A/N: I want to thank everyone for reading, alerting, and favoring this story.
I also want to extend my appreciation to Queen of Ice and Winter, Ranmyaku Kiritsu, Pandean, ladyres, 'birdy,' El Chacal, WeylandCorp4, timijaf, WaterRK9, JediMasterDraco, jackli10345, , Xypher1, Aegon BlackSteel, OBSERVOR01, senpen banka, Lady Eleanor Boleyn, ArtimuosJackson, r1ncewind1, A frozen shadow, Kaizer-Kid, Hiei-Uchiha, wiseguy123, thepkrmgc, Suzy87, 'XBolt51,' 'Slash17,' sbagwell1, X59, cruailsama, Fejstroll, Serithus, A'Comma, Golmultarn(2), The K1D, Diving in (2), TheAntidisestablishmentarian, and to all the 'Guests' for taking the time to review. It means a lot to me.
Our Blades Are Sharp
By Spectre4hire
29: Arya
"You wanted to see me Lady Mormont?"
According to her Septa, Arya should've ended her question with a curtsey as she was presenting herself to the Lady of Bear Island. In the beginning of her stay Arya had done so, much to the amusement of Lady Mormont. She later informed Arya that sort of etiquette would not be needed between the two women. That had made Arya incredibly happy and thankful.
Maester Mathis stood behind her, tall and frail in his grey robes, he was as thin as a reed, a complete contrast to the short and stout Lady Mormont who wore her ringmail armor. They were in the solar in Lady Mormont's private chambers.
It was a small room Arya was certain her chambers in Winterfell were larger. It was square shaped, a hearth was lit as burnt logs brought warmth and light into the solar. Above the fireplace was the proud bear of House Mormont. A circular table anchored the room, the legs of it were carved to resemble standing bears with its hands holding up the top of the table.
"I did," Lady Mormont confirmed, she had not taken her seat standing on the other side of the table where Arya had entered. "I received a raven from Castle Black from my brother. Do you know who he is?"
"The Lord Commander," Arya answered,
"There's a clever girl," Lady Mormont approved. "Aye, he is. He was once Lord of Bear Island and fought beside your father in Robert's Rebellion," she moved to take her seat. "When he took the Black, the title passed to his son," her face darkened at his mention, "He fought beside your father in the Greyjoy's failed rebellion."
Arya hadn't thought it possible but Lady Mormont's face darkened further with the inclusion of the Greyjoys, her voice thick with contempt. She took this time to follow the Lady of Bear Island's lead and sat opposite her while Maester Mathis made no move to join them at the table. He stood silently at Lady Mormont's shoulder like a tall, gray statue.
"One of his last acts of honor before the shame he brought to our house," she spat, "Mayhaps, he should've died on Pyke instead of receiving the knighthood and the attention that followed."
"Lady Mormont," Mathis looked stunned at her blunt admission.
She dismissed his voice with a clenched fist and he quieted instantly.
"I loved my nephew, Maester," She told the man garbed in grey without giving him a look, "that is why the shame he brought to our house hurts so much." Her gnarled hands rested on the table, "That southern whore didn't belong here."
"The Hightowers are a respected-"
"Southern family," Maege Mormont finished for him, "but this is the North." At those words she sent Arya a toothy smile, "Bah, enough of this prattle. I didn't invite Lady Arya here to give her a history lesson on my nephew's mistakes." Without looking at him she held out her hand expectantly.
Silently and quickly, Mathis produced a thin piece of parchment from one of the pockets within his robe and placed it on Lady Mormont's waiting hand. "My brother wrote to me about your bastard brother."
Arya clenched her teeth at how casual and blunt Lady Mormont was in her description of Jon. The annoyance soon passed and was replaced with curiosity.
Has he joined the Watch officially? That was her first and worse fear.
