon nodded grimly.

Arya stared up at the scaled beast that had landed lightly on the ground before her. Her hands were slick with sweat and her heart beat wildly.

“This is Rhaegal.”

Aegon had crept up behind her, trapping her between the dragon’s immense form and his own.

“Aegon…” she began, but he shook his head at her.

“Without a firm hand, Rhaegal has tried to slip her bonds. In battle, she’s often hard to contain. Much longer, and we might not be able to reign her in.”

Her eyes flicked over the dragon. She was green-scaled with a ridge of spikes along her head. Eyes like burning embers stared back at Arya. They were angry, untamed eyes. She’d slept with a direwolf beside her each night for years, Arya knew what it felt to be this close to such a dangerous animal. But this was an entirely different situation. Rhaegal, as Aegon named her, towered over everything. A single movement from the beast could kill Arya without any sort of defense.

“You need me to handle her out of some sort of concern from the safety of the smallfolk?” she asked bitingly. She wanted to rail at him, wanted to make sure he knew that she wasn’t a fool to be taken in by veiled threats.  But she couldn’t take her eyes away from the dragon in front of her.

“I won’t force you to fight against the crown if you don’t want to. I’d like you to fight for me because you want to.”

She rolled her eyes, wishing suddenly that he could see her face.

“Aegon,” Daenerys said warningly. But her brother ignored her.

“You must begin to value the Targaryen legacy, Arya. That means appreciating the power of your bloodline. You were born to ride this dragon.”

“I may be a Targaryen, but I’m also a Stark,” she reminded him.

“You were a Snow in the north, Arya,” Aegon said.

She let out a breath. Because he’d gotten to the quick of it, hadn’t he? “I can’t fight them.”

“You’ll need to defend yourself. Robert declared you a traitor,” Daenerys told her. Arya risked turning her head to stare at the woman in disbelief.

 “It’s true, Arya. King Robert’s learned of your true parentage. He’s…less than pleased.”

“He learned of my true parentage because you announced it at a banquet,” she snapped. Her eyes traveled back to Rhaegal, simply because she couldn’t bear to have the beast out of sight for much longer. But she still wasn’t close to giving up. She would not let Aegon manipulate her. She may have been open to trusting him before this. But now?

“It’s true, Arya. King Robert’s learned of your true parentage. He’s…less than please.”

“He learned of my true parentage because you announced it at a banquet,” she snapped. Her eyes traveled back to Rhaegal, simply because she couldn’t bear to have the beast out of sight for much longer. But she still wasn’t close to giving up. She would not let Aegon manipulate her. She may have been open to trusting him before this. But now?

He was just like all those highborn men and women in the Red Keep, so eager to use others in his schemes. And all of this was so ridiculous, because she’d know him for such a short while. How could he expect her to betray the family she’d known for years- regardless of how they’d treated her- in order to help the family she’d only just discovered.

Blood mattered little when it was used to force you into a war.

“It’s simple, Arya. If you don’t help us, you’ll simply resume your position as a prisoner. We want to offer you a chance to prove your loyalty. Because you’ll get no chance with Robert. Your very existence is repellant to him. He hates Targaryen’s more than anyone else in the Seven Kingdoms. Your specific parentage will only do you more harm.”

She paled. “I could always make a run for Winterfell.”

“And risk an attack from the crown? You’ll still be putting your family in danger.”

“Then I’ll remain as your prisoner.”

“And risk our loss? We need Rhaegal, Arya,” Daenerys cut in. Even the rather tranquil young woman was becoming frustrated with her niece’s stubborn nature. “And she needs you. She’s out of control. It’s much more dangerous to allow her to act out on the battlefield.”

“You’d choose them over us?” Aegon asked. He sounded…hurt.

“I hardly know you. I grew up as a Northman. I heard Northern stories and ate Northern food. Jon Stark is my brother, a direwolf my sigil.”

“You have no sigil! You were treated as a bastard! I want to give you a crown, to make people respect you. It is your birthright! Your father was a prince, Arya! You are not a Snow.”

Her throat felt like it was losing, making words impossible. But the yearning in his voice… She’d grown up knowing she was less than those she loved. Jon was a highborn boy; he was always going to have more opportunity than her. Even Sansa, who would be expected to marry whoever she was told to, would always have some level of respect given to her. But Arya was simply a bastard. A female bastard. And Aegon wanted to give her the world, apparently.

