Arya

Arya's stitches were crooked again.

She frowned down at them with dismay and glanced over to where her sisters Joana and Myrcella sat among the other girls. Their needlework was exquisite. Everyone said so. "Joana's work is as pretty as she is," Septa Mordane told their lady mother once. "She has such fine, delicate hands, she and Myrcella." When Lady Cersei had asked about Arya and Genna, the septa had sniffed. "Arya has the hands of a blacksmith. Genna the hands of a bear."

Arya glanced furtively across the room, worried that Septa Mordane might have read her thoughts, but the septa was paying her no attention today. She was sitting with the Princess Cassana, all smiles and admiration. It was not often that the septa was privileged to instruct a royal princess in the womanly arts, as she had said when the queen brought Cassana to join them. Arya thought that Cassana's stitches looked a little crooked too, but you would never know it from the way Septa Mordane was cooing.

She studied her own work again, looking for some way to salvage it, then sighed and put down the needle. She looked glumly at her sisters. Joana and Myrcella was chatting away happily as she worked. Genna, who looks like Sansa in so many way with her golden hair and matching eyes, but the only difference is their weight. Genna looks like if she could be King Roberts daughter with their mother, having a few extra stones, almost as wide as a small sword, who would work fast to leave and go to the kitchen for lemon cakes. Beth Cassel, Ser Rodrik's little girl, was sitting by their feet, listening to every word she said, and Jeyne Poole was leaning over to whisper something in her ear.

"What are you talking about?" Arya asked suddenly.

Jeyne gave her a startled look, then giggled. Joana looked abashed. Myrcella had a plucky grin. Genna began to twirl her hair. Beth blushed. No one answered.

"Tell me," Arya said.

Jeyne glanced over to make certain that Septa Mordane was not listening. Cassana said something then, and the septa laughed along with the rest of the ladies.

"We were talking about the princess," Joana said, her voice soft as a kiss.

"Cassana has become quite smitten with you Stark girls," Jeyne whispered, proud as if she had something to do with it. She was the daughter of Winterfell's steward and Joana's dearest friend. "She told me that she enjoyed your presence. She's also in love with your brother Bran."

"He's going to marry her," little Beth said dreamily, hugging herself. "Then Bran will be king of all the realm."

Joanna had the grace to blush. She blushed prettily. She did everything prettily, more so than Genna and Cella, Arya thought with dull resentment. "Beth, you shouldn't make up stories," Joana corrected the younger girl, gently stroking her hair to take the harshness out of her words. She looked at Arya. "What did you think of Princess Cass, sister? She's very beautiful, don't you think?"

"Jon says she has big ears," Arya said.

Joana sighed as she stitched. "Poor Jon," she said. "He gets jealous because he's a bastard."

"He's our brother," Arya said, much too loudly. Her voice cut through the afternoon quiet of the tower room.

Septa Mordane raised her eyes. She had a bony face, sharp eyes, and a thin lipless mouth made for frowning. It was frowning now. "What are you talking about, children?"

"Our half brother," Joanna corrected, soft and precise. She smiled for the septa. "We were remarking on how pleased we were to have the princess with us today," she said.

Septa Mordane nodded. "Indeed. A great honor for us all." Princess Cassana smiled uncertainty at the compliment. "Arya, why aren't you at work?" the septa asked. She rose to her feet, starched skirts rustling as she started across the room. "Let me see your stitches."

Arya wanted to scream. It was just like Joanna to go and attract the septa's attention. "Here," she said, surrendering up her work.

The septa examined the fabric. "Arya, Arya, Arya," she said. "This will not do. This will not do at all."

Everyone was looking at her. It was too much. Joana was too well bred to smile at her sister's disgrace, but Jeyne was smirking on her behalf. Even Princess Cassana looked sorry for her. Arya felt tears filling her eyes. She was about to leave, before Princess Cassana spoke up, "If I may, I think I know how to help her."

She sits next to Arya and asks, "You fancy swordplay more than needlework, correct?"

Arya nods in shock that she was so obvious. Cassana admits, "I'm not that different, truthfully."

This took everyone by surprise. Septa Mordane looked like she was about to collapse, while Arya's sisters and their friends were dumbfounded. She continues, "I could never get my needlework perfect, at least to mother's standards. Then one day I met the Mormont's of Bear Island. The She-Bear, that's what father called Lady Maege, noticed that I was having trouble with my needlework when she went to visit me and her daughters. She then showed to me this scar she had gotten in a fight, and explained that needlework of all things saved her from bleeding to death. I don't know why, but that inspired me. I'm afraid it won't help you, but I thought you should know."

The princess walked with Arya afterwards. They began to talk about some of things she never said out loud when the princess asked. Her sisters had everything. Joana and Genna were two years older, and Myrcella by two minutes; maybe by the time Arya had been born, there had been nothing left. Often it felt that way. Joana and Myrcella could sew and dance and sing. Genna wrote poetry. Joana knew how to dress. Myrcella played the high harp and the bells. Worse, they was beautiful. Even Genna was beautiful, in her strange way. Joanna and Genna had gotten their mother's fine cheekbones and the curly golden hair of the Lannisters. Arya and Cella took after their lord father. Her hair was a lusterless brown, while she had a creamy sheen, but their faces were long and solemn. Jeyne used to call her Arya Horseface, and neigh whenever she came near. It hurt that the one thing Arya could do better than her sisters was ride a horse. Well, that and manage a household. Joanna had never had much of a head for figures. Genna could only remember if she pretended the numbers were cakes.

