Hey guys, Rath here! So sorry for the prolonged absence! Hopefully I'll be more active here on and will try to get you guys 1 chapter a week! Now then, to address some past questions, no, their ages do not line up with the ages on the show or book.
Arya: 14 (few months shy of 15)
Jaime & Cersie: 25
Tyrion: 20
Robb & Jon: 18
Bran: 13
Rickon: 5
Sansa: 16
xxxxxxxXXXXxxxxxxxXXXXxxxxxxxXXXXxxxxxxx
Chapter Three
"We will call this place our home, the dirt in which our roots may grow."
-Sleeping at Last
Arya Stark was not a girly girl, a fact of which she would proclaim until her face turned blue and the breath in her lungs faded to nothing. She would tell you, for fact, that she could very much do everything her brothers could do and more and that stitching silly words into silly fabrics was for babies and stupid girls. Old Nan, of course, had not liked that one bit and had given her a good sharp cuff on the ear and sent her straight to her father for scolding. Only, her father didn't scold her. He simply sighed and lifted her onto his lap, something he had not done for many a year, and looked at the papers before him, saying nothing for many hours.
Arya was just beginning to fade into sleep when her father's deep voice rumbled low, chest vibrating with the sound and she blearily opened her eyes and gazed across the room at the new occupant. Jaime Lannister, golden hair damp and sweat glistening upon his forehead. "Ser." Her father greeted tiredly. The Lannister bowed his head in greeting. She knew her father didn't like the fair headed man, something about the mad king and the Knight being a "kingslayer." She didn't like that name, but she loved the story Old Nan once told her when she inquired as to her father's dislike of the Lannister family.
"I was told you requested me," the knight said civilly, dropping the tone he might have other wise for the sake of the half-asleep girl on her father's lap. Green eyes fell to her briefly and his lips quirked into a half smile before he looked again to the Lord of Winterfell. Arya returned the half smile with a tired one of her own and rubbed her eyes with a yawn.
Eddard Stark was quiet for several minutes, calm eyes watching the Commander of the Kingsguard. "You saved my daughter night before last." He said simply to which the Knight arched a golden brow. "My wife informed me that you brought her back safely with the excuse of noticing the wolves rushing off and that I should give my gratitude." The knight strongly doubted that was why he was called. "The King has told me I owe you more than my gratitude." Now his brow dropped into a furrow and Arya found it very funny how expressive the Knight with the normally stoic face was being.
"And what," the Lion said, "does the King believe you owe me. As I told your Lady Wife, I was outside and noticed the wolves rush. I did only what would be required of me as a knight." His words were calm but guarded. Arya didn't like that tone, nor her father's sigh.
For a moment there was silence, neither man speaking and Arya finally fully awake just as the door was nudged open and Nymeria trotted in, pausing briefly to rub her head against the Knight's leg before moving to the Starks' side. Moments later the King entered, face flushed from wine and fat belly jiggling, and he took pause, eyes immediately settling on the small girl. She wanted to sink into her father's furs at the look but she just twisted her lips into a snarl, fists curling tightly into the dark furs instead. She could feel her father tense as the King whispered, the words 'Lyanna" falling from his lips in wonder and grief.
"My King," Jaime interjected, startling the King from his visions. "Is there something you require?" For the first time Eddard Stark could ever remember, he was grateful for the Lannister for the King's red face rounded on the golden-haired man, eyes blazing like fire as he roared about being able to do as he liked and he would go where he liked whenever he would like to and he needn't be questioned by his own Kingsguard. Eddard took the distraction to place Arya on her feet and nodded towards the door. The girl took the hint and moved quickly for it, trying to keep herself away from the boisterous man. She had no such luck however, for the minute she reached for the knob, the King had ahold of her elbow and swung her back into the room, rough hand gripping her jaw and forcing her to look at him. She whimpered, hands gripping the large wrist frantically, grey eyes wide with shock. His eyes, she realized, were ugly and terrifying, not a lick of the courage and strength she often heard her father speak of when speaking of the King. She decided she didn't like his eyes or his face or the smell of wine on his breath or perfume on his calloused hands. Just as soon as he had been grabbed, she was lifted up, her face suddenly released, and she was back in the warm hold of the knight.
"My King," Jaime's voice was much harder she noted, his green eyes shining like wildfire. "I believe you have frightened the girl. Shall I fetch some whores for your liking," he spat, and she noted a hint of disgust to his tone. Her father was standing as well now, she saw, his eyes cold and hard as the winter she knew was coming.
The king blinked at the Lion and the Wolf before scowling, "To the crypts." He ordered, turning on his heels. Ned's jaw clenched but he moved around his desk, pausing by the remaining pair and he gripped Arya's chin himself, though much softer than the King had. His hands, she acknowledged, were more calloused than the King's but they were so much softer, kinder. Old Nan would tell her later that night that the intentions behind the actions would always reflect how the touch would feel. Jaime's grip on her form didn't lessen, face tight and she could just barely detect traces of anger etched into the corner of his eyes.