Her father… Father had always been a rather rigid thing in her mind. Ned Stark was father. He was good, and he was distant, but he was kind and always had at least a smile for her when she stumbled into his arms, covered in mud, hair all in snarls. But all of that was a lie. Her real father was…

A mystery. She knew so little about Rhaegar Targaryen. The little she had learned about the man didn’t move her at all. He had been immensely smart, a capable warrior, a passably honorable man, up until the kidnapping of Lyanna Stark. People had been hopeful that he’d be a better king than his father. It was hard, how little this man could mean to her, when he was her father. She wanted to feel something for him. Aegon and Daenerys were her best sources of insight into her Targaryen ancestors.

“How do we know she will accept me?” she asked.

“Our father knew of a prophecy foretelling a dragon with three heads. He intended that to mean you, Rhaenys and I, but fate intervened. It’s down to his young and his only surviving children. In fact, you were meant to be named Visenya. But…Robert’s rebellion prevented father from ever meeting you. We were meant for these dragons. Dragons came back to the world just for us.”

“And what if I am meant for Viserion? Or Drogon?”

“Drogon bows to no one but Daenerys, his mother.”

“His mother?” she asked.

“Daenerys brought them into being when she burned her husband in his pyre. She raised them from children.”

“And Viserion is yours?”

“He is. Rhaegal and I could not work as a team on the battlefield. I think she shares a lot with you. You’ll work well together.”

“I- I’m not sure I can do this,” she admitted. Because perhaps she was ready to surrender, but there was no way she’d be able to make her body approach the large, wild thing in front of her. There was too much ice in her veins for it not to melt.

“I can help you. All I want is to help you, Arya,” Aegon told her. She stared at him, eyes wide. It was hard to believe that a man raised from childhood knowing that he was meant to rule would bare his feelings so much. This wasn’t the exile Prince fighting for his crown speaking t Princess Arya. This was a brother pleading to his sister.

“Alright,” she breathed.

Sansa hadn’t thought her letter would ever come to fruition. She’d hoped, perhaps, that the Tyrell’s might get word to the King and assure him she was still a loyal subject, but she never expected to see knights of the Reach riding for Starfall.

The guardsmen had all marched off with Ned, and the when she expressed her wish the travel with the men, the elderly male servants backed off. Understandable. Why cause such a fuss over their sad northern lady. They had a war to weather through. One less mouth to feed.

Distracted as she was, Sansa forgot to ask the names of her rescuers. The only one she recognized was a handsome lad she’d seen know and then at court. She was sure he was a minor son of a minor son from House Hightower. He smiled kindly at her when he helped her onto his horse, kept his hands in respectful positions.

Sansa tried to squash the guilt stewing in her gut. She was betraying Ned, and her loyalty to her husband should, technically supersede all other loyalties, but, after all, her mother was a Tully, and family came first. He could not ask her to betray her family as well as her king. Not after he’d left her broken in his bed. Ned was a good man, but he’d failed her when he heeded the Martell’s.

In stark relief to her husband’s betrayal, she had no doubt that Margaery had her best interests at heart. People liked to act as if Sansa was empty-headed in comparison to her cunning friend, but she wasn’t. She knew that sometimes the young Tyrell woman acted purely for her family’s advancement and no one else’s, but Margaery would never actually put her in danger. Perhaps she would not have overtly helped Sansa if it didn’t benefit her, but she’d never harm her. Sansa trusted in that as she rode north with these richly dressed knights.

“Is there any news of the war?” she asked, almost frightened of how these men might answer.

“Quite a lot, my lady,” the Hightower man said. “I’m surprised you didn’t hear, even tucked away in your tower. Your northerners have withdrawn.”

“Withdrawn?” she gasped. What in the Seven would cause her father to do that. She knew that he and King Robert had suffered a blow to their friendship- her incident with Joffrey came to mind- but this was beyond that completely. This was war.

“King Robert’s declared Eddard Stark a traitor for harboring a Targaryen.”

“What? My father would never do such a thing. Does King Robert forget that Lyanna was his sister?”

