Disclaimer: The setting and characters of the series A Song of Ice and Fire belong to George R. R. Martin. I make no claim upon them. Should I be asked by GRRM or his legal representatives, I will remove this work.
Jon
Jon watched as his half-brother whacked at the plump and cushioned little prince with a glorified stick. Bran was giving far better than he got, but was clearly becoming exhausted trying to cause any real damage through the Prince Tommen's ridiculous armor.
Tommen might win by attrition alone.
His attention was drawn away from the fight when he felt Ghost shift away from his leg. He watched as his direwolf pup reared up on its haunches to sniff at his little sister's face and nibble once on her ear before giving a similar greeting to its littermate, Nymeria. Even though they were only just over a month old, both of the direwolves were now as large as the smallest adult dogs kept in the kennels. Ghost might even be a little larger, despite having been the runt.
Jon gave his little sister a questioning look. "Shouldn't you be working on your stitches, little sister?"
Arya scrunched up her eyebrows and nose, as if upset at the thought that she should be anywhere other than where she wanted to be. "I wanted to see them fight."
Jon smiled. As often as he had been scolded by Septa Mordane or his lord father about indulging Arya's whims, he knew that he could never deny her a request. She was the Stark sibling that loved him the best, even after she found out what it meant to be a bastard. "Come here, then."
Arya climbed up next to him on the window overlooking the practice yard from the covered bridge. Snow could still be seen in small piles in the areas of Winterfell that were enveloped in shadow for most of the day, seemingly ready to disappear until another summer snow replenished them. If anything, they had been growing on the whole over the past few months. Winter is coming, after all.
At this point, both Bran and Prince Tommen were faltering. The swordsmanship was becoming sloppy even for children their age, and Bran's red face puffed hard with each breath. Jon remembered fondly being that age, when his father had handed padded wooden swords to both him and Robb, together. They were willing to tolerate any amount of rules and drills and padding as prescribed by Ser Rodrik, knowing that at the end of each day they could completely and utterly exhaust themselves in true combat. He was rather sad that Arya would never get to experience that joy for herself.
"A shade more exhausting than needlework," Jon commented.
"A shade more fun than needlework," Arya retorted with no small amount of jealousy. Jon grinned as he reached across himself to tousle her hair.
"Why aren't you down in the yard?" Arya asked him.
Jon grimaced, recalling his heated conversation with Ser Rodrik earlier this morning. "Bastards are not allowed to damage young princes," he told her. "Any bruises they take in the practice yard must come from trueborn swords." Jon felt he could have given a certain young prince a good many bruises, given the opportunity. The smug lout would deserve every one of them, too.
"Oh," was all Arya could come up with in response. Jon watched her blush slightly, seemingly embarrassed to have brought up his bastardry. She was quite for a time.
"I could do just as good as Bran," Arya said in a softer voice than before. "He's only seven. I'm nine."
Jon wanted to chuckle at Arya's enthusiasm, but knew that it would only wound her pride. Instead he gave her a mock-critical look of appraisal. "You're too skinny," he told her. He grabbed at her tiny arm and squeezed it in a few places, pretending to measure its girth. Sighing as though finding serious fault, he told her in his most solemn voice, "I doubt you could even lift a longsword, little sister, never mind swing one."
Arya snatched her arm back and gave him a cold stare, clearly disappointed in his assessment. Jon quickly moved his hand to her hair again and gave it another shake. She seemed to understand and gave him a small smile in return. They turned their attention back to the increasingly dull match below.
Jon heard a mocking chuckle come from the direction of the crown prince's entourage. The pompous ass was japing with the squires who seemed to follow him around like neglected dogs, always begging for whatever scrap of favor they could get. Even the knights surrounding him seemed more eager to win his approval than was respectable. Jon noticed that all of the knights were Lannister men. "You see prince Joffey?" Jon asked. "Look at the arms on his surcoat."
Per pale, a crowned stag, black, on a golden field. Sinister, a lion, gold, on a crimson field. "The Lannisters are proud," Jon told her. "You'd think the royal sigil would be sufficient, but no. He makes his mother's House equal in honor to the king's."
"The woman is important too!" Arya exclaimed.
Jon laughed lightly. Of course you would think so. And bastards are as noble as true-born sons, if the world were fair. "Perhaps you should do the same thing, little sister. Wed Tully to Stark in your arms."
"A wolf with a fish in its mouth?" Arya laughed. "That would look silly. Besides, if a girl can't fight, why should she have a coat of arms?"
Jon shrugged. "Girls get the arms but not the swords. Bastards get the swords but not the arms. I did not make the rules, little sister." That is just how the world works.
Their conversation was interrupted by a startled cry from the training area. Prince Tommen had been knocked down by Bran, and was unable to right himself with all of his padding in place. As he struggled to get up, Bran stood above him with his training sword held high, ready to strike a finishing blow. Jon couldn't help but grin, happy for his little brother. The men below began to laugh as well, before Ser Rodrik finally called the match and pulled the fat prince to his feet.
