Just a warning: This will be from Arya's POV. She is 15. Theon will also make an appearance. He is 18. If this makes you uncomfortable, I'm sorry. It won't happen often. Skip to the second half?

Also, if it wasn't clear, my plot moves pretty slowly. I did write a fourteen chapter prologue when I could have fit it all into two chapters. My writing is dense, and I'm much more into exploring character mentality and how little changes butterfly into complete overhauls of the game.

If you're not into what I'm writing, please just move on. No one is forcing it down your throat. Please don't comment saying unkind things to me if you're not going to provide anything constructive. It just makes me really sad, even if the negative comment seems ridiculous, and then I don't feel like writing for hours.

Days Later

The air in the loft above the firewood storehouse was crisp and biting. Arya preferred it this way, for she was never cold. She had found this alcove of sorts at the far end of the storehouse when she played Hide-the-treasure as a child, for no one ever thought to look where the firewood was stacked.

She had stopped using it as a hiding place after a few successful wins. The game was no fun if she won every time.

On the old blankets, Arya stretched out like a cat. She would be sore on the morrow, for she had been busy with helping Sansa look over the household numbers in the past weeks, and had not had the time for more leisurely pursuits. After the king's arrival, her mother had bid her and Lia go sit with Sansa and the other girls while they did needlework, and today had been the first time she had managed to slip away.

The princess was there with Septa Dyna, their mother had said, and often the queen and her ladies would join. It was only proper that they keep the queen company when she herself was too busy with household business.

When they had gaped at their mother, both horrified, she had only raised a perfect eyebrow at them both.

"It will not be so terrible. Arya, I'm certain the queen would love to hear of your training, and Elia, surely you would want to ask the queen about the horses she had at Casterly Rock. I'm not asking for an embroidered garden. Just take your smallclothes to mend." She had narrowed her eyes at Lia then.

"Elia, I know you don't like sitting still, but Arthur tells me you couldn't even mend his shirt? Even your father knows how to do some basic needlework. What do you think they did when their clothes tore on campaign? Ride into battle with gaping holes in their shirts?"

Lia's eyes had gone wide.

"Then Arthur can mend his own miserable shirts!" she had retorted, her voice climbing with indignation, but Arya knew better. Even she could see that the queen most certainly would not like to hear of her training. So, it appeared Amma wished to irk this Cersei Lannister. That Arya could do.

And so, this afternoon, she had sat fortifying the seams of her leather jerkin with her sisters and the queen, keeping up a lively conversation with Lia about her efforts in teaching her horse Porridge to jump the low fences in the fields around Winterfell. Lia did not particularly enjoy swordplay and archery as Arya did, much preferring to sail and ride, but even this talk of jumping had been turning the queen's face progressively darker.

It was just as Lia was laughing at the way Porridge always flared her nose when she was about to refuse a jump when, from the corner of her eye, Arya spotted the rat. It poked its head out behind the open chamber door, pink nose twitching, oily fur agleam. It was huge, and for a moment she wondered if there was a way to lure it over to them. The afternoon had grown rather dull, what with Sept Dyna's constant, simpering praise of the princess, and they were all due for some excitement.

Then she looked down at her hand. The leather needle she was using was long and weighty. Perfect. Trying to keep in her laughter, she slowly unthreaded the waxed cotton. Then, giving a little cough so half the room instinctively looked up at her, she threw the needle into the rat.

The sound of metal piercing wood made the others lift their heads as well. For a moment, all was silent, and then Jeyne Poole let out a blood-curdling scream just as Lia howled with laughter. She had pinned the rat into the floor at the base of the wall. For some moments it twitched, but stilled soon enough. The queen's ladies were whispering amongst themselves, and across the room, Jeyne was heaving breath, Sansa stroking her back. Her sister shot her an exasperated look, but Arya just shrugged. She ignored, too, the indignant scolding of Septa Dyna.

A look over at the queen showed Arya that the woman's face had turned positively purple. Excellent result.

