Their guests, according to Sansa, were late.
Arya didn't think it made much difference, really - the King and his family would be staying with them for the same number of nights regardless of how long after noon they arrived, and the feast tonight would go ahead, too, stopped by nothing short of the royal party not arriving at all.
Of course, Mother was in agreement with Sansa - she thought it terribly rude, and Arya knew from the look on Father's face that he thought so, too, and knew Robb was anxious to get the initial meeting over with. She could not blame Robb for that, though, not given the letter the King had sent to Father, offering his daughter as a wife for Robb.
A princess as lady of Winterfell was not something to take lightly, Sansa said, especially considering that Sansa would not be marrying into a Great House, that Bran and Rickon likely would marry in the North as well, so a tie to the crown was a great honour for House Stark.
Robb didn't seem to have any great objections, of course - the princess' mother was reputed to be very beautiful, and of course Robb was hoping that she took after the Queen, as Sansa took after Mother. Arya just hoped that the princess wasn't a priss, like Sansa. She hoped that the princess was more like the tales Father told of the King, jovial and jolly and good-natured. Robb would be pleased with a wife like that, Arya thought, any man would.
The lace at Arya's collar was itchy, but she couldn't get at it to scratch, not with her furs in the way, and besides, the King and his party were finally outside the gates.
The two guards who rode in first wore bright crimson cloaks, which struck Arya as strange - the Queen was a Lannister, true, but the King was a Baratheon. Should his guardsmen not wear gold, or black? The guardsmen at Winterfell wore grey cloaks, and in her vague memories of Riverrun, she was sure the guards there wore blue.
Perhaps it was a concession from the King, to honour the Queen in some way. Arya would respect him more if that was the case.
The first of the royal party to enter could only be Prince Joffrey, the King's heir - he was pretty like a girl, with heavy blonde curls and dainty features, but it was all marred by the smug arch of his eyebrows, the disgusted twist of his fat lips. More interesting by far, in Arya's opinion, was the man behind him, with the great snarling dog's head helm.
"The Hound," Bran whispered, just loud enough for her to hear. "Did you know-"
Sansa shushed them both, the side of her hand snapping sharp against Arya's hip as a warning, and all three of them forced their best smiles into place. The Prince remained ahorse, which struck Arya as much ruder than the royal party being late.
And then the Princess rode into the yard, and Arya, standing two people away from him, heard Robb gasp. She might have laughed, had Mother not shot her a look like steel behind Robb's back.
The Princess was pretty, too, as pretty as Sansa, all golden and green with a shock of white fur around her shoulders, but didn't have the same cruel twist to her mouth as the Prince. They might have been twins, but for that, their hair the same rich blonde, their skin the same golden-cream. The Princess remained ahorse as well, but it seemed she was only waiting for the knight in snowy white armour who followed her through the gates to dismount and offer her his hand.
"A knight of the Kingsguard," Bran whispered reverently, a gleam of longing bright and sharp in his blue eyes. "Do you think he would take me as a squire, Arya? Do you think?"
"Ssh," Sansa hissed, her smile never faltering. Mercifully, she kept her hands clasped in front of her rather than smacking Arya's hip again, but Bran received one of those steel-sharp looks from Mother, and both of them face forward, smiles back in place, and watch the Princess smile as her knight hands her down from her horse.
Arya would love a ride on that horse - it was a beautiful animal, with long limbs and a delicate face, a wonderful bright chestnut, almost the colour of Mother's hair. Arya's own horse was dark brown, almost black, sturdy and steady, fast only when given considerable encouragement, but a horse like the Princess' would be faster than any of the horses in Hullen's stables, Arya just knew it.
Next through the gates should have been the elaborate wheelhouse, but it got stuck, which made it impossibly difficult for Arya not to laugh, and even Sansa's mouth twitched at the sight of the Queen poking her head out so she could shout at some of the guardsmen. She was a beautiful woman, her golden hair bound in a circlet of braids the twin of the Princess', but looking at her, it was clear where the Prince's arrogance came from.
Truthfully, Arya thought Mother far more beautiful. Mother had kind eyes and a warmth in her face, even when she was angry with them, and the Queen had none of that, had nothing to recommend her save for her fine features.
Doubtless the boys would all think her the most beautiful woman in the world, especially when she emerged from the wheelhouse and swept back her cloak and furs to reveal the heavy, full swell of cleavage revealed by the deep dip of her neckline, but Arya did not like the look of her, no more than she liked the look of the Prince.
