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Sansa could still remember a time when the Starks had been wealthy and luxuries like china dolls were easily purchased. Eddard and Catelyn Stark had never been excessive however, so Sansa had owned only one. Sansa had needed only one, for she was the most perfect doll ever made.
She had golden ringlets that Sansa would brush and style with remarkable care. She wore a dress of fine pink silk and a matching velvet cap, of which Sansa was immeasurably proud. The young girl was as fastidious with the doll’s dress as she was with her own, keeping it clean and tidy, and mending it where it had frayed, so discreetly, that it always looked new. She had loved that doll as if it were her own darling baby.
Then one spring there was an outbreak of scarlet fever in the neighbourhood. It was a very grim case from the start. Their nearest neighbour, Mr. Baratheon’s own beloved daughter, Shireen, had not survived it. Robb, Sansa, Arya and even little Bran, who was only two, all took seriously ill and Ned and Catelyn were beside themselves with worry and grief. The children’s toys would have to be burned.
Arya and the boys howled, when their parents took away their wooden swords and soldiers. Sansa handed over her dolly reluctantly, whispering goodbye into the doll’s ear, and giving her three parting kisses under her cap. She wept bitterly into her pillow that night, and every night, long after the children had recovered, but only when she was sure no one would hear.
Things started to change around Winterfell shortly after the fever had passed. Ned Stark’s school had been forced to shutter its doors, and economy became the Starks’ ruling principle. Everyone had to learn to do without. Sansa would often stare longingly at the dolls on display in the shop windows of Wintertown, and though she did not fully understand the family’s financial straits, she always knew better than to ask for one.
When mother and father sat the children down and told them they were going to have another baby, Robb, Arya and Bran were fairly indifferent about it, but Sansa was over the moon.
Arya had declared her a ninny and that all babies were stupid.
“Just remember Sansa how useless Bran used to be, all red and squashy and wailing without end.” Now that the boy was six and could walk on his own and more or less keep up, he was a much more suitable playmate in the eyes of nine year old Arya.
But Sansa, who was ten, had always dreamed of motherhood. When Rickon Stark was born, with Tully blue eyes and a head of russet curls, he was infinitely better than any old porcelain toy. He was her very own living baby doll.
Sansa loved the baby from the start. She carried him everywhere, even kept him on her lap during her lessons. She fed him and bathed him and would spend hours on end trying to make him laugh.
Mrs. Stark appreciated the help. Between preparing Rob for college, wrangling Arya and Bran, running the household, meeting the demands of her mission work, and assisting her husband with his abolitionist paper, her daughter’s devotion to her baby brother was a godsend. She was very proud of Sansa, who seemed to excel when she was given more and more responsibilities.
“She’ll make a wonderful mother someday,” Catelyn observed to her husband. She felt a pang of sadness at the thought of her sweet girl growing up.
“Well, she learned from the best,” was her husband’s reply as he planted a kiss on her forehead.
If Sansa was like a second mother to the boy, she was a very indulgent one. When Mrs. Stark forbade him something, he would appeal to Sansa. If she took up his cause, she was almost always able to convince their mother to change her mind. Naturally, Rickon loved her dearly.
Arya and Bran would tease him when he picked her bouquets of dandelions.
“Those are weeds,” Bran said, “why not pick her some flowers instead?” But Sansa loved the bouquets he brought her. She always thanked him with a bright smile and big hug, and put them in a small chipped crystal vase she kept on her windowsill.
“I’m glad you make her smile Rick,” his oldest brother had told him. Robb had never teased him about the dandelions. “When I’m away at war, promise me you’ll take care of her. Be her knight, like in the stories she reads you.”
When Robb died, and Sansa thought she would never feel happiness again, it was Rickon who brought her out of her terrible grief — Rickon who was a near identical copy of their elder brother, who even had the same laugh — Rickon who still needed her — Rickon who, at five, took his sister’s face into his pudgy, little hands and solemnly vowed to be her loyal knight, and protect her from all monsters, just as Robb used to do.
So what if she indulged him from time to time? They had so little as it was, you could hardly call him spoiled. He was only six, just a small boy really, and still very much her own darling baby.
Notes:
Hurray for older sisters, without whom many of us youngest siblings might not have made it to adulthood.
Apologies if the first chapter is overly sentimental. I really wanted to establish Sansa’s close bond with Rickon, and how she may have spoiled him just a tad. I also hope it sheds a little light on the family dynamics and back story. Jon will show up in chapter 2.
Chapter Text
“Sansa! Sansa come quick!” Arya yelled as she burst through the kitchen door. “Oh good, you’re here,” she said, zeroing in on her startled older sister. Sansa was assisting their mother and Old Nan, prepare baskets for the war widows in Wintertown.
Arya was out of breath and full of high spirits. She must have run directly over from Storm’s End.
“I have such good news! Mr. Baratheon has secured a box for us, — you, me and Gendry, that is — to attend the Opera! It’s to be a production of Durran Godsgrief, you know, so there will be plenty of lovering and that for you, but lots of sword fighting and vengeful sea gods for me! Isn’t it splendid of the old fellow?”
Sansa nearly dropped the basket she was carrying — she could scarcely contain her joy! A box at the Opera! Why it was more than just splendid! She wished she could give the gruff old gentleman a hug.
“How wonderful!” she cried, “I’ve always longed to attend the Opera!”
“We’re to take Mr. Baratheon’s fine new carriage there and all! Like proper toffs!”
Sansa practically squealed with delight, despite Arya’s use of slang.
“Oh Mother, isn’t it wonderful?”
Mrs. Stark looked skeptical.
“Stannis Baratheon, is going to escort you girls, to the Opera?”
“Well, no not Mr. Baratheon himself.” Arya admitted, “He’s sending Gendry’s tutor, Mr. Snow, to play chaperone.”
That certainly made more sense, Catelyn thought with a chuckle.
“We may go, mayn’t we Mother?” Sansa asked sweetly.
“Oh please Mother, please!” Added Arya.
Catelyn looked fondly at both of her daughters’ pleading faces and relented immediately. Sansa, she had no doubt, would be respected and admired wherever she went. And Mr. Snow seemed like a steady young man. She was sure he could keep both the impetuous young Baratheon and her own harum-scarum Arya in line, for one evening at least.
As the sun set on Saturday, Sansa and Arya were sitting with their mother in the parlour awaiting the arrival of their escorts from Storm’s End. Sansa had to be constantly vigilant that Arya didn’t run her fingers through her hair and ruin all of her elder sister’s hard work. She had spent all afternoon brushing out Arya’s mane until it was gleaming. Then she pulled it all together into a think rope of a braid and finished it off with a green velvet bow. Her sister had cursed Sansa as she powered through the snags and snarls, but the end result was worth it. Arya had to admit that it looked very becoming; she was more than a little proud of her dark brown waves.
They both looked very well indeed. Sansa had beamed with satisfaction when she held Arya firmly by her shoulders and forced her sister to stand with her in front of the full length mirror in their parents’ room as they finished dressing. They looked, neat and respectable, and would not stand out amongst the other patrons of the Opera House in White Harbour. It would be absolutely mortifying to be underdressed for the occasion, and by some miracle she has been able to impress this point on her unfashionable sister. Since Arya’s singed, old burgundy dress had been consigned to the scrap heap, Sansa had convinced her to wear a rather stylish tartan skirt (that Sansa herself had grown too tall for). She paired it with the new blouse she had made Arya for Solstice. It had a boyish collar and cuffs, and only the tiniest hint of crochet lace appliqué. Arya had, blessedly, not made much of a a fuss — she must have liked Sansa’s present after all.
Sansa wore her smart, green dress, of course, though she thought wistfully of the mauve silk gown in storage in the garret. How delightful it might have been to attend the Opera in a proper silk evening gown that would bear her slender white arms and the delicate slope of her shoulders — she did have such splendid shoulders. There wouldn’t have been time to make it over anyway, and it would have looked quite ridiculous with her sorry pair of gloves.
She bore the private humiliation of the state of her gloves with a quiet, good grace. She had soaked her poor left glove for days, after having foolishly lent it to Arya for the Karstarks’ Yuletide dance. In the past, she might have flown into a rage, and screamed bloody murder at her sister. But Sansa had offered up her own glove willingly, knowing full well there was a very good chance that Arya would destroy it. And Arya had been so contrite, and wept so bitterly over her failings, that Sansa couldn’t hold a grudge. Her little sister tried so very hard to be good.
After hours of gentle scrubbing she had managed to remove most of the coffee stains, though the one glove was now of a decidedly darker cast than the other — she’d have to remember to place her right hand over her left at all times
Their two younger brothers soon entered, freshly bathed and in their nightshirts and dressing gowns, to bid them goodnight. Bran complimented Sansa most gallantly and only teased Arya a little, in his good natured way, about the unusual amount of effort she seemed to have put into her appearance. Rickon however had pouted, and would not give Sansa a kiss when she had asked, much to her dismay.
Rickon had been in a foul mood all day, angry to be left out of the evening’s fun.
