"I am the Queen of the North. Approach."
Arya lifted her chin at her own proclamation, the words bolstering her dignity. Would her father approve of the way she greeted this new stranger, as she handled all who came seeking audience with the North? She sat in the Great Hall of Winterfell, a dozen bannermen at attention on each wall at her command—all ready to slay the chain-mailed soldier who kept his helmet tucked under his left arm, his right hand on the pommel of his sword. Behind him, his own bannerless men marched in two straight lines, indistinct in battered armor.
"Halt." Arya needed the buffer for her men to react in case the visitors proved ridiculous and altogether insane by launching an assassination attempt. Surely, they'd already heard she survived the previous nine efforts. Plus, she was in her formal gown today and no matter how often she trained, the skirts hindered her in ways her leggings did not.
When the warrior bowed at the waist, his black curls parted across each shoulder. He was messy and she appreciated his mud-caked boots. He hadn't been brought north in some wheelhouse or simply by horseback. Those dirty boots revealed his trip. The gaunt faces behind him mirrored their harsh journey.
Their leader straightened, silent. He knew his manners.
"What brings you to Winterfell, ser?" She remembered her manners as well, and hated them as much as she despised the tight rows of braids holding up her crown.
"Stories have spread about the true Queen of the North and her return from across the sea." The man paused. Somewhere between the overgrown beard and shaggy hair, a pair of blue eyes held her gaze, never faltering.
"Yes?" More men to feed and house for the North—how entirely predictable.
He shifted slightly from his left foot to his right. His nostrils flared. Beneath the black mail, Arya could see the soldier hold his breath before releasing it in slow measures.
"My men and I have come to swear fealty to you." The gauged emotion in his words perked her interest.
"Do tell, ser. Before me, a man who refuses his name to a queen to whom he swears an oath…who are you here to serve?" She shifted forward on the carved chair, left hand curling around the smooth armrest, her right hand sneaking down into the folds of her dress for Needle. She would pull the answer from him word by word, if necessary. "As you see, I have plenty of men who are already at my beck and call."
Barely detectable, his eyebrows dipped before he scoffed. "These men, they serve the North. They serve the Lord or Lady who will keep them fed and warm. It is the memory of your father they serve, hoping you will fill his shoes and their coffers."
The room erupted with yelling. Her men took the bait without hesitation. Yet, the challenger stood rooted. His black beard stirred as he worked his jaw.
Arya stuffed her reaction to run him through. Instead, she stood inch by inch, training her face to remain passive. How to dispatch this usurper…the possibilities were endless. It could be a tool to reinforce her status with the bannermen, who quieted when she stood. They bobbed their heads back and forth between the dark knight and their lady liege.
"My duty will never be to the North or the throne on which you sit." His low voice distracted her plans. "It will be to you, only you, no matter the title or lands you hold."
"I am the North."
He advanced one step. "You are Lady Arya Stark. Faceless assassin, last of her line, mother of none, leader of many. Defender of the young, the wolf-girl returned. Avenger of Winterfell, true Queen of the North. Yes. I've heard the sayings."
Such a confident and arrogant male. "And what of my future Lord husband?" Arya tipped her head to the side, feigning humility. She heard men swear the same before, knowing full well it was in hopes of warming her bed or her favor. His loathsome words were only palatable with Needle in her hand.
"I do not believe you settled an offer as of yet." A gasp riffled through the room. "I care not if you are wedded and bedded. I am sworn to you." The man towered over her even from several paces away.
"I have not accepted your oath." Her fingers squeezed the hilt. He was testing every ounce of training, each warring sense to shut him up. As it were, Arya's response fell flat among the room. She took one lithe step, and another, until she was within reach and neatly raised Needle to his chin, pushing his face upwards. "Your name."
His chin lowered onto Needle's sharp tip. He sucked in air through his nose when Arya felt the blade piece his skin. It wasn't until she looked further up, his eyes bored into hers. "Not until you accept my fealty."
Around the room, her men began to knock their fists against their armor. Blood…they wanted a show.
"I do believe I will accept," she said, her sharp tone silencing the incessant soldiers.
"Many thanks, m'lady."
Goosebumps raced down her arms under her layered, blue dress. It couldn't be. She removed Needle from his thick beard. She had tears for no one, least of all herself, no matter who happened to find her after years of war.
"I have no need for a sworn shield." Arya stared at the man before her and lowered her blade. He refused to be her family. She didn't need him either. Not then, not now, not ever.
"None here would presume as much." Chuckles echoed around the room.
He wouldn't have the last word, even after eight years apart. "My lords," she barked, inches below his face. None of her family remained, yet he found her. "I present to you, Sir Gendry of Hollow Hill."
A little one-shot. This was an exercise to in brevity (keeping it under 1000 words...I came in at 999!) and to satisfy a nagging story idea. Sorry, no follow-up chapters on this one!
I didn't technically "kill" anyone, so maybe some readers won't be offended. :) ~JS