She assumed the pudgy boy with the girlish hair, who looked to be about Bran's age or a little younger, to be Prince Tommen - she could not remember ever having seen such a shy smile, but recognised the way the fat boy drifted towards his sister almost without thinking. She did the same with Jon, and Bran with her, after all. Princess Myrcella smiled indulgently when Prince Tommen offered her his arm, and he flushed with pride when she took it and guided him to stand with their mother and brother.
All were distracted by the sudden rush of guards through the gate, though, redcloaks and a man in shining golden armour with a gleaming white cloak, and a fat old man in black with-
"Surely not," Sansa whispered, looking criminally disappointed. Arya was in agreement, because this fat man with the scraggly beard and the crooked crown, surely this was not the King?
He needed a step to dismount his horse, his great big belly overhanging his belt grotesquely, his beard failing to hide the multiple chins and jowls hanging from his jaw. Even Father seemed shocked by the King's appearance, by his great size and by the wheeze of his breath as he lumbered toward them.
"Ned," he said, somehow making a bawdy jape of Father's name. "You've gotten fat."
Arya felt her jaw drop, and, when she spared them a glance, was gratified to see that the Princess and the Queen were visibly mortified.
Father laughed, though, and stepped forward to embrace the King, just as he would Uncle Benjen. Arya flinched a little at the predatory growl in the King's voice when he greeted Mother as Cat, not Lady Stark, and wondered how the Queen would react if Father were to greet her as Cersei.
Not that he is given a chance to do such a thing, because once the King has greeted them all, lingering overlong with Arya's chin caught in his great sausage fingers, something strange and years away in his dark blue eyes, he turned to Father, planting his hands on his hips.
"Ned!" he bellowed. "I want to see your crypts, come!"
Whatever sourness had been evident on the Queen's face before paled in comparison to the horrible rage twisting her features now. It was obvious to everyone present why the King wanted to see the crypts, and to order Father to bring him to see Aunt Lyanna's tomb so publicly was an insult to the Queen, a direct one, and Arya almost felt sorry for her.
Almost, but not truly, because that same rage cooled only a little when the Queen guided her children forward to introduce them, and was obvious in the sharp slap of her wrist when she held her hand out for Mother and Robb to kiss. Arya's mother was Lady of Winterfell, was the Queen's hostess, and was deserving of all respect.
"You are very welcome to Winterfell, Your Grace," Mother said, only the tiniest hint of strain showing in the thin lines around her mouth. "As are all of you, Your Highnesses."
"Prince Joffrey," the Queen said, as if furiously bored. "Heir to the Iron Throne."
The Prince bowed his head over Mother's hand, just about, showing even less respect than his mother had, that same smugness twisting his mouth as Mother introduced them, one by one.
"My daughter, Princess Myrcella, and my younger son, Prince Tommen," the Queen added, almost as though she had forgotten them. The Princess' smile was strained as she curtsied so elegantly, and Prince Tommen's strangely sad as he bowed, but both of them were courteous enough, murmuring thanks to Mother for having them in her home. "Tell me, Lady Stark, are there rooms prepared for us? It has been a long journey."
"Of course, Your Grace," Mother said. "Please, come this way."
As soon as Mother and Robb led the Queen and her children inside, Jon caught Arya and Bran by the shoulders - Arya thought it desperately unfair that he had stand behind them all, even if she half understood it. The King and Queen would take insult, to have a bastard boy given anything close to equal status to their children, but she still disliked it. He was Father's son, after all, even if he was not Mother's, and that was not Jon's fault. He was still a Stark, after all.
Arya wondered if the King would even really find insult in Jon's presence - she had heard that the King had a bastard son who was being raised by one of his brothers, so she thought he might not mind Jon being with the rest of them.
"Come to the godswood," Jon said quietly, eyeing Robb's back with something strange on his face. "We won't be overheard there."
The godswood was colder than the yard, shadowed and shaded as it was, but Arya did not mind. She always felt safe in the godswood, no matter how cold it was, and at least here she could speak freely, without fear of Mother's disapproval or royal retribution.
Jon leaned one shoulder against the trunk of one of the great sentinels that surrounded the heart tree clearing, and Bran perched on one of the rocks by the pool, tugging off his gloves to hold his fingers in the steam that curled lazily from the water. Arya herself settled on the ground before the heart tree, smiling when Nymeria slunk out of the trees and curled her warm body around Arya's back. Ghost and Bran's wolf were quick to follow, both of them crossing to their masters without a sound.
Of course, Ghost never made a sound - Arya might have found it odd, if he were anyone's wolf but Jon's. Jon was quiet by nature, so it made sense that Ghost be so quiet.
"The King is not what I expected," Bran said, ruffling the thick fur behind his wolf's ears. "He is-"
"Fat," Arya said. "And old." She had never been less impressed with anyone in her life, and she could tell that Jon and Bran felt the same, from the way they laughed. "I cannot believe that he led armies - how could he have defeated anyone in single combat?"
