"Turn over now, so I can get behind your legs."
Arya winced as she complied, her sore muscles gnawing, and Yli tutted under her breath before reaching for more cinnamon salve.
"Really, girl, are you trying to kill yourself training? Preparing to run for your life, are you?"
"No," Arya muttered, though when The Hound had hoisted her flailing into the air and Joffrey had pointed his sword at her, for a flash, she really had thought she was going to die. It had been ridiculous—she knew that now, for if the direwolf had not pounced Ser Roderick or one of her brothers would have tackled him—but that feeling of confused helplessness haunted Arya's dreams. She hated it. She hated fear. It never helped with anything and only made her sick to her stomach.
"Ugh, ow…" Yli's bony fingers dug into her aching leg, and Arya groaned into her pillow. From the side of her bed, Nymeria raised her grey head and made a questioning yelp in the back of her throat. Arya reached over and gave her a pet on the head.
"Don't worry," she said, giving Yli a sideways look. "I'm not dying. Yet."
"Oh, now you complain. What happened to the tough fighter in the training yard, eh?" asked Yli, not at all fazed by the direwolf watching her with narrowed eyes.
"Well, somehow your massaging always hurts more than anything else," Arya said peevishly.
She had been pushing herself in the yard ever since the debacle, determined that should something similar happen again she would not be so helpless. She had been paying for it these past weeks, though with Yli's salves and massages she was not too stiff.
Arya was going to make that little blonde shit pay for this, and preferably the burned knight too. The details were still amorphous in her mind, but she had already guilted Sansa into agreeing to help. Arya had forced tears to her eyes and spoken of how frightened the prince had made her feel, and the rest had been easy, for her sister truly had a heart as soft as jam. Arya reached over and mussed Nymeria's fur once more. Both she and Lem had gotten so big of late and much more attentive to their commands.
Of course, Mouse was now the biggest wolf of the litter, but Amma was sure to keep a close eye on Lia since her accident, and Arya did not think it wise to involve her in case their mother found out. No matter. The trip to King's Landing would still prove most educational for Joffrey indeed.
"It would serve you well to ride in the wheelhouse for a few days," said Yli, though they both knew Arya would do no such thing. They wereleaving Winterfell the next day, and Arya was determined to take in every inch of the countryside along the King's Road. She'd never ridden south of the White Knife, and the wheelhouse windows were too small to see much.
"I can ride," she protested, rolling her eyes. Yli never fussed so over her brothers. Arya could feel her narrowed gaze on her though, and resolutely pressed her face into the pillow.
"Well, you'd best not come to me all stiff after riding," said Yli. "These old bones will be close to falling apart after a day's rattling."
"Winterfell's walls will freeze before you fall apart," she scoffed. Sure, Yli was old and had great-grandchildren, but she could be no more than seventy, surely. Old Nan was probably a hundred. Now that was really old.
Yli tutted again and dug her fingers into an especially painful spot. On purpose, Arya was sure. She hissed, but Yli ignored it.
"Cheek. No respect for your elders, just like your mother."
Arya peered up at her, smirking despite the pain.
"If you're so concerned, why'd you insist on coming with us, anyway? You won't be rattled at all at Winterfell."
Amma was leaving Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel as chatelaines of Winterfell, but all knew it would really be Wylla making the big decisions for some years, as both were scarcely older than Arya. Yli, however, had made it clear from the very start that she intended on accompanying them to King's Landing instead of staying with her granddaughter, and Amma always deferred to her wishes.
Yli gave Arya a very patient look—the kind of look you gave to someone with a slow mind.
"I have seen Dorne from Sunspear to Starfall, and the North from Bear Island to White Harbour. But the one time I was in King's Landing I had to treat two hundred different injuries on hotheaded boys and didn't have a moment to see the city. I intend to see it now," she announced grandly, "and as much of this land as I can before I die! On your other side now."
