I couldn't find where the direwolves were kept and I can't go through the season 1 episodes again. On the show, when Jon comes to Arya's room to give her Needle, Nymeria is there, so they are inside Winterfell. I assumed the Direwolves sleep in the kennels, even if they are somehow separated from the regular dogs.
I couldn't find where the direwolves were kept and I can't go through the season 1 episodes again. On the show, when Jon comes to Arya's room to give her Needle, Nymeria is there, so they are inside Winterfell. I assumed the Direwolves sleep in the kennels, even if they are somehow separated from the regular dogs.
Ned Stark waits for the Septa's assurance that Arya is still a virgin before going to Sandor to thank him.
Arya
Arya sat on the edge of the bed swinging her legs. She looked up at the ceiling, counting the beams from window to door while Maester Luwin poked and prodded and tried to figure out if there was anything wrong with her.
She stood up and sat down and coughed, and did everything he asked because both her parents were in the room. And they did not look happy. Or even relieved that she was home.
She let out a long sigh and rolled her eyes when the Maester got to her ankles. She'd had worse scrapes and bruises when she tussled with Nymeria, but judging by her mother's stern look, saying that would have probably made things worse.
"She's fine, my Lady," Maester Luwin said. "I'll put some balm on her scrapes to help heal the skin, and I'll come again tomorrow to see if there are any signs of a cold."
"Thank you, Maester. I'm going to check on Bran," her mother said.
Lady Stark threw her a look that promised a long and unpleasant talk later on, and stormed out of the room. Arya had to suppress a laugh when she saw the look her father got. He was going to have a long and unpleasant conversation about why Arya was allowed to go hunting in the first place.
She didn't like the deep crease between her father's eyebrows. Why was he still worried? Both of them were fine. So, Bran was going to limp for a while, but he had been worse. Until he grew wings, they were going to have to get used to him getting hurt from time to time.
When the Maester finished, Arya jumped off the bed. Her father put a hand on her shoulders.
"Sit down," he said.
He walked after the Maester to the door, and after he left, he ushered in Septa Mordane.
Arya's eyes widened.
"What? Why?" she asked, but her father left the room and closed the door behind him.
"Lay down on the bed, child," the Septa said.
"Are you kidding?" Arya asked, spluttering. "What in the seven hells…"
She couldn't find words to express her outrage and bewilderment.
"I don't want to call your father back in, but I will if you don't lay down."
She did as she was told. She squeezed her eyes shut to hold back the tears of shame and anger.
Her cheeks burned. This was so