"Well fought. Lew, Donnis, help them out of their armor. Prince Joffrey, Robb, will you go another round?" Jon certainly hoped so. Robb had made the arrogant prince yield during the last bout, although Jon had to admit that the prince had at least some skill about him. Not nearly so much as me. I was always the better sword than Robb, even if he could knock me off my horse four times out of five.
Robb stepped into the marked area designated for combat with a confident reply. "Gladly."
Prince Joffrey slowly stepped out of the shaded area he had been sulking in with a bored look on his face. "This is a game for children, Ser Rodrik," he spat, with an obvious sneer.
Theon Greyjoy laughed sharply at that with the few Winterfell men-at-arms who had stayed after the duel between the heirs had finished. "You are children," he said with enough pompousness to match the prince himself. Jon could not help but notice that his remark insulted Robb as well.
Joffrey did not wait long to give his reply. "Robb may be a child. I am a prince. And I grow tired of swatting at Starks with a play sword."
"You got more swats than you gave, Joff," Robb said. "Are you afraid?"
Prince Joffrey gave Robb another sneer. "Oh, terrified. You're so much older." This was met be yet another round of laughter from Joffrey's men, squires and knights both. Fourteen is much older than twelve, when you look at the muscle in Robb's arms compared to Joffrey's. Joff is just afraid to lose again in front of so many witnesses.
Jon frowned at the thought of Robb one day having to swear fealty to such an obnoxious craven. "Joffrey is truly a little shit," he whispered conspiratorially to his sister, who seemed to be just as caught up in the exchange as he was.
"What are you suggesting?" Ser Rodrik asked, his distress obvious as he tugged as his whiskers, a motion usually reserved for when Robb had been goaded to doing something dangerous or troublesome by Theon.
"Live steel."
"Done," Robb's reply was instantaneous. "You'll be sorry!"
Ser Rodrik held him back with a calming hand. "Live steel is too dangerous. I will permit you tourney swords, with blunted edges."
Joffrey looked ready to compromise, no doubt ready for an opportunity to win respect from his men once again. He had been quite the poor loser the first match. Instead, his most loyal hound stepped forward and voiced his opposition. "This is your prince. Who are you to tell him he may not have an edge on his sword, ser?"
"Master-at-arms of Winterfell, Clegane, and you would do well not to forget it," was Ser Rodrik's crisp response. He was bold, to talk down to a man so large as Sandor Clegane without a bit of fear in his voice.
"Are you training women here?" Clegane barked in reply.
"I am training knights," Ser Rodrik returned, his tone as precise and even as ever. "They will have steel when they are ready. When they are of an age."
The Hound kept his eyes on Ser Rodrik. "I was not aware that knights needed near so much coddling. It is no wonder the North is not known for its knights. South of the Neck, squires are given blades as young as eleven, if they are able to swing them. Can your young lord not yet swing a blade, or are you simply afraid for him, Ser?"
Robb's face flushed a shade of red almost matching his auburn Tully hair. Jon recognized the combination of embarrassment and anger in his brother's face that, if it were to occur during a sparring match, meant he would likely have several bruises to nurse the next day. Ser Rodrik, normally ever calm, turned a remarkable shade of puce clashing terribly with his grey doublet and white whiskers. His brow drew close before he bellowed his reply.
"Very well then, Ser. Blades it is. Lew, get two longswords from the armory. You need not concern yourself with their weight, our young prince and lord will prove more than able to wield them."
Sandor Clegane smirked before simply stating "I'm no Ser." He walked out of the arena as squires began outfitting the combatants with mailed shirts and other assorted bits of armor.
Jon grew worried. As much as the padding they often fought in weighed, it did not weigh near so much as mail and plate. Rob is built thick, though. Certainly more so than the prince. He will not be overly slowed.
Next to him, Arya seemed to bubble with excitement. "The little shit is about to get what's coming to him!"
Jon gave her his best scolding look. "I think so as well, although I would not repeat those words before any of the royal party – or your lady mother. Or our lord father. And don't tell Sansa." He could only imagine the ire of his father if he heard where Arya had learnt such words. If there was anything Jon wanted more than Arya's happiness, it was his father's continued approval. Not all bastards are so lucky.
Once Robb and Prince Joffrey were appropriately armed and armored, Ser Rodrick recited the rules for fully armed combat to be followed in Winterfell's walls. Any deviation would halt the match and bar both combatants from the training yard for the remainder of royal party's visit. The victor would be decided by first blood, or if a party chose to yield. With that settled, the match began.
Jon watched Robb closely. Robb had calmed down considerably, his face now deadly serious as he and the prince began to circle each other. Good work Stark, do not let your emotions get the best of you today.
Arya groaned next to him. "Not again. I thought this would be more exciting if it weren't little boys."
"Just wait, little sister. The excitement will come," Jon whispered in reply.
Soon enough, it did.
Robb apparently became tired of waiting, and charged an already winded Joffrey with his sharp longsword held high. He brought it down in an arc, and did not seem perturbed when it was parried with some effort by the prince.
