Chapter Four

"We were born to make history."

Dean Fujioka

"I thought you were better than this," the man's low, taunting drawl forced a feral snarl from her lips as she flew out him with all her might. He knocked her aside with the flat of their wooden swords. "You charge too recklessly. Even your wolf is laughing at you." Nymeria, of course, wasn't laughing, but one could clearly see the bored judgement within her amber eyes. "Be wild, be untamable – but be smart. You're small," he dodged the furious swing aimed for his gut," use your size to your advantage. Swing low, not –" he grunted as another swing landed just below his knees, storms of silver and grey glaring furiously at him. His sword dropped and he swung the small girl over his shoulder and strolled towards the creek flowing through the God's Wood; all the while, Arya snarled and beat against his back, legs swinging frantically in an attempt to escape. His hold, however, was firm up until he released her entirely, and with a wet slop, she was deposited in the water, britches and tunic soaked through and her hair laying flat against her face now. "Calm your temper," the lion smirked, arms folded over his chest as he watched her sputter. "You're moving too erratically. Think about your moves – use your anger, your frustration, in conjunction with your mind. A battlefield is no place for anger. The angry fools always fall first." His hand reached down to meet hers and he hauled her back out of the water.

The girl grumbled bitterly, accepting the help begrudgingly. "You're taunting me," she snapped, shaking her head sharply, splattering water every which way. 'Like a dog. No, a wolf.' Jaime mused to himself, barely refraining from chuckling.

"Don't let me taunt you. Ignore it. Words are just words and your going to hear a good deal of them from anyone you face. They will use anything they can to rattle you. It's your job to not let them in. You must become a wall, silent and calm like moments before a storm." She frowned and tucked her head, glaring at the grass. For a moment, Jaime doubted her determination and desire to truly fight; but, just as quickly as those thoughts came up they were squashed beneath her heel. The girl bent and lifted her fallen sword.

"Again," was the only thing she said as she took her position once more. Jaime grinned and lifted his own once more and together they danced, their swords meeting every so often. She didn't land another hit, and many times her temper got the best of her so back in the water she went. It wasn't until the sun was beginning to fall beyond the tree line that Jaime grasped her sword within his hand and tugged it free from her grasp, ignoring the blood that stained the wood. The girl didn't even stagger though he could see the exhaustion clear on her face and in the way her arms fell limp to her sides. "Just a little longer," she objected and he chuckled, moving to gather his cloak and sword.

Fastening the belt around his waist once more, he was almost tempted to agree, but then he noticed the small tremors rattling her shoulders. He draped his cloak across her shoulders and nudged her back towards the grey fortress. "You'll turn into an icicle if we stay out any longer," he mused, "We'll practice again tomorrow." He didn't miss the pout that adorned her face, and he barely refrained from laughing at the sulking girl.

"Father says that we have to travel back with you." She said as they neared the treeline, the grey castle looming just beyond them. "I don't want to go to Kingslanding." She scowled, scuffing her boot across the dirt. "I don't want to become a lady and have to sit through more of those monstrous lessons with Old Nan and stupid Sansa." The Lannister had no doubt there would certainly be a fiasco if she were forced to endure more of it.

The knight could think of nothing to say that might have made the girl feel better, he didn't know the words to make the trip seem happier. So, he said the only thing he could think of saying, "If I knew you hated my presence so much, I would have never accepted these lessons." Her frightened eyes flew to his face and she shoved his side as hard as she could though it hardly did anything to break his stride.

"That's not what I mean!" She cried frantically. "I like our lessons! But no—" She faltered as his laughter filled the quiet wood before scowling and kicking his leg grumpily. "That was mean," she scowled and he grinned wider. "Sansa and that stupid Jane always make fun of me. It's not my fault that I can't sew like them. It's pointless. How is sewing going to protect me?" She demanded furiously, eyes narrowed at the ground as they walked, navigating easily between the trees as if she had done it thousands of times before, and he didn't doubt that she had. "One day," the whisper nearly made him pause, "One day they're going to look at me as their savior and protector, and then they'll be sorry. They'll be sorry for ever calling me Arya Horseface." She hissed and her wolf snarled.