She remembered the only letter she had received from him since he left for the Wall. It told her about how he was adjusting to Castle Black and getting along with the other new recruits, mentioning how soon he'd call them brothers. Arya had been so angry she had crumpled the letter as soon as she read it.
You have brothers! She wanted to write, Robb, Bran, and Rickon. If you take the Black you may gain brothers, but you'll lose your sisters. She had cried into her pillow that night, I won't be your little sister anymore.
"He tells me that your brother has left the Wall."
Arya blinked. "What do you mean?"
"He left in the company of Tyrion Lannister."
"The Imp?" Arya didn't understand. Why would Jon be traveling with him? They didn't even know each other, she thought.
"Yes," Lady Mormont looked amused, "He tells me that your bastard brother left before he took his vows."
"Truly?" Arya didn't believe it, couldn't dare to.
"Aye," the Lady of Mormont confirmed.
Elation filled her at the confirmation that her brother had decided to hold off on taking his vows.
"There is more," Maester Mathis's soft words and cautioned tone broke through Arya's mood.
"What do you mean?"
"He's in the possession of my family's ancestral sword, Longclaw." Maege answered, "A parting gift from my brother."
Valyrian steel, Arya understood. Her family had one as well-Ice. She was in awe of it. She knew how rare and valuable the sword was and how each family who boasted a valyrian steel sword took special pride in theirs.
"What sort of man is your brother?" he asked, "besides being a bastard."
"He is my brother," She declared fiercely, glaring up at the Maester.
Lady Mormont chuckled at that, "Careful, Mathis." Her eyes twinkled in amusement, "It isn't wise to upset or insult a wolf and her pack."
"Jon is kind, strong, and brave."
The words seemed inadequate to Arya's ears. How could she explain Jon to them? How could they understand the comfort he would give them after Jeyne's cruel jests or her own fears of being a bastard? She loved Robb, Bran, and Rickon, but Jon was different.
She didn't have her mother's look. She looked like a Stark. Arya looked like Jon. How could she describe how happy she was, knowing he wasn't lost to her at the Wall or how much it meant to her when he'd tussle her hair and call her, little sister.
Thinking about Jon had caused her hand to instinctively move to rest on the pommel of Needle. He gave it as a gift to her, an encouragement. Jon never tried to tell her what she could or couldn't do. He only loved her.
"He gave me this," Arya pulled Needle from her holster and proudly displayed it to them.
Lady Mormont looked impressed as her eyes inspected the sword, her lips curved in approval at such a gift.
"Mayhaps, instead of returning Longclaw to your brother at Castle Black, he should come to Bear Island," Mathis suggested.
"Longclaw is my brother's until his watch has ended," she argued stubbornly.
"Yes, but Jon could deliver it to your heir and the next Lady of Bear Island who has the right to claim it," the maester proposed, smoothly passing over the Lady of Bear Island's words.
"Dacey?" She turned to regard her maester, "what grey scheme is this?
"Not a scheme, my lady," he bowed his head at her stare, "Just a thought." His hands were fidgeting against one of the links in his chain. "He doesn't have the name, but he has the Stark blood," the maester pointed out. "Their children would be Mormonts, and it would tie Bear Island to Winterfell."
"You must forgive my maester, Pup," Lady Mormont turned to face Arya with an impassive look. "He thinks women are only for babes and betrothals," She reached down and withdrew her worn axe that had been resting in its holster and held it up to examine in the light. "He forgets that we too have hands and can use them for blades."
Maester Mathis paled behind the Lady of Bear Island. His eyes taking in the axe that Lady Mormont held in her hand with a frightened look. "My lady, I-"
"Enough," She silenced him with her stern tone. "Lord Stark has given my house a tremendous honor by letting us foster one of his children in our home." She inclined her head in Arya's direction. "I will not neglect it and then ask for a second." Her mouth twisted, "It is unseemly."
"Of course, my lady," he bowed his head. "I meant no offense to either you or House Stark."
"Your words have wisdom, Maester," Maege admitted, "That is why I trust your counsel."