Arya stood, dusting invisible fluff off her lap. She would have loved to tell Nymeria to fetch the rat back for her, but their wolves were all down in the old stables with their mother. The queen had insisted that the pups would scare the princess—no matter that Myrcella seemed desperate to pet Lemons—and so Arya had gone over to the rat, plucked it off the floor, and, holding it swinging by the tail, made her deepest curtsey to the room.

"If you'll excuse me, Your Grace, I'd take the spoils of the hunt to the furrier."

When she had come out of old stables after tossing the rat to Mouse and Nymeria—Lemons did not seem particularly interested, which...of course she didn't—Arya had come around to the courtyard to find her brothers and Theon heading to the bathhouse, Grey Wind yapping around Robb's ankles while Ghost perched on Jon's shoulder.

"Back from your ride?" she asked. "I trust the princes were good company?" All three looked rather vexed.

"I think I'd have rather been sewing with you and the queen," muttered Robb. "At least the queen and her ladies are nice to look at."

"Really?" said Arya. "But Joffrey's rather pretty too, don't you think?"

Theon snickered and Jon smiled. Robb raised an eyebrow. "Don't let the queen hear you. She'll think you want to marry him."

More laughter, but Arya felt her eyes grow wide. So that was why the queen had seemed so interested in her, and why Amma had put her up to being a nuisance. Arya shuddered. The queen had wanted her to marry Joffrey? Gods, she was going to be sick, and that didn't even take into account the way he had stared at Sansa.

"Well, good luck washing the Lannister off you," she said, sending them on their way. Then,

"I've skived off my needlework duties for the rest of the morning. I think I shall go take a nap."

That had been clear enough a message, she'd thought, and made her way to the firewood stores. Sure enough, Theon had joined her there in a quarter of an hour, his hair still wet from his bath. Neither of them had gone into the castle for the midday meal.

Now Arya stretched again, flipping over onto her stomach, and Theon's hand came to rest on the small of her back. His palm was very warm on her skin. She looked over at him from the corner of her eye, and he offered a half-grin.

"Damn, what am I going to do when you go to King's Landing?"

She raised an eyebrow.

"Carry on as you've been doing? Can't imagine you'll be lacking in female company."

Theon chuckled. Arya thought he looked rather handsome like that, his teeth white, a tiny dimple on his right cheek.

"Maybe, but there's no one like you."

It was Arya's turn to laugh.

"Well clearly not, but you needn't flatter me. You've already divested me of my gown."

"It's not flattery if it's true."

His hand slid lower and squeezed. Her belly gave a pleasant turn, and she made a little sound in the back of her throat. He chuckled again.

"And poor you. The south will be poor pickings indeed if Joffrey's any indication."

"That bad, huh? What precisely did he do?"

Theon rolled his eyes and sighed.

"Insisted we let him lead every jump, talked without end about how many boars he's killed and how many knights he's unhorsed, made sure we all remembered every fucking second that he was the royal prince. Hells, I wanted to lop my own ears off."

"So, an arrogant arse who talks entirely too much. Sounds familiar."

In one motion he had turned her over and pinned her to the blankets, a dangerous glint in his eye. Arya felt that pleasant flutter again, hot and hungry in her belly.

"Very soon you'll wish you'd been kinder to me, Arya Stark. I doubt you'll find anyone down south who can make you scream as I can."

She smirked.

"Don't be so sure. Wylla told me all the handsomest men she's ever seen were in King's Landing. I may forget all about you soon."

"Is that so? Stand by those words, do you?"

His hand crept between her legs and did something incredibly fiendish with his fingers. Just a touch, and he withdrew his hand when she pressed up to him despite herself.

"I…well…oh, damn you."

She bit her lip and glared up at him. He chuckled.

"What were you saying about the men in King's Landing?"

"Careful, Theon Greyjoy, or I might accidentally let it slip to one of my brothers what we've been doing of late."

"So long as it's not Arthur. Who knows what tortures he's read about of late."

Arya laughed and suddenly pushed against his shoulder so that she was the one pinning him into the blankets. He smirked up at her.

"Besides, you wouldn't."

She narrowed her eyes at him. Damn him and his cocky surety, and damn her for letting it make her skin burn from the inside.

