Arya hated the carriage.
While large and comfortable, it was also stuffy, smelling overly of sweet perfumes and was filled with the chatter and the body heat of too many people. Ladies of noble birth all. Sansa could stomach it, but she'd always liked being a genteel lady and hadn't an issue with the arrangement. The community of hairs being braided and lordly gossips told with breathy notes of excitement brought Sansa right in her element.
But Arya did not enjoy this. Septa Mordane was in the carriage too, never letting Arya away from her stitching's and practicing the bells. She didn't want to be a lady. She wanted to be a warrior, a knight. The armored protectors of the realm, only she'd be a woman. Arya'd rather have been sent to foster on Bear Isle with the Mormont's than go to King's Landing. They would teach her to fight. Teach her to be strong, like the warrior queen Nymeria who subjugated Dorne, or Visenya Targaryen, the sister-wife of Aegon the Conqueror, who wielded Dark Sister as good as any man and rode the dragon Vhagar too.
Thoughts on dragons and Dark Sister brought Arya to Jon, her brother that now held a standard bearing a dragon and wielded that same Valyrian steel sword.
He didn't need a carriage. He was a man grown, big as the king. Father said he could be even stronger. He rode side-face to the carriage, Bran at his side. It wasn't fair. Arya should have been out there with them, taking in the sun and sights. Nymeria and Lady and Summer, the wolf pup Bran had finally named, were out there with him. Why couldn't she be too?
The carriage halted, horses rustling all around with harried noises. One of the Lannister ladies that liked to talk more than listen opened the blinds, letting low rings of sunlight into the carriage.
"What's going on?" she loudly asked.
"We've reached the Crossroads Inn," a voice Arya didn't know answered. One of the Baratheon men likely, or one of the Lannister ones. "The king has bought out the inn at the queen's request."
"How grand!" That same lady exclaimed, clapping the once. "Her grace treats us kindly. As does her husband, of course."
Arya was glad to have a new place to sleep, but she was angry too. Angry and disappointed. We're already at the Crossroads, she thought with a frown.
That meant she'd been shunted into that carriage for longer than she'd imagined. The Crossroads Inn was stood on the borders of the Vale, the Riverlands, the Crownlands, and the Westerlands, sat right next to the Ruby Ford, where King Robert killed Prince Rhaegar, where he bashed in the silver prince's ruby-gilded chest with his great warhammer.
Arya had looked over Maester Luwin's maps before they left Winterfell. The trip from Winterfell to King's Landing was meant to take a day or so over a month. The Crossroads Inn was three weeks into that month. She'd spent three weeks in that stuffy carriage, only allowed out to use the pot and sit at camp feasts.
Arya rushed out of the carriage the moment the door was unlocked, ignoring her septa's protest. There may or may not have been another lady she'd bowled over. She took in the air for what it was, clean and fresh and warm, and made for the Trident, the thick river that gave the Riverlands their name. Once Arya reached its shore, she splashed her face with green-blue water. It felt good.
"There she is," her father said, approaching from behind. He wore leathers today, and held a spear at his side. He only ever kept a spear when he meant to go hunting.
"Can I go with you? I'm good with my bow!" Anything to give her something to do. Her fingers still hurt from the other day when she'd pricked them with a needle after the carriage rocked heavily.
He smiled lightly, reaching down to pat her damp hair. "I'm afraid not, little one. Robert has asked me to be the only to join him for the hunt. Only us. Would that I could have you come with. We'll find things to do soon though, King's Landing is nearby."
"It's still too far," she frowned, sucking at her teeth. "I don't want to be stuck in the carriage anymore."
His smile turned strained, a thoughtful stare reaching the clouds. "That I can allow. Go find Bran, I'll allow you to bunk with him for the rest of the trip."
Giddily, she hugged her father. He patted her hair once more. They separated when a herald called for him. He went east, towards a small clearing of stone that sloped into the mountains of the Vale. There might be goats for him to kill.
Arya meandered through the Crossroads, looking through the gulf of people, searching for her brother. He wasn't anywhere, from what she could see. Bran wasn't outside, nor was he in. Nowhere she looked could she find her brother, nor could she find Jon or the direwolves.
But she did come across a nice boy of fourteen named Mycah, curly red hair and clear black eyes. He was the son of the inn's butcher. He showed her around and kept her entertained for a while. Then Arya saw that he had sticks he'd carved like swords hidden in a larder and she asked to spar with them. He'd not refused. This was to be loads more fun than anything she'd done since leaving Winterfell.
