Arya I

On the day of her wedding, Arya stole a horse from the stables and rode to the wolfswood. She didn't know if it was her mother's unending preparations she was running from or the marriage itself.

Ten years ago, Domeric Bolton had arrived at Winterfell, already considering himself a man grown. He had been tall, comely and charming, as eager to play the harp for the ladies as he was willing to joust the lords. He had even helped Arya train with a sword in secret, though in return, Arya had to promise a dance at any celebrations. She considered it a fair trade, made better by the fact that bruising his feet by stepping on them during dances had let her win plenty of their matches. A fraction of their matches she won fairly, for despite his competence, Domeric was no Arthur Dayne. On horseback though, he was unmatched by the inhabitants of Winterfell. At a tourney in White Harbour, he had won his spurs by defeating all knights in the joust and had given the crown of the Queen of Love and Beauty to her, even as she had been longing to join the contest herself.

The day her father told her that she was to marry Domeric—after they returned from White Harbour—she had taken off on her horse too. She was just as uncertain of returning that day as she was of returning today. Domeric had chased her down on his own garron that day, gifted to him by Lord Redfort when he left the Vale, and when she refused to return, insisted on staying with her until she did. No amount of threatening, reasoning, pleading, or flattering seemed to make him leave and so Arya told him the reason why she ran away: she didn't want to marry him. Instead of annoyance or shock, she was met with resignation. That's so stupid, she had thought. He should be surprised at my refusal; any girl would be glad to call him her lord husband. He is charming, handsome, and he doesn't have a stick up his arse about me learning sword-fighting—

She had stopped her thoughts right there, as Domeric offered to have a horserace for her hand in marriage. "I don't have a knight to be my champion, you podge," she'd said. He had smirked and replied, "I would race you then, as you are determined to be your own mistress."

"You'll break the betrothal if I win?" Arya had asked, still suspicious.

"If I don't, you'll slit my throat on our wedding night, won't you? The promise goes either way though, you'll have to agree to marry me if I win."

She had given a nod and they set the hill on the horizon as the finish line. That had been one of their races that she had not won. Arya was still unsure if that was a good thing.

Domeric wouldn't come racing down now, she knew, even if a part of her hoped that he did. It was afternoon by the time she returned and the castle was bustling with servants preparing for the ceremony in the godswood and the feast. Sansa ambushed her in her chambers, with a dress larger than Rickon in her hands, and a hopeful look on her face. "Arya, I was hoping you could wear your dress so that we could see if there are any adjustments—"

"No, get out, I need to take a bath," she replied shortly.

Sansa's face fell and she started smoothing out her clothes. "I only wanted us to—"

"I don't care, Sansa. Now get out, I can't smell on my own wedding day," Arya said, shooing her irritating little sister out of the door.

Arya steeped into the bath that had been prepared for her and wondered what the Dreadfort would be like. If there is a chamber with the skins of Starks, I'll have to be the one to find it. When she came out of her bath, her mother was sitting on the bed, waiting for her. "Arya, you were cruel to dismiss your sister like that. Sansa sew your wedding dress for you herself and you couldn't even be bothered to dismiss her courteously."

Arya let out an irritated huff. Of course she went and told mother. "It's Sansa that should be learning her courtesies. She's the one father betrothed to a prince while I'm to be sold to the Dreadfort."

Her mother helped her into the dress before answering. "Would you prefer to marry the prince and live in the rat nest they call the capital? If you were to be wed to anyone but Domeric, I have no doubt you wouldn't have returned from your little ride to the Wolfswood."

Arya grimaced. Ever since she, Robb and Jon had banded together to drive off the three septas who had come to Winterfell, mother had stopped trying to make Arya into a lady, but almost running away on the day of her wedding would be too hard for her to turn a blind eye to. To her surprise, the Lady of Winterfell only shook her head ruefully.

"I didn't want to marry your father, you know. The first time I came to Winterfell, it was with my Tully-looking son. When I presented your father with Robb, our son, he presented me with his own son, a boy who looked like him writ small even then." Her mother's eyes were distant but a gradual smile was coming to her face. "But then you were born, not out of duty but love that we built over the years, looking as much like your father as Robb took after me. Half a boy and half a wolf pup, we used to say, more a Stark than any of your siblings. That was when I was entirety certain of my place in the North. The Dreadfort may not seem the most welcoming of homes at first, but you will grow to find your place in it. Domeric is as good of a husband as any you would find, and you are already friends with him. Better marriages have started with less." Some of the unease in her belly shifted at that and she could breathe fully. She remembered Robb's anxiety in the days before Margaery came for their wedding but now? He was her staunchest supporter against grumblings of her not having a son yet.