"Maybe not at present," she conceded, straightening up as she straddled his stomach. His very hard stomach. She felt his eyes on her chest, and the thrill of it made her squirm. She was wet between the legs again and knew he felt it on his skin when she moved. He sucked in a breath between his teeth.

"Still, I'd be careful if I were you," she said shifting her weight down his torso. "If you keep telling me what I won't do, I might start seeing it as a challenge."

000

Arya had not intended to fall into bed with Theon Greyjoy. Just as she had not intended to bed with any of the boys who had come before him. She did as she liked, and things simply happened. Theon had told her more than once that she was the one who seduced him—I don't have a death wish, you know, but gods help me, when you smile like that I can only think with my cock—but Arya was fairly certain she hadn't done any such thing.

Did she perhaps stare at him more than was usual in the practice yard, and perhaps give him teasing half-smiles when she was sure no one was watching? Well, yes, perhaps. But seduce him? Arya did not think she was capable of seducing anyone.

She was not blind. Sansa was the beautiful one, beautiful like their mother. She had gotten Amma's high cheekbones, dimpled smile, and graceful, womanly form. When Sansa walked through the castle or the town, everybody stared, not to mention that her sister was soft-spoken and talented and a perfect lady besides.

Arya was...simply not. Nor could she charm and read people and put them at ease with two words and the incline of a head. Sansa had learned it all effortlessly from their mother. Arya had never imagined the word 'charming' applying to anything she did.

But it didn't bother her, not normally. She could ride better, fight better, and keep household accounts better than Sansa. She had very little interest in harps or poetry, and even less for making sure her hair was arranged just so. Amma always told Arya that she and Sansa were like night and day, and there had always been pride in her voice when she said it. It didn't matter, then, that visiting lords and ladies gaped at her in trousers and whispered behind their hands that she would never find a husband. What good was a husband if he would make her do all the ladylike things she hated? She's sooner go join the Silent Sisters.

She knew, too, that her own face was solemn and unremarkable—when she was younger, she could tuck her hair up and put on trousers, and strangers would think she was a boy—but Arya was not made for romance and bard's tales and having men swoon at her feet. She did not want any of it. Love in that way made a woman weak, even women like her mother.

She could still remember being four years old and sneaking into Amma's chambers one night. Father had been off fighting the Ironborn then, and Amma had not yet brought home the direwolf. She had slipped through the crack in the door to find her mother crying in her empty bed, her sobs muffled by the sheets.

Arya had frozen stiff, and then, very slowly, backed out into the hallway. She had never heard her mother crying ever again, but the sound still haunted her sometimes, especially when she looked at the way her parents smiled at one another or watched as her mother coloured when Father kissed her hand. It may be sweet to love a person in that way—Sansa was certainly convinced it was—but Arya could never let herself be at the mercy of such emotions and the whims of a man. She would rather be free and strong.

Most people might say it was wrong for a girl to behave so, but that was all the more reason to insist upon it.

Yet that did not mean she could not enjoy herself. Despite how unfair most of the world was, there were advantages to being a girl and having breasts, even if they were small, and she was not beautiful. She had been kissing boys for years now, and Arya loved the way it felt—well, when they got it right, anyway. And when she discovered she could make boys weak at the knees and silky-hard with some well-placed nips and mere strokes of her hand, she had loved that feeling too.

And of all the boys she had kissed and later bedded, Theon had gotten it more right than any. Arya could not remember when she had stopped seeing him as she saw Sam, but one day she had found herself flushing when he grinned that self-satisfied grin, gawping at his taut muscled arms under his shirt. She hadn't really thought anything could come of it—surely, if he was going to notice her, he'd have done so much earlier and done something about it—but somehow, not long after, he had come out riding with her and kissed her against a tree.

Now here they were. Sometimes it was a little frightening that Arya could not get enough of the feel of him inside her. Or his tongue on her. (Oh, gods help her, that was delicious.) But she had no intention of stopping their assignations until it was time to leave Winterfell. Why not have her fill of pleasure when she could? And besides. She liked the way being with him made her feel afterwards, too, for he did give the best compliments on her person, even if she was sure half of it was flattering drivel.