Ned said nothing as he took in the budding bruise upon her jaw. "Thank you." Was all he said to the knight before pressing a tender kiss to his daughter's temple and moved to follow the king, leaving the Lion and Young Wolf alone. Arya turned her face up to peer curiously at the man before she frowned and growled, pushing his chest sharply, startling the Knight from his thoughts, nearly dropping the girl in his shock. She squirmed and wiggled until she was back on her own two feet.
"I'm not a baby," she growled, cheeks flushed with embarrassment at showing her fear to the knight. "I can stand!" The laugh that followed was not something Arya had expected, nor did she necessarily like. It wasn't a bad laugh, of course, but she didn't particularly like being laughed at. And so, she did the only thing she could thing of doing. She reared her leg back and swung, slamming her boot clad toes into his armor-clad shin. The blow hurt her far more than it hurt the Knight and she hobbled on one foot, clutching her foot with a yelp of pain and the Knight laughed harder.
"Come, Little Wolf," the knight said kindly, his tone soft once more. "Let us be sure you haven't broken your foot with your fit." He held the door open for her, chuckling as she hobbled forward, grumbling bitterly under her breath. "Really you should know better than to kick armor," he mused before risking it as her face twisted into another grimace, lifting her easily and situating her against his back, arms hooked beneath her knees, her arms dangling over his shoulders, against his chest.
Arya huffed but didn't fight it, her foot aching too much to kick against his thigh, "Your cloak was covering your legs!" She objected petulantly, thin lips jutted out into a pout. Jaime just smirked, readjusting his hold on her knees as he navigated the corridors to the Maester's chambers. In hindsight, he should have known they were bound to run into his sister. Should have known she would be skulking about in search of him or her children, but he wasn't thinking about her for once. He was thinking of the lithe girl draped against his back, long face rested on his shoulder and stormy eyes haunting his thoughts.
"Oh my," her shrill voice gave him pause, green eyes regarding him with a disgust only he could see. "Are you a babysitter now?" She teased, her voice sickly sweet and kind, but he doubted Arya didn't see through that façade he himself had. "Here I was thinking the Commander of the Kingsguard's duty was to defend the royal family. Tell me, brother, where is my," those deceptively vexing green eyes turned to the girl, "loving husband." Jaime sighed as he felt Arya push against his back once more and helped her carefully slide back to the ground, stabling her as she wobbled from the pain in her foot.
"The young wolf was injured by the King, her features too akin to a ghost of the past for his drunken stupor; at the request of the Lord Stark, I was escorting her to the Maester. Is there something you require assistance with, sweet Sister?" He clipped back, unusually miffed with her meddling and snark. Arya hesitated briefly before turning to the Knight, a muttered thank you passing her lips before she hobbled on, further down the corridors to seek the Maester on her own. Jaime watched her go until he was out of sight before turning his focus to his sister. "She's but a child," he chided, "not even five and ten yet." His sister's beautiful face screwed up in a disgusting scowl.
"Precisely, dear brother," she sneered remaining fixed in place, awaiting his approach which did not come. "She is but a child who cannot satisfy your," the scowl turned to a wicked smirk that had a shiver running down his spine, and not in a good way, "unique," she purred, "desires. I do not wish to see you sharing words with her again." She ordered simply to which Jaime snorted and rolled his eyes.
'Jealousy,' the knight thought 'Is not an attractive feature on anymore, not even her.' He shook his head and moved to walk past his twin. "You should worry more about what the King has planned for the girl, for it might push you from your pedestal. He sees it as clear as day. She has the Wolfblood coursing through her as fiercely as our Lord Father claimed her late Aunt – your husbands late love – had, perhaps more. It's intoxicating, to him. Will you lose your King to a child not even past her fifteenth winter yet?" He inquired, not sure why it was that the very thought of the king leaving his sister no longer excited him. His sister said nothing as he passed, her eyes wide in shock and rage. He would regret his words come the following days, of that he was sure, though perhaps not because of his sister's ire. No, something else – he could feel it in his very bones. Something darker was brewing, and it would affect them all and that did not sit well with him.
When he found the girl again, she was sat before her lady mother, cheek red – no doubt from a nice slap – and eyes blazing with cold fury. He shuddered at the storm raging in those glassy pools. The Maester stood off to the side, rolling up the remaining bandages and settling them back in their place. Arya's foot was bound tightly, from her toes to her calf and her chin was slick with a glossy ointment to help with the bruising. Catelyn Stark, he decided then and there, was not a woman he would cross lightly. He had been truthful when he said he did not wish to cross a wolf defending her cubs, but more than that – he didn't want to cross the woman who seemed to have tamed the spitfire that was the youngest Stark girl.