“Why can’t we go to the Opera too?,” he demanded, petulantly. “It doesn’t seem fair that Bran and I should be left behind all the time.”
“Because you weren’t invited!” Arya snapped. She had little patience for Rickon’s whining.
“I’m perfectly happy to stay at home with my books,” Bran chimed in.
“Well I still want to go! It’s not too late, I could get ready very quickly. Couldn’t I please go with them Mother?”
“I think the Opera might be a bit too grown up for a boy of six, darling” Mother reasoned.
If it was not too grown up for Arya, it was surely not too grown up for him. He loved tales and sword fighting just as much as she did. He turned his watery eyes to Sansa, and she was not insensible to their power. She tried her best to console him.
“Arya promised she would give you and Bran a full and faithful account of everything that happens on stage tonight, didn’t she?” Sansa looked to her sister for confirmation. Arya shrugged non-committal. Sansa continued with a sigh, “and don’t you just love Arya’s stories? Hmmm?” She tickled him then and he tried his hardest not to smile.
Sansa made a good point, Arya may have had many faults in Rickon’s eyes, but she did tell cracking good stories.
“That’s hardly stratifying,” he pouted.
Sansa looked at him, confused.
“The nincompoop means to say ‘satisfying’”Arya explained with a snort. Rickon shot her a hateful glare.
“Come sit with me by the fire, and I’ll read to you from the Tales of Dunk and Egg,” Bran offered, ever the conciliator.
It was a tempting offer, for Rickon was a little cold, and Dunk and Egg was his favourite book. But it didn’t seem like it would be half as much fun as going out with Sansa, Arya and Gendry. They would be leaving soon, and he was running out of time. He’d have to double his efforts.
“Sansa, please! I want to go with you!” He cried as he hugged her about the waist.
Mrs. Stark gave her daughters a pointed look. She and her husband firmly believed that their children should be able to settle their disputes amongst themselves. Catelyn watched the tempest that was brewing closely, but she trusted her two eldest had it in hand, and would only intercede if necessary.
“Sansa, couldn’t I come too? I wouldn’t be a bother.”
“Tough luck Rick,” Arya said in a meagre attempt to sound sympathetic, “but the box only has four seats”.
“I could sit in your lap Sansa, I’d take up hardly any room at all.”
Now Arya was getting cross. The little manipulator knew exactly how to appeal to their soft-hearted sister. Sansa still seemed to think of him as her baby doll, and he had her wrapped around his little finger. This could not stand! Rickon would get bored, then tired, then he’d fall asleep mid way through the performance and poor Sansa would be saddled with tending to him and carrying him. She would be uncomfortable all evening and fretful of waking him and that would be the end of all their fun. Arya could sense her sister relenting, she would have to put her foot down.
“Rickon, you are much too tall and much too heavy to be forever sitting in Sansa’s lap. You’re not a little baby anymore — aren’t you embarrassed, big boy that you are, to be always coddled by your sister?”
“What would you know about it, Horseface!?”
Arya’s eyes flashed with anger.
“With father off to war, I am the man of the house, and I ought to give you a whipping!” She declared hotly.
“Arya…” Mother chided, her tone a warning.
“Sorry Mother,” she muttered, only somewhat repentant.
“I think technically, I’m the man of the house,” was Bran’s unhelpful observation.
“Oh please,” Arya scoffed, with an expressive roll of her eyes.
“Perhaps Mr. Snow could be prevailed upon to purchase another ticket in the mezzanine, so that Rick might sit with us in the box?” Sansa wondered aloud to her sister.
“Sansa!” Arya scolded in return, “that would be abominably rude.”
The idea of Arya, of all people, chastising Sansa for being rude was truly absurd. But she had to admit that her sister was right; if Sansa were to ask it of the young man, he would readily agree to exchange his ticket. He was always so eager to be of service. She’d hate to deny him an evening’s entertainment with friends. Truthfully, Sansa herself would be sorry to miss out on an evening in Jon Snow’s company. She enjoyed the tutor’s quiet, gentlemanly manners. He was so clever and attentive.
She looked down at Rickon and brushed his curls back from his forehead. “I am sorry my darling, but there is nothing to be done. Perhaps Old Nan might take you and Bran to the matinee next week.”
Rickon pulled away and scowled. He may have had the Tully looks, but in this mood the little boy most closely resembled Arya. Sansa covered the top of his ruddy head with kisses. She was very sorry to have to leave him behind.
“Let’s go Sansa! The carriage is here!” Arya called from the door impatiently.
“Goodbye my dears,” Mrs. Stark said as she gave each girl a kiss. “Enjoy yourselves, and do wrap up tight, it is very chilly tonight.” As the two sisters swept out of the door, a cold fury washed over the disgruntled little boy.
“You’ll be sorry for this, Arya Stark!” He yelled at the top of his lungs.
Mr. Snow and Gendry, were waiting for them outside the carriage, in order to hand Miss Stark and Miss Arya back into it — Arya and Gendry did not see the necessity of this, but Mr. Snow insisted and Sansa was appreciative.
Once they had settled in and started on their way to town, Arya felt a prick of conscience. Perhaps she had been too hard on her little brother. She shuddered when she thought of his screams. You’ll be sorry, he had said. She wondered what Rickon might have meant by it.
It had been a declaration of war.
Notes:
Hope you enjoyed it!
Chapter 3: Arya Horseface
Notes:
Hello again! Thank you once more for your lovely comments. You’ve all been so very kind and encouraging.
Some of you mentioned your fears about Bran as I continue the series, and I want to assure you that I have no plans to kill him off. Little women is the guide, but I plan to diverge a bit from some of the major plot points.
Speaking of diverging. I had thought I’d be able to wrap this up in one more chapter, but I realized we should probably check in with Arya and learn a bit more about her past, before the shit hits the proverbial fan. So now we’re up to 4 chapters, but who knows there may end up being 5 or 6 — this world keeps building itself. Also be warned, this one made me tear up a couple of times.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Horseface! Horseface!” The girls in Wintertown would taunt.
Robb and Sansa were beautiful — they took after the Tullys and looked like Mother. Arya was different. Mother and Father used to call her their little wolf girl, for she had the Stark looks — grey eyes, deep brown hair, and a long, mournful looking face.
“Arya Horseface!”
She hated those girls. She preferred to romp about with the boys, and quickly latched on to her older brother Robb and his friends — Theon Greyjoy, Cley Cerwyn and Little John Umber. They thought she was funny and made a sort of mascot out of her.
“Arya Underfoot,” Robb called her, because she always followed so closely at his heels.
When Robb was around, no one ever dared tease her, but sometimes when he wasn’t looking, and the boys wanted to get a rise out of her, Theon would whisper,
“Horseface.”
Arya always loved to be outside, running and hollering and working out her boundless energy. But her favourite pastime was spending an afternoon with her father in his study. They’d sit in quiet solicitude, never needing to speak to understand one another. As Father wrote letters, and essays, and articles, Arya would read books. Her father would let her read any book on his shelves, and she read everything. When she encountered a word or a concept she didn’t understand, she would ask Mr. Stark, and he would explain it concisely and with great alacrity.
One afternoon, Father placed a stack of scrap paper and a pencil in front of her. When she asked what she was meant to do with it, he shrugged and told her anything she liked. She started by drawing a sparrow, but gave up when it looked more like a lopsided turkey. She then wrote a story about a turkey that didn’t want to become Thanksgiving dinner, so it took a ship to Bravos where it learned to put on a mask and turn itself into another animal. It turned itself into a sparrow and flew west, further west than any other turkey had ever flown (or waddled).
Father had laughed when he read her story and told her she had a rare talent. She beamed under his praise and he encouraged her to write some more.
“Let’s see what other stories you have rattling around that head of yours, wolf girl.”
And there were ever so many! She wrote constantly — compulsively. She would jot her ideas down on any scrap of paper she could get her hands on; the backs of hand bills, the insides of cereal boxes and Mother and Sansa’s old dress patterns. And though it was a luxury, Mr. Stark always kept a steady supply of pristine, creamy white sheafs of new paper, on which she copied out her finished work.
The whole family laughed and cried over her little sketches and praised her for possessing a rare talent. She wrote sonnets, and ballads, and vignettes — and eventually full plays.
Robb was always pleased to be cast as the hero. Bran loved to play the dragons, or any animal, really. One time he played a three-eyed raven; Sansa painted the extra eye on his forehead with shoe black. Sansa loved to play the maidens of course, and she was a sensational actress. Arya would write pages and pages of wonderfully pathetic monologues for her. They would weep over them together in bed when they were supposed to be sleeping.
Sansa became the greatest champion of Arya’s work. She told all of the young ladies of Wintertown all about her talented sister, and the brilliant fairy stories she wrote that the siblings would stage in the garret. Any girls who scoffed, would be met with Sansa’s chilly disdain.
Sansa decided to invite some of the girls to Winterfell for tea with the Stark children, then they would be treated to a performance of Arya’s latest fairy piece.
