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Chapter Text

In the icy vastness of Winterfell, Arya always felt like a stranger in her own home, a shadow of what could have been. Her footsteps were silent across the cold stone corridors, as if she didn’t want to disturb the echoes of legitimate lives resonating there. While Ned Stark's true children had the right to walk with their heads held high, Arya preferred the shadows, where the gloom hid the tears that stubbornly fell whenever Sansa and Jeyne called her “horseface.”

Sansa didn’t know, of course. She didn’t know how her words cut deeper than any blade Arya might wield. To Sansa, bastardy was a word from tales and songs, something distant and faceless. The songs Sansa so loved spoke of knights and ladies, of immaculate beauty and forbidden love, but never of a girl with brown hair and gray eyes, with a stern face and the soul of a wolf. Never of someone like Arya.

There was a time when they were inseparable, when Sansa would still pull Arya by the hand, begging her to fetch extra lemon cakes from the kitchen or to brush her hair, reciting old North songs as the brush slid smoothly through her locks before sleep. But as Sansa grew older and became closer to their mother, Catelyn, the distance between the sisters grew, like an invisible chasm. Sansa learned what bastardy was, and unknowingly, her innocence became a weapon.

Arya knew she was not a lady to look at twice. Her mother, whoever she was, had sinned by bringing her into the world, and that sin ran in her veins. Maybe it was good that her appearance was not remarkable. It protected her from the hungry eyes that might fall upon her in her father’s absence, the Lord of Winterfell. "Bastards are fruits of sin," Arya thought, "And beauty would only attract more sins." Yet, still, Sansa’s words always caused a tightness in her stomach, a dull pain that turned into anger. Arya didn’t understand where that feeling came from, but whenever she was called “horseface,” her hands would clench into fists so tight her nails would dig into her palms until they bled.

She didn’t understand why those words hurt her so much. Perhaps it was because, deep down, she wished to be more than just a bastard. She wished to be someone, like Sansa was. She wished to be seen for more than her origin, more than the Snow surname she carried. And that desire, that need to be recognized and respected, was like an untamable flame in her heart.

No, Arya didn’t blame Sansa. Her sister lived in a world of flowers and promises, of songs where Ned Stark’s honor was a wall against all evil. How could a little Lady understand the pain of being the illegitimate daughter, living on the edge of the honor that protected her family? Arya didn’t fit into Sansa’s fantasies, though she wished she did.

In her loneliest nights, Arya sometimes allowed herself to dream of a different life, a life where she woke up with silky red hair and beautiful blue Tully eyes, like Sansa and her siblings. On those nights, she imagined being a legitimate daughter of House Stark, not a bastard, but someone truly worthy of bearing her father’s name. In her dreams, Lady Stark looked at her with affection, her cold eyes melting into a warm affection Arya had never experienced in reality. For brief moments, in those daydreams, Arya felt complete, part of a family that accepted her fully, not as the bastard who brought shame to the family.

But then, in her dreams, Lady Stark’s blue eyes would fade, and the eyes of another woman would appear. A woman Arya didn’t know, but who she always imagined was her true mother. She believed this woman, her real mother, should be kind, loving, and as strong as any noblewoman. Those eyes, so different from Lady Stark’s, overshadowed everything Arya had dreamed of until then, bringing her back to reality. She was what she was. Ned Stark’s bastard daughter.

There was a deep mystery surrounding her mother. Arya didn’t know if she was a noble lady, an ordinary woman, or, as malicious rumors suggested, a prostitute. What she did know was that, whoever her origin, her mother must have been special. She clung to that idea because, somehow, she needed to justify why her father, a man known for his unshakable honor, had chosen to acknowledge his bastard and bring her to Winterfell, even against his wife’s wishes. Why did he never speak about her mother? Why did he guard that secret so closely?

This idea both comforted and angered her. It comforted her because, in her mind, she imagined that her mother must have been something extraordinary, something that justified Ned Stark’s choice. Perhaps she was a woman of such beauty or intelligence that her father simply couldn’t resist. And if her mother was special, then Arya must be, in some way. But it also angered her because if her mother was truly so special, why did Arya have to suffer from the insults of being a bastard? Why couldn’t she be recognized as her father’s legitimate daughter? That anger built up inside her, along with the sadness and frustration of always being the excluded one, the shadow among the legitimate Stark children.

