"Oomph!"
Horik Half-Hand grunts as she spits snow and blood out of her mouth, pushing up from the ground and turning to face him again, wrapped fists curling up again the way her brothers taught her.
"You've got spirit, I'll give you that," Horik says, glancing at Brina Merilis, who stands off to the side, watching them with crossed arms. "Who taught you that footwork, though? It's not suited to hand-to-hand."
"It's for water-dancing," Arya says, wiping her mouth again. One of her teeth feels loose. "The type of sword-fighting I know. It's more about movement than hacking and slashing."
"Right, well," Horik says, "forget that footwork when it comes to face-to-face brawling. When you've got Spindle out-"
"Needle," Arya corrects.
"-then you can do your fancy footwork. It's good, just not the right style when you need to hold your ground." Horik motions her closer, "Again."
Eyes brightening, Arya grins with bloody teeth before getting back down to business, listening to every word he says as he continues to teach her physical combat. At one point, that loose tooth goes flying and she honestly doesn't care, so long as she gets told how to fix her mistake, to make sure she can never do it again.
When midday comes, Horik takes her to get patched up by Skald's court wizard – a herbalist and healer, among other things. She gives Arya a mild healing potion, before using healing magic to repair Arya's abused face. Despite the victory she feels after the gruelling and painful session, Arya isn't sad to feel those already-blue knocks disappear.
"Had ale before?" Brina questions smoothly, when they sit down for bread and ham. Arya shrugs.
"Have. Don't like it." Arya shakes her head at the offered tankard, accepting the ice water given to her instead by one of the servants. Brina keeps watching her and Arya slowly begins to feel more and more wary, back tensing as the meal goes by and Brina refuses to take her eyes off of Arya.
Eventually, she snaps nervously. "What do you want?"
"Information," Brina says. "You claim to be from a land beyond Tamriel."
"What of it?" Arya questions, "That's none of your business."
"No-one comes to Skald with their problems," Brina tells her, leaning in slightly. "They come to me. Skald can talk all he wants about being the person that the people come to, but there's been a steady decline of people lining up in front of him in search of help. They either solve their own problems, or ask me to help."
Arya frowns. "Why?"
"Skald is…unstable," Brina says flatly, after only a moments pause. "He's a Stormcloak supporter to the extreme. Believes everything bad in the world is the Empire's fault or the Thalmor's. There's having a belief and then there's believing to the point of ignorance."
"What do you believe in?" Arya asks her.
"I believe in the Legion. I believe that they protect the inhabitants of Skyrim," Brina says. "The history of Skyrim's first settlers are muddled. Nords will say they were the first, but they were in conflict with the previous inhabitants. Every race except the Ra Gada will claim Skyrim as their species' first home."
Her history lesson is interesting, something Arya's never heard before. "Really?" she asks, wondering if her claim is true.
"Yes. Would you like to know more about Skyrim's history?" Brina questions.
"Please," Arya says, eager.
That afternoon is spent learning of Tamriel. The ex-Legionnaire says things simply, but she says a lot and by the end, Arya is sure she knows more of Skyrim's beginnings than she does of Westeros. Except, when she thinks of Westeros, her mind becomes crowded with stories and folk tales, of House rivalries and Dragon Kings.
"You look deep in thought," Thoring, the owner of Windpeak Inn, says to her. Arya, staring into space, playing with her cup, looks up to find him sitting down opposite her in the space Brina had departed. "What troubles you, lass?"
Arya struggles to answer him. "Home. This situation. Why should I learn the history of Tamriel if I'm going to go back to Westeros?"
"All history is a lesson," Thoring says. "My daughter, Karita, she was so full of stories that she made them into song. It is her trade, now. Perhaps you can learn something from them."
"I learnt something from my histories, too," Arya says, frustrated. "Everything is different here. Even the animals."
"Well," Thoring chuckles, "that's to be expected. You think that Morrowind has wolves and sabretooth tigers?"
"In Westeros, we have wolves and wild dogs," Arya mutters. "Direwolves, in the far north."
"Direwolves?" Thoring raises an eyebrow, reaching to tuck a strand of blonde hair behind his ear. "What, pray tell are direwolves?"
Arya grins, "The sigil of my house – House Stark. Direwolves are vicious and deadly, that grow higher than war steeds and a third longer. My father found a dead mother with cubs and each of my siblings were given one. I had Nymeria, fiercest of them all; my brother Robb had Greywind, the largest and fastest; my half-brother Jon had the runt, Ghost, with red eyes and white fur; Sansa had the most beautiful, whom she called Lady."