The little girls swooned over Robb as the handsome knight, wept over Sansa’s tragical monologues, giggled as Bran pranced about the stage, pretending to spit fire, and came to the unanimous conclusion that Arya Stark was indeed a very rare talent. None of them ever called her Horseface again.
As Robb was preparing to leave for college, the children spent less and less time play acting. Arya started spending time in the garret by herself, turning it into her own little study. She decided to try her hand at writing a book. Arya was forever disappearing at odd hours to work on her secret manuscript. One night, well past midnight, Sansa came looking for her, worried when she woke up and saw that Arya wasn’t in their bed. She asked what she was doing, and Arya confessed her literary aspirations. Sansa clapped her hands with glee and begged her to read her some of her work. Arya promised she would as soon as she finished a chapter.
Sansa would absent-mindedly dangle a toy to distract Rickon on her lap, while she listened to Arya read from her manuscript with rapt attention. Whenever Arya finished a reading, Sansa would be effusive with universal, though very genuine, praise. Each new chapter was the best one yet.
“You really ought to get it published Arya,” she would sigh dreamily. “How proud I’ll be when my sister is a published author! Won’t the rest of those silly old girls in Wintertown be jealous?”
Arya was filled with love for her sister. Somewhere along the way, she had forgotten to be jealous and had simply liked her for her own sake. Sansa was her truest and dearest friend.
“May I carry your parcels for you Sansa?” Theon Greyjoy offered one afternoon, when he spied the two Stark sisters exiting the general store.
“No thank you Theon, we can manage quite well on our own,” Sansa declined politely.
Theon’s neck turned red and his eyes narrowed when he heard his friends sniggering behind him.
“Stuck up!” He shouted. “The Lady of Winterfell is too good for the likes of us common folk!”
Sansa’s shoulders turned in and she blushed with embarrassment, for there were many other children, and some grown ups watching. Arya felt that familiar rage.
“Shut your filthy mouth Greyjoy!” Arya shouted at the rotten boy.
“What’s it to you Horseface? It’s not like anyone would want to walk you home!”
“Theon Greyjoy!” Everyone turned to Sansa. Her embarrassment was long forgotten and she stood tall, with her fists clenched and her eyes blazing. “You were wrong: I don’t THINK we’re too good to walk home with you…” she tossed her braids for emphasis. “I KNOW we are.”
With that she grabbed Arya’s hand and marched right past the pack of astounded boys with her head held high.
Robb laughed so hard he cried, as Arya regaled their brothers with her thrilling description of the afternoon’s events.
“I’m proud of you two,” he said, “Theon needed to be put in his place. I’m only sorry I missed it!”
It had been almost a year now, since Robb died, and Arya still felt it keenly. He had been the hero in all of her stories. In her grief, she sometimes found it hard to look at Rickon. Everyday he looked more and more like Robb. He even laughed like Robb. But he wasn’t Robb, because Robb would never call her Horseface.
Notes:
Hope you liked it :)
Chapter 4: A Little Boy Scorned
Notes:
This one took forever, I really hope you like it. Everyone is very dramatic, except for Bran. Bran is the best.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
After his sisters departed, Rickon sniffled for a time as Mother consoled him, but she was not very sympathetic.
“I am sorry you were disappointed my dear, but you must try to bear it. Your sisters work very hard and deserve this diversion,” she said while stroking his back and drying his eyes with her handkerchief. “Don’t resent them or try to spoil their enjoyment of it. Hmm?”
Old Nan also did her best to soothe his rumpled spirits after he poured his heart out to her in the kitchen. But she was a loyal old soul and could not be persuaded to condemn his sister’s behaviour outright as he had expected.
“There, there little wolf,” she said as she gave him a pat on the head, a cup of hot cocoa and a turnover, warm from the oven. “Miss Arya is not so uncharitable, you know. She’ll feel sorry for you by and by, and be extra sweet to you tomorrow, I dare say.”
“Never mind all this moping, Rick,” his elder brother said. “Remember that Arya promised to take you skating this week? You’ll have such a lark when you get on the ice, that you’ll soon forget all about the silly old Opera.” Bran made a space for him by the fire, gave Rickon half of his turnover, and kept his earlier promise by reading five whole chapters of Dunk & Egg aloud — until Rickon’s eyes began to feel heavy and he had to stifle his yawns.
Outwardly, the little boy appeared mollified as he dozed off beside Bran on the hearth rug. And as she carried him upstairs, to bed, Mrs. Stark was convinced that the tempest had passed and that tomorrow would find her youngest child’s usual jolly disposition restored. She could not have known that he was dreaming of revenge.
Sansa and Arya stood in awe of the Opera House in White Harbour. It was nothing of course to the grand Opera houses of King’s Landing or Essos, but to two little girls from Wintertown, it was more glorious than any castle in the sky. They had never been anywhere so splendid. Such riches were beyond the scope of even Arya’s imagination.
“How can we ever repay Mr. Baratheon for this kindness?” Sansa whispered to her sister as they took their seats between Gendry and Mr. Snow. “Perhaps I should make him a pair of slippers? If you’ll help me select the colours and the fabric, we can say they’re from the both of us.” Sometimes Sansa could be a little vain and selfish, but at her core, she was a truly thoughtful and generous girl. Arya smiled at her sister’s kind offer, and squeezed her hand as the performance began.
The first act was riveting and both girls were thoroughly delighted. Sansa wondered if she’d ever be able to sing so well as the beautiful dark haired Soprano, Lady Crane, and secretly cursed herself for not paying closer attention during her father’s lessons in the Old Tongue, so that she might better be able to follow the story. Arya was highly impressed with the choreography of the sword fighting and how realistic the stage blood was. She wondered how they cleaned it from their costumes. The blood she made at home stained terribly and Sansa refused to get within five feet of it.
During the intermission, Sansa and Mr. Snow sat with their heads bent together, deep in conversation. Sansa was a real duck to distract him with idle chitchat, so that Arya and Gendry might be free to fidget, and laugh, and pull faces as they looked out at all the rich old bats, in their ridiculous frills, through the opera glasses Mr. Baratheon had lent the girls. Arya took pity on her sister, and wanted her to have a chance to gawk at the rich ladies’ finery through the glasses as well, for she knew her sister loved all that nonsense. Sansa didn’t seem to notice when Arya tried to get her attention, however, as she appeared to be equally distracted by Mr. Snow.
“What can they possibly be talking about?” Arya whispered to Gendry, “They have nothing in common — he’s dull as powder! His head is only full of mathematics and dead languages and hers with fashion plates and babies.”
Arya cringed a little internally, her speech had been unkind. She loved Sansa, and knew full well what a lively and intelligent girl she was. Arya would be quick to thrash any boy who thought to question her sister’s intellect. She never got the chance, for Sansa would usually make some devastatingly cutting remark, delivered so sweetly that the hearer would walk away grinning like a fool, until her full meaning sank in and they were dealt a crushing blow.
Arya liked Mr. Snow too, honestly she did. He could be reserved at times, even a bit brooding, and he was almost… fussy about manners, especially around Mother and Sansa. He really wasn’t that dull, some of his knowledge was rather useful. He was a friendly fellow, who could take a joke. Gendry practically worshiped him. He even let Arya sit in on Gendry’s fencing lessons (with Mother’s permission of course), and gave her her own practice foil to use. She’d named it Needle — a sly wink at Sansa and her sewing — and he hadn’t laughed at her, but said it was very clever, and fitting.
Her sister’s new friendship with the tutor was baffling. Arya could barely focus on the beginning of second act and watched the two of them more than the stage. She kept trying to get her sister’s attention with whispered observations. Sansa would turn to her, give her an indulgent smile, then turn right back to him. She seemed to hang on his every whispered word, and Arya wondered petulantly, how she could possibly be enjoying the Opera with Mr. Snow constantly in her ear.
Eventually the lure of the beautiful music proved too strong, and Arya was once again lost in the magic of the performance. It’s true she had no idea what they were actually singing, she had no head for languages and had not paid any attention when their father tried to teach them the Old Tongue. It didn’t matter anyway, she could infer the plot from the staging. Let Sansa miss out on this wonderful spectacle if she wanted to, it was no concern of Arya’s.
Rickon awoke in his bed, determined.
He waited until he could hear Bran’s consistent deep breathing beside him, before he put on his slippers and tip toed out of their room. The old grandfather clock in the parlour struck ten. He knew that Mother would be safely in the study, answering letters. Old Nan would be preparing tomorrow’s bread in the kitchen. And Sansa and Arya would not be home for at least another hour and a half. He crossed the hallway to his sisters’ bedroom in search of inspiration.
If Arya had been like Sansa and liked fancywork and dresses, then Rickon might have taken a pair of sheers to her sewing or splattered a bottle of ink on a favourite gown. As it was, Arya’s dresses were already splattered with ink from her own carelessness. She disdained the feminine clothes she was forced to wear and viewed each stain as a badge of honour.
She was too old for dolls or toys, and while she did love books, Rickon would be loath to destroy any as they were beloved by all the Stark children equally, and he’d hate to diminish his own pleasure with his revenge — nor Sansa’s or Bran’s, of course.