Jaime hesitated, trying to form his words as what a knight should. He'd been so proper the past days, trying to match up to the opinion the small girl seemed to have of him. His normal quips seemed too crass, he was worried – for reasons he couldn't fathom – that she might think less of him if he acted as he normally might. If he acted like the younger, reckless brother of the Queen – the Queen who always seemed more excited at his careless actions which lead to b – he shook his head, rattling the thoughts away. "A knight," he settled for, "protects all without a thought of their past transgressions." He knew she didn't like that answer and he didn't either, but he also knew that the nobility and honor Eddard Stark exuded undoubtedly transferred to the daughter most like him. While Sansa would never worry about why her father exacted justice himself, Arya did. While Sansa would never consider lifting a sword in her own defense, Arya did. The Lannister had no doubt the youngest daughter of the righteous Warden of the North would grow to be a likeness of her father. 'What will she think of me then,' he mused bitterly. "Arya," he paused and looked down upon her long face. He didn't see the ugly features so often he heard her described with. He didn't see a horse face. All he saw was the Wild, the harshness of the Northern Winters and the strength of a Pack. He saw a beauty that he so often remembered hearing his father speak of when it came to the girl's Late Aunt – he saw the beauty the repulsive King so often spoke of when discussing his late love. He saw the beauty of the Winter Flower yet to bloom, and then thought terrified him. "You –" he hesitated, brows furrowing before he shook his head and ruffled her hair. "Does the wolf abandon its pack or ask for its pack to repay it for its defense?" He inquired, watching as her shoulders dropped and she shook her head. "You, Little Wolf, will defend them without question then, won't you?" He already knew the answer, as did she.

Their steps resumed, boots crunching against the frozen dirt. "Will our lessons continue?" She asked him after a beat of silence, handing the white cloak back to the knight. "Once we leave, will you be able to keep teaching me?" He fastened the cloak across his shoulders, nearly purring from the warmth it now offered. He wasn't sure how the Starks managed their arctic home – he longed for the warmth Kingslanding, or even Casterly Rock, offered.

"They will."

"And when we get the Kingslanding? Will you be able to train me still? You won't always be too busy?"

He chuckled, "They will continue, though they might not be as often." His response clearly wasn't what she was seeking but she accepted it nonetheless. All around people buzzed, bustling back and forth as preparations were made for the return trip. Arya's face twisted bitterly. "Kingslanding isn't that bad," he supplied unhelpfully. "Lots of little ladies," he laughed, unable to finish his words as tiny fists swung for him.

"If I didn't know better," his brother's amused voice reached him easily, "I'd say you two have formed an unlikely friendship. Oh, how our dear sister must be so," he drawled, eyes wrinkling at the corners, "incredibly pleased." Jaime couldn't necessarily say he liked the choice of words his brother went with and was thankful the young Stark didn't read anything into it. "She was looking for you," he continued on, "apparently the boy will live." Jaime decided he definitely didn't like his brother's words nor his insinuations. Arya's eyes however lit up with glee and she bolted away from the pair, no doubt on her way to see her younger brother.

"You should choose your words more wisely," Jaime clipped sharply, emerald eyes narrowing at his dwarfed brother, "before you find yourself missing one less appendage." He knew, as any brother might, that his younger sibling knew precisely what he and Cersei got up to. He knew his brother was a schemer, but he was also loyal and would never out their secret – but that wouldn't stop his tongue from wagging in the subtlest of ways.

"You have become so much less fun, brother," Tyiron sighed, "Has the girl made you wish you were better? You no longer joke and mock – it's disheartening. Here was I, hoping to see a spar between you and the Lord Stark." A spar of words, for the great Lord had often refused Jaime a true match of skill – claiming he would not play at fighting. Jaime respected the grim-faced man more than he was willing to admit, but he had a way of infuriating the Lion too.