“Well, rumor has it-“ one of the younger looking knights began, but the oldest among them interrupted him. “We shouldn’t upset the Lady.”

“Please, good sir, he’s my father. I only wish to know how he is,” Sansa begged.

“His base-born daughter, Arya Snow… It’s been…she was presented as a Targaryen princess at Sunspear.”

She stared at him, feeling the blood drain from her face like a cool breeze. There…there was absolutely no way that it was true. She knew that sometimes news was distorted when it had to traverse long stretches of land. Arya was, well Arya was just Arya, her wild-haired, roughhewn half-sister. She wasn’t a princess, and she certainly wasn’t a Targaryen. Something that had always irritate her mother was just how much Arya looked like a Stark. There was nothing of Old Valyria in her.

“My father fled?”

“He did.”

“I fled,” Ned murmured. His head rested heavy in his hands.

“No, my love. You retreated in order to protect the boys, and Jeyne, and our granddaughter.”

He felt her hands stroking his back, but he couldn’t bear to look at her. She should not be comforting him. To think, he’d lied to for almost the entirety of their marriage. Cat might be happy to know he’d never dishonored her, but he’d kept his treasonous secret from her, and even now he was putting their entire family in danger.

“You’ve done what is right, Ned.”

 “If only… Sometimes I wonder how our lives would be different if the war had not happened. I love you dearly, and don’t wish my brother to take my place, but we lost so much.”

“But we gained even more. I gave you five beautiful children, and now we have three beautiful grandchildren.”

“My sister never got to see her daughter grown, Tyrion Lannister ordered children to be murdered in their mother’s arms, and too many good men died.”

“Ned,” Cat sighed. He glanced up then, staring into her eyes. Those deep blue eyes, the eyes she’d given four of his children.

“I’ve changed now. Being Hand has changed me. But I will not allow Robert to murder more children in his quest to relive the Battle of the Trident. Arya and Sansa both stand to lose their lives to him.”

“I know. And I do not hold this against you. No matter what Robb says, I trust you, Ned. I just want you to bring my daughter home to me, to keep our family safe.”

She pressed a gentle kiss to him forehead, perhaps trying to smooth the lines that were permanently etched there.

“Did you ever consider telling me?” she asked. Her voice was small, quiet. It reminded her, just a little, of the way she spoke to him at the beginning of their marriage.

“I did. Not at first. I’d promised Lya I’d protect her girl, and…I didn’t truly know you yet. We’d only been married a few years, and I was so sure that you hated me simply because I was not Brandon. But later. I wanted to tell you later. It just wasn’t safe. If I told no one at all, there was no chance it could be discovered.”

“You always said how like Lyanna she was. Is there no dragon in her at all?”

He shrugged. How could he respond. Sometimes, when he watched her, hurrying diligently after her brother’s, or training Nymeria like her life depended on it, he was reminded of the stories they told about how clear-headed and prudent Prince Rhaegar was. And Arya had a talent for fighting, a talent she could very well have gotten from her father. But Arya was too much of Lya’s daughter for Ned to call her a Targaryen.

“I think I’ll go to the sept tonight. I’d like to pray for Sansa.”

“I’ll deliver her safe into your arms, Cat. I swear.”

“I know, Ned.”

Aegon swung himself onto Rhaegal’s back in a single easy motion, even though the dragoness grumbled reluctantly beneath him. He made space in front of himself for Arya, as it was her right to guide Rhaegal.

His sister approached timidly, but there was a set to her jaw that made him sure she wouldn’t back down. Irrationally, he again had the feeling that he knew everything he needed to know about her. When she looked like that, brows furrowed, eyes squinted, lip between her teeth, no one could stop her, not even a fidgety dragon.

She tried to replicate his own actions, and did a passable job with it until she landed face first on Rhaegal’s neck scales with an oof.

“No need to jump to high. She’s not so tall,” he advised, hoping that his smile didn’t come across in his voice. When Arya sat up, she sent him a filthy look over her shoulder that told him it had.

“Now, for your first time, you’ll need to use a strong hand. She might fight you at first, but she’s just testing the reigns. After you’ve been riding together for a while, you’ll be of the same mind.”

“How- how to I make her go?” she asked.

“You tell her. Not aloud, though. You’ll need to make her feel it.”