When he thought about books, however, he struck upon an idea — a truly splendid and fiendish idea. He scrambled up to the garret, in search of what his sister loved best. He had promised her she’d be sorry alright — and just see if she wouldn’t be!
“I must thank you again Mr. Snow,” Sansa said as she took the arm he offered, and they stepped out of the theatre into the chilly night. “I am ever so much obliged to you for your clever translations.”
“Please do not thank me Miss Stark,” he demurred. “My knowledge of the Old Tongue is rudimentary at best. I’d hate to be examined by a true proficient”. The modest man was thankful for the blustery winds of winter in that moment. Miss Stark might easily mistake the tell-tale pink shade of his ears for a reaction to the cold.
Arya and Gendry were walking a little behind them, excitedly discussing all of their favourite moments of the show. Arya found it terrifically inspiring! Even the love scenes were good — romantic without being saccharine. She was eager to get home and make some notes in her manuscript.
“I don’t think you were the only one inspired by the love scenes,” Gendry said, handing her the opera glasses and gesturing towards her sister and their chaperone with his chin. Smiling, Arya looked through the glasses and was stopped in her tracks by what she saw. Sansa was hanging off Mr. Snow’s arm laughing — laughing! — at something that dull gentleman had said.
Arya thrust the glasses back into Gendry’s surprised grasp and sped up to get closer. She watched them carefully. Something in her sister’s face — her pretty pink blushes, fluttering lashes and gentle, little smile — made her heart clench. Arya would know if Sansa felt anything more than a distant, friendly regard for Gendry’s tutor, surely she would, for didn’t Sansa tell her everything? The girls had shared all their deepest secrets with each other since they were old enough to have secrets worth keeping.
Sansa had always been a bit silly about romance in novels, but she’d never lost her head over it in real life. She was aware that she was beautiful, but always seemed surprised by the attentions the neighbourhood boys paid her and remained blessedly indifferent to them.
When they approached her with overtures of love, she would only laugh merrily in their faces — if her erstwhile suitors were chummy — or give them a contemptuous glare and a tart rebuke, if they were impertinent.
They called her the Lady of Winterfell because of it, said she put on airs because of the Starks’ former wealth, and that she was as cold and remote as the Wall. What stuff and nonsense?! While Sansa had always been proud, she was certainly not cold — but warm and loving and a jolly, devoted friend. And if she didn’t take notice of those bothersome boys, it was only because Sansa knew her worth.
Privately Arya thought Gendry would do very well for Sansa, for he was rich, and could afford to buy her all the lovely things she deserved. Arya would be best pleased to buy those things for Sansa herself, once she was a famous writer, but Sansa would never be happy without a husband and a pack of children running about. If she must marry, let it be to Gendry, at least then she’d stay in the family.
She knew better than to ever suggest it to Sansa, mind, for her sister would balk at the notion. Gendry was too indolent and juvenile for her sister’s tastes, and he was three months younger to boot. Arya would have to work on him to refashion his character — a noble task, especially when one’s own character was still in need of some improvement. Perhaps her efforts combined with those of Mr Snow and four years spent away at college, might polish Gendry up into a sober, young gentleman, worthy of her sister’s love. Hopefully Sansa wouldn’t go and foolishly give her heart away before Arya’s plans had a chance to bear fruit.
“If you keep making that face, it’ll get stuck like that,” Gendry startled her out of her reverie. She wondered how long she’d been scowling.
“May I escort you to your carriage my lady,” the boy laughed merrily as he offered her his arm with an exaggerated wink. Arya punched him in his shoulder, hard — “Oww! Arya!”
Rickon stood before the fireplace in the parlour, Arya’s manuscript in hand. He knew he’d have to act one way or the other, and soon, because he was running out of time.
It was a simple enough plan. Find the manuscript up in the garret and burn it — very straightforward. But now that it came down to it, he hesitated. He found himself remembering every kind deed Arya had ever done for him. It was very inconvenient, because he wanted to stay angry with her.
He forced himself to think of her worst qualities. Arya was always cross, and yelling at him. She was forever after him to behave, when she herself was the rudest, most unladylike girl that ever lived! She lorded her intelligence over him. She took delight in correcting his blunders, out loud, in front of everyone. And she was always laughing at him, and encouraging others to as well, though she was fifteen and he was only six. She just loved to make him feel stupid and small! He tossed the bundle of papers on the flames and he regretted it instantly.
What had he done? He almost reached in after them, but quickly yanked his hand back when he felt the fire’s heat. He thought he might use the poker to push the papers out of the flames, but it only served to stoke the fire and make them disintegrate that much faster.
He sat down in front of the fireplace and buried his head in his hands. He felt sorry for the loss of the stories, they really were capital. Surely if she wrote them once, she could write them again? Arya would be livid when she discovered them missing — well, good, he thought a little half heartedly. This had been his intention, hadn’t it? And if Arya hadn’t been such a crosspatch when he had merely asked to go with them, none of this would ever have happened.
He watched the last of her words disappear into smoke, then picked himself up and took himself upstairs to bed.
Arya had been silent and cross the whole ride home, even Gendry’s joking banter could not improve her mood. She could not stop glaring at Sansa sitting across the way beside Jon Snow, chatting cordially. Every time her sister so much as smiled at something that man said, Arya scowled. Without her participation, the conversation soon turned stilted and eventually dried up all together. The four young people rode in awkward silence.
Sansa nodded off at some point, her head lolled to the side and ended up resting peacefully against Jon Snow’s broad shoulder. He smiled to himself and looked as though he’d won some sort of prize. Arya was incensed. She was about to reach out and shake her sister awake, when Gendry stayed her hand.
“Let her rest,” he said softly. Arya snatched her hand back, and crossed her arms. She turned her head and glowered out the window for the rest of the ride home.
When the carriage stopped outside Winterfell, Arya hopped out, without taking Mr. Snow’s offered assistance. She then grabbed Sansa’s hand before he could take it, and practically dragged her out of the carriage and up the little walkway to the door.
“Oh!” Sansa cried out in her surprise. “Er, thank you Mr. Snow, and to you, Gendry. Goodnight!” She called out over her shoulder.
“Arya!” Sansa chastised as soon as they were inside, “That was rude!”
“Well you practically plastered yourself to him!”
“It’s - it’s proper to take a gentleman’s arm when it’s offered!”
“Oh yes, you wouldn’t want to do anything improper—“
“Girls?” Mrs. Stark interrupted the heated debate, “is anything the matter?”
“Nothing Mother,” Sansa said quickly.
“Nothing Mother,” Arya added sullenly, lagging half a beat behind.
Mrs. Stark was unconvinced, but did not press them.
“Did you have a nice time?”
“Oh yes,” Arya cried with an exaggerated roll of her eyes as she started to stomp her way up the stairs, “I was absolutely inspired by the love scene!”
“What does she mean?” Mother asked Sansa. The girl could only shrug in her exasperation.
Arya kicked off her fancy clothes and left them lying in a heap on the floor of the girls’ bedroom. She shrugged on a warm flannel nightgown and a pair of wooly socks, wrapped her self up in a heavy knitted shawl and climbed the ladder to the garret, where she would write all night with only a couple of candles for company.
As she looked down at her little warped bureau, Arya was confused. She could have sworn she left her manuscript right there. She pulled open all the drawers and emptied out their contents on the floor, it wasn’t in any of them.
She rushed down to her bedroom. Mother was helping Sansa with her corset and that ridiculous crinoline she insisted on wearing. Arya started to tear open every dresser drawer, frantically searching for it.
“Arya? What’s wrong?” Mrs. Stark asked as she exchanged a confused look with Sansa.
“It’s my manuscript, I can’t find it,” she said, trying not to cry. “Have you seen it Sansa?”
“No dearest, only in the garret when you were last working on it.” Arya had become very pale. “Perhaps ask Brandon? He always knows where to find lost things,” Sansa suggested, hopeful.
“Yes, you’re right…” Arya muttered. “Bran will know.” And she swept out of the room like a wraith.
“Bran! Bran!” She whispered as she gently shook her brother awake, she didn’t want to startle him.
“What is it Arya?” He mumbled, “I’m asleep—”
“Have you seen my manuscript? Please Bran, it’s important,” she pleaded.
He sat up rubbing the sleep from his eyes and reaching for his spectacles.
“Where did you last see it?”
“Upstairs, in the garret—“ a cold fear seized her as she suddenly remembered Rickon’s promised threat. You’ll be sorry…
She looked passed Bran at the little figure lying beside him — a small boy, with his eyes screwed shut, pretending to be asleep. Arya flew to the other side of the bed.
“Rickon!” She hissed, shaking the boy violently. “Where is it? What have you done with it?!”
“Done with what?” He ventured, feigning ignorance and fooling no one.
“My manuscript!” She bellowed. “I know you’ve got it. Give it to me at once”
“I haven’t got it,” he insisted, quaking. She boxed his ears.
“Yes you have! I know you’re lying! Tell the truth you wretched little fibber!”