They found a small clearing that overlooked the river, a good mile away from the in, far enough gone from prying eyes. There, their battle began. Mycah was big and strong and had at least three years on her, but Arya was quick. For every hit he got in on her, she gave two more.
Many minutes passed, an hour at most. Arya's arms were purple with bruises, and she was happy for it.
Arya lunged her stick at Mycah, but then he cheated. He back up and grabbed it and whacked her fingers with his own stick. She cried out a dropped it, and a voice laughed from behind them. A horrified cry of "Arya?" sounded too. Female. Familiar.
Arya whirled around, taking in Sansa and Joffrey on a walk. They approached.
"What are you doing here?" Arya asked, annoyed. Though she loved her sister, she'd spent three weeks in the same place as her. Arya hadn't invited Sansa for a reason. "Go away."
"Your sister?" the prince asked her sister. Sansa nodded. He turned to Mycah. "And who are you?"
"Mycah, m'lord."
"He's the butcher's boy," Sansa said.
"He's my friend!" Arya retorted.
"A butcher's boy that wants to be a knight, ey?" Joffrey mused, taking his own sword out idly. Arya felt fear. "Pick up your sword, butcher's boy. Let's see how good you are."
"She asked me to, m'lord." He begged, noting well the live steel in the hands of the prince. "She asked me to."
"I'm your prince," Joffrey said with a dark tone. "Not your lord. And I said pick up your sword."
"Is not a sword, my prince. Is only a stick."
"And you're not a knight," Joffrey said, his sword slowly moving upwards until it touched at Mycah's cheek. "Only a butcher's boy. That was my lady's sister you were hitting; did you know that?"
"Stop it!" Arya exclaimed, looking on wildly. How could this have happened? Sansa remained quiet from behind, looking troubled. Arya was far more troubled than Sansa.
Joffrey bit his lip, looking amused. He pressed his sword into Mycah, a red line trickling down his cheek. "I won't hurt him… much."
It happened in an instant. Arya swelled indignantly and whacked Joffrey with all she had in the back of the head, her stick splitting as it let out a loud crack that echoed the clearing. He staggered and whirled around, roaring curses. Mycah ran for the trees as fast as his legs would take him. She swung at him again, but this time Joffrey caught the blow on his sword and sent her broken stick flying from her hands. She danced around as he kept swinging, sometimes barely escaping the edge of his sword. Then she tripped on her dress and fell to her back.
Joffrey stood above her, pointing his sword right at her neck. A black rage could be found on his face. "I'll gut you, you little cunt!"
Then a grey blur flashed past her, and suddenly Nymeria was there, jaws closed around Joffrey's wrist. His steel fell from his arms as the wolf knocked him from his feet, and they fell to the grass, the wolf snarling and ripping at the prince. He shrieked in pain. "Get it off! Get it off!"
Arya's voice cracked like a whip. "Nymeria!"
Her wolf let go of Joffrey and trailed by Arya's side. Idly, Arya scratched at her ear. Good girl, she thought. And while her thoughts were on Nymeria, they trailed farther gone. Nymeria had been with Bran and Jon. For her to be here now…
Her answer came quickly. From the trees, Jon appeared, Bran at his side. They were dirtied and sweaty, tree leaves littering their clothes like bandit poachers. They looked to have been training. Mycah was with them too. Summer and Lady trekked along their sides.
"What in the seven hells was that?" Jon asked, snarling. He approached boldly, grabbing the prince by his bloodied arm. Bran ran to her flank, helping her from the grass. He'd always been quick, her little brother.
"Ow!" Joffrey cried out, holding Jon's arm with his uninjured arm. Arya looked on with righteous amusement.
"What kind of man attacks a boy and girl for nothing?" Jon asked, his grip tight. "Challenges them and cuts at them for no reason? You threaten your betrothed's sister, how do you think things would have gone for you if you, what were the words? If you gut her."
"I'm a prince!" Joffrey said, looking wild.
"You know what happened to the last prince to act like this? Your father killed him and stood over the ashes of his kingdom. You already know Lord Eddard would go to war for family, for what happened to his father and brother and sister. What do you think he would do if you killed his daughter? What your own father would do?"