"You honor me," Color seemed to return to his face at her assuring words.
"However, you must respect the hall in which you serve," She stood from her seat. "This is House Mormont, and here we stand," she pointed to the blazon of her family that was etched above the hearth. "We are mothers and daughters, but we are also warriors." She holstered her axe and turned back to the maester.
"And there is a time to discuss betrothals, and there is a time not to," her eyes flickered over to Arya for the briefest of seconds before returning to Mathis. It had happened so quickly Arya could've imagined it.
A look of realization flickered across his face and his lips almost seemed to twitch into a smile, "I understand."
Satisfied, the Lady of Bear Island turned back to Arya. "Thank you, for your words on your brother. He seems a fine enough man to carry Longclaw, until he returns it to my brother at the Wall."
She then moved around the table, "Come, Pup." She put a calloused hand on Arya's shoulder, "Let me see what my daughter has taught you."
The sun was settling in the sky casting Mormont keep in an orange glow when Arya exited the stables. After breaking her fast she had tended and groomed Dacey's horse while the horse master watched on, offering instructions and guidance when she needed it.
It had been one of her normal tasks that she was expected to do each day. One of many that Dacey Mormont had given her since Arya had become her squire in all but name. She didn't mind it.
Arya liked to feed and brush Dacey's horse; A well mannered, but aging brown courser that Dacey favored for her hunts and patrols across Bear Island. The courser was named Rodrik though Dacey affectionately called him Rod. She named him after Rodrik Stark, the King in the North who had given Bear Island to House Mormont. Arya remembered that from Maester Luwin.
She also remembered Theon's boast afterwards. He had claimed that if they had a rematch that he'd win the island back for the Ironborn. He had worn that smirk he always wore. She didn't want to think how stupid Theon would be and how annoying his smirk would get if he was proven right. Bran and Arya had protested his claim while Jon rolled his eyes and Domeric hadn't seemed to have listened or cared.
It had been Robb who had taken it as a challenge. And soon he and Theon were wrestling on the ground of the practice yard, fighting over the supposed fate of Bear Island. She and Bran had cheered for Robb until their voices were hoarse; their noise bringing others to the yard including curious guards and dismayed servants.
Father had stopped them. With his lord's voice that brought instant silence to the commotion, the wrestling stopped immediately, both Robb and Theon looking sheepish. While the guards and servants scurried back to their patrols and duties. Wearing his lord's face, he demanded what Robb and Theon were doing and why.
Robb had answered honestly.
Lord Eddard Stark had smiled before laughing. That had cracked the tension that had fallen over the practice yard like fresh ice. He then told Robb that House Stark was depending on him with a warm chuckle. Soon the mirth spread and all were sharing smiles and laughter.
Home, she thought fondly, her hand going to Needle which she always wore. Arya trained with other weapons under Dacey Mormont's tutelage including swords, daggers, axes, bows, and shields, rarely Needle. The Heir to Bear Island had confessed she wasn't aware of a proper way to instruct Arya with such a thin blade, but Arya didn't mind. Needle wasn't just a blade it was so much more.
It was Winterfell and that was why she wore it. Arya may not use Needle often, but it was never far from her mind or her reach. Whenever she felt a pang of melancholy in her chest she'd touch the smooth pommel of Needle.
Then she'd see Robb's smile or hear Sansa's laugh. Or remember how Jon tussled her hair and called her little sister. She'd watch Bran and Rickon running through the Godswood, playing and laughing. Or listen to Dom elicit soft and sweet sounds from his harp. Even Theon's stupid smirk came to her mind's eye when she thought of Winterfell.
They were her pack.
A grey blur captured her attention and Arya blinked back into the present just in time to receive her direwolf, Nymeria who stopped before her. Tongue lolling out to the side, specks of mud clung to her paws and her grey fur was disheveled, but Arya didn't care about the dirt or the grime as she embraced her direwolf without hesitation.
