Early October, 298 AC
Arya winced as she made her way back to Sansa's chambers. Her water dancing lesson had run long, and she'd picked up some painful new bruises while trying to walk on her hands. At least she'd been able to rummage up some food from the kitchens and her belly was pleasantly full.
Varly stood guard at Sansa's door.
"Arya Underfoot, how is it that for the first time in your life, you are not underfoot? You should have been back hours ago," he scolded quietly.
"I had my dancing lesson," Arya shrugged. Varly wouldn't get her in trouble. Father and Septa Mordane were surely asleep, and Varly was too absentminded to remember to tell them in the morning.
"The Red Keep is not Winterfell," Varly muttered. Arya ignored him and slipped into Sansa's chambers.
The room was dim, the only light coming from the dying fire. Sansa sat before it, nervously braiding and unbraiding her flaming hair. A floorboard creaked, and Sansa looked up, startled.
"Oh, thanks Gods you're safe," Sansa whispered. To Arya's shock, Sansa practically ran at her, her arms wrapping around Arya in a tight hug.
"You're being weird," Arya said flatly, uncomfortable at the sudden display of affection. Sansa sniffled.
"Well, pardon me for worrying about you when the Lannisters are— are—" Sansa began openly weeping.
Arya clumsily patted Sansa's back, completely bewildered. After a few minutes Sansa's sobs grew quieter. Since she didn't have any better ideas, Arya gently pulled Sansa toward the bed.
To Arya's surprise, there were already two lumps curled up under the covers. Arya recognized Jeyne Poole's dark hair, but not the lighter brown head beside her. Confused, Arya opened her mouth to ask Sansa what was going on— then closed it. Sansa never could tell a story quickly, and Arya wanted to sleep. Once Sansa was curled around the unknown girl, Arya changed into her nightshift and climbed in beside Sansa. Sleep found Arya almost as soon as her head hit the pillow, and she dreamed of wolves.
When Arya awoke, it was to Sansa climbing over her. A sliver of light shone through the window— it was just before dawn. Blearily Arya sat up, rubbing her eyes. Sansa stood by the window, her face rapt.
"What's happening?" Arya yawned.
"The knights are leaving to hunt down Gregor Clegane," Sansa murmured.
Arya pinched herself— no, she was awake. With another yawn Arya dragged her exhausted body out of bed.
"What— for Princess Elia? For her babies?" That didn't make any sense, it had been years and years ago.
"No," Sansa replied, a bitter note creeping into her voice. "Clegane and Lannister men attacked the Riverlands. They burned down a holdfast and murdered a lot of people, women and children too. Father stripped Clegane of his titles and chose men to go after him."
As Arya looked down into the yard she realized why Sansa had risen so early. Banners streamed in the light breeze. Sunlight shone off the knights' armor. Alyn was there, a Stark banner fluttering proudly in his hand. Over a dozen Stark men stood around him. It was like the songs Sansa loved so much.
A low whimper broke their silent watch. The unknown girl was shaking in her sleep. In moments Sansa was beside her, stroking her hair, her voice soft as she sang a lullaby. When the girl stopped moving, Arya tapped Sansa on the shoulder, a question in her eyes.
"She's one of the survivors," Sansa whispered. "Merissa. They—they... I couldn't let her sleep with the others."
Sansa's blue eyes were haunted, as they had been after her nightmare. Arya's stomach dropped as she realized why a smallfolk girl was sleeping in Sansa's bed.
Breakfast was a quiet affair. The Small Hall felt empty with so many of the Stark men gone. Every inch of Arya ached as she sleepily peeled the skin from a blood orange. Sansa and Jeyne were muttering about something. Merissa sat beside Jeyne, picking at her food, her eyes staring at the table. Sansa glanced at her, then turned to Septa Mordane, who was eating porridge.
"Septa, will Lord Beric spike Ser Gregor's head on his own gate or bring it back here for the king?"
The septa choked on her porridge, outraged.
"A lady does not discuss such things over her porridge. Where are your courtesies, Sansa? I swear, of late you've been worse than your sister."
Arya scowled.
"I hope Lord Beric cuts off his head and lets crows peck at it," Arya growled, determined to be as discourteous as possible. "Someone should cut off Jaime Lannister's head for killing Jory and Wyl and Heward. They could give his head to the Queen."
The septa gasped, horrorstruck.
"Young lady, that is enough! It is bad enough that your sister escaped my charge to consort with filthy smallfolk, bathing them herself, ordering that one of them break her fast with us, of all the improper—"
Out of nowhere, an orange hit the septa, striking the middle of her forehead. Sansa stood beside the bowl of oranges, her arm still extended, a stunned look on her face. Before the septa even realized what was happening, Arya flung her orange across the table. It hit the septa in the chest with a wet squish and fell in her lap.
Septa Mordane lurched to her feet, one hand grabbing for a napkin. "Your lord father will hear of this! Go to your chambers, at once. At once!"
Amidst the septa's shouting, Arya could have sworn she heard Merissa laugh.
Sansa cried for a few minutes, then began pacing the room, muttering to herself about the duties of ladies. Still exhausted, Arya took a short nap. When she awoke, Sansa was still pacing. Merissa and Jeyne were off somewhere else, as the septa had refused to let them join Sansa and Arya in Sansa's chambers. Luckily Arya's wooden practice sword was in the room, so Arya practiced, tuning out Sansa. An hour or so later Sansa abruptly came back to herself and forced Arya to take a bath and put on a dress.
It was midday when Septa Mordane finally came for them. She marched them into Lord Eddard's solar, her lips pursed so tight that they disappeared. Father was at a table, bent over a book, but he shut it when he saw them.
"My thanks, Septa Mordane. I would talk to my daughters alone, if you would be so
kind." The septa bowed and left.
"Kindly tell me what happened at breakfast this morning. Your septa's account was a bit confused, perhaps because she could not stop spluttering with fury." Lord Eddard's eyes were stern, but the edge of his mouth quirked up as though he resisted the urge to smile.
Sansa recounted the events of breakfast, her voice quiet and steady. When she was finished, she raised her blue eyes to their father.
"A lady is supposed to help her smallfolk. Duty comes before courtesy, doesn't it?" Sansa pleaded. Lord Eddard covered his mouth, but Arya could still glimpse his smile.
"It does, child. I shall have words with your septa. The oranges, however, were uncalled for, and you will both apologize."
Sansa bowed her head, and Arya nodded. Lord Eddard continued. "I need to speak with you on another matter. I'm sending you both back to Winterfell."
"You can't," Arya said. There was no Syrio Forel at Winterfell, no one who would teach her to be as swift as a deer, as quiet as a shadow, as quick as a snake, as calm as still water.
"Please, Father," Sansa managed at last. "Please don't."
"Every day you seem to grow closer," he said, a tired smile on his face. "Perhaps coming south was not a complete disaster. But your safety is what matters most."
"Winterfell isn't safe either!" Sansa cried. "A man is going to stab mother, I saw him!"
Lord Eddard's face turned as pale as milk.
"What did you say?"
"He was in Bran's room, he was filthy, mother fought with him and he cut her hands with Joffrey's knife!"
Lord Eddard tried to jump to his feet, his injury forgotten. The plaster cast banged against the table, and Lord Eddard fell back in his chair with a sharp cry of pain. Fat Tom burst through the door, but father waved him away, his face grim.
"Sansa, tell me exactly what
you saw."