"We should show ourselves soon," Arya said sometime later and pushed away from Theon's chest. "They'll have started sword practice, and I haven't gotten a chance to see the princes spar yet."

Theon sighed, but rolled to his feet, tossing her shift to her and pulling on his trousers. They shook out the blankets and hung them on the rafters, and then Arya slipped her gown on, turning around and lifting her hair so Theon could help her lace them up her back.

"Doesn't need to be a tapestry," she said when he was taking too long. "I'm going up to change into trousers anyway."

Theon chuckled, and his hot breath on her neck made Arya shiver.

"I know. Still not exactly used to doing up laces. I can't wait to see the Lannister men's faces when you show up, though."

"I can't wait to hold a sword to Joffrey's throat."

"I doubt you will—" said Theon, then gripped her shoulder to prevent her turning around when he felt her bristle. "—not that you couldn't. You've certainly put me on my arse more than a few times. But he'll only spar with Robb, and only sometimes. He's given me the 'honour' once, and refuses to even acknowledge Jon."

Arya's eyes widened. The vile worm, how dare he treat Jon thus?

"Besides," Theon continued, "Lord Stark was adamant that we try our hardest not to draw blood."

Arya gnawed on her lip, her eyes narrowing in calculation.

"I'll have to goad him into accepting, then," she said, letting her hair fall when he had tied the knot at her waist. Theon gave her a dry look.

"Well, if you can, I'd love to see the little shit get flattened unawares," he said. "Today he made a jape to me about Sansa when your brothers weren't near. I wanted to knock him into the stream."

000

When Arya had changed into trousers and bound her hair up with wire, she came down to the practice yard to find everyone standing in a circle, watching and shouting encouragement as Arthur sparred with Tommen. For once, her brother seemed to be winning.

Arya found her other brothers and Theon in the crowd and squeezed in next to them. Robb and Jon, sweaty and red in the face from previous bouts, surprised at her presence but made room for her so she could see.

On one side of the circle were Lannister knights and squires, and at once Arya spotted the knight they called The Hound, whose face had been burned to a bright leathery red long ago. In front of him stood the prince, arms crossed over his gold-embroidered doublet, hair shining in the sun. His face was twisted into a sneer, and as she drew closer she heard his mocking voice.

"...stand here and watch children play…Starks and northerners really are unrefined..."

She felt her blood boil. When her brother had successfully knocked Tommen to the ground, Arya slipped past Jon and Robb and marched into the circle. From the corner of her eye, she saw Ser Roderick come forward to stop her, but Robb put a hand on his arm and whispered in his ear. Ah, it was good to have brothers.

As expected, most of the Lannister men gaped. Then some snickered, including Joffrey.

"You training women here, Roderick?" she heard someone call out, inciting more tittering. Arya turned towards the voice.

"Why don't you come spar with me, and we shall see how long it takes a woman to get her sword at your throat?"

Her brothers laughed. Very loudly. Muttering travelled around the Lannister men, but no one stepped forward to take her challenge. Here was a rare advantage to being a girl and supposedly a lady. Men who did not know her never wished to come challenge her outright—where was the honour in that?—and she could get in rather many incendiary words, so that when they did eventually cave to their anger, she got a good fight out of them.

Arya smirked.

"Your Grace," she said, walking up to perform a mock curtsy to Joffrey, who was now glaring down at her, lip twisted. "I'd say your men are cowards, all talk and bluster."

She heard Ser Roderick's chastising tone as he said her name, but he made no move to stop her.

Around them, the Lannister men bristled. Joffrey's eyes widened and his face turned purple just like his mother's had.

"You dare? You must be retarded in the head. A little wench like you, and you dare insult your prince?" He looked around then, as if trying to determine who to call to come behead her, but Arya spoke again.

"That hardly matters. I only wish to spar with you."

His head snapped to her again.

"You? Spar with me? You're lucky I'm feeling benevolent today, else your head—"

"Don't you think you could win against a girl, Your Grace? And I'm a year younger besides."

He laughed cruelly, as if she had been humorous.