While the sun was still rising over the mountains, Arya was training in the forest when she heard the snap of a twig. Nymeria, her direwolf with gray fur and golden eyes, was always at her side. The wolf’s presence was a comfort to Arya, a silent companion who understood more than any human could. Nymeria moved nimbly around her, watching her every move with a watchful, almost maternal gaze. She stopped, her senses as sharp as her wolf’s, and turned quickly, her sword drawn. To her surprise, she saw her father, Ned Stark, watching her silently.

"You fight well," he said, without showing any surprise or disapproval. "Where did you learn that?"

Arya hesitated, but there was something in her father’s gaze that made her speak. "I learned on my own. No one here would teach me."

Ned watched her for a moment, and Arya saw something change in his eyes.

"You shouldn’t have to."

"I have a purpose," Arya replied firmly. "I want to be more than a bastard. I want to be someone who can fight for the Starks, for the North." She glanced at Nymeria who moved and stroked Arya’s arm, offering silent support. Arya looked at her wolf fondly, her heart warming at the presence of her only mate.

Her father was silent for a long time, and Arya began to fear that she had said something wrong, that she had gone too far—she had this habit, her words often came out too quickly before she could control them. But then he approached and placed his hand on her shoulder.

"You shouldn’t be alone at this hour," Ned said slowly, his voice as heavy as the overcast sky that hovered over Winterfell. Arya felt her cheeks burn, as if all her courage had evaporated, leaving her just a foolish little girl who acted on impulse. She wanted to retort that she wasn't alone, she had Nymeria to protect her, but she understood what he meant. She bit her lips, looking at the ground.

"You are a Stark, Arya. My blood." He continued, his voice firm and unshakable. But to Arya, those words sounded empty. Always his blood. Never his daughter. She was a Stark only as a halfway measure, a broken bridge between the two ends of legitimacy.

"I’m not a Stark," Arya murmured, pulling her father’s hand off her shoulder. "I’m not a lady."

Ned watched her in silence, his dark eyes reflecting the pain of a man who carried a burden too heavy to be shared. "You look like her," he said, his voice solemn, almost a whisper. Arya wanted to believe he was talking about her mother. She wanted so much to be like her mother even without knowing who she was. But it wasn’t that. Arya knew he was referring to Lyanna Stark, Ned’s sister, whose beauty and tragedy had triggered an entire war. But Arya didn’t see any resemblance to the aunt who was a true lady, the star everyone sang about and admired.

Lyanna was the legitimate daughter of a Lord, Arya thought. She was a lady, someone for whom a war was fought. I am just a bastard, an insignificant little girl. She didn’t resemble Lyanna in any way. Lyanna was the rose of winter, the beauty of the North, a woman whose memory was immortalized in songs and laments. Arya was a shadow, a distorted reflection, a bastard who would never know the weight of a true name. She was Arya horseface.

She looked at the sword in her hands, feeling the coldness of the blade contrasting with the heat rising in her chest. Ned placed his hands firmly on her arms, his penetrating gaze meeting hers. "You can continue," he said, with a voice that mixed approval and a veiled warning. "Just don’t play with swords near the royal family."

Arya nodded, though she wasn’t sure if her father’s words were out of fear of embarrassment. There was something more in the way he held her, as if he was trying to protect her from something beyond what his words revealed.

"Promise me, Arya. Promise me." The urgency in his voice made Arya’s heart race.

"I promise, father," she replied, not knowing exactly what she was promising, but wanting desperately to do whatever her father wanted, to be worthy of his love and respect.

Ned watched her for a moment longer, his gaze heavy with secrets he dared not share. Then he released her, muttering for her to return to her quarters, walking away slowly, as if each step was a conscious effort to distance himself from something he could not change.

She kept her promise to train away from the eyes of the royal family, but still, everything went wrong.

Chapter Text

Arya Snow was anxious. Her heart beat fast as she stared intently at the approaching royal carriage. The sense of anticipation overwhelmed her, even though she tried to hide it, standing stoically beside Septa Mordane and the cook Gage. She knew Lady Stark would never allow her to stand in the front row next to the legitimate Stark children. She was the shadow in Ned Stark's honor, the bastard whom many in Winterfell avoided looking in the eye.