"Father has gotten fatter too, you know," Jon said, all teasing under his serious expression. "Not so much as the King, of course, but mayhaps it's just a question of age. The King is a little older, after all."
"And they do say the south is richer than the North," Bran added, grinning over his wolf's head. "Mayhaps Father would be just as fat as the King if we had richer lands."
"Father would never-"
"Why is the King a fat man?" Rickon demanded, bounding into the clearing with Shaggydog on his heels. "He should be a warrior, like the golden man."
"The Kingslayer," Jon said, rolling the title on his tongue like a sweet, then catching Rickon around the shoulders and tugging him in close, ruffling his bright hair and grinning when their little brother struggled away. "No, Rickon, I do not think we would want a King like Jaime Lannister - he's not a good man, brother."
"But he looks a King," Rickon argued. "He looks honourable, and good-"
"The Kingslayer is not a good man," Jon said, in that easy voice he used when explaining things to Rickon. He had used it not so long ago on both Arya and Bran, but they had rebelled, and demanded that he treat them less like children - they were near grown now, after all. "How do you think he earned his name, Rickon?"
"I still say he looks a King," Rickon grumped, folding his arms and leaning back against Jon's legs. Rickon was taller for his age than Bran had been, all knobbly knees and elbows, with the long Stark jaw and nose on his handsome Tully face, but even so, he was still only to Jon's breastbone - Jon was the tallest man of the family, taller than Father or Uncle Benjen, and just enough taller than Robb for it to be noticeable. Rickon made great use of Jon's height, constantly begging him for piggy-backs and boosts to climb walls after Bran, especially since Robb was never about to play anymore, no more than Sansa seemed to be.
Of course, Robb was seven-and-ten, Sansa four-and-ten, and they each had more pressing concerns than climbing walls and throwing snowballs. Robb had to learn his role as Father's heir, and Sansa had just two years left to learn all Mother could teach her before she left to wed the younger Jon Umber of Last Heart, the one people called Smalljon. Sansa never called him that, but Robb did, and considered him a great friend, and an ideal match for Sansa - Robb would never think anyone not his great friend a suitable match for Sansa, of course, but his enthusiasm for having Smalljon Umber for a goodbrother had taken even their own Jon by surprise.
Rickon complained about them all being too busy for him, sometimes, but Arya supposed that to be only fair - he was only six, after all, just a little boy, and he often did not understand things.
"The Queen is a fine woman," Jon said. "Do you think she looks sufficiently queenly, Rickon? She is just as beautiful as the Kingslayer is handsome, since they are twins."
"She did not smile for Mother," Rickon said, as though that were all the opinion necessary on the matter, and Arya was pleased enough by Rickon's sureness that she could forgive the downturn of Jon's smile caused by Rickon's words. Jon had a serious nature, and had been even less prone to smiling than ever lately. While Arya would usually take issue with anything that left him unhappy, she had long since given up on balancing things between Jon and her mother. It simply was not to be, and while it angered her - she still felt that Father was the one to blame, not Jon - she could not be angry with Mother. Not since Sansa had spoken with her about it, and explained why exactly Mother could not but resent Jon's presence.
No other lord would expect his lady to watch a bastard raised alongside their trueborn children, Sansa had explained quietly, over their sewing, but Father asks it of Mother, and it is easier to be angry with Jon than with Father.
"She looks like something that smells bad is being held under her nose," Bran opined, still scratching at his wolf's ruff. "I am sure that Winterfell is not so grand as King's Landing, but it is not so bad as she seemed to think."
Arya thought Winterfell perfectly grand, and it rankled to think that the Queen would deem it otherwise - would Princess Myrcella also think so, and if so, would she seek to change it in the future? Arya could not bear to imagine Winterfell except as it was, could not see how it could stand without the Broken Tower and the First Keep and Mother's sept.
Nymeria growled at Shaggy when he came snuffling toward her, and he snapped at the air by her muzzle before trotting over to Bran - Arya thought Rickon might have followed, had he not been caught under Jon's arms, holding Jon's wrists and smiling up at him. Jon was smiling down just as fondly, and Arya felt oddly guilty about that. Not so long ago, she would have been the one to stand there against Jon's warmth, and let him shield her from the stiff breeze that managed to slice through the trees. Things had been different since she'd had that conversation with Sansa, though, since she'd found herself so unable to be angry with Mother on Jon's behalf anymore.
"What did you think of the Princess?" Bran asked, leaning back on his hands to watch Shaggy and his wolf snap playfully at one another. "She's very pretty. Just as pretty as Sansa, I think."
