"My Lady, Lord Tyrion and Lady Sansa invite you to break your fast with them this morning."
Arya lifted her gaze from a map on the table to look at the small boy in front of her. Red flush crept up his freckled face when her eyes met his, but the boy had the tact to keep his chin up.
"I've already broken my fast. And I've told you not to call me 'my lady'."
For a small woman, she had a fierce appetite. She'd broken her fast first thing upon waking before going to the Godswood to train. Afterward she'd enjoyed a blackberry tart. Dancing was hard work, and after her days begging for scraps in Flea Bottom she'd found a new appreciation for food. Sansa could keep her finery, Arya preferred butter and steel.
"Lady Sansa said you would say that. She told me to tell you that there will be honeyed walnuts and ham." Arya narrowed her eyes. Who does she think I am? I won't be called to hand with treats like a hound. "And Lord Tyrion requested the baker make bread and apple-cream custard."
Clever little bastard. "Very well. Tell them I'll be up shortly."
"I will, my lady."
"Pod, how many times do I—"
"Sorry, my, ah…"
"Arya. My name is Arya."
"Yes, of course. Sorry, my Arya."
She sighed. "Off with you."
The boy turned and scampered out of the gatehouse. I should try to be kind to him. He was a good lad, she knew. His father had died fighting during the War of Ice and Fire, but not before begetting one of the whores in town with child. His mother had died giving birth to him, but not before sending word to Lord Tyrion of the boy's patronage. The Imp had insisted the boy be taken into the castle. It made Arya sad to look at him sometimes, just as it did the many children in Winterfell who were left without parents after the dead came. For all the differences between them, Sansa made a good Lady of Winterfell. She had insisted an orphanage be built to house all of them, and personally saw to it that they were clothed, fed, and properly trained. Her mother had been a good Lady, too, but what she lacked in compassion, Sansa made up for ten-fold.
She stopped by the smithy on her way toward the castle to see about the sword she was having made for her lieutenant, Cam. He'd made quick work of training new boys and she wished to reward him. The only gifts Arya ever gave were weapons. One eye closed, she peered down the length of the blade, then deftly flipped it and balanced it on her index finger. It tipped stubbornly blade-side, and her brow furrowed. "Balance is off, and it's a bit heavy. Take in the fuller." The smith looked disappointed, his dark mustache turning even more downward. She gave him a grin to ease the sting, "It's going to be perfect though, Ben. I wouldn't have asked you if I didn't think it would be."
"Aye." He agreed, taking back the blade.
Walking into the Great Hall, she was greeted by the smell of ham and bread, and the sound of her brother-in-law chastising a serving girl.
"Don't you know the only good eggs are ones paired with Dunk and those with runny yolks? Sweet wife, tell the girl how I despise hard-boiled eggs."
Sansa, beautiful in a simple, high-necked woolen dress in a warm blue, rolled her eyes in feigned exasperation, but offered a kind smile to the girl. "Forgive him, Jenny. He is never more a lion than when he's left waiting for breakfast."
"I disagree, sweetling, there are certain times I am ever the more lion—"
Arya cleared her throat.
"Ah, there's the delay." Tyrion rose from his seat. "I was afraid you may be watching your figure."
"Hello, Tyrion." She took the seat across from them, plucking a hard-boiled egg from the plate. "I rather like hard-boiled eggs. Make for easy eating." She cracked it on the side of the table and began to worry at the shell.
"There's no point in easy eating or easy love-making, I always say."
"You keep on with that, and your custard bait will be for naught."
"Thank you for coming," Sansa interjected. "You were longer hunting than I'd thought. We were beginning to worry."
Arya picked a piece of shell off her tongue and flicked it away. "There's been a sounder of boar tearing up the farmer's fields. I killed one just south of here and the rest scattered. Took two days to track them."
"Boar-hunting can be dangerous work. I hear their tusks are very sharp." Tyrion put a piece of bacon in his mouth and grinned sheepishly.
"Nah, only if they stick you. Caught this one in the mud. Easier than killing squirrels." She sucked at a tooth and seemed to avoid his eyes.
"There was a raven from Dragonstone while you were gone." Sansa informed her. "Jon sent an envoy this way."
"An envoy?" Arya tossed aside the rest of the egg. "What about? Why couldn't he come himself?" Her brother hadn't been back to Winterfell in years, not since Prince Eddard had been born.
Tyrion and Sansa exchanged a look that caused Arya to frown. "Sansa, what about? Has something happened?"