He could tell she was struggling with these directions, but there was no other way to describe it. Sometimes he felt as though he was slipping from his own mind into Viserion’s.

But she did not protest. Her body went incredibly still, something he’d yet to see her do, and he didn’t want to interrupt her.

Instead, he met Daenerys’s eyes across the courtyard. His aunt had backed up when they’d mounted, steering clear of Rhaegal’s wings. Her eyes seemed to glitter with emotion, something he completely understood. It was one thing to know that they were finally all together, but to see it, to see Arya taking on her birthright…

He liked to imagine how his father might feel to see them together. What would their world be like if the war had gone the other way? Could he and Arya have grown up together, side by side, with the childhood they deserved?

Aegon was jerked from his thoughts when Rhaegal jostled, wings beating against the air suddenly.

Arya was gasping with laughter even as the dragoness began ascending. “Seven Hells!” she exclaimed.

He grinned at her obvious excitement.

Rhaegal cleared the courtyard in two wingbeats. “Direct her towards west,” he called over the rush of the wind. After a moment’s hesitation the dragon wheeled away from the sun.

“We’re flying,” he called out, driving the point home to her. He felt her reply, but the wind stole the sound from her mouth. “you’re flying,” he amended.

Chapter Text

“You’re flying,” he told her. And she was. As the dragon pumped her great green wings, taking them further and further up into the sky, Arya watched the ground fall away. The land around Sunspear opened up beneath them, and she felt like she was seeing more than she ever had before.  

Her eyes seemed to be looking at two separate views, Rhaegal’s and her own. It was disorientating at first, but it only took a few moments for Arya to become used to the feeling of being in two places at once. It was as if her body knew this, knew the feeling. She was born for this. If she’d had any doubt about her heritage up until now, it was instantly squashed as she turned Rhaegal to the West.

The dragon was a presence in her mind, an intelligent, sentient beast. The wild flame of its thoughts seemed both reluctant and excited about her. As if Rhaegal was upset at being mastered, but happy to have a rider. It made her acutely aware of the absence of Nymeria, the only animal she’d ever seen more as a companion than a pet.

Arya’s mind was called back to her discovery of the dragon skulls under the Red Keep. Before she’d been stolen away…

“You’re a natural,” he shouted from behind her. Arya grinned.

“I bet I’m even better than you are,” she called back. She hadn’t realized how loud you needed to be to be heard on dragon back. He poked her in the side as if to chide her.

“Daenerys is better than both of us. She’s been with the dragons since they were born.”

“How?” she asked. She wasn’t able to truly form the question, because there was so much utter disbelief behind it. Even while riding a dragon, she had to convince herself that they were real.

“She birthed them from fire,” he answered cryptically. She shuddered, suddenly unwilling to push the issue.

“Tell me that this isn’t the most amazing thing you’ve ever seen,” he challenged. But she couldn’t. At their backs was the huge expanse of ocean surrounding Sunspear, and before them, prickling the skyline, were the Red Mountains of Dorne. This was more land than she’d ever seen, and Arya had already seen more of the Seven Kingdoms than most girls ever would.

The surge of joy she felt was met with a matching one from Rhaegal, and the rush of alien feelings made her vision blur for a moment. She leaned heavily back against Aegon for a moment. “Are you alright?” he asked, voice suddenly edged with concern.

Blinking, Arya glanced back at him. “I’m…fine. She just got…overly excited.”

“She’s happy to have you, I think.”

“How do you know?” she asked self-consciously. How sure was he that Arya was enough to handle this massive, curious creature?

“Viserion was glad to have me. The bond between us is comforting. They are the only dragons left. I’m sure they get lonely.”

How much of that was Aegon’s own feelings leaking through, Arya wondered. She understood. She’d grown up alone, even surrounded by the Stark siblings- it was odd to think of herself as anything other than Ned Starks’ daughter, but she was not- and carried that with her every day. Aegon was in the same situation, but he didn’t have the imaginary ties to a family. He’d grown up knowing he was an orphan.

She turned her head to look at him. “I think…I think I’m glad to have her as well.”

Arya’s eyes filled with moisture. She blamed it on the wind, but perhaps it could be attributed to the smile on his face.