She rolls her eyes in memory, even as a pang aches through her chest, for Lady is dead because Sansa thought she loved Joffrey more than Arya.
"Rickon had Shaggydog – or Shaggy, Rickon was only very small," Arya continues, "and Bran had Summer. Summer saved him from assassins, when Bran was asleep."
Thoring frowns lightly. "Why did someone want to kill your little brother, young Arya?"
"Don't know," Arya shrugs, finishing the last of her water.
"We can find you a dog, if it makes you feel closer to home," Thoring offers kindly, when his frown has faded. But Arya shakes her head.
"Nymeria is alive. I dream with her, in my sleep," Arya shares, not seeing the harm in telling the innkeep of her wolf-dreams. Skyrim is full of magic, she thinks, he won't think much of it, probably. "We're bonded. Direwolves are special."
"Oh," Thoring blinks, slightly taken aback. Arya pauses suddenly, wondering if she'd made a mistake. "That's…disheartening," he says, pausing between words.
"What is?" she questions, eyes locked on the Nord.
"It's just…" Thoring crosses his arms on the table, obviously deep in thought. "Wolves here are pack animals and I doubt your direwolves are much different. You must miss your brothers and sister dearly, milady."
Arya sits back as if she'd been scalded. "Miss them? I- of course I miss them! I haven't seen them in years, Thoring."
"What do you miss about them?" he asks.
"I miss…I miss how stupid Sansa is," Arya starts, swallowing, "I miss how she always snuck lemon cakes from the kitchens. I miss seeing Bran climb the outside of the tower and hearing him complain to Maester Luwin. I miss Rickon's face and Robb's stupid beard. It wasn't even growing in right, proper. He was a King and he didn't even have a proper beard."
Thoring's lip twitches, "How old was he?"
"He'd be nineteen, now," Arya says, "Nymeria listened to some of his soldiers talking, in one of my dreams. He married a girl and they have a son named after our late father, Ned Stark."
"Congratulations."
Arya smiles properly, then, grinning with full teeth. "Thank-you. I don't know how old he is, but he should only be a baby; Prince Ned, they called him."
"And what of your other brother?" Thoring questions, "The one with the albino wolf? What do you miss about him?"
Her smile fades. "Jon. Jon Snow – our father's bastard son. He grew up with us. My mother never liked him. Jon used to pick me up and twirl me around so my feet couldn't touch the ground – it was the best feeling in the world. I miss him the most, after my mother. I want to see my mother again, desperately. I haven't seen her since…" since we left Winterfell, since before King Robert died.
Thoring reaches across the table, hand resting on her shoulder. "You will see them all again, that I swear on Talos and the Divines. Even if I have to make a deal with the Daedric Prince of Wishes, I promise you will."
Arya's eyes sting and she reaches to hold onto his wrist, clutching it tightly, begging for contact. Thoring leans closer, over the table, pressing their foreheads together. Arya bites her tongue sharply, willing tears not to form. Her heart beats like a drum inside her chest and all she wants to do is see her family, be encased in her father's arms as Robb and Theon bicker in the background, Sansa cooing over baby Rickon. She can imagine it all in her head – Bran and Jon playing cyvasse at the great table, while Maester Luwin does his reports, occasionally whispering to Bran where to move his pieces. Her father would be wearing his warm jerkin with grey fox-fur edges and his beard would brush across her forehead as he kissed her.
"I want to go back to how it was before," Arya whispers, teary. "Why was I brought here?"
"I have no knowledge of these things, lass," Thoring says, pulling back and bringing a thumb up to wipe away her tears. "Would you like some advice from this lowly barkeep?"
"Please," Arya nods, rubbing her face with her sleeve.
"Focus on the here and now," Thoring says, "for your journey home may not be until years to come. While the Jarl is…well, while he's taken you in, he's not wrong in his reasons. You have faced deep loss and uncertainty in your short life. I would be happy to have you as my Jarl, Arya."
Arya's nose scrunches up as she sniffs, confused, "You would?"
"You're here, with the people," Thoring says, "which is more than any Jarl I've seen. You're clever, willing to learn and you can fight well for your age. There's a war coming, Arya – a war that will split Skyrim in two. I fear Dawnstar will be stuck in the middle of it. If you survive to see the other side, I'll look upon you once more and decide whether or not to change my mind."
Thoring gets up from the bench, grabbing a nearby abandoned plate and tankard, "But for now, aye – Skald has made a good decision for the first time in thirty years. Great tidings upon you, Arya of the Pale."