Nymeria was waiting for her in the guardroom at the base of the stairs. She bounded to her feet as soon as she caught sight of Arya. Arya grinned. The wolf pup loved her, even if no one else did. They went everywhere together, and Nymeria slept in her room, at the foot of her bed. If Mother had not forbidden it, Arya would gladly have taken the wolf with her to needlework. Let Septa Mordane complain about her stitches then.

Nymeria nipped eagerly at her hand as Arya untied her, as well as the princesses. She had yellow eyes. When they caught the sunlight, they gleamed like two golden coins. Arya had named her after the warrior queen of the Rhoyne, who had led her people across the narrow sea. That had been a great scandal too. Joana, of course, had named her pup "Lady." Myrcella and Genna had gotten lion cubs, which they named "Sweet Tooth" and "Maiden." Arya made a face and hugged the wolfling tight. Nymeria licked her ear, and she giggled. Nymeria looked at Cassana, and began to lick her too.

By now Septa Mordane would certainly have sent word to her lady mother. If she went to her room, they would find her. Arya did not care to be found. She had a better notion. The boys were at practice in the yard. She wanted to see Robb put some gallant squire flat on his back. "Come," she whispered to Nymeria. She got up and ran, the wolf and princess coming hard at her heels.

There was a window in the covered bridge between the armory and the Great Keep where you had a view of the whole yard. That was where they headed.

They arrived, flushed and breathless, to find Jon seated on the sill, one leg drawn up languidly to his chin. He was watching the action, so absorbed that he seemed unaware of her approach until his white wolf moved to meet them. Nymeria stalked closer on wary feet. Ghost, already larger than his litter mates, smelled her, gave her ear a careful nip, and settled back down.

Jon gave her a curious look. "Shouldn't you be working on your stitches, little sister?"

He spots the princess, and bows respectfully, but she tells him to rise. Arya made a face at him. "We wanted to see the fights."

He smiled. "Come here, then."

Arya climbed up on the window and sat beside him, to a chorus of thuds and grunts from the yard below.

To her disappointment, it was the younger boys drilling. Bran was so heavily padded he looked as though he had belted on a featherbed, and Tom, who was plump to begin with, seemed positively round. They were huffing and puffing and hitting at each other with padded wooden swords under the watchful eye of old Ser Rodrik Cassel, the master-at-arms, a great stout keg of a man with magnificent white cheek whiskers. A dozen spectators, man and boy, were calling out encouragement, Robb's voice the loudest among them. She spotted Theon Greyjoy beside him, his black doublet emblazoned with the golden kraken of his House, a look of wry contempt on his face. Both of the combatants were staggering. Arya judged that they had been at it awhile.

"A shade more exhausting than needlework," Jon observed.

"A shade more fun than needlework," Arya gave back at him. Princess Cassana adds, "I agree." Jon grinned, reached over, and messed up her hair. Arya flushed. They had always been close. Jon had their father's face, as she did. They were the only ones. Almost every Stark child all took after the Lannisters, with emerald eyes and gold in their hair. When Arya and Myrcella had been little, she had been afraid that meant that she was a bastard too. It been Jon she had gone to in her fear, and Jon who had reassured her. Myrcella used to as well, but she developed into a beauty like Joana.

"Why aren't you down in the yard?" Arya asked him.

He gave her a half smile. "Bastards are not allowed to damage young squires," he said. "Any bruises they take in the practice yard must come from trueborn swords."

"Oh." Arya felt abashed. She should have realized. For the second time today, Arya reflected that life was not fair.

She watched her little brothers whack at each other. "I could do just as good as Bran," she said. "He's only nine. I'm eleven."

Jon looked her over with all his sixteen-year-old wisdom. "You're too skinny," he said. He took her arm to feel her muscle. Then he sighed and shook his head. "I doubt you could even lift a longsword, little sister, never mind swing one."

Arya snatched back her arm and glared at him. Jon messed up her hair again. They watched Bran and Tom circle each other.

There was a shout from the courtyard below. Tom was rolling in the dust, trying to get up and failing. All the padding made him look like a turtle on its back. Bran was standing over him with upraised wooden sword, ready to whack him again once he regained his feet. The men began to laugh.

"Enough!" Ser Rodrik called out. He gave Tom a hand and yanked him back to his feet. "Well fought. Lew, Donnis, help them out of their armor." Theon Greyjoy gave a sudden bark of laughter. "You are children," he said derisively.

Jon watched them leave, and Arya watched Jon. His face had grown as still as the pool at the heart of the godswood. Finally he climbed down off the window. "The show is done," he said. He bent to scratch Ghost behind the ears. The white wolf rose and rubbed against him. "You had best run back to your room, little sister. Septa Mordane will surely be lurking. The longer you hide, the sterner the penance. You'll be sewing all through winter. When the spring thaw comes, they will find your body with a needle still locked tight between your frozen fingers."

Arya didn't think it was funny. "I hate needlework!" she said with passion. "It's not fair!"

"Nothing is fair," Jon said. He messed up her hair again and walked away from her, Ghost moving silently beside him. Nymeria started to follow too, then stopped and came back when she saw that Arya was not coming.

Reluctantly she turned in the other direction.

It was worse than Jon had thought. It wasn't Septa Mordane waiting in her room. It was Septa Mordane, Cella, and her mother.