Nymeria responded by licking Arya's ear eliciting a giggle from her as she finally pulled away from the direwolf. Arya had to send her away when she tended to Dacey's horse in the stable as the horses grew frightened and restless once they caught Nymeria's scent. Her direwolf didn't seem to mind as she was quick to leave the high wooden walls of Mormont Keep to explore Bear Island. Sometimes for more than just a day, there had been nights where Arya didn't have Nymeria to share her bed as her direwolf was still out.
She looked down at her tunic to see new stains of mud and earth. Septa Mordane would've fainted in fright at her unlady like appearance. Not only was Arya dressed more like a boy, but a dirty one. She could already hear the scolding the Septa would try to give and the punishment that would follow. Thankfully, Septa Mordane wasn't here. She had been tasked to going south with Sansa and her Lord Father to the capital.
Here, Arya didn't have to worry about offending her. She was out of the Septa's shadow and that made her happy. No naggings for Arya, she thought happily, she was even enjoying her needlework now under the tutelage of Lady Mormont.
She had written that in her last letters to home one for her Lady Mother in Winterfell and one to her Lord Father at the capital. Arya left out the new motivation behind the task, of Lady Mormont promising to teach her the skill needles could have at sewing up wounds. Arya was still waiting for their responses but she thought her parents would be pleased that she was following the conditions they had laid out to her when they decided that she would foster at Bear Island.
"Arya."
Direwolf and master both turned to see Lyanna approaching them from the main entrance of Mormont Keep. The youngest daughter of the Lady of Bear Island was dressed in dark breeches and a tunic with the Mormont Bear, standing tall and fierce stitched onto the cloth.
"Lyanna," Arya greeted her friend with a smile. It had become routine for them to meet up after Arya's morning tasks for Dacey so that they could practice archery together.
Nymeria's tail moved lazily, eyes on Lyanna. The direwolf accepted the gentle pat on the head from the youngest daughter of Lady Mormont
"Where's Jory?" Arya asked. Lyanna's older sister always accompanied them.
Lyanna Mormont sighed, "In her room."
"Is she not feeling well?" Arya wasn't sure of what other reason there could be that could keep Jorelle away from her bow.
"You could say that," Lyanna answered vaguely, as the two friends made their way to the training yard.
"What do you mean?"
"It's her heart," Lyanna's face scrunched up, "Jory's in love." She crooned the last word.
"In love?" Arya repeated. That didn't make sense. She was betrothed to Cley Cerwyn, Heir to Cerwyn Castle. How was it that she was already in love and to whom?
"Yes, Jory got a letter from her betrothed, Cley." She pronounced the name in a feigning dreamy voice that reminded Arya too well of how Jeyne or Beth would talk about their favorite knights and princes in their beloved stories and songs.
"She stayed up all night fretting about how to respond to his letter," Lyanna rolled her eyes. "Jory hasn't even written two sentences yet!"
Arya picked up her bow with a laugh at her friend's dramatics. She looked to see Nymeria had settled down to her side, lying on the ground, head resting on her stretched out paws as she watched them.
She was surprised that letter writing was keeping Jory from her bow. She was a skilled archer and always seemed to make time to loose a few arrows. Maege Mormont believed her daughter was the best on all of Bear Island.
The night that Lady Mormont announced Jorelle's betrothal to Cley Cerwyn, she said that she had considered not letting her daughter marry any man who could not beat her with a bow before proudly boasting that would've meant Jory would've died an old maid. That had received a loud roar of laughter and shouts of pride and approval.
Jory's behavior reminded Arya unfavorably of Jeyne and Beth. How they would giggle and gossip about their songs and what men they thought was handsome and the dreams they had of their future husbands.
It made Arya roll her eyes.
She then notched an arrow to her bow and in a fluid motion drew back the bowstring and released. Watching her arrow sail through the air before hitting the middle ring, she lowered her bow and admired her shot. It wasn't the center ring, but it was the second smallest ring and that made her proud.