Catelyn turned her attention to the Lannister when Arya's gaze found him, clearly ready to give a thorough tongue lashing to anyone who dared interrupt but she froze at the sight of him and gave a small nod then hissed beneath her breath and jerked Arya from her seated position. Jaime winced with the girl and he strolled forward, reaching the thin girl in three steps and carefully set her back in the chair. Catelyn growled at his actions, "Arya wishes to say something to you, Ser. And it's best done on her feet." Jaime cast her an odd look before smiling kindly.
"My dear lady, anything the girl has to say can be said sitting. Especially after I riled her temper." The woman's cheeks flushed and Arya tried to hide her smile. "And how is the young lady?" The smile trying to hide turned to a furious scowl and she shoved the knight aggressively.
"I am not a lady!" She snarled firmly, temper rising more the harder the knight laughed. "I'm not I say! I hate dresses and dancing and sewing and by the gods, the gossip!" She bemoaned, head rolling back dramatically. If Jaime didn't know better, he'd have said the girl was indeed a boy, her mannerisms were most certainly boyish in nature. And other than the subtle breast hidden in youth and beneath the grey dress she was forced to wear that could only be felt with her pressed flush against you, and her melodic – though often infuriated – voice, none of her features were feminine. But, Jaime did know better, and he knew that her Lady Mother very much did not like the wildness of her youngest daughter. 'Such a contrast from her sister,' Jaime mused.
Arya's arms folded across her chest, eyes narrowed bitterly at her mother's admonished cry; Jaime simply grinned. "How refreshing," he said kindly and ruffled her hair, ignoring the small hands slapping at his own. "I take it you will heal just fine then?" He inquired, turning now to the Maester, feeling partially guilty for her injury. The Maester regarding Jaime silently for a long stretch of silence, tight lips pursed and wrinkled face tight. The aging man finally nodded. The Young Lion barely refrained from rolling his eyes at the obvious distrust and disgust being passively thrown at him and turned back to the girl. "Then, you and I have business." He chirped, helping her back up and giving a sweeping bow to her mother, a tip of the head to the Maester and then he was stirring her away, back into the corridors, taking care to keep her steady and from putting too much weight on the wrapped leg. "We don't really," he lowered his head a fraction to whisper conspiratorially, "but your mother seemed ready to take both of our heads as souvenirs." Arya grinned back, letting him lead her away.
"I'll go along with your plan," the girl hummed, "but on one condition." She paused three doors down from the Maester's room, refusing to move further unless he agreed to her stipulation. At his raised brow and nod, she continued; "teach me." Her voice was firm, resolute. At his frown, she sighed. "To fight," here she pointed at his sword. "I want you to teach me! Father says you're one of the best swordsman to ever live, that he's ever seen. So please, I want to learn. I'm sick of listening to the Old Nan going on about how ladies can't fight, that Ladies belong in the home." She scowled, hands balling into tight fists and Jaime couldn't help it, he smiled. Not a smirk or a half smile, but a genuine smile – a smile that had before only been seen by his family. Arya rather liked the smile.
"Your father will have my head," he points out, arms folding over his chest though he already made his mind up. The girl hesitated.
"I'll take the blame."
"I am your elder. It falls to me to steer you away from rash deci-"
"Please," she interrupted, voice desperate and little beads of blood dotting her skin from where her nails now bit into her skin. "E..Even if you won't teach me to use a sword, teach me hand to hand. I don't… when he.." She looked at the ground, fidgeting uncertainly and for the first time that entire day, Jaime realized just how much the King's actions had hurt the girl. Not just physically, but it called into question her ability to defend herself, and for a girl such as her – that was worse than any physical blow. Arya Stark prided herself in her strength and courage and bold behavior. She was proud of never backing down and being able to beat Bran at everything. And things with Jon and Robb were always a game. But the King – the King had been her first experience of feeling utterly helpless, of being unable to do anything without help. Jaime kneeled infront of her, hands on her shoulders before he pulled her close, her head cushioned against his chest, his chin resting atop her head, and he sighed. She struggled for all of five seconds before pressing into him, tiny fists finding their place in his cloak and clinging as tight as she could. "Please," she pleaded again, voice muffled against chest. Though the armor her wore was uncomfortable and cold, she was warm. Content. Safe.
"Of course," was all the man could bring himself to say before rising, grunting when she refused to relinquish her hold on him just yet and he blinked in shock when her legs snaked around his hips, hugging his waist tight, her face now pressed to his neck. And that is how they stood for several more minutes, Arya clinging and seeking comfort, and Jaime offering it silently. And if, in the corner of his eye he saw Tyrion watching with that scheming little smirk – well, he said nothing of it to the girl in his arms nor did he attempt to give any form of recognition to his younger brother.