"Wouldn't want Lord Stark to be short a daughter at the end of the day," he said, and the Lannister men joined in.

Arya smiled tightly.

"I've heard much talk of your prowess from my brothers, Your Grace, but now I wonder if your reluctance means you're just like your men." She swept her gaze across them. "A coward full of talk."

Joffrey lunged at her, but Arya slipped back out of his path. He looked at his men again, but Arya did not let him issue a command.

"If you have one of your men do away with me, you'll still be a coward who was afraid of a little girl."

And that was all it took, despite some of his men's uneasy protests. In moments she found herself in leather armour, facing the prince across the circle with a longsword in hand. Not even a rapier. She was going to fell him with a weapon the size of his own. Joffrey swung his blade in a figure eight, making the air swish, and jeered at her once more.

"Not too late to beg my forgiveness, my lady" he mocked, but Arya laughed in his face, and he charged at her, sword glinting in the sun. She dodged easily enough, then turned on the offensive, forcing him back. The rubies on his hilt glinted at the edges of her vision, and Arya tried very hard not to roll her eyes. She had not thought swords decorated thus could seriously be used in battle.

Joffrey, it turned out, was not an entirely unworthy opponent. It did not surprise her that Robb had lost to him more than once and that Theon had yielded their one spar together, especially if both had been trying not to draw blood, and Joffrey held no such compunctions. Sword-fighting was never Theon's strong point, and many a training session had ended with Arya pointing her sword-point at Robb's throat. It was only Jon she had never managed to best with a sword.

He was on the offensive again, having managed to nearly force her sword from her hand and making her scamper back. Steady once more, Arya moved slashed low, and blade skimmed very close to Joffrey's leg, making him stumble and dash back just out of her reach before he could fall completely. The Winterfell men cheered, Jon's voice loudest of all, and Arya broke into a genuine smile. That was enough to spur Joffrey at her once more.

He was getting tired. She could tell. Served him right for always throwing overhand cuts that were too slow to land. By the time they reached her, she had already dodged out of the way, letting his blade slide off hers at an angle. She was not breezing along either—the longsword always tired her out the fastest, for there was nothing she could do about her small frame and thin arm—but if she timed her next moves right…

Arya drew in, thrusting the blade tighter and tighter to her body, closing the distance between them. Finally, she was close enough. In one motion, she feigned right, leaving her left open to his attack. He saw it, a triumphant smile on his face, and thrust at her arm. Just as he leaned into the trust, she gave his weight-bearing foot one quick swipe with her foot before ducking out of the way.

Joffrey went flying, landing in the dirt with a dull thud, his sword clattering two feet away. Again, cheers from her brothers, and Arya spun around, approaching Joffrey with her sword angled at his prone form. She could feel the smile spreading slow on her face.

"Do you yield—oh!"

Suddenly, something was at the back of her neck, lifting her off the ground by the collar. She let out a yelp, and on instinct swung her blade behind her, but another hand was on her wrist like an iron shackle, keeping it pinned.

"Best not to have that thing pointed at the future king, little girl," came a blistered voice in her ear. Arya kicked and flailed and punched wildly with her free arm, but before she could understand what was happening, Joffrey had scrambled to his feet and picked up his sword again.

"Hold the bitch there, Clegane," he snarled, and in a flash Joffrey was charging at her with his blade. Shouts rose around her, and men dashed this way and that. All was a blur before her eyes until suddenly, a massive grey form loomed over Joffrey like a storm. The next moment, Arya was on the ground, the breath whooshing from her lungs, the dirt rubbing into her eyes.

Don't be like Theon and Arya, children. Use a condom, and do be careful when you sleep with someone who obviously sleeps around. STIs might not exist in Westeros, (because if they did Tyrion would have lost his nose long before Blackwater), but they certainly exist for us. Hurray. Win.

Edit: so, it seems like they do exist in Planetos. Or, the pox does, anyway. Still, I do stand by my Tyrion comment. Does plot armour act as an automatic condom as well?

Also…sorry again that I really cannot write fight scenes. I do not enjoy them and I'm also rather bad at them, so….just use your imagination?