Joffrey scowled and ripped his arm away, scrambling gone. Sansa made to follow, but Jon stopped her. He held her and hugged her. Arya only then noticed the tears streaming her cheeks. He whispered something in her ear, and she said something back, and they kept a hushed talk.
Then Jon let go, and he turned to Arya. Everything that had just happened hit her hard then, how close she'd been to dying. She rushed at him and held him firm and had a hard cry. The wolves howled to mask her wails.
Ned watched as they approached with a worried grimace. Arya was a mess of splotchy red cheeks, Sansa barely holding. Jon had an arm on each of them, quietly talking into their ears. Bran was outside, keeping the direwolves calm. The butcher's boy was sat in a chair of chains in the middle of the room.
They were in Darry now, the keep of House Darry. The closest castle to the Crossroads, twelve miles south of the inn. Robert had appropriated Ser Raymun's audience chamber. The room was crowded, too crowded. With the king's men, Darry men, Lannister men, and Stark men all crammed into a castle far too small for them, tensions burned hot and heavy.
Robert slumped in Darry's high seat at the far end of the room, his face closed and sullen. Cersei Lannister and the prince stood beside him. The queen had a hand on Joffrey's shoulder. Thick silken bandages covered the boy's arm.
Ned and Robert had been hunting when a quarter score of Lannister men rode them over and told tale of Joffrey being mutilated. Robert may not have been especially caring for his son, for any of his children really, but he grew worried still and they made return without a catch. He'd not at all been happy to find the mutilation was just a wolf bite that hadn't gone deep, but Cersei had insisted for a trial. Robert did not fight her.
"Let's get this over with then," Robert grunted, waving a hand. Cersei had a dusky glare in her eyes.
"That girl and the butcher's boy attacked my son." She said, her tongue harsh and direct. Ned had once thought Cersei to have just been a highborn lady of the deep south that was given the chance to be queen, a spoiled thing that kept quiet and had children. That thought changed upon her stay in Winterfell. He now saw she'd much of her father in her, the cruel manner of speech he possessed. "That wolf nearly ripped his arm off."
"That's not true!" Arya said, looking defiant. Her defiance fell after a moment. "She just- bit him. A little."
Robert smiled awkwardly, unsure. There was a look in his eye, one Ned knew well. Regret and longing. Arya didn't look much like Lyanna, didn't have the black hair and dark eyes and lithe frame of her aunt, but their mannerisms were very similar.
"He was hurting Mycah," Arya continued. The red-haired boy nodded in his chains, unable to speak. He'd been gagged, Ned saw.
"Joffrey told me what happened," Cersei said. "You and that boy beat him with clubs while you set your wolf on him."
"That's not what happened!" Arya cried out.
"Yes it is!" Joffrey proclaimed. "They all attacked me and she threw my sword in the river!"
"Liar."
"Shut up!"
"Enough!" Robert roared, standing. He looked harried. Ned felt far worse. "He tells me one thing, she tells me another… Seven hells- what am I to make of this? Ned, bring your other daughter up. Now."
Quietly, he looked to his oldest daughter. Sansa's eyes were wide, her body shaking. She was having a panic. Jon bent down and whispered something in her ear, and her eyes widened further. She looked to him and shook her head. He nodded his back, and then mouthed a word. Ned saw it, understood it. Pack, Jon had said. Brother and sister held a stare that was broken only when Robert banged at an armrest. Sansa approached, skin reflecting a pale.
Robert pointed at the floor in front of him. She stood at the space. "Now, child. Tell me what happened. Tell it all, and tell it true… It's a great crime, to lie to a king."
Sansa looked left and right, lips wobbling. She seemed about to cry. Ned made to hold her, but then she shuddered and stilled, and stared right into the eyes of her betrothed.
"He almost killed my sister," she stuttered, and Ned felt a harsh pit grow in his stomach as the hall erupted in disbelieving shouts. The prince's face turned puce, and Cersei scowled. Robert's eyes narrowed, his hand held up. The hall quietened. "Explain," he said.
"Joffrey and I were walking, making to know one another, as an intended should do." Sansa began, and Robert nodded. Ned nodded too. "We came across Arya and… Michel?"
"Mycah," Arya corrected, looking wholly relieved. Her anger seemed to have abetted with her sisters backing. Or at least, it was better concealed. Arya kept her anger long, like her mother did. Ned remembered seeing a list of people she hated one time. Marks had been tallied by each name, showing a retaliation of some sort. Her septa and sister were most noted on this list. He never knew what she did. Didn't want to know, either.