“We should return to the palace. I need to speak with Prince Doran.”

“About what?” she asked. Surely this changed things. Aegon could confide in her.

“Troop placement,” he answered, but he did not elaborate. She didn’t push. Now was not the time.

Daenerys had felt her heart fill to bursting, watching Arya successfully guide Rhaegal into the air. Dany had been struggling more and more with the dragoness, and it was a relief. But it was also the marker of change. Now more than ever, Dany saw that House Targaryen had returned. They were not dead.

She was not ashamed to admit that when she’d discovered Aegon, it had been a major disappointment. She’d brought dragons back to the world, she’d taken over a Khalasar. It felt like she was born to rule. But the charming boy she’d met, only a few years older than her, so eager to meet someone else like him… Daenerys couldn’t rid herself of him, and she could not rob him of his birthright. She would not become a usurper.

So she pledged her men to him, helped to raise him up, gave him one of her children. And Aegon had lived up to every expectation made for him. He was as clever and capable as Connington said Rhaegar was, as kind as Ashara said Elia was. He would make a good king.

And Arya… Connington hadn’t wanted to find her. He hadn’t cared to, claimed she was practically a lost cause as it was. But Aegon would not let it lie. He wanted his sister. Daenerys could not fault him. And when Varys brought word of the girl, a fierce little thing who wore men’s clothes and had been raised with Ned Stark’s true children… She was safe in King’s Landing, in position to be brought to them.

He’d jumped at the chance, and Daenerys had agreed. It was time.

She watched the pair of them bring Rhaegar in for a landing, watch Arya slide off of her back smoothly. She seemed a natural on dragon back.

Aegon followed behind his sister, smiling knowingly at his aunt. Obviously he was confident in this. Daenerys hoped he was right.

“I’ll join you both this afternoon for a meal. I’m off to meet with Prince Doran,” Aegon explained when the three Targaryen’s converged in the center of the courtyard.

“Of course. Arya, I was wondering if you’d like to meet with the other members of House Martell? Princess Arianne has invited us to sit with her.”

“You won’t get a needle in my hands, you know,” she warned, looking a bit wary at the concept of needlework.

Daenerys chuckled. “I would not dream of it,” she promised. “Besides, I don’t think Oberyn’s daughters care very much for embroidery.”

The younger girl’s eyes widened and she looked excited at the prospect of spending time with the Sand Snakes. “I’d love to,” she responded.

Daenerys held her arm out for Arya to take, smiling at the scrappy girl in her boy’s clothes. She’d left the trousers in the armoire because the way Arya had responded to wearing a dress her first night had made it very clear that she did not want to be dressed up like a typical princess.

Aegon turned off down the corridor while she led Arya further into the complex of gardens and fountains that peppered Sunspear’s courtyards.

They found the dornishwomen lounging on couches and laughing with each other, Ashara Dayne seated among them like she’d never left. When she and Arya approached, the two youngest girls, Dorea and Loreza, they’re mother had called them, rushed forward, offering eager, clumsy little curtsies. Dany found herself smiling fondly down at the two, but Arya just looked a bit cautious.

“Princesses!” little Dorea, the elder child, exclaimed in greeting.

“Hello,” Dany replied softly, giving the smiling pair a kind smile. She stepped under the canopy of gauzy yellow silk that did a poor job protecting them from the sun. But the way these women lounged about, looking utterly comfortable, it must not be such a problem from them. Other than fair Tyene, the women were olive-skinned. But Tyene wore a veil.

Dany herself had once been fair-skinned, but time in the vast grasslands of the Dothraki sea, riding through the day with no shade had darkened her skin considerably. Poor Arya, though, was likely to bake in this hot sun.

“Your Graces,” Arianne announced, standing to offer Dany a curtsy of her own, although much more practiced than her young cousins’. The other girls rose to do the same, but Daenerys waved them off.

“Sit,” she offered instead. Dany turned to Arya, who had hung back and was shrinking under the gaze of the two youngest of Oberyn’s daughters.

“Arya, come sit beside me,” Dany offered as she took a seat beside Arianne. She left the space between the two of them open.

Arya slid into place, looking about uncomfortably. This might just be a long afternoon.