Jaime didn't answer this time, simply took his leave and followed the girl into the castle to pay his respects to the boy who had taken such an unfortunate stumble from the walls he climbed. Catelyn Stark sat beside her fallen son, his face pale in sleep and bruises covering every inch of his frail form. Guilt struck the knight like a dagger to the chest – this was his fault. His doing. He did this, to an innocent child. And for what? For her? He swallowed the bile in his throat and placed a tender hand upon the mother's shoulder, jarring her from her thoughts, her shaking hands pausing in their twisting of twine and rope as she crafted something he didn't quite understand. "Stay seated," he spoke softly, "you needn't stand to attend to me. Stay with your boy and know that my prayers are with him for a speedy recovery." For once his eyes were not drawn to the youngest Stark girl who sat beside her brother, talking to him with unnaturally quiet words. His eyes remained fixed on the ashen boy, guilt eating away at him slowly. Slowly. He turned away with another whisper of prayers to the mother and left the room as silently as he entered it. If he got sick, he didn't tell anyone. If he avoided his sister's lecherous gaze, he didn't make it known. If he avoided the young Wolf – well, he wasn't long hidden.

Nymeria found him before the moon was barely risen, her amber eyes knowing and ears flicked back. "So, you know, do you." He told the wolf quietly. "Do you and your brothers share words like we might," he mused. The wolf of course said nothing and minutes later they were joined by Arya, her hair hanging limp against her face and wearing garb that was no doubt Bran's for he hardly doubted her Lady Mother would ever allow her so many britches and tunics. She settled herself beside the Lannister, knees drawn to her chest, and so they sat in silence, the moon rising steadily higher into the sky before a weight settled on his lap and Arya's breathing evened out. But still he sat, back against the cold grey stones of the outer wall, Arya's head cushioned on one thigh, Nymeria's head resting against his other though the wolf did not sleep. The wolf's bright eyes watched him with baited curiosity, wonder etched in those endless pools. "Don't look at me like that," the man said after ensuring the girl was asleep, "I did as my queen instructed."

He wasn't entirely sure why he was trying to reason with the wolf, but he felt he had to. He had to be sure the wolf knew – she had to know how sorry he was. How disgusted with his own actions he was. Her ears flicked back and her eyes narrowed. "I di…" he sighed and tipped his head back, staring at the stars overhead. "I did it to protect myself." He agreed after several minutes went by. "I never imagined the boy would live, I thought he would die painlessly. From a fall like that…. No one should have been able to survive that fall. He should have died the minute he hit the ground." The wolf snarled low in her throat, lips curled back and baring glistening fangs at him. "I was wrong," he agreed without complaint, telling the wolf things that no one else would ever hear, and she relaxed. "We will go to Kingslanding and things will be okay." He told the wolf, daring to place a hand atop her head. It was there all of twelve seconds before teeth connected with his flesh and he hissed in pain, jerking the limb back and watching as beads of blood swelled up from the punctures. "Cunt," he snarled beneath his breath, glaring sourly at the wolf who seemed content now that blood was drawn and laid her head back upon the Knight's thigh. 'Punishment,' he sneered to himself, 'for hurting her pack.' He figured it could have been worse, but that didn't make the pain stop.

When morning came, Arya was back in her bed, tucked soundly within the folds of her covers, Nymeria at the foot of her bed and no one was the wiser to where she had honestly been the night before. By midday, with the sun hanging high in the cloudless sky, the first carts were pulling free from the Castle walls, leading the way back to Casterly Rock. Arya rode beside her father on a young black pony with a mane of coal, Sansa glaring disgustedly at her from within the safety of the carriage with the Queen and her children, not even Joffery desired to ride beside his own father. It had taken a good deal of begging and pleading and promises to behave herself on the journey for her father to allow her to ride, but in the end the man relented, happy to have one daughter that did not seem to be blinded by the Queen's silver tongue. Unlike the ride to Winterfell, the king rode closer to his wife's carriage, speaking with Eddard for a majority of the ride through the first several days. Each night when they made camp, Arya would beg and plead until Jaime, tired as he was, relented and together they would go off to take up her lesson.