“It’s not a lie — I haven’t got it, now. I burnt it up!” He cried in a passion, his ears were ringing and he was quite worked up now. “I told you you’d be sorry! You’ll never see your silly old book again!”
“Burned it…” she whispered, physically reeling backwards as if she’d been struck. “Not truly?” She asked no one in particular.
Then with a feral growl, she launched herself at her baby brother. He tried to quickly scramble behind Bran for protection, but she caught hold of his arm and pulled him from the bed and out of the room, into the hall. She pulled his arm so hard, she nearly wrenched it right out of its socket.
Bran followed them closely, trying to restrain Arya and impede the blows she was raining down on the frightened little boy. But Arya was remarkably strong, especially when she was in a temper.
Mother and Sansa quickly emerged from the girls’ room at the sound of the commotion.
Mother grabbed Arya, and held her around the middle, pinning her arms to her side. It didn’t stop her from trying to kick out at Rickon.
Sansa pulled their two little brothers away and checked them over for scrapes and bruises. Both boys were fine, Arya had not landed any serious hits.
“What is going on here?” Mrs. Stark demanded, once Arya had calmed down enough to stop kicking and spitting.
“He burned it,” Arya wailed. “He burned my boo-ook.” She began to sob in Mrs. Stark’s arms. Mother and eldest sister then turned to look at Rickon at once — two near identical, disappointed faces.
“Is this true?” Mrs. Stark asked, coolly.
Rickon nodded and hung his head in shame. Sansa covered her mouth and let out a choked sob of her own.
“Bran, go to bed,” Mother barked. His brother hastily retreated into their room.
Mother led the rest into the girls’ room, gently guiding Arya to the bed. They sat down, still clinging to each other, and Mother stroked her hair as she poured out her grief. The guilt Rickon felt was overwhelming and his own eyes began to water.
“Oh Rickon,” Sansa said then, her voice full of sadness and reproach. “I never could have thought you capable of such deliberate cruelty. This is my fault, I should not have indulged you so.”
“Please forgive me Sansa,” Rickon begged through his tears. “And call me your sweet boy again?” She pushed his curls back from his forehead and looked into his watery, blue eyes.
“I do believe you are still my sweet boy, deep down, but it is not my forgiveness you need to ask.”
He looked back at Arya, it was a difficult sight to witness. His normally jolly and robust sister, who never cried — not even when she accidentally drove a nail through her thumb — was pale and crumpled up like a little rag doll, weeping openly into their mother’s lap. This was his fault. He had set out to hurt her and he had succeeded and his victory tasted like ashes in his mouth.
“Arya,” he said timidly. She looked up at him with large grey eyes, tumultuous as a stormy sky. “I am very sorry. Honest, I am.” Her a eyes narrowed and her face darkened with anger.
“Get out ,” she seethed. “Get him out, I don’t want to see him.”
“Arya —“ Mother tried to cut in gently.
“I SAID OUT !” Arya screamed, and she hurled a hairbrush in his direction. If her eyes hadn’t been full of tears, she never would have missed. Sansa ushered him out the door.
“To bed, Rick,” she said hurriedly, before she swept back into the room, and shut the door in his face. He stood there a little while, unsure, then quietly pressed his ear to the door. He could just make out their muffled voices.
“It is a very hard loss,” Mother was saying, “and you have every right to be angry, but please don’t let the sun go down upon your anger. Forgive him, and start again tomorrow.”
“I can never forgive him.”
“Arya, you can’t mean that,” Sansa said.
“I do, I do!,” she replied. “I loved my little book, Sansa. I made it, with the best I had in me. And now it’s all gone.”
“It’s not gone, Arya. The stories came from you and they’re still there. It was only paper.”
He had heard enough. Arya hated him, had always hated him — and here at last was the proof, for didn’t she love those old burnt up pages more than she ever loved him.
Back in their bedroom, Bran was sitting up, waiting for him. He gave him a weary little smile, as he pulled back the blankets and Rickon climbed into bed. Then he rubbed his back soothingly as the little boy cried himself to sleep.
Notes:
Thanks for reading!
Chapter 5: A Reckoning
Summary:
It was not a great distance to the river, but the older boy and girl had their skates fastened and were already stepping out onto the glass like surface, before Rickon caught up. Arya noticed her little brother’s arrival, but Gendry did not, he had skated ahead to test the ice. She could hear Rickon struggling with his skates, his little fingers were chilled and not so dexterous. She would usually help him with the buckles, but she turned her back on him instead and zigzagged lazily down the river, taking petty satisfaction in his struggles.
“Stick to the shore,” Gendry called over his shoulder, “it isn’t safe in the middle!”
Arya heard him clearly, but it was unlikely that Rickon, who was just struggling to his feet, had. She glanced at him over her shoulder and contemplated passing on the warning. Let him take care of himself, she decided, he was not her responsibility.
Arya sped up in pursuit of Gendry and had just reached the bend, when she heard the sickening crack.
Notes:
My god its finally done! This is a long one and there’s quite a bit of Jon and Sansa stuff in there. Not sure if it adds to the story or just slows things down, but can you ever have to much Jonsa?
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Oh Sansa, please stay up with me, and talk to me about pleasant things? For I cannot sleep, and my mind is full of dark and troubling thoughts,” Arya had pleaded, once their mother had bid them goodnight.
“Of course dearest,” Sansa replied with a tender embrace, and the two girls lay side by side in the bed talking late into the night.
Their chummy banter was restorative. It was just like when they were little girls, whispering confidences in the dark, Arya thought happily. They spoke of new dances, and dresses, and the invitation they had just received to Ysilla Royce’s coming out party in the Vale; as well as Ice skates, and horses, and the best fishing spots on Long Lake.
A fit of giggles gave way to a quiet interlude in the conversation. Each girl smiled to herself, lost in private, pleasant memories.
“Mr. Snow has the most interesting eyes.” Sansa said, quite unexpectedly.
“That must be the only interesting thing about him,” Arya muttered, most uncharitably, she was not pleased with this sudden change in subject. Exactly how long had Sansa been looking into his eyes? Arya wondered to herself.
“They’re grey, very like yours, but in some lights they look almost violet….” Sansa continued. Arya looked hard at her sister’s profile. “I’ve always liked grey eyes best, like yours and father's. What colour eyes do you think most handsome?” Sansa asked, innocently.
Arya didn’t know what to think. It was a new phenomenon for Sansa to take an interest in men and to blush so while discussing a perfectly commonplace tutor. She felt that at some point, she wasn’t sure when, her sister had grown up exponentially, and was drifting away from her into a world where she could not follow.
“I couldn’t really say. Don’t have a preference.” Arya felt the tears well up in her own dear, grey eyes. Why must the world be so hateful, and so many awful things happen all at once — first her book was burned, then she’d made a bloody fool of herself weeping like a woman, and now this final blow. Arya found herself wishing, for the first time in her life, that Sansa would keep her secrets to herself.
Arya drifted off to sleep eventually, but Sansa lay awake in the bed listening to her sister’s soft snores, her thoughts churning. Arya had been devastated by what Rickon had done, and rightfully so, for that manuscript represented many years of painstaking labour. She had started it when Rickon was born, for gods’ sakes! But how could a little boy of six truly understand the magnitude of that? His apologies and tears had been so sincere and the violence of Arya’s anger so dreadful. Sansa shuddered at the memory of it, and she could not help but feel that all of this turmoil in her family was her fault.
Sleep never came, so Sansa rose with the sun and dressed quietly, careful not to wake Arya. Her sister never looked so peaceful as she did when asleep. She would be sure to tell Old Nan to keep her breakfast warm and let the girl lie in as late as she pleased. Mother did not approve of sleeping in, but she was always up and out of the house at the crack of dawn, the gods' work waited for no woman after all. But Sansa felt that her mother would agree that today was an exception.
She slipped into the boys’ room to check on her sleeping brothers — Rickon’s rosy cheeks were still tear stained, and Bran’s dear brow was creased, his mouth twisted into a frown — it seemed everyone would be out of sorts today.
Sansa decided a walk into the village might clear her head. She needed to purchase some thread and could bring back some treats for her downhearted siblings. If she left right away, she could get there and back before they woke — all of the younger Stark children would lie abed passed noon if she wasn’t there to rouse them.
Sansa was distracted during her walk. She would absently smile and wave in response to her neighbours’ greetings, but she did not heed anything they said. She worried for her sister. She knew better than anyone, except perhaps Father, exactly how much those pages meant to Arya. They were her only outlet, and one that was grudgingly deemed acceptable for a girl by the good, though somewhat narrow-minded people in the village.
Mr. and Mrs. Stark were members of a small but distinguished circle of writers, intellectuals, and abolitionists in Wintertown. While the other townspeople were proud that these denizens had put their home on the map, they mostly looked upon them as well-meaning eccentrics and kooks. They came from some of the finest families in the area however, so exceptions would always be made for their peculiarities. Sansa and her siblings were treated with reverence by the adults in town. They were handsome children and very intelligent and well educated, especially the girls — Father did not believe in withholding knowledge from anyone, his school had been co-educational and open to the children of Freedmen — but they wouldn’t like their own children to associate too freely with the young Starks and pick up any of their odd notions.