Arya obeyed, groaning as she turned. Yli must be a sorceress or something similar. She had more life and strength in her than many women in their fifties and a taste for adventure to match hers and Lia's. She would have gone to Essos with Father and the boys that one time if Wylla hadn't been eight moons with child.
Arya was secretly very glad that Yli was coming with them, but she was certainly not going to let on now. Nonetheless, it seemed Yli could read her mind, too, and laughed her crackling laugh.
"Oh, you are thankful I am coming, of course. Who's going to make moon tea for you if I don't, eh?"
Arya narrowed her eyes.
"I know how to make it myself," she insisted, though not very convincingly. She could make the tea according to Yli's infallible recipe, but her brews always came out too bitter to keep down, even with honey. Yli laughed again before slathering more cinnamon salve on her skin. It tingled, the sensation at once icy and hot.
"Besides," she sighed, trying to relax her leg. "I doubt I'll even need it. We'll all have to be really careful in King's Landing." Despite what she had told Theon, Arya wasn't an idiot. With Father's new position, everyone would be watching her family. She was not yet of age, and unlike her skill with a sword, people would only say nasty things about her character and embarrass Father terribly if her trysts came to light. From what she'd seen of the queen, the Lannisters would pounce on any sign of impropriety like the alley cats they were.
Yli only gave her a wily smile.
"Nonsense. You just need to take care not to get caught, that's all. You think you're the first girl to dance the secret kipples in that castle? Ask your mother. You'll see."
Arya shot her a horrified look. She would, to her dismay, never be able to purge from her mind the day her mother had sat down and explained bedding to her in elaborative detail. Her words themselves had been enlightening, naturally, but that they came from her mother—who was married to her father—
"I'd really rather join the Silent Sisters if it's all the same to you."
000
Later that day, Arya stood in the middle of her room, folding and refolding her various pieces of leather armour and training breeches. In a rather embarrassing turn of events, it happened that she had more clothes to pack than Sansa did, and it was now looking as if she would not be able to fit everything in one trunk. Her legs still ached, and she had taken to pointing to various articles of clothing and having Nymeria fetch them so she would not need to bend down.
Lia had come into her room earlier, laughed at her predicament, and offered the spare room in her own trunk 'if Arya asked her very nicely.' There was no way in seven hells Arya was going to take her up on that offer. She'd sooner wear five layers of clothes on her back all the way to King's Landing. She was more thankful than she knew how to put into words that Lia had woken up entirely unscathed, but a few days in and already the near-constant desire to throttle her little sister had returned in full force.
Nymeria padded over to her with a pair of gloves, and Arya sighed. Maybe she could sneak them into Lia's trunk when she was distracted. Her sister was not the most observant. Nymeria dropped the gloves on the pile of leathers, but suddenly her ears perked up, and she trotted over to the door, tail beating the air.
Curious, Arya followed her just in time to hear footsteps coming down the hall. A knock sounded on her door. She swung it open. Outside stood Robb with a grin so bright she thought she might go blind. Behind him stood Theon and Sam, both also grinning, and in the back, Jon's dark head bobbed above them all. Arya raised an eyebrow.
"I wasn't aware I was hosting a council in my chambers."
They laughed.
"May we come in, sis?" Robb asked, though Arya was already stepping aside and gesturing them in.
"To what do I owe the…honour of all your presences at once?"
The grins grew wider.
"We have a gift for you," said Robb. "Jon?"
Jon emerged from the back holding a long bundle, a faint smile on his face. It was the first smile from him that Arya had seen in weeks.
Before she had time to wonder at her brother's change in demeanour though, her eye was drawn to the bundle Jon now set on her bed—the only surface not covered with clothes.
"It's your sixteenth name day in two months' time," said Robb, "but we won't be around for that. So."
Jon pulled the cloth covering aside.
"We thought we'd give you your present now."
Arya gasped like a child.
On her bed lay a rapier, pommel silver and gleaming in the light, wrapped in a dark leather sheath.