Then the night came that they stopped early, The King wanting to hunt, and Jaime was forced the trail along with the man and the Girl's father – Arya was left to her own vices. Something that, in hindsight, Jaime – and even Lord Stark – should have foreseen. When word reached them that Nymeria had 'savaged' the Prince, Jaime was certain his heart stopped. When he heard the Hound had been sent to fetch her and the boy 'Micah' was certain he was going to die. So, he led his own search, armed and backed by four of his finest, he led the party in search of the girl and wolf with strict orders that neither were to be harmed. When he found the girl, sobbing into the wolf's dark coat, he was certain he no longer had a heart for it shattered clear into a hundred pieces. When those teary eyes turned to him and she lifted the wooden sword in defense of her wolf, he felt a pang of sympathy and pride. "Easy, Little Wolf, I haven't come to harm you or Nymeria." He spoke soothingly, hands up and palms towards her, away from his own sword.

"They'll kill her, we can't go back," the girl whimpered, lowering her 'weapon.'

"You think I'd allow that?" She hesitated, sniffing and rubbing her hand across her face, wiping away the tears and snot as best as she could. "You've got everyone worried, Arya. We need to go back."

Again she hesitated, keeping just a few paces from Jaime and the Knight kept it, not wishing to spook the nimble girl and make her flee. "But she bit Joffrey," she whispered, "She didn't savage him, or even draw blood! It was just a little scratch, I swear…" He was suddenly reminded of just how young and innocent the girl was as she fought for the innocence of her companion. "The King will make her into a cloak," her tears renewed, streaking down her face, grip tightening on the wooden hilt of her sword.

"She's much too skinny for that. He'll probably fatten her up first." At the horrified look upon the girl's face, he knew cracking a joke might not have been the best thing but it gave him just enough time to lurch forward, grabbing her by the wrist before she could do more than step back, Nymeria watching all the while but making no move to aid her master. "I won't let him hurt your wolf, Stark." The Lion spoke firmly, lifting her with ease and carrying her back towards their camp, the Wolf falling into step with him. "And you," he cast a look to the wolf who flicked an ear at him in turn and wagged her tail once, "be on your best behavior so that I might keep my word." The wolf grumbled and dropped her tail.

When the pair entered the camp, Arya's head tucked into the crook of the Golden knight's neck, legs tight around his hips and the wolf heeling at his side, no one was quite sure what to think, much less his sister. When the Queen first heard news of her brother's 'capture' of the child and the mutt, she had been certain that he would dispatch of the wolf then and there – to find it not so was infuriating. Jaime didn't much like setting the girl down before the scrutinizing eyes of the King and Queen. He didn't like the blubbering mess of his 'nephew' or the bandages wrapped around his 'wounds'. He didn't like the way the Hound watched the girl, as if waiting for the order to sever her head from her shoulders. He didn't like leave the girl to face this alone with only her wolf at her side. The minute her feet had hit the ground though, he'd seen the change upon her face, her tears drying up and watched as she wiped them away, though she really only succeeded in smearing more dirt across her cheeks on nose. Her fist clutched in the wolf's neck fur, she stared Robert and Cersei down, her small chest puffed out with strength she scarcely felt. "She didn't hurt him on purpose," the girl said firmly before anyone else could speak. "I was just playing with Micah, I swear! He was bullying Micah so… so I… I hit him with the sword! Micah didn't do anything! And she only bit him when he tried to hit me back."