Said children were often much nastier. They were always more than happy to say to the Starks’ faces what their parents would say behind their backs; Sansa was stuck up, Bran a know-it-all, Rickon soft, their parents fools, but the cruelest jeers and insults were reserved for Arya. Arya who could never hope to fit in, even if she tried. And she did try sometimes, bless her, if only to please Sansa. And when she failed she would lose her temper in a spectacular fashion. The neighbourhood children delighted in Arya’s wrath, they thought it funny — especially those blockheaded boys who used to hang about Robb.
There were of course notable exceptions — Randa Royce, Maya Stone, Alice Karstark, and the Manderly sisters were all Sansa’s dear friends, but even they, sweet girls that they were, had difficulty relating to the tomboyish Arya. Her sister had been so lonely as a little girl, Sansa and Robb had been her only real playmates. It wasn’t until Sansa had shared some of Arya’s stories with them that the local children began to relent in their onslaught. Arya’s imaginative tales were far more interesting to them than her rages.
Those children were shallow however, they could never hope to understand a girl as singular as Arya, and her sister had remained lonely in spite of their acceptance — until she met Gendry. The two of them understood each other instantly. He seemed to admire and cherish Arya, exactly as she was, and had managed in a short time to learn how to navigate her many moods almost as well as Sansa did (and she’d had fifteen years of practice). Gendry was the solution! When she got home, she’d seek him out and bring him to Winterfell, if Arya hadn’t done so already. He would be sure to lift her sister’s spirits, and maybe some liquorice would help things along. That had always been Arya’s favourite, Sansa thought as she entered Poole’s General Store.
After she picked out a few spools of coloured thread, she selected some penny candies for the children. There were the requisite liquorice whips for Arya, molasses taffy for Rickon, and pickled limes, of all things, for Bran! She had also bought a little bag of sugary sweet lemon drops for herself, which she would stash away in her coat pocket, those would remain her secret.
“Sansa Stark!” Came the high pitched trill of Jeyne Poole, the shopkeeper’s daughter. Jeyne was a nice enough girl, if a bit of a chatterbox, and Sansa smiled and greeted her warmly.
“Oh Sansa, it’s been an age! You must tell me all the news from Winterfell!” Before Sansa could even contemplate an answer, Jeyne continued. “Myranda Royce mentioned that you and Arya attended the Opera last night with Gendry Baratheon and Mr. Snow.”
Her tone was suggestive, but Sansa could not figure out for the life of her what exactly Jeyne was suggesting.
“That man is an absolute dream! If he’d have been my tutor I’m sure I’d have been much more interested in algebra and Valyrian, and all those countless old ologies!”
Mr. Snow? Yes, Sansa had to concede that he was very handsome, but Jeyne made him sound ridiculous. That girl also thought Theon Greyjoy was a dream.
“And he’s such a gentleman too!” The silly girl went on. She sounded almost surprised, Sansa observed with a resentful huff. As if anyone could ever doubt that Jon Snow was a gentleman.
“How grand it would be to walk out with him, and lean on his arm!” Jeyne sighed dreamily. It had been rather nice taking his arm last night, Sansa thought with smug satisfaction, he had been warm and sturdy.
“Perhaps he’ll ask me one of these days. He is always particularly attentive to me, whenever he comes into the store, you know,” she added, with a toss of her chestnut curls. Sansa wasn’t sure why that rankled. Mr. Snow was kind and attentive to everyone! He could never be interested in a silly, boy-crazy, empty-headed gossip like Jeyne Poole!
“I’d love to stay and chat Jeyne, but I really should run home and see to the children’s breakfast!” Sansa said in a sing song voice, grasping at the first excuse she could think of.
“Not with all that candy I hope!” Jeyne exclaimed with a sly grin.
The nerve! Sansa plastered a smile to her face and answered, laughing,
"Of course not Jeyne! They’ll only get one piece each after their supper tonight. You know better than anyone what too much sugar can do to your teeth!”
Jon Snow exited the bookseller’s with a new novel, The Watchers on the Wall, tucked under his arm. He generally preferred the classics, but every now and then a thrilling adventure story was just the ticket, especially on a day off. He looked forward to a morning of reading by the large fireplace in the shared parlour of his boarding house, and perhaps playing a few rounds of cyvasse with one of the other gentlemen later in the afternoon.
When he looked up he saw Sansa Stark emerging from the General Store, a basket hanging from the crook of her elbow. He remembered the little white glove he’d found under the bench in Mr. Baratheon’s carriage after they had brought the girls home last night. He had slipped it into his coat pocket, intending to drop it off in the small “post office” Gendry had built in the hedge between Storm’s End and Winterfell, on Monday. He could give it to her now, though he felt a little self conscious doing so in person.
As he began to jog across the street, he noticed her face which, though bonny as ever, looked drawn and pale, with dark circles under her eyes. Had the poor girl taken ill?
“Miss Stark!” He called out before he could stop himself. He cringed in embarrassment. After all of his mother and Master Aemon’s careful lessons on manners and etiquette, here he was, standing in the street, shouting at ladies as if he were calling cattle.
She looked up with a start, but her answering smile was breathtaking to behold and well worth a little embarrassment.
“Good morning, Mr. Snow!”
“Good morning!," he said, tipping his hat. "How are you faring Miss Stark? You look a little pale, are you well? Can I fetch a carriage for you?”
His handsome grey eyes were filled with such tender concern that Sansa nearly forgot how to speak. She brought her had up to her cheek, as her complexion betrayed her quite suddenly. He’d no longer be able to accuse her of being pale at any rate.
“Oh, I — perhaps a lack of sleep…” she muttered, somewhat incoherently. She shook herself out of her stupor. “I am quite well, thank you.” She flashed him a bright smile. He looked unconvinced. “I had a little trouble sleeping last night, but the walk into town has done me a world of good.”
“Might I get you a seltzer or a cup of coffee perhaps?”
“Really Mr. Snow! I am perfectly fine, I assure you!” She replied, laughing merrily. “You make such a fuss over me, I must look an absolute fright!” She grew suddenly self conscious and nervously patted at her hair under her bonnet. Gracious! Why hadn’t she checked the mirror this morning before leaving the house
“You could never.” Was his matter-of-fact response. “Allow me to escort you home at least?” She looked up at him hesitantly and he hastily added, “I’m headed to Storm’s End myself, I was running an errand for Mr. Baratheon.” He indicated the package wrapped in brown paper tucked under his arm, and she smiled brightly once more.
It was a lie, but a harmless one, and he could be of real service to her and make sure she was not overcome by the exertion. Plus a walk on a sunny winter’s morning with Sansa Stark was a far more pleasing prospect than reading in a stuffy parlour, surrounded by the other sad sack bachelors in his boarding house.
“Thank you, yes. Since you are headed my way.” Sansa couldn’t see the harm in it, he’d do the same for anyone. Would he do the same for Jeyne Poole? A voice she did not quite recognize seemed to ask. She did not want to contemplate the answer.
Bran and Rickon woke in the mid morning, to an eerily quiet house. Bran, good sport that he was, offered to check and see what the lay of the land was after yesterday’s big row. When he returned he reported that Mother had left early, as she always did when she was running the soup kitchen put on by the Ladies Aid Society. Sansa had also left to go into town, and Arya had yet to stir from her bedroom. Rickon could not help but sigh in relief at that. He dreaded the prospect of having to face her today.
The little boy was unusually subdued. Sansa normally would have woken him and helped him get ready for the day. She would sing to him as she combed his hair, and check that he’d brushed his teeth and washed his face properly, including his neck and behind his ears. Then she’d help him get dressed and give him a big hug, or tickle him until he was shrieking with laughter. But she had gone out. She’d left without even checking in on him first. Was she angry with him? Would she ever forgive him?
Rickon did his best on his own, soberly and quietly. Bran checked that his ears and neck were satisfactorily clean, and helped him with his neckcloth and the buttons on his vest, when he was off by one. Bran also reminded the him to comb the hair on the back of his head, and not just the front and sides which he could see in the mirror.
When they descended the back stairs to the kitchen, Old Nan did not tsk at the late hour, but set a cup of cocoa and a bowl of warmed over porridge in front of each lad with an affectionate pat on the head. They ate in silence, looking up at the ceiling every now and then and wondering when the dragon might wake. He did not like to think of the mood Arya was in. He was in for the greatest scolding of his life. He would have to try and bear it manfully, as his father would expect him to do. He would own up to his wrongdoing and beg for her forgiveness.
“When Arya comes down,” Bran said, “apologize to her first, then let her speak in her own time. Don’t beg or wheedle or whine.” Rickon nodded and took his brother’s warning to heart. He wished she’d come down now and be done with it, all this waiting was agonizing. After half an hour had passed, it was clear that Arya would not be joining them for breakfast. Old Nan arranged their sister’s porridge and hot chocolate on a tray, and took it up to her room.