"Mycah," Sansa nodded. "They were playing knights, hitting at each other with sticks. Joffrey and I, we approached, and Joffrey pulled out his sword and challenged Mycah. He'd only the stick, and he'd dropped it and pled mercy." She was still stuttery, but with each word her voice grew surer. "Joffrey cut at his cheek, and then Arya hit him in the back with her stick. He- he called her a- a filthy bitch, and then said he'd gut her, you little cunt. That was when Nymeria attacked."
Robert looked to be steaming, and Cersei's eyes were like wildfire, so enraged were they. Joffrey seethed in silence.
"Jon came up then," Sansa said, nodding to her brother. He approached, a hand on her shoulder. "He grabbed Joffrey and started asking questions."
"And what right do you have to question the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms?" Cersei asked Jon. Her look was both raging and hungry, and Ned knew not what that meant. He didn't like it though, that much he knew.
"Because she's my sister," Jon said. He'd dropped the my queen and your grace. "My questions were more reminders than anything. I just asked him what happened the last time a prince of the realm acted in his manner."
"You threaten him."
"Yes." Jon nodding, admitting his action easily enough. Ned would have cheered him had his bluntness not been so dangerous. Lannister men shuffled from behind, hands meeting hilts. "Had he done as he threatened to do, I'd have killed him. Hung him by his entrails and paraded him through the streets. I'd do that and worse to anybody that killed my sister, or any of my brothers and sisters."
"And you'd-"
"Be right," Robert declared with a sigh, slumping back into his chair. Cersei whirled around on him with that same rage. It was building like a water dam ready to spill. "Joffrey, stand before me."
The prince moved with a stilted gait, holding his wrist wincingly. Robert stood, and looked over his son. Then he nodded shortly and punched the prince so hard in the gut that he hurled out his midday meal along with a spittle of blood. Cersei screamed. Arya grinned.
"I've been too lenient with you," Robert said balefully. He kicked Joffrey in the side, and the boy cried out in pain. Fat or not, Robert had not lost his strength. The room was silent as they watched on. Cersei had to be held back by the Kingslayer. "Far too lenient. Let you traipse your mothers' silks, keeping to her men. I thought it fine enough at the time. Well, we see what that's gotten us. Near kill Ned's daughter? The daughter of my best friend? The sister to your betrothed? No, I won't allow it. I won't have it! I may not care much for being king, but I'll not sully that throne with such cruelty again. Ser Mandon!"
"Your grace?" the knight of the Kingsguard asked. He approached from behind Cersei. A dull man that knew only how to swing a sword and take orders.
"Make ready a horse, you'll be taking this shit to Casterly Rock come the morrow." Ser Mandon Moore nodded and stalked off, leaving a heavy tension in his wake. "Say what you will about my good-father, but Lord Tywin knows how to make people competent. I meant to have Jon's son ward under him, did you know Ned? He's my namesake, Robert Arryn. It's only right that I take care of him. But now… I'll give the Old Lion something else. Joffrey's to be his squire till Tywin thinks him ready. The matter of inheritance will be decided later."
"You cannot do this!" Cersei shouted, thrashing from within her brothers' arms. "I won't have it! I forbid it, Robert! Do you hear me?!"
Robert turned to her, a grim, mocking turn in the curve of his lip. "Enjoy your night with our son, my queen. Who knows when you'll see him next?"
Sansa slept fitfully, tossing and turning randomly and regularly. Her day had been a trying one, her betrothal strained and likely finished along with many of her southron dreams. Arya had been taken by her sister's defense, and so allowed herself to be Sansa's sleeping mate. They were cuddled together beneath sheep's wool covers, taking comfort in one another's company.
Jon watched them from the corner of the room, tending to the fire. The apartment they'd been given in the inn was not a large thing, but neither was it small. Two beds of fair size sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by stone-bricked walls and wooden dressers. Bran was by himself in the second, smaller bed.
When they'd first arrived at the Crossroads, Jon had done his due and grabbed this room for himself and his brother before another could claim it. He was to have the larger bed and Bran the smaller. Then, just before their father went hunting, he was informed that Arya was to stay with them for the rest of the week. And with Sansa's own struggles it felt wrong to not have her with her siblings. She'd a hard day.