Every day Gendry wished for the chance to go back in time. The time he wished to return to changed each time, but the desire was constant. Today he was imagining returning to the days of stolen kisses in dark nooks and crannies of the palace with Arya. Of course, that brought up its own stew of troubles.

Part of him felt betrayed. It was unfair of him, because he’d never truly earned Arya’s loyalty, but to know that she was taking up arms against him… he hadn’t realized things had ended so badly between the two of them.

But, no, it was selfish of him to think this way. As if Arya would have been swayed by him. She’d been raised a bastard, had dealt with Lady Catelyn’s scorn forever. To be crowned a Princess. He couldn’t’ have even entered her thoughts, to tell it true.

And all of this made waging war doubly hard. The Stark’s withdraw was a deadening blow to them. All men had withdrawn, dogged by Dothraki at every step, but where they’d stopped, the Starks had continued, and without any strong leadership, in the chaos of their retreat, no one had noticed. It did not look good for them.

There was no surrender, though.

The reasons were threefold. One was that the King would never allow it. He would fight these Targaryens till the end, his ire towards them renewed with the news that Lyanna Stark had borne Rhaegar Targaryen a child. The circumstances behind the birth, whether Lyanna was willing or not, mattered little to Robert. Suddenly she was his greatest betrayer, and Ned her accomplice. This was proven when the man fled. The second was the Queen’s own ire about the death of her father and “that little bastard girl fucking her way to power” a sentence that had made him want to strike his mother for the first time in his life. And the third was that they were now fighting for their lives. No one could believe that the Targaryens would spare them when they finally took the throne. They would no spare Robert, of his blood thirsty queen, and they definitely would not spare their children.

King’s Landing was a grim place, and everyone in it was grim.

All except for smiling young Margaery Tyrell, who glowed brighter and brighter each day, as if to offset the darkness around her.

Gendry had never truly had any strong feelings for Margaery. She was beautiful, and she was clever and witty, but she’d never held a candle to Arya, and he could recognize that she would never truly bare her heart to him like he imagined his future wife might- he knew it was overly-romantic, but he had to hope, as a boy, that he’d get some respite from drudgingly dutiful life as heir when he was to wed. Now though.

Mayhaps it was to spite his mother, or the nature of the war at hand, but Gendry found himself growing closer with the girl. She filled the silence when need be, to comfort him, but she did not force conversation from him. It was…nice.

He was guiding her through the gardens for the hundredth time when she asked him about Arya. He couldn’t disguise the stutter in his step that the question caused.

“I’m sorry, my prince, but…given the most recent news, I am curious about the girl.”

“You and the entire court, I’m sure. Mother’s incredibly angry about it, says they’re gathering information so that they might know how best to get into her good graces,” he told her It wasn’t until he saw the look of dismay on her face that he realized that the comment might seem like an accusation. “Oh no, my lady, I did not mean you, of course. I do not doubt your loyalty.” And he even believed that. She could have fled when the Starks did. She must have some faith in him, to keep the dangerous connection that was their betrothal.

She gave him a small, sad smile. “I understand, my prince. It is such an unsure time. But…please, tell me about her? I know you were friends.”

He stared at her for a moment, wondering if she knew the nature of his relationship with Arya Snow. “We were. But…it’s not proper for a prince to spend too much time with a baseborn girl. Rumors spread, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“I’ve dealt with rumors of my own. They’re a rather frustrating habit of courtiers,” she agreed.

“She was a fierce girl. You know of her odd proclivity towards weaponry?” he asked. Margaery nodded. “She was rather good with a sword. I do not think she’d fight for the Targaryens, though.”

“Truly? Blood is a strong motivator.”

“Yes, but she grew up with the Starks, and besides, they’re her blood as well. Arya’s an honorable person.”

“You think they kidnapped her?” she asked, surprised at his theory.

“I do. I hope it’s true. She was my friend. I do not like to believe she would betray my family so easily.”

“Mayhaps she’d betray them for her own family. Now that the Starks have retreated safely to the Riverlands she has no worries about kinslaying,” she pointed out. And there was logic to it. Perhaps he was blind, but Gendry held on to the hope that Arya was better than that.

His sister was mad.

Perhaps the others did not see it yet, but Tyrion knew Cersei as well as a person must know their worst enemy. He knew what was a normal level of paranoia and what was not for the cold bitch.