"For me?" She asked under her breath.
"No, for your direwolf," said Theon, but Arya couldn't even roll her eyes at him. Robb and Sam laughed.
"Of course it's for you," said Robb. "We're beating Father to the gift. Test it out."
Father had given Jon, Robb and Theon all swords of their very own on each of their sixteenth name days, and Sam an intricate crossbow from Tyrosh. At times, Arya had hoped her father would present her with a sword at sixteen as well, though she had feared he would not, for in the end, she was not a son.
All Arya could see now was the beautiful shape of the rapier—it's elegant lines and gentle curve of the hilt. The sword was surprisingly light, even for its size, the pommel fit perfectly in her hand and the sheath was supple and impossibly soft. It unsheathed without so much as a whisper, and when Arya saw the blade she gasped once more.
The rapier was straight and thin, it's symmetrical edges impossibly sharp, but it was the colour of the blade that made her heart speed. The metal swirled with jewel green and the blue of a frozen river, it's lines like dancing smoke from a brazier of magic and ice. She knew the colours she saw, but she could not quite believe her eyes. The blue of the blade was that of Robb's sword Frost, and the green was that of Jon's, which he called Wildfire.
When Arya had been eight, a comet had appeared in the sky above Winterfell, its tail cutting a glittering arc the colour of the stars. Amma had spent days with Maester Luwin, flipping through all the astrological tomes she had brought with her from Starfall, trying to figure out what such a portent could mean for the North. Every night, the two of them had braved the chill to measure the star's progress through the sky.
The castle and town had been alight with talk of what the comet could mean—for the harvests, for the seasons, for the years to come. The previous winters had been relatively short and mild, and thanks to her mother's pepper cultivation many families had emerged without loss of life and limb—a rare occurrence indeed.
The Ironborn Rebellion had been put down not three years past, and the North was thriving in the early years of what was shaping to be a long, bountiful summer. This comet was silver like the Stark sigil and blue like summer skies and life, the smallfolk decided. It was a sign of plenty good still to come. It was a sign the Starks were favoured by the gods, and the people of the North were blessed alongside them.
Amma had come to no real conclusions with her calculations and research, and after some days the comet seemed to fade and plunge slowly into the horizon.
That had seemed the end of it—a good omen, as the direwolf had been—but one day, when Jon and Robb had gone out riding in the woods to the west, they had found a rock the size of a large melon, covered in soot so black it seemed to dim the very air around it. When they approached to pick it up, however, the rock had split in two, and on the inside had been a swirl of shimmering light.
Robb and Jon had brought it back to Winterfell and scrubbed away the soot to reveal the brilliant ore inside. One half had given off an emerald green tint while the other shone deep ice blue. Arya could still remember peering down from her chamber, thinking that the sun had surely fallen into their yard.
For weeks afterwards, lord and smallfolk alike came to Winterfell to marvel at the two shimmering stones that had fallen from the heavens. Those were days of wonder in the castle. All spoke in hushed tones, as if the very air was holy. Father had spent some hours every day in the godswood. Amma had once again tucked herself away amongst her books, but this time she sent ravens to Dorne too, and every few days another bird would arrive with a letter from Starfall.
Her Dayne ancestors had crafted Dawn from a falling star. Everybody in the Seven Kingdoms knew that. Around the castle, Arya had heard rumours among the soldiers and visiting lords, whispers of her mother and her mystical blood. Could this meteor, too, be made into swords for the Starks? Was it for Lady Stark that the meteor had streaked across the sky? And was this magic she called down upon the North a blessing or a curse? Arya had wanted to stamp on the feet of those suggesting that her mother could be a curse, but she had contented herself with slipping buckthorn berry juice into their wine instead.