Arya was not like her sister Sansa, who always dreamt of the South and its romantic legends. But she couldn’t deny that something inside her ignited when she heard tales of the South, especially stories of battles and conquests. There was a fire in her heart that, ironically, contrasted with the coldness of her cursed surname. Cold, frigid, lifeless. Just as the people of the North saw her, like a stain on the untouched snow of the Stark family.

Her father, Eddard Stark, frequently spoke about King Robert Baratheon's great conquest, how he had defeated the last dragon in battle. Arya's older brother Robb was named after the victorious king, and many of the children of Winterfell's servants and guards also carried the name in honor of the man who had changed the history of Westeros.

Arya, however, was not interested in the tragic love story between the stag and the wolf, as Sansa was. No, what fascinated her were the battles, the clamor of war, the stories of soldiers fighting for their lives. She remembered a time when she had sneaked out of the castle, a habit she cultivated whenever sadness overcame her— which was almost always. During those moments, she wandered the outskirts of Winterfell, listening to the whispers of soldiers and servants about the Battle of the Trident. It was a story told with reverence and fear, about how King Robert, with his war hammer, had smashed Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, destroying the dragon's armor and how the rubies from the prince's armor had fallen into the Trident River, with soldiers from both sides sifting through the water to recover the precious stones. She had been fascinated by the story.

Once, an older soldier had approached her, showing one of the rubies from the last dragon's armor. He proudly told her how he had rescued that gem from the waters, but the greedy glint in his eyes made Arya recoil. When he demanded something in return for the tale and the ruby, Arya fled, fear rooting itself in her heart. Since then, she avoided leaving the castle alone.

Arya shook her head and tried to focus on the arrival of the king. It was an important moment, the visit of the man who had changed the fate of the Seven Kingdoms. However, when King Robert finally appeared, Arya was taken aback. The man who disembarked heavily from the carriage was not the hero of the tales she had heard. He was fat, immensely fat, and his face was red from drink. The horse carrying him looked overburdened, puffing heavily, as if it were about to collapse under its rider's weight.

“Poor thing,” Arya thought, with a mix of compassion and disgust. She watched as the guards set up a platform for the king to descend and realized how different the reality was from the stories that had fascinated her. The man before her did not seem to have been the great warrior who had defeated the last dragon. In fact, he seemed more like someone who could have swallowed Prince Rhaegar whole rather than striking him down with his war hammer in a fatal blow.

She had expected to see a king like the ones in the tales, a man worthy of leading battles and being sung about by bards. But all she saw was an ordinary man, worn out by the years and excesses.

Arya turned her face to hide her disappointment. The disillusionment washed over her, but she quickly tried to swallow it, maintaining the neutral expression she had learned to adopt. Lady Stark always said that Arya's emotions were her ruin, that she needed to learn to be more like Sansa, always polished and restrained. But Arya knew she would never be like Sansa. She was different, always would be different, and that defined her as much as the blood that ran through her veins.

As the king approached, Lady Stark's face remained impassive, as if nothing could shake her dignity. Sansa, however, looked at Robert with an expression of enchantment that Arya couldn’t understand. How could her sister see anything heroic in that man?

Ned Stark stepped forward to greet the king, his face serious and respectful as always. Arya knew her father held a great friendship with Robert, but she couldn’t understand how. The king seemed so distant from the man Ned had described in his stories.

Everyone bowed, and when they stood up, King Robert gave a broad smile upon seeing Ned and, to Arya's surprise, hugged her father tightly, almost lifting him off the ground. Arya had never seen Ned being hugged that way, and for a moment, a pang of envy rose in her chest. She would never receive a hug like that from anyone.

“My old friend!” Robert exclaimed, his deep voice echoing through the courtyard. “It’s been too long! Fourteen years. Where have you been? What have you been up to?”

“Taking care of the North for you, Your Grace. Winterfell is yours,” Ned replied, with a slight smile. “Welcome to Winterfell.”

Arya tuned out the interactions around her as Queen Cersei Lannister emerged from the carriage. For a moment, everything around her seemed to disappear. The queen was even more impressive than Arya could have imagined. She was not just beautiful—she was majestic. Her green eyes were so deep they seemed to hide secrets, and her long blonde hair cascaded in perfect waves over her shoulders, shining like gold in the sunlight. Arya had heard that Cersei was the most beautiful woman in the realm, and now that she saw her with her own eyes, she couldn’t disagree.