He’d always been fond of his niece and nephews, always made sure to visit them frequently, half to anger his sister and half to make sure she did not poison them to the world. Tommen and Myrcella were delightful children, and he hoped their mother could not ruin them before they became man and woman grown. Gendry was an excellent young man, with a good head on his shoulders and seemingly none of the flaws of his parents. Joff was…Joff.

But as the war turned sour for the Baratheon king and his family, Tyrion found it very hard to see the children. Cersei kept her talons wrapped tightly around them. She limited their movements so much that they were like prisoners. The only child who escaped the treatment, as a whole, was Gendry, and it was only because Robert needed the boy to perform his duties for him.

When he did manage to gain access, Cersei spent her time glaring and muttering something about flowers choking her. She was mad, and no one had seemed to notice. Not even Jaime.

He laughed when Tyrion brought it up. “I know you despise her, but she’s only protecting the children.”

“And raving to herself and drinking from dawn till dusk,” he pointed out. “I know it seems she’s always done that, but I promise you, brother, that it’s worse now. I fear for the safety of the Princes and the Princess.”

“Cersei would never hurt them, Tyrion,” Jaime scoffed.

“Never hurt them, you’re right. But if she thought the war was too far gone…”

“Enough,” Jaime grimaced, turning away from his younger brother.

Tyrion was exasperated. Why must his siblings be equally stubborn?

Heaving a put upon sigh, he was off, but the appearance of the Flower of Highgarden arm in arm with Prince Gendry stopped him.

The pair made the proper greetings to him immediately, and he responded appropriately. All that before he launched into complaints about the queen.

“She’s shouting about betrayal again. I can tell Tommen’s frightened, and we all know your mother doesn’t listen to me,” he sighed. He hoped the well placed hint might prod Gendry into action. Cersei wouldn’t listen to him, but she might say more to the boy than she would to her reviled little brother.

The worry in his clear blue eyes told Tyrion all he needed to know. The boy would deliver. And if he knew Margaery Tyrell, she would as well.

Margaery almost ran to her grandmother with her new information. She didn’t underestimate the Imp as anyone else would. She knew that in some ways, the small man was manipulating her, but it wouldn’t stop her from giving Olenna all the information available to her.

“He said this openly before you?” grandmother asked.

“Yes. And I’d take it with a grain of salt, but Gendry’s confirmed it, grandmother. The queen only worsening. And…she’s ranting about flowers. I worry what she’ll do.”

“Of course you do. The woman is mad. The Imp is correct. The question is how we might use this to our advantage, isn’t it?”

Margaery was silent. She wished to know exactly what her grandmother was thinking, wished she knew the answer to this question, but she did not.

Olenna began a moment later. “See if we can push Cersei over the edge. The stags will not defeat these dragons. It might be quicker to change sides, but the Dornish would never allow for it, and your oaf of a father still thinks Robert might pull a victory out of his ass.”

“What will maddening the queen do about the war?” she asked.

“A cornered, mad lion does not go out without a fight. I do not intend to be within clawing distance, but her husband just might be.”

Margaery’s eyes lit up just as her mind did.

Arya felt like a fish out of water among these women.

She recognized the warrior’s frame in the elder two Sand Snakes, she appreciated it, but there was still and acknowledgement between her and these Dornish bastards that they were much more confident in themselves than she. She’d already been introduced to them, but Arianne offered to make the rounds once more.

“There’s so many of us, I don’t want you to be confused,” she explained.

Arya nodded, grateful for the excuse to relearn their names.

The eldest was Obarra, who openly wore armor. She had a hard look in her eyes, and she was no beauty. Arya found herself liking the woman immediately, even if her gruff manner made it difficult. She’d like her despite that.

Second eldest, at five-and-twenty, was Nymeria. She perked up instantly at the name, explaining that she’d named her direwolf for the Rhoynish warrior queen as well. Nymeria offered sly smile at that.

Tyene, the fairest among them, came after. She had a maidenly look about her, and a way of speaking that reminded her a bit of Sansa, but there was an edge underneath the murmured courtesies that belayed danger. She learned later that Tyene was a poisons-master, which explained the sense of doom that followed her.