She knew her parents had written letters to castles all through the kingdoms, yet even Uncle Dev at Starfall could not tell them anything of how Dawn had been forged. Nearly a year after the meteors had been found, Father and the four older boys had sailed down the White Knife towards White Harbour, bound first for Braavos, and then to Qohor. More than once, they had heard that if anyone could work the meteor ore into steel, it would be the magical blacksmiths in the City of Sorcerers.
Arya had stood before the Winterfell gates, watching the boys ride off for adventure, thinking how unfair the world was. How she had wished she were the one to find the shimmering rocks. At least then she would have played some part, and perhaps been allowed to go to Essos too. As the horses disappeared into the distance, Amma had come behind her and gathered Arya into her skirts. She heard her mother sigh then, a weary sound that had made Arya frown.
"I know you wanted to go," her mother had said, and Arya knew she would not be able to hide her disappointment. She nodded.
"I cannot begin to tell you how much I want to go as well. I have wanted to see the Free Cities since I was younger than you are now."
"Why couldn't you go? Why couldn't I go?"
"You are too young, love, to care for yourself in travel. And as for me…your father will be gone for months with no reliable way to reach him. There must be someone here making the decisions."
Arya had pouted up at her, entirely dissatisfied with her answer.
"I'm not too young," she had insisted. "I can do nearly everything the boys can."
Her mother had sighed once more.
"We must count our blessings, Arya. No one can have everything they desire."
Months later, the boys had returned with two perfect bastard swords, one glowing a rich green and the other ice blue. They had been the most beautiful weapons Arya had ever seen, even more beautiful than Ice, yet Arya had always known they were never meant for her. Sure enough, on each of their sixteenth name days, Father had given both Robb and Jon one of the swords as gifts.
It was only fair. They had found the meteor after all. Still, over the years, Arya had watched her brothers train in the yard with their beautiful swords and had never quite managed to rid herself of the envy.
But now…this rapier…this magnificent, green-blue blade…
"How…but your swords...and I thought only the blacksmiths in Qohor knew how to work the meteor into steel," she breathed, unable to tear her eyes away from it.
It was Jon who answered.
"That's true. They were. But when the smith made our swords, there was a good bit of flash left over, and we carried it back with us. The flash had been refolded with their magical spells, just like our blades, and all Mikken needed to do was melt it down and forge it." She could hear the smile in Jon's voice, and Arya did not know how this day could possibly get any better.
"We pored over the specifics of the blade for hours," Robb was saying now. "Me and Jon. Just to your liking. Theon went through ten sheepskins at least designing the pommel, and Sam found all sorts of old weaponry books to make the sheath easy to strap on even when you're wearing a gown. And look, here." Robb's hand appeared before her eyes, drawing her gaze to the inside surface facing the hilt. Etched on the steel there were two little wolves, a crossbow, and some sort of tentacled creature.
"It's the four of us, see? The shaded wolf is Jon, the other wolf is me, the crossbow is Sam, and—"
Arya laughed in delight, finally looking up.
"And the squid is Theon. Of course."
"Oi! That's a kraken!"
She smirked at him.
"Fine. Kraken then, but only because the pommel is a perfect fit to my hand."
She went back to gawping at the sword. The afternoon light was bright and pale through her window, and the swirls of colour seemed alive on the blade. Hers. Her own perfect meteor sword. Just like she'd secretly hoped for all these years. She still could not believe it.
"Well?" Sam's voice sounded behind her, and Arya looked up. "Come on, Arya, don't keep us in suspense. What do you think?"
A slow smile spread over her lips as she looked from face to beloved face—a smile so wide it made her cheeks ache, but Arya didn't care.
"This is the best present I've ever gotten. Ever."
"Even better than those riding gloves that Father—"
"Ever," she said again, and suddenly her eyes stung, for she was just now realising that it might be years before she heard Robb's booming voice or Sam's half-sardonic quips; felt Theon's hand on her back or ducked away from Jon messing up her hair.