Thinking back Beth and Jeyne, Arya couldn't help wonder how they'd react to see her using archery in plain sight. They'd be scandalized and that was enough to make Arya smile. She knew her Lady Mother would be displeased by her tendency to favor swords and bows to needles and songs, but she still let Arya come here to learn it. And that made Arya love her mother even more.
"At this rate she'll finish the letter when it's time for them to get married!" Lyanna smiled when she added, "Then she'll be able to deliver it to him without need of a raven."
A whistle cut through Arya and Lyanna's conversation followed by a thud where an arrow hit dead center. Both turned behind them to see Jory walking over to them with a not so innocent smile on her face, carrying her bow in one hand. "Miss me, Lya?"
Lyanna tried and failed to look indifferent at her sister's presence. Offering Jory a shrug, she then went back to her bow and letting loose her arrow that didn't come close to where her sister's arrow had hit.
"Mayhaps, I should stay inside my room and write my letters to Lord Cerwyn's son," Jory Mormont came up between Lyanna and Arya, "It might be the only way my sister has of beating me." She laughed at Lyanna's affronted look, but that didn't stop Jory from patting her sister's head.
Lyanna swatted Jory's hand half heartedly while smiling. "I could still beat you with a sword."
"What good is a sword, sister, when you're pricked by a handful of my arrows," Jory countered.
"I'd have a shield," Lyanna grumbled.
"Aye," Jory agreed, "But I'd pepper that with arrows too."
"Such pride in your martial prowess is unbecoming of a newly betrothed lady," Lyanna observed with a sly grin.
Jory shrugged, "We can't change who we are, sister." Quick as a cat, she notched and let loose another arrow that hit close to the center mark. "We're Mormonts," she said proudly.
"Yes, we are." Lyanna agreed quickly and happily.
It wasn't Winterfell, Arya knew. And they were bears, not wolves, she thought reflecting on the Mormont sisters in front of her, but that didn't mean they couldn't be part of her pack.
Red eyes looked down at her from a pale face.
Arya met their gaze without flinching.
It was here that she came to thank her father's gods, her gods when she received Robb's letter. Bran would ride again, she remembered reading the words exultingly. The Imp had created a saddle that would let Bran ride a horse once it was properly trained, Robb had gone on in his explanations, but Arya hadn't cared for how her brother could ride only that he could.
The Godswood of Mormont Keep contained tall pine and timber trees as well as a stream that cut through the sacred ground that led to a waterfall that emptied out into a pond. At the center of the Godswood, standing tall and vigilant was a lone weirwood tree encircled by stone. The face carved into the bone white bark bore a look that resembled wrath, red eyes narrowed to slits, its mouth curling as if preparing to shout some sort of battle cry.
Today, she came to the Godswood for a different reason.
I ran on four legs, Arya couldn't forget her dreams. I sprinted on soft sands, chasing gulls that cawed and flew out of my reach.
The dreams were vivid, coming to her every night, but they were never the same.
Discovering new smells that were carried on the wind, she was able to hear the faintest noises from both up in the trees or in the bushes of squirrels and rabbits, and other game that fled when they caught her scent.
What does it all mean? Arya silently asked the heartwood tree before her. It stared back at her, but gave her only silence.
Still looking at the pale face of the weirwood tree, she couldn't help but wonder if her brothers were at the Godswood in Winterfell. A cold ache filled her belly at the mention of the brothers she missed. Arya wished that she could see through the eyes of the Winterfell weirwood tree just for the hope of a glimpse of Robb, Bran, or Rickon.
The old gods could, Arya remembered, they could see through the eyes of any weirwood tree. If only for a moment I could see them, she prayed. I'd be grateful, she added.
They gave her no answer.
"Where's your wolf?"