The eldest daughter of Ellaria Sand came next. She was named for Elia, Rhaegar’s true wife. She was covered in horsehair, something Arya was rather familiar with, and she called herself Lady Lance.

“I almost rode in a tourney,” Arya confided in the older girl.

Elia smiled at her. “So did I.”

They’d both refrained from riding in the Tourney for the Prince for different reasons. Funny that they’d end up here.

“Might you have faced each other?” Dany asked, smiling serenely.

“I can’t imagine that going well for me,” Arya said. She was shorter than Elia, and the sleeveless tunic the girl wore showed off well-defined arms. Arya could be strong in the right circumstances, but she was built more for grace than power.

“They say your mother was small as well,” Nymeria said.

The women fell silent.

Arya wondered about that, she wondered if her mother’s slightness was what killed her when she went to the birthing bed. She’d never wanted to be a mother, but the very thought of dying that way, helpless, unsure of her child’s safety, didn’t make her feel particularly maternal.

She didn’t know how to feel about the woman who’d borne her. The only references she had for mothers were cruel and distant Catelyn Stark and her imaginings of Ashara Dayne. It did not make her feel very warm towards her. It did not help that the woman- or girl, really- had caused a war. Lyanna Stark was barely older than her when she’d run off with Rhaegar Targaryen, and it wasn’t fair to say that she’d known what she was doing…but she couldn’t help being a little resentful.

If only she’d been smarter, or stayed where she was. But then, Arya had run off as well, hasn’t she. Mayhaps it ran in the family.

Still. Her father had never talked about her, and the woman was as much as mystery as her father. What had she been like? Was she as similar as people claimed?

“They say a lot of things about my mother, I think,” she replied stiffly.

“You’re Aunt knew of Lyanna,” Ashara told the girls. She’d been rather silent up until that moment, but talk of things past drew the words from her.

“She did? Elia was willing to suffer through that?” Arianne asked, sounding rather disbelieving. Arya didn’t doubt that she would not agree to that either.

“Elia was a good woman, but she did not love her husband passionately. She did, however, care for her children. She would have done anything for the little prince and princess, including allow Rhaegar to take a second wife.”

“He wanted her for the prophecy, yes?” Dany asked.

“The prophecy of the Prince Who Was Promised, yes,” Ashara agreed. “He believed that the child borne to Lyanna Stark would be that Prince. And Lyanna…well, she wanted more than anything to escape Robert Baratheon.”

“Seems that’s one thing you don’t share with her,” Obara grunted, glaring at her accusingly. Arya soured towards her immediately. So much for liking her despite everything.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

“Nothing,” Arianne said, sending her cousin a scathing glare.

“How do you fare,” Dany interrupted. “I’m sure war is no welcome thing, but please tell me you’re all doing well?”

Arya sank back, grateful to her for giving her an out, for giving them all an out.

Thoughts of Gendry were nothing less than agonizing for her.

Every second that she spent not completely miserable was a second that she was betraying him. And now…she needed to explore her Targaryen ancestry, needed to cling to the brother she’d just discovered, but she also wanted to protect the brothers she’d known her entire life. It made her head hurt, the conflict, even if it might seem an easy choice for others. Arya was torn.

“As well as can be expected. Better in fact, with the news from the front,” Arianne replied.

“News from the front?” Dany asked with a quirk of her brow. Probably surprised that Aegon hadn’t already shared it with her.

“My father is probably telling the King now. But the Starks and the Tullys have quit the field. They deserted in the chaos of the retreat.”

“Deserted?” Arya exclaimed. “My- Lord Stark wouldn’t abandon King Robert.”

“He has,” Arianne assured her. “The King is threatening to kill you, specifically. And I doubt he’d let Eddard Stark get away with hiding you for so long.”

“That means-“ she began.

“That means you cannot afford to divide your loyalties any longer. The Starks are now enemies to the Usurper. They’re in danger, and you are in a position to help them,” Dany declared.

She blinked. Dany was right. This new information should change everything. Fighting King Robert didn’t mean fighting her family anymore. But…

It still meant fighting Gendry. She was lost in this. It wasn’t truly a choice. Aegon and Daenerys would expect her cooperation now, but she didn’t want to think about hurting him. She could never hurt him.

But if she ever did?