“Isn’t she being a little dogmatic?” He asked Bran with a roll of his eyes, but his elder brother gave him a stern look.
“You mean 'dramatic'. And it was a difficult loss for her. Let her grieve in her own fashion.”
Rickon was properly chastened and the boys retreated to the parlour. Bran sat in Father’s old winged back chair with a book, and Rickon lay upon the hearth rug with his little wooden lap desk, some paper and his drawing pencils. He shuddered when he looked upon the grate of the fireplace, remembering how quickly the manuscript had burned up, and how useless his efforts to save it had been.
He held the point of his pencil to his lips as he thought about what to draw. He settled on one of his favourite scenes in Arya’s story about the Faceless Men, when a Girl plays the game of faces with the Waif in the House of Black and White. The drawing was turning out rather well and Bran eventually came and sat by him to admire his work. When Rickon finished the first drawing he began another, and then another.
As she walked along the lane with Mr. Snow, Sansa felt the tension she carried in her shoulders begin to dissipate and her troubled mind relax. His presence was calming, his deep voice was soft and soothing and he listened to her so intently, with a countenance that was so open and kind, that she could not help pouring her heart out to him. Once he was apprised of all that had happened at Winterfell last night, he looked grave and thoughtful.
“I can’t help but feel this is all my fault,” she confessed to him, “if I had not been so indulgent, he would not have been so headstrong. If only Robb were here, he always knew exactly what to do.”
“Miss Stark, may I offer some advice?” He asked tentatively.
“Oh yes, please do! I am in desperate need of it.”
“You can do more for your siblings by helping them move passed their anger and hurt, instead of shouldering the blame.
“Arya is a talented writer and a resilient girl. She will recover from this loss, and you will be there to help her through it as you always are. Keep giving her your good counsel and guidance and she will be better off for it.
“As for Rickon, he is a spirited young boy with a hot temper and a bit of a reckless streak. I dare say your sister was very much the same at his age. If you are worried about him, then you are in the best position to help him correct course; that boy adores you.” Jon’s expression softened, when he looked down into her shining eyes. He cleared his throat and continued softly. “He’ll do everything he can to work his way back into your good graces. And after all, he is only six. No one’s character is set in stone at so early an age.” He hoped he had not overstepped, but he did not like to hear her torture herself so. He watched her anxiously for her reaction.
“Thank you,” she said with a soft smile. Mr. Snow’s pragmatic assessment of things had given her some perspective and hope. They continued down the lane in amiable silence.
“Miss Stark,” Jon broke in, tentative once more. “May I ask what happened to your eldest brother?”
“Robb?” she asked with a wistful smile.
“I am sorry,” he backtracked, “I did not mean to pry.”
“Oh no! Please don’t make yourself uneasy,” she said resting a reassuring hand on his forearm. “I don’t know all the particulars, and it all happened so fast.” As she ordered the events in her mind, she bit her lip in concentration, a bad habit, in her opinion, that had endured from childhood. Jon, for his part, found it very endearing.
“He was just finishing up his second year at the University of Old Castle, and we were all looking forward to having him home for the summer. Only he didn’t come straight home, but he went instead to a recruiting office in White Harbour and enlisted in the Union Army. When he told my father what he had done they quarrelled. It was the only time I have ever heard Father raise his voice so.”
Here she began to wring her hands. He wanted so much to ease her mind, and wished he could stay her movements and take her hands in his.
“The last time I saw him, was when we said goodbye at the train station. He died less than a month later somewhere in the Riverlands.
“Father retreated into his study after that, and by the autumn he left to be a Chaplain in the Army. And Mother, well Mother founded the Wintertown chapter of the Ladies Aid Society and keeps herself busier than ever with all of her charitable work and committee meetings.” She sniffed and tried to discreetly brush away a tear. She blinked rapidly then turned to him with a bright, if somewhat artificial smile.
“Do you have any siblings Mr. Snow?”
“No, it was only ever my mother and me,” he replied, smiling fondly.
“Does she live in town?” Sansa asked with honest enthusiasm, she thought she might like to know Mrs. Snow. When his smile faded, she began to fret. Oh dear, had she said something she ought not? She shouldn’t have pried into his personal life.
“No unfortunately, she passed away a few years ago.”
“Oh I am so sorry.”
She looked at him with such genuine sympathy in her sweet blue eyes. He felt as though his heart was caught in a vice.
“Thank you Miss Stark, I —“ he paused here, a little overcome by his emotions.“She does not come up often.”
“Does it pain you? To speak of her?” She closed her eyes in mortification and chastised herself internally. What was wrong with her? Why did she persist in asking him such invasive questions?
“No,” he paused as if unsure how to proceed. “Truthfully, no one has ever asked about her until you.”
Her heart broke for him in that moment.
“I would like to hear anything you’d be willing to tell me about your mother,” she said solemnly.
He had never met anyone so kind as the Starks, but Sansa, well she truly was a wonder.
She learned from Jon that Lyanna Snow had dark hair and grey eyes and looked remarkably like her son (or rather he looked remarkably like her). She was brave and fiercely loyal — opinionated, proud, and sometimes a little stubborn, but she was a woman of strong moral convictions. She had loved poetry and songs. She adored her son, and worked tirelessly to provide for their little family. She was unfailingly kind to everyone she met, and would do everything within her power to help someone in need. Sansa concluded that she would have liked Jon’s mother, very much.
“She sounds like Arya.”
“Actually, you remind me of her more,” Mr. Snow replied and Sansa flushed with pride at the comparison.
They stood speaking at the gate between Winterfell and Storm’s End until their teeth chattered and their fingers and toes began to feel numb. Sansa remembered with a start why she had gone out in the first place. She had forgotten all about the house full of cross children! She thanked Mr. Snow for his company and his kind advice and scampered away towards Winterfell. He watched her run off, dumbstruck.
The glove! He’d forgotten to give it to her. He moved to deposit it into the post office as he’d originally planned but he stopped short and considered the delicate white fabric held between his clumsy fingers. He grew sentimental as he was reminded of its wearer and the way her little hand felt pressed in his as he helped her in and out of the carriage, or wrapped around his bicep as she leaned heavily against his arm, fearful of slipping on the ice.
“Mr. Snow!” Greeted Davos, the groundskeeper as he emerged from the glass gardens with an overburdened wheelbarrow and Jon quickly shoved the glove back into his coat pocket. Davos Seaworth and his wife Maraya, who was the cook, were live in staff. “What brings you to Storm’s End?" He lifted one sly eyebrow, "On a Sunday?”
“I just felt like a walk,” he replied with a shrug. The older man grinned at him when he noticed the retreating figure of Miss Stark. Jon turned back to look at her just in time to catch her wave from the kitchen door.
“Let me help you with that,” Jon said, before Davos could tease him any further. And he took hold of the heavy wheelbarrow. Davos clapped him on the back, he was rather fond of the tutor, and the boy could hardly find a sweeter girl to dote on than Miss Stark. Won’t Maraya be delighted by this story, he thought with a chuckle.
Arya woke up alone - Sansa was no where to be seen. What time was it? Not passed noon, surely. When had her sister woken up? And why didn’t she wake her too? In her delirium, Arya had almost forgotten the events of last night, but then her memories washed over her like a frigid wave. She burried her face into her pillow and groaned.
She had hoped that hateful feeling, the sensation that she had swallowed a lead weight, might fade overnight. But it hadn’t, the weight was still there, and heavier besides. What a miserable start to the day, she did not want to leave her bed, or see her horrid family. She was in an awfully fractious mood, and she did not think she could stand to be around any of the Starks at present. She’d call on Gendry, he’d be sure to put her to rights.
She rolled onto her side and saw a breakfast tray sitting on the little dresser by the bed. Old Nan must have brought it up. Bless her sympathetic old soul! It was cold, but Arya didn’t mind. She devoured it as one famished, then hopped out of bed and bundled up in her warmest woollens. She intended to keep out of doors as long as possible today.
Arya bounded down the back stairs and into the kitchen. By a stroke of luck, she had just missed her brothers eating their breakfast.
“The boys are in the parlour,” Old Nan informed her.
“And Sansa?” Arya asked, casually.
“Gone to town, although I think she may have just returned.” Old Nan gestured to the kitchen window with her chin. Arya peered through the glass and saw Sansa, standing by the fence and talking with a young man. Not just any young man. So that was what she was up to.
She did not think she could stomach cutting across the back and seeing Sansa with Mr. Snow. So she pulled on her coat, bonnet, muffler and mitts, grabbed her skates from the peg where she kept them, and marched through the house to the front door.
The boys looked up from their spot on the parlour rug when they heard Arya bustling through the hall. She stopped in the the doorway and stared at them. She felt a little stab of guilt, she had promised Rickon she would take him skating the next time she went.
“Good morning Arya,” Bran greeted cheerily, before nudging Rickon lightly in the ribs.
“Good morning.” The little boy added in a very small voice.
The minute he spoke Arya’s expression darkened. She shot Rickon a withering look, slung her skates over her shoulder and marched out the front door, slamming it behind her.