"Nothing has happened, Arya. There are certain…matters that need to be discussed."
"Matters." Arya didn't care for the sound of that, or the way her sister wouldn't meet her eye.
"Matters regarding the heir to Winterfell."
"What does that have to do with Dragonstone? Or me? It was at this moment she realized her sister's blue eyes, which looked so much like her Mother's, had filled with tears. Startled, she sat up straighter in her chain. "I don't understand."
"We…Tyrion and I… have struggled, as you know," Arya knew very well. Her sister had had difficulty conceiving in the years following the war. Twice they had succeeded, but both times the pregnancy was lost before she even began to show. Townspeople whispered that the dwarf may be sterile.
Tyrion laid a hand gently on Sansa's. She composed herself and looked up at her sister, strong and sad. "Maester Sam fears that it may not be possible. That the last time may be the last time."
Arya didn't know what to say. She never knew what to say in matters like this. She could talk about killing and war, but more sensitive matters alluded her.
"I…I'm sorry." She said awkwardly. "I'm so sorry. But I still don't understand."
The Imp was the one who finally came out with it. "The North needs an heir if it's to hold together, Arya. And since your sister and I seem unlikely to produce one, that leaves only one option."
Tyrion looked almost ashamed as he said it, which made Arya even angrier. Her cool grey eyes bored into his mismatched ones as she realized what he was saying. Her jaw clenched and she forgot the sympathy she'd felt just moments before. "No." Was all she said.
"Arya—"
"No." She repeated. "When I agreed to stay, it was as Commander of your Castle Guard. I will leave Winterfell before I let myself be wed and bred."
"Arya, it wouldn't be like that." Sansa argued. "You will have the final choice in the matter, but if the Starks—"
"Oh, will I have the final choice?" She scoffed. "Can I marry Pod then? Or how about the fool Blockwing? He's always singing about cocks, I wonder what his is like."
"It is not as simple as that!" Sansa groaned, putting her fingers over her eyes. "You know what this means. You know we have to secure the North, the kingdoms are still fighting civil wars, and the only way to do that is with a marriage with a noble lord and an heir. I know you don't like this, Arya, but this is serious."
"I'm serious!" Arya snapped. "You think I worked as hard as I have to be given up to some lord? I killed people to get back home, Sansa, and it wasn't so I could be a fucking lady."
"Mother would want you to—"
"I don't care what mother would want, she's not here. This isn't a discussion. My answer is no."
"Father would be ashamed of you!" Sansa shouted. Arya stood at that, just as the serving girl brought in the bread-custard. Arya knocked it from her hands, sending it flying across the hall, along the windows and onto her own doublet.
"Do not bring father into this." Arya growled.
Sansa and Tyrion had both risen to avoid an onslaught of cream. Tyrion eyed the sisters uncertainly, as though he was unsure whether he should leave or separate them.
"I will not waste my life on being someone's wife. On being someone's mother. I'm more than that." Arya hissed.
"And I'm not?"
"I'm not you, Sansa! It's what you've always wanted since you were a little girl, I never wanted—"
"It IS what I've always wanted." Sansa seethed, and the fury in her eyes caused Arya's mouth to snap shut. Sansa prowled toward her then, and for the first time in her life Arya felt fear of her own sister. Sansa towered over her, blue eyes full of anger and something else, "Don't you think I hate this as much as you? Don't you know how it tears me apart knowing I can't do this, but you can?" Her eyes were full of tears and hate and Arya was afraid Sansa might strike her. "You aren't better than me. You've always thought you were, but you're not. You're scared no one will want you, not even your own child. You're so scared you'd ruin your own family over it. You'd let Winterfell disappear in the snow, after all we've sacrificed: Mother, Father, Robb, Rickon, Bran, all of it would be for nothing!"
"I won't do it." Arya whispered, the strength gone from her voice. There was something in what her sister said that made her feel like an angry, sad child. She hated feeling like a child.
"You have to." Tyrion spoke. He had been silent until then. "I'm sorry, Arya. We both are. But everything depends on this."
Arya's own eyes stung as she looked at Tyrion, his face a mix of apprehension and sympathy. It made her sick. She looked back to Sansa, who had turned back to the table, shoulders shaking softly. Arya was silent for a long time before she finally spoke, "This envoy." She said through gritted teeth. "Does it come from the Vale? I will not marry Robert Arryn."
Sansa took a deep breath and smoothed her skirt before turning to look at her sister. "No," she replied. "It's from Storm's End."