Jaime wasn't sure how the events would play out – what he most certainly wasn't expecting was the king's face to turn red. Expecting anger and shouting, the Young Lion heard laughter. Deep, belly jiggling, laughter. When Eddard joined them some minutes later, the King was only just beginning to calm. Jaime watched the anger on his sister's face melt into a cruel scowl, watched as the young Stark finally sunk, shell cracking as she clutched her father, and even watched as the wolf seemed to puff out her chest as the Alpha of the motley pack stood at her side. He could hear the Warden of the Norths' barely concealed anger, could see the slight flush of anger in his cheeks, anger once more directed at him but also to the King. But Jaime couldn't hear his words, nor the words of the King or his sister. Everything was a hazy moan – all he could hear were the hiccups from the girl and the snarls of the wolf as several men stepped forward, prepared to seize the wolf at the drop of a dime. And then Sansa was there, beautiful Sansa with her eyes down cast and hands folded daintily in front of her. Oh Sansa, he could only watch sadly as the girl's lips moved before Arya lunged, trying to rip at her sister, screams of 'liar, liar' tumbling from her thin lips. His sister, Jaime noted, had done a fantastic job of sucking the auburn-haired girl to her side. "As savage as her beast," he heard his sister sneer and he couldn't agree more – though he felt pride and joy at the words, pride that Arya, despite letting her temper get the best of her, fought so well against her father's hold to reach her sister. Fought using the skills he had taught her.

"Will you punish the girl for besting your son?" Jaime inquired to the king, speaking for the first time since depositing the girl. Arya's stormy eyes turned to him, arms still outstretched for her sister. "Perhaps this is a better opportunity for your son to learn to fight." Oh, how his sister's face turned the prettiest shade of scarlet he had ever seen. It was the first time the sight of her excited him in many weeks now. "For a girl to best him, a girl two years his junior? That's a real shame." He knew the taunt was just subtle enough to make the King question it, his pride going to get the best of him. And it did – the King, face flushed, though not prettily like his sister's face, rounded on his own son.

"You let her disarm you and toss your sword away! Pah, your Uncle is right." He waved a hand dismissively at the girls and their father. "Children fight. Gods know we've fought enough as children to turn Arryn's hair silver before his years." Jaime was just beginning to relax when his sister mentioned the wolf and his shoulders squared once more as the king hummed in thought. "Direwolves are no pets," he agreed softly and he saw all of the Stark's faces turn hard, even pretty little Sansa.

Jaime had no words to combat that – wolves weren't pets, least of all a Direwolf – but, he had made a promise. And so he tucked his head, lips moving quickly, words too low for anyone but the king to hear. Robert was a simple man with simple desires – blood, wine, and a whore on each arm and one on his cock – but what he desired beyond all that was his late love. His late love that shared an uncanny resemblance to the girl that now stood before them, standing protectively at her wolf's side, ready to take on each and every soldier in that tent if it meant her wolf would be safe. And it was that love that calmed the King's desire to be done with his wife's desire for blood of an innocent wolf. Without another word the king waved the Starks from his tent – when Cersei went to speak out, the King snarled so savagely that he feared his sister might be struck then and there, and while he actions currently made his stomach twist with disgust, he had no doubt seeing the King assault his sister so carelessly would urge him to her defense. No such blow came though, the King suddenly consumed with thoughts of the late Lyanna and he left the tent in silence.

The Lannister was certain his sister's fury would unleash upon him the minute the King was gone, but he was only given a glare that could curdle dairy and dismissed with a wave of her hand.

That night, with the moon at it's peak, Jaime lay silently in his bed, listening to the owls flying over the tents and a wolf pack three days behind them howling in jubilation. He listened as the wind whipped at the fabric entrance of his tent, listened as soft steps joined with soft paw steps neared his tent. And then there was a shadow at the entrance – a girl and her wolf. Jaime held his breath, watching a small hand reach for the canvas. Just as quickly as she was there, the girl left. He released a breath after several more moments, head dropping back and he sighed. Either the girl or his sister were to be the death of him, and he wasn't sure which frightened him more.