Arya hated her own dark hair. Once, when she was younger, Theon and Robb had teased her that if she rubbed snow in her hair, it would lighten. Arya believed them and tried, but all she got was a cold that kept her in bed for days. Robb apologized repeatedly, feeling guilty for his prank. Theon, on the other hand, never apologized. However, one day, Arya found a sword left in her chambers—simple but well-crafted, light enough for her to wield. She never knew for sure if it was Theon who left it there, but deep down, she believed it was. Since then, her resentment had faded, but that didn’t mean she liked him. To Arya, he was still a little demon.

As her eyes continued to follow the queen, Arya couldn’t help but remember the stories she had heard about the “imp” Lannister. She knew that Tyrion, the queen’s younger brother, was ridiculed by many because of his appearance, but Arya wondered if there was more to him than what they said. “If the king is so famous for his achievements and is like this, the dwarf who is always despised might secretly be a fine knight under a cloak of false rumors?” Arya's curiosity grew as she thought about it.

“Where is the dwarf?” Arya commented softly to the cook Gage, who shrugged with little interest.

“Be quiet,” Septa Mordane hissed, giving her a severe look. Arya made a face but fell silent, even though her curiosity about seeing Tyrion continued to simmer in her mind.

Meanwhile, Jaime Lannister, the queen’s twin brother, dismounted from his horse. He took off his helmet, revealing a handsome and charismatic face. Arya had to admit that he was an impressive man, but in her mind, he didn’t compare to the queen. “Jaime Lannister,” she murmured to herself. “The queen’s twin brother.”

Arya found herself wondering what it would be like to have a twin brother, someone who shared everything with her from birth. Although she knew she had been born very close to Robb, perhaps even before him, it had never created between them the special connection she imagined twins should have. Still, Arya loved Robb deeply, even though he didn’t fully understand her restlessness.

Lost in her thoughts, Arya barely heard Septa Mordane telling her to be quiet again, her voice cutting through her reverie like a sharp blade. She bit her cheek to contain her annoyance, suppressing the urge to move away from the septa.

“Dead men can wait, my love.”

Queen Cersei's voice echoed in Arya’s ears, imbued with a sweetness that seemed almost poisonous. The queen's tone was a lightness that made Arya shiver. She watched King Robert, who merely cast a brief glance at his wife before calling her father, Ned. He seemed oblivious to the queen’s tone, focused on something Arya didn’t quite understand. Arya saw him move away, with heavy steps, heading toward the crypts.

She knew where he was going—to see the statue of his aunt, Lyanna Stark, the woman for whom Robert had started a rebellion, only to end up with nothing but her. She even felt a pang of compassion for Robert, but soon dismissed the feeling. In her world, mourning the past brought no one back. And Arya had learned early on that the North was a place where people needed to be strong, even when the heart was wounded. She knew that no matter how much the king sought Lyanna’s memory in the crypts, he would never find the peace he sought. She herself often wished to be more than she was—more than a bastard, more than a shadow in Winterfell. But she knew that reality rarely matched the desires of the heart. Yet, it was different. Arya was a bastard, and he was the king of the Seven Kingdoms. She couldn't understand why someone would cling to a ghost for so long, especially someone like Robert, who had so many things people would envy.

"How sad," Arya thought, her gaze fixed on the king as he walked away. "He has rivers of gold and can command anyone, even the most beautiful woman in the realm. And yet, he is chasing a ghost from the past." She almost laughed, but stifled the laughter in her throat, feeling that somehow it was not the right place to express what she truly thought. But the mockery was clear in her mind—"Robert Baratheon, the great conqueror, haunted by a shadow he can never touch again."

"The dead can wait," Arya thought, echoing the queen’s words in her mind. "But she know deep down that the dead never wait. They remain, always present, in the crypts, in the hearts, and in the memories of the living, silent but powerful."

She looked around, observing the movement as the king and her father disappeared into the depths of the crypts. Queen Cersei, on the other hand, remained there, surrounded by courtiers and servants, her beauty radiant as a shield. Arya couldn’t imagine the queen’s life—so perfect on the outside, but perhaps as empty inside as Robert. She could never live like that, trapped in a golden castle, always coveting something that could not be reached. Arya wanted to be free, to forge her own path, to travel the world.

With one last look at the queen, Arya turned, deciding that the day had nothing more interesting to offer.

As Arya walked away, lost in her thoughts and silent disdain, she did not notice the prince who had just dismounted his horse. His light blue eyes followed Arya with subtle interest.