"Our brother has a sound strategy. He means to tire out Joff, to use his size to his advantage," Jon explained to Arya.
"Joff can reach longer though. Robb still must be careful," Arya surmised.
Joffrey eventually began returning attacks, although Robb was quick on his parries as well. Both were clearly straining, unused to the added weight of steel armor and swords.
The Lannister men cheered for their prince, while the men of Winterfell's guard cheered on Robb. News of the fight had spread, and more observers from all banners made their way around the square marked in the dirt.
Finally, Robb found his mark. He had made a thrust, which Joffrey had attempted to parry, only to disengage and twist his blade underneath the counterstroke to place a small cut on Prince Joffrey's left cheek.
Arya let out a whoop of excitement at the victory, and even Jon could not help but grin. The Winterfell men were cheering, and Robb turned toward them to accept their praise. They love their future Lord already.
Arya noticed it first.
"What is the prince doing?"
Jon looked.
Jon saw the prince wipe his face, sneer still intact, and fling the bit of blood away into the dirt as he advanced on Robb's turned back. Time seemed to slow as Joffrey drew back his longsword before thrusting it with both hands through the back of Robb Stark's neck.
The whole courtyard silenced as Prince Joffrey spat "The penalty for drawing royal blood is death, Stark."
Several things proceeded to happen at once, or as near as made no matter
Joffrey withdrew his sword from Robb's neck, showering the ground beneath them in blood.
Robb's expression only showed horrific pain, pain Jon could not imagine, before he fell to the ground like a boneless bag of slop. There were no gasps, only a sickening thunk, and a quickly growing pool of blood as his body fidgeted with no purpose in the dirt.
Ser Rodrick drew his sword and charged at Prince Joffrey, death in his eyes, only to be met by the Hound and engaged in a true fight, not a mock duel of lordlings.
The other Lannister men surrounded Prince Joffrey and dashed in the direction of the south gate. The Winterfell guards and men-at-arms who had been watching the fight made off in a rush after them, except for Donnis who snatched Bran in one arm and Prince Tommen in the other and was quickly retreated into the armory with them.
Jon felt everything within him shatter. His best friend, his constant companion since he could remember, the half-brother who never made much of the distinction, lay twitching in the dirt.
Time sped up again as he heard the howl of a young direwolf. Nymeria joined in with her fledgling cry, along with the others around the castle. Ghost stood protectively in front of Jon, but did not make a sound. Grey Wind could be spotted running after the Lannister men, only for one of them to kick him savagely in the neck as they made progress towards the gate. Grey Wind, like his master, now lay unmoving on the ground.
Jon felt Arya slide off his lap, an angry wail on her lips as she started to run in the direction of the stairs down to the armory.
Before he could truly think, he ran after her and grabbed her around her stick-thin torso and held her tight, despite her small legs thrashing against him as she tried to escape.
"Let me go, stupid, let me go!" Arya screeched as only nine-year-old girls could. "I have to get a dagger and kill him! I have to kill him for Robb!"
Jon wanted to let her do it too, more than anything. He wanted to grab a sword and run beside her and impale as many Lannister men as it took to get to Joffrey. He wanted to stab Joffrey so many times that he would become an unrecognizable pincushion made of flesh and gore.
But Jon knew that things had changed, and not for the better. News would spread quickly throughout Winterfell that the heir was dead, betrayed by the crown prince. The royal entourage included some three-hundred men, soldiers and guards and free-riders and servants whose loyalties could no longer be trusted. Jon and Arya stood in a public place, somewhere anyone could find them and surround them.
I have to get Arya to safety.
Unfortunately, Arya was still shouting and cursing and crying, so Jon turned her around with haste and crushed her head to his chest to smother her screams as he ran toward the great keep, Nymeria behind him and Ghost running ahead.
Arya's personal rooms were not too far from where the covered bridge connected to the great keep, so he made his way there as fast as his feet would carry him. It had not been over a minute since Robb was stabbed when he burst through the door to Arya's room, winded and with tears in his eyes and a screaming nine year old girl in his arms to be greeted by the shocked and piercing stares of both Septa Mordane and Lady Catelyn Stark.
Both women began to scream at him at once, although only one used his name. Jon ignored them both as he threw Arya into the room and spun to slam the door shut and bar it from the inside, narrowly avoiding tangling his legs with the direwolf pups as they entered.
" –ll me what in the seven hells you think you are doing!" Lady Stark shrieked like the bats of her mother's house.
Jon was still trying to process all that had happened in his own head. And he knew that telling her of Robb's fate himself would be the worst possible course of action in this moment. Instead he did the only thing he possibly could in that moment.
Jon's knees gave out, and he sunk to the floor with his back against the thick wooden door and wept.
A/N: I have no beta for this work. All mistakes are my own. All criticism is appreciated. Updates will be roughly weekly. The dialogue from roughly the first half of this chapter is taken directly from Arya I of AGOT.