"No one is as pretty as Sansa," Rickon said without looking away from Jon. "Except you, of course, Arya," he added loyally, which made her smile - Arya knew she wasn't as pretty as Sansa, but her brothers jumping to her defence was sweet all the same. "I thought the Princess looked nicer than the Queen."
The Princess' gown had been beautiful - Arya supposed that Sansa had noted that as soon as the Princess had ridden through the gates, but she was only really recognising it now. It was the sort of gown that Arya and Sansa only had for very special occasions, beautifully made from expensive fabrics - perhaps that was the kind of thing princesses always wore, even while travelling, and if that was so, then Princess Myrcella would either ruin Robb if they wed, or be unhappy with what was seen as appropriate attire for a lady of Winterfell.
Arya always felt that Mother looked perfect in her heavy wools, warm and practical and richly dyed, but even she had to admit that the gowns the Princess and the Queen had been wearing were far, far lovelier than near anything in Mother's wardrobe.
"She and Robb will be a handsome couple," Jon said, something tense in his voice. "If indeed the King does wish to see a betrothal between them - Father seemed less sure of it than Lady Stark."
"Father knows the King better than Mother does," Bran pointed out reasonably. "Robb is nervous that the King doesn't mean to follow through with his offer - he thinks Father won't be able to refuse Lord Karstark's offer of his daughter, if the King does not arrange for Robb to wed the Princess."
Arya liked Alys Karstark enormously - she was as sensible and forthright a woman as Arya had ever met, with a wicked smile and no patience at all for Robb's flirting. No matter how much she liked her, though, Arya would not wish for Alys Karstark as a goodsister for love nor money, if only because with Alys came her overbearing father. Arya would not wish him as a goodfather on anyone in the world, least of all Robb.
"The King looked Robb over hard enough that I can't imagine him revoking the offer," Bran said - Arya was pleased that he'd noticed, because she'd been too uncomfortable with the way the King had looked at her and Sansa to notice much else - with one of those thoughtful little smiles on his face. "I'll bet he thinks Robb and the Princess would make a handsome couple, as well."
"I doubt the Queen agreed," Jon said, shaking his head. "But then, I doubt she thinks anyone good enough for her children."
Arya was about to offer an opinion on that - Robb was more than worthy of some prissy princess from the south, no matter what her queenly mother thought - when they were interrupted by the arrival of Sansa and her betrothed.
Smalljon Umber peered at Jon with the strangest look on his face - challenging, maybe, because he kept hold of Sansa's hand all the while - but Sansa just went bright pink, and started to giggle. She did that sometimes, when she was nervous or embarrassed, and Arya supposed that she was both, because she was not supposed to ever be alone with Smalljon Umber. Mother had been very clear on that point.
"Snow," Umber said, and Arya could have sworn he was fighting back a smile. "Lord Rickon, Lady Arya, Lord Bran. Lady Sansa and I were just-"
"Sneaking off?" Arya said, rising to her feet and traipsing over to link her arm through Sansa's. "Oh, sister, our lady mother would disapprove most strongly, don't you think?"
Sansa's cheeks went from pink to almost purple, but she kept her chin up and held tight to Smalljon's hand all the same.
"We were only walking in the godswood," she said primly. "Lady was with us, besides."
True enough, Sansa's wolf was sitting at Sansa's side, neat and quiet and delicate as her name suggested - if a direwolf could be delicate. The collar of ribbons Sansa had twisted together helped that impression along, of course, and the way she nosed at Sansa's finger for attention, but even with all that, she would never be a lapdog.
"I would never dishonour Sansa," Smalljon added indignantly. "I have too much respect for her and for your parents-"
"Enough, Jon," Sansa said, patting his arm. "They're only teasing."
They were teasing, but Mother would disapprove if she knew Sansa was spending time alone with Smalljon. Arya knew that Sansa had spent a great deal of time kissing him when last the Umbers visited - she had overheard Sansa telling Jeyne Poole - but she assumed that Mother knew nothing of that, and was certain that Father knew nothing of it, because he would be furious if he knew Sansa was risking her reputation.
Arya wondered if Father had had any requests for her hand - Sansa had been betrothed to Smalljon for three years now, since she was Arya's age, but Sansa was beautiful and accomplished, and always made a wonderful impression on guests. Arya was not beautiful, and while she had improved recently at her sewing and dancing, she was not nearly so talented as Sansa, so she doubted anyone would be quite so eager to secure her as a bride for their son as the Greatjon had been, but even so, surely there had been some interest? She would have to ask Father when the King left.
"Mother is likely looking for us," Bran said, before anyone else could tease any more. "I suppose she has shown the Queen and her children to their rooms - we ought to go inside before she comes out to find us."