Under her mother's skilful hands, her hair was ready in moments and it was time to go. "You will look beautiful at the wedding," her mother said, with a kiss to her forehead.

Arya reigned in her snort; with pretty Sansa, the Baratheon princess and the stunning Targaryen girl, she would be surprised if anyone even saw her.

The guests were already there when mother took her place. King Robert and Queen Cersei stood beside mother, with Sansa standing beside her betrothed. Robb, his wife, and Arya's siblings were arrayed on the other side, with Lord Roose Bolton in the front. Lady Barbery Dustin, who had judged her to be a "good enough" bride for her nephew stood in the second row, looking disgruntled at standing after the other attendees. Her father greeted her with a proud smile and took her hand in his.

"You may take the Bolton name and the Bolton cloak, but you will always be a Stark of Winterfell. I am proud of you, Arya, and so is your mother." Arya gave a tight nod, the fluttering in her stomach had returned with a vengeance. Father took her hand as he led her down the aisle to where Domeric stood beneath the heart tree.

The rest of the wedding passed by in a blur of vows and smiles, human white and weirwood red. It seemed like a dream to Arya—how could it be real? It was Domeric she was marrying, not a nameless lord with a stern face as she had imagined sometimes—and before she knew it, they were at the feast. Even the wedding of his lord's eldest daughter wasn't enough to dissuade Ulf from playing his usual songs, which only Old Nan seemed to actually enjoy.

"Never waste your pity on the snow

Always keep your caution, for all you think you know,

For as the world is beautiful, likewise is it cruel,

And death is always waiting for a fool."

Ulf sang his dreadful song, while the Targaryen boy sat talking to Jon and Robb led his wife through the first dance. After that, he was coerced into singing 'A Bear and the Maiden Fair' as some other couples went on the floor to dance. She could see Sansa laughing and dancing with her prince and the dark-haired Targaryen girl talking to a giggling Arwyn Arryn. Arwyn was Arya's cousin but she could see no resemblance between her and any of Arya's siblings. When she had pointed that out, father had assured her that the girl looked the very image of Jon Arryn's sister. Domeric kept her engaged in conversation so that none of the guests made her dance, until Ulf started playing 'The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, the King Took Off His Crown' and the first calls for the bedding went up.

Arya was ready for it. Giving Robb the signal with her hands, who passed it to Jon, Arya stood. Jon had slipped unnoticed out the doors and, as the bedding calls were taken up by most of the men, three wolves let out a howl. The Winterfell men merely looked uneasy at the closeness of the sounds, but the rest were panicking. Ser Humfrey's pie and wife both dropped, out in the lap of another man, one fainting from fear. Ser Robar of the Vale looked like he wanted to flee back into the mountains of his homeland but had compromised to just standing on a chair. Ser Arys of the Kingsguard drew his longsword, "We'll defend you to the last man, Your Grace."

"That's probably me," Ser Mandon Moore said in a resigned tone.

Jon threw the doors open as Grey Wind, Ghost and Nymeria walked in, and the crowded room suddenly was less crowded as most hid under tables and some climbed them. She could see the Arwyn Arryn drag the Targaryen girl under a table, while the latter's brother stood, his cold eyes shifting wildly in search of an escape. Prince Edwin had drawn a sword—not his own, but certainly someone's—and stood defensively in front of the southern ladies. The golden Targaryen girl and her brother calmed when they noticed that the wolves were peaceful, but the prince kept his weapon drawn.

"What is the meaning of this?" Queen Cersei shrieked. Arya hadn't known someone could have such a shrill voice. "These monstrous beasts can't be let into the feast—"

"Your Grace, the direwolves will not harm anyone," father told the king. "As for why, it seems my children will have to offer their answers for that…," he trailed of, with a pointed look at her.

Robb stepped forward and spoke in his lordly voice, addressing the whole room. "My lords, my ladies, please be at ease. The wolves merely came here in response to the calls of the bedding."

The tension melted faster than snow in Dorne, as the people under the tables drew themselves out, cautious but calmer than before. The queen still looked outraged but King Robert gave a mighty laugh. "Your bloody children have more of the wolfsblood than you do, Ned. It's only fitting that a she-wolf be escorted to her bed chamber with the wolves, be they Starks or not." That put a halt to any grumbles and the queen's protests were silenced by the king's glare, as Arya and Domeric left the hall, with the wolves following close behind.