“You see!” He exclaimed to Bran in an injured tone. “She hates me. And she’s going skating! When she promised to take me. And this is the last ice we shall have!”
They soon heard boisterous laughter outside, Rickon moved to the seat in the window and saw Arya and Gendry marching in the direction of the river, skates and hockey sticks in hand. Bran joined him and they watched the pair double over with laughter at something Gendry had said. Rickon’s lip began to tremble.
“Go and get bundled up, and find your skates,” said Bran with a sigh. His little brother looked back at him confused.
“If you go after them, and try Arya at the exact right moment, mind, I’m sure she’ll let you join. Gendry seems to have improved her mood already. Apologize to her, sweetly, and I expect she’ll forgive you and be friends again. She is too good natured to hold a grudge for long.”
Rickon perked up at his brother’s suggestion, for the advice suited him, and after a mad dash to get ready, he was chasing the two friends as they disappeared over the hill.
It was not a great distance to the river, but the older boy and girl had their skates fastened and were already stepping out onto the glass like surface, before Rickon caught up. Arya noticed her little brother’s arrival, but Gendry did not, he had skated ahead to test the ice. She could hear Rickon struggling with his skates, his little fingers were chilled and not so dexterous. She or Sansa would usually help him with the buckles, but she turned her back on him and zigzagged lazily down the river, taking petty satisfaction in his struggles.
“Stick to the shore,” Gendry called over his shoulder, “it isn’t safe in the middle!”
Arya heard him clearly, but it was unlikely that Rickon, who was just struggling to his feet, had. She glanced at him over her shoulder and contemplated passing on the warning. Let him take care of himself, she decided, he was not her responsibility.
Arya sped up in pursuit of Gendry and had just reached the bend, when she noticed Rickon, who was much further behind now, strike out towards the smoother ice in the center. She paused, a strange and sinister impulse was urging her to go on and forget the boy. She looked ahead towards Gendry for a moment, then she heard the sickening crack. Rickon!
She turned around just in time to see him throw up his hands and disappear with a crash of ice and a splash of water. His terrified cry pierced Arya’s hardened heart with fear.
Before she could react, Gendry whizzed by her.
“Fetch a rail!” He commanded. “NOW!”
She moved like a girl possessed, and kicked and pried at the the rail of a nearby fence. She clawed and scratched and worked at the rusty nails until her fingers bled. Gendry shouted at her to move faster, he was flat on his stomach holding Rickon by the arms, so his head was above the water. Her baby brother looked pale and frightened; his lips were already turning blue. She dragged the rail over and together, she and Gendry were able to pull the boy out.
“Oh Rickon! What have I done? What have I done?” She wailed.
They wrapped him in their coats and ran as fast as their frozen limbs and soggy clothes allowed.
“Run ahead and sound the alarm at Storm’s End,” Gendry suggested, but Rickon clung to her.
“I won’t leave him. You go, you’re much faster than me anyway.”
Under any other circumstance it would have pained her to admit this, but none of that mattered. Nothing mattered except her brother. Gendry sped away, bellowing for help at the top of his lungs, and Arya trudged on as quickly as she could.
She never was so grateful as she was when she saw Gendry return, much sooner that she had dared hope, with Mr. Snow and Mr. Seaworth on his heels. The tutor relieved her of her burden and raced with the boy the rest of the distance to Winterfell. She almost collapsed, but Gendry and Davos were there on either side, to catch her. They wrapped blankets around her and helped her walk the rest of the distance home.
Rickon was left to the ministrations of his eldest sister and Old Nan. After many profuse ‘thank yous’ and much singing of his praises, Gendry was ordered home and into a warm and dry change of clothes and then bed. Mr. Snow volunteered to fetch Mrs. Stark and Mr.Baratheon offered his carriage, for that purpose. Arya remained deathly still and silent.
She stood in a daze, wringing her hands — which were cut and bruised from the ice, the fence, and her own skates — watching the rest of the family bustle about her. Bran had to remove her bonnet and her sodden muffler, and help her with her boots. Then he led her upstairs where Sansa thrust a pile of warm dry nightclothes into her arms, urging her to get changed right away.
Mrs. Stark arrived within a half hour. She flew to her youngest child’s side, where she and Sansa kissed and cried over him and rolled him in up in several blankets while Bran tended to the fire in the small grate in the boys bedroom. Once Rickon was warmed and sleeping peacefully, Mother left him in Sansa’s care and went in search of her younger daughter.
She found Arya in Mr. Stark’s darkened study, sitting at his desk and weeping. Mother pulled her into a hug and ran her hand over Arya’s dark brown waves to soothe her. Once the girl’s tears had subsided, her mother led her into the kitchen, where she could treat her hurt hands with witch hazel and bind them with strips of clean linen.
“Is he safe?” Arya asked in a hoarse voice.
“Quite safe, my dear. I don’t even think he shall catch a cold. You showed great presence of mind bundling him up and getting him home so quickly.”
“That was all Gendry, he took charge and saved Rick. I didn’t — I couldn’t do anything except stand by dumbly and follow his orders. Mother, if Rickon had died, it would have been my fault.”
“Arya—“
“It’s my dreadful temper! I try and I try to cure it and just when I think I have, it returns worse than ever. I knew, deep down, that he couldn’t have heard Gendry’s warning about the rotten ice, and I didn’t say anything. What kind of a person does that?” Arya’s face crumpled in anguish. “How could anyone love or forgive me? What shall I do?”
Mother took her face in her hands.
“You must be vigilant. Never get tired of trying or believe it impossible to conquer this burden. Do not cry so bitterly,” Mother cooed as she tenderly wiped away Arya’s fresh tears, “but remember this day always, and resolve with all of your soul, to never see another one like it.”
“You can’t know what it’s like! Sometimes I feel so savage, I could hurt anyone and enjoy it. It frightens me.”
“I do know my love, better than you might think.”
“But you’re never angry!” Arya exclaimed.
“I am angry nearly every day of my life,” was her mother’s astounding reply. “I have been trying these last forty years to cure it, but I’ve only managed to control it.”
“Father is never angry, is he?”
“He is not a man who is quick to anger. There are some natures too noble to curb and too lofty to bend. He has helped and encouraged me, as long as I have know him, to try quiet the storm within. Since we married, we’ve never been a— apart, until now. This separation has been a difficult trail to bear, for all of us.”
“Were you not angry when he went away? And Robb? You seemed cheerful then, never cross with either of them and you did not wail as other women do.”
“Crying is not a weakness Arya, nor is it only the province of women. I gave my best to my country with a smile and wept and raged when I was alone. I did not want their last memory of me to be a sad one.”
”Mother, did I do wrong to speak so?” Arya asked tentatively, after a pause. “I always say the wrong thing, did I distress you?” The girl was deeply concerned.
“No my wolf girl, I am proud that my children confide in me and that I can answer their questions honestly. Nothing you could say would distress me, and I hope you will always feel that you can come to me with your problems. We shall help each other and bear this burden together.”
“Thank you Mother,” she said, eyes shining. “You don’t know how much that means to me.”
Arya sat in contemplative silence as her mother finished tending to her hands. Afterwards they went up to the boys’ room, where Rickon was awake and looking over some papers with Bran, who was beside him, and Sansa who sat by his feet.
Sansa stood up and pulled Arya into a tight hug, and kissed her bandaged hands. Rickon reached his arms out to her and, after a slight push from Sansa, Arya knelt beside him so he could wrap his little arms about her neck.
“I’m sorry Arya,” he said sincerely.
“I’m sorry too.”
Rickon handed her the small stack of papers. They were her stories, sketched out in graphite. Even though he was only six, his drawings of knights and fairies and sea monsters were remarkably precise and vivid, much better than her lopsided turkey.
“You did these? From memory?” She asked in awe.
He nodded sheepishly. Her stories were not hard to remember, he had been listening to them ever since he was babe, sitting in Sansa’s lap.
Rickon leaned back against Arya, as she pressed her cheek into his curls.
“They’re wonderful Rick!” she said. “You have a rare talent.”
All four siblings piled into the bed, and talked and laughed and ate candy for dinner. Mrs. Stark did not scold them, today was an exception.
A few days later, Arya and Rickon set up a table for him beside her bureau in the garret. They would spend many an afternoon there. Arya would lovingly rewrite her stories, bringing new life and vivacity to the familiar tales in these second drafts — and create brilliant new works besides, to delight and thrill her family and friends and eventually the readers of the Daily Dragon. And Rickon would tinker away in pencil, pastel, watercolour, plaster or clay — honing his skills by painting still-lifes and portraits, building little models of cats and horses, or making studies of his own hands or feet. Sometimes he’d sketch out another one of her stories — the illustrations becoming more lavish and detailed as the years went on. They would work side by side in quiet solicitude, never having to speak to understand one another.
Notes:
Hope you liked it!
Old timey candy is the worst.
Also sorry to any Jeyne Poole fans out there, I know she low key sucked. I imagined her as a Ruby Gillis type, an old friend you’ve outgrown.
Now I can finally start posting some of the other stuff I was writing when I should have been finishing this.
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