Very carefully, she set the blade down on her bed. Arya launched herself at Robb first, and heard the rumble of his surprised laughter in his chest. Next was Sam, who was red-faced when she pulled away, then Theon, and Arya pressed a quick kiss into his neck. And last was Jon, standing to the far side of her bed. There was still something diluted and weary about his smile, but he lifted her off her feet when she embraced him, just as he always did.
The four stayed some time longer, giving Arya tips on sword maintenance and trying not to laugh when Nymeria refused to demonstrate just how helpful she had been in helping Arya pack. They tried out names with her, but none seemed to fit this perfect specimen of a blade. No matter. Arya would have all the time in the world to find a name.
Finally, they agreed that it was time to leave Arya to her losing battle against her trunk. One by one they filed out. Jon was the last one to leave, and the hint of a smile had disappeared from his face once more.
Ever since Lia's fall, Jon had seemed half angry and half despondent, but even when she'd awakened, he had not recovered. Arya did not understand what unknown terrible thing could have happened. She had tried many times to ask him what the matter was, but Jon was nothing if not stubborn when he wished to be sullen.
At the last second, Arya called out to him.
"Jon? Wait." It would be her last chance to get the truth from him, and she could be just as stubborn as he was.
He turned, and she slipped behind him to close the door.
"What is it?" But he caught a glimpse of her determined face and seemed to deflate against the wall.
"Arya, I told you, nothing is…"
"No, something is definitely wrong! You look as if you've been told you have greyscale or something!" She felt her face drop and her back grow cold. Damnation, she hadn't even thought about illness.
"You don't actually have greyscale, do you? Or some other deathly illness?"
"What? No, of course not."
She felt her shoulder drop.
"Well, good. Still—"
"Arya—"
"Is it…was it because Father did not let you go on the hunt? I know…" she bit her lip, unsure how to continue without upsetting him. She'd never broached this subject with Jon before, and to do so now made her feel queasy and wrong. Jon was the best rider in their family save Lia, better even than Arya herself, as loathe as she was to admit it. He should have been leading the hunt with Father, and yet he had been forced to stay behind, all because his name was Snow. The whole notion of bastardy was absurd anyway, and all the Lannisters were puffed up pricks for being offended.
"I know it makes you angry. It makes me angry too. I don't understand why all those people care so much about a stupid name. And Father and Amma shouldn't be so unfair! Who cares if the bloody queen takes offence? What about her offending our family? You're just as much a Stark as the rest of us."
Jon, to his credit, let her finish her words, though he was no longer looking at her.
A muggy sort of silence filled the room, stifling and thick.
"What if I'm not?"
Jon's voice was so low Arya was sure she'd misheard.
"What?"
He looked up at her then, his grey eyes almost black in the shadows. For a moment he studied her and opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again and shook his head. Finally, he said,
"I know about my mother. The one who gave birth to me."
Her sharp gasp stung the back of her throat.
"Father finally told you?"
He nodded.
"I don't—I don't wish to speak of her, but if you must know, that is why I might seem…off."
"Oh, Jon…"
He quirked the corner of his mouth in a ghost of a grin.
"So you see? You needn't worry, Arya."
Still, he looked so defeated, so sad, and Arya did not know what to say. What could she say? She did not know what it was to wonder all her life about the woman who had given her life.
Tentatively, she approached him, and to her vast relief he bent down again and pulled her into another embrace.
"You needn't worry," he said again, ruffling the back of her head. "Try not to burn the Red Keep down, would you? I'll miss you—I'll miss you, Arya."
She gave him a teasing pinch on his arm.
"I don't burn down buildings anymore. I'm more subtle now." He chuckled, and she sighed.
"I think I'll miss you more than anyone else, big brother," she whispered, "but I'll deny it if you tell anyone."
His hand gripped her a little tighter, and Arya felt herself laughing once more.
The next chapter might take a bit longer than usual. I have a...curious POV planned, and it might take me some time to get the feel of it right ;)
Update: Please see the new Character Glossary for this fic in my profile for an ongoing list of characters, including birth years.