'tis fine, Jon thought without inflection. I am well used to this.
He did not mind sleeping without simple comforts. Valyria hadn't had any feather beds, nor did the Children's hovel. The Kingshouse did, but Jon hadn't felt comfortable taking space from Drystan Magnar, liege lord or not. He'd eventually returned to Acorn, in the new, temporary hovel the Children built into the eastern shore of Skagos, where he could see Ash grow and build a forge.
Outside the inn, dogs began to bark and howl. Jon looked to the window for a moment and approached, his curiosity getting the better of him. He opened the window and let the cool night air into their stuffy room. The howling grew louder, Nymeria and Lady and Summer's voices added to the mix. It was a loud and lonely sound, full of melancholy and despair.
A splotch of flickering red caught Jon's eye, and he craned his neck towards the light. Fire, he saw. A fire was burning through the larders of the inn, where farm animals were fed and watered and butchered when ready. And it was not just the dogs that were panicking, traveling nobles and knights were making to throw buckets of water on the burning building, to little effect. It had been a dry week, and the larder wood echoed that by how easily it caught afire.
Turning around, taking in his sleeping siblings, Jon made his choice. He rushed out of the room, locking it from behind, and made for the rooftop ladder. When he stood atop the flat of the stone roof, Jon sucked in his breath and focused his mind.
"Lok… Gram LUV!"
Sky. Cloud. Cry.
The silent overhead boomed with noise, clouds darkening and rolling in on one another, conjoining in a mass that soon bled an uncountable number of water droplets. The rain hit hard and fast, extinguishing the flame at a steady pace, quickened by the cheering men that worked even harder, loudly praising the Seven and the Old Gods as they did so.
Jon nodded, feeling satisfied, and made to return to his room. That Thu'um was one his own inventions made during his stay in Valyria, the dull totality of the Brand-ridden landscape having brought his mind to dark places many a time. Jon could not remove the Brand, nor could he allow light or rain through the Dome. But the sound of rain pattering against the Dome's roof brought him an uncanny calm, dashing his worries. He knew not why, and he cared little as to the why. It did, and Jon felt better for it.
The rain would last a good few hours, he knew. Time that was best spent asleep.
Only, Jon could not sleep. Not now. Not when he stared at his open room door, the door that he knew he'd locked from behind. Worry rose in Jon, for the only other person meant to have his room key was the innkeeper, and Jon had spotted the man at the larder. Worry soon turned to panic, and Jon rushed at the room
"TIID KLO UL!"
The blue sheen the inn took as Jon twisted time to his mercy felt right. The flickering flame from a nearby torch turned reminiscent of rippling water, a slow movement that held pattern, but was normally to quick to see.
Jon rushed into his room, and rage overtook him. A small, dirty man in filthy brown clothing stood over Arya, a dagger of rippling steel near to plunging her neck. Had Jon been a second off, his sister would have been dead.
Jon rushed the man, tackling him into the wall, moving quicker than anybody outside of his realm could comprehend. The dagger fell away, floating against his sister's bedframe, and Jon gave in to the rage of the dragon, the fury that was the Dovahsos. He beat the man like a training dummy, his fists heavy and unrelenting, roaring his throat hoarse all the while.
When time resumed, his siblings awoke to his enraged screams. They turned over, and saw Jon burying fist after first into the face of a man that could not be recognized, a corpse at this point. Sansa screamed a loud, shrill thing, and Jon stilled, his anger cooling in an instant.
He jumped away from the man, looking at his work. He'd not gotten a good look at the man, and now nobody would. The face was purple and bloody, skull caved in. Whatever made this man a man could not be seen any more.
Jon turned towards Arya. She stared at the body with a disturbed sort of fascination, shaking through she was. He approached, and she shuffled away. Shame coiled in Jon, but he did not deter. He reached his hand past her body and grabbed the dagger hilt that was embedded into the wooden bedframe. Arya's eyes widened at it, and then the wide-eyed fear Jon expected came. She stared at the knife inches from her pillow, then at the man, and then at Jon, and understood.
With an inspective look, Jon took in the dagger. Valyria steel, with a curved dragonbone handle. It wasn't one of the daggers Jon had brought along, too Westerosi in design.
That brought a new question in Jon, one that worried him greatly.
Who would give a cutthroat a Valyrian steel dagger?