Arya looked over her shoulder to see Lady Mormont's second daughter, Alysane Mormont, a short, muscled woman, who was garbed in her armor.
"Nymeria's hunting," Arya answered, and if I was asleep I would be too.
"First direwolf in these parts in a long time," Alysane observed, "the critters in the forest won't know their doom until it's too late." That seemed to amuse her, "But you'd know that wouldn't you, Pup." Her arms were thick and scarred as she crossed them over her chest. "With those dreams you've been having."
Arya turned away so as not to reveal her surprise at how closely her observations hit. How could she know?
"I know what you are."
"What do you mean?" Arya asked.
She didn't answer. She moved closer towards the weirwood tree, so that she was standing in its shadow before she then knelt to the ground, her knees sinking into the soil. "You're a warg."
"No, I'm not," Arya protested quickly and hotly. She backed away from her. "You take that back!" She glanced around the Godswood as if expecting to see stares and hear gasps from a hidden crowd.
She remembered Nan's stories about wargs. They were the villains in her tales. They'd wear the skins of monsters and try to murder the heroes. They were hunted and killed by her ancestors, feared for their sorcery. Like the Warg King who was defeated by an old Stark King in a war for Sea Dragon Point.
Will Old Nan tell stories about me one day? Arya feared, Gather round and I'll tell you the tale of the girl by day, and wolf by night: Arya the Abomination.
That made her tummy hurt.
She couldn't be one. She just couldn't! She was Arya, only Arya, the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Stark. She wasn't a warg.
Even as she tried to dismiss it, she could feel it taking root, refusing to leave.
"Yes, you are," she affirmed, but she didn't sound scared or bothered it.
I am? Arya didn't know, but she felt nauseous all the same. It seemed to slip past her denials and nestle itself deep within her, confronting her to realize what Alysane said was true. I am, she thought numbly. It explained her dreams and her deep connection with Nymeria, though it was still a bitter drink to taste.
"You're not scared," Arya pointed out. You're supposed to be scared, she wanted to say. They're always scared in the stories.
Alysane laughed at that-loud and hoarse, "Of course not."
"You can't tell anyone," Arya begged her. Fear gripped her like cold hands grasping at her heart as she was forced to think at how others would react if they knew what she was.
Would Harwin still want to lead her pony if he feared she'd warg into it? Or Septa Mordane would she try even harder to try to make her a genteel lady to try to smother her warg abilities or would she cower in fear at what Arya could be?
Her mother would be faint and frightened. Would she think her abomination like her seven gods would see her as? Would Theon or Jeyne make cruel japes about her?
It felt like cold eels were writhing in her tummy.
"There's no shame in it," Alysane consoled her. "It's a gift from the gods." She gestured to the pale face of the weirwood tree that looked down at both of them. Its leaves looked like red hands and when the wind blew through the branches it looked as if they were trying to reach down and grab Arya.
That provided her little comfort.
"Don't worry, Pup. You're not alone."
A/N: So I've been asked a few times about the ages of everyone. I've been generally vague about that to allow me some flexibility. As well as fearing that by blending their aged up versions with the wonderful world Martin has created that not everything will line up perfectly. I've taken measures to hopefully alleviate this concern, by pushing some events (wars, rebellions, births, deaths, etc) back, but its very possible that I've still made some mistakes.
That being said, I suppose I can give you an idea of the ages I see them as. So here it is:
Domeric-19/18
Robb and Jon-17/18
Joffrey-15
Sansa-16/15
Myrcella-14/13
Arya-12/13
Bran-10/11
Tommen-7
Rickon-7/6
Yes, I've changed my mind with Domeric. I originally wrote him as younger then Robb, but I always wrestled with it. I'm going back into the story to reflect this change.
I hope this clears up any confusion and helps you when it comes to the characters. That being said, I'll repeat, I'm vague with the ages on purpose and that they won't be mentioned too much in the story. I ask for some flexibility with them.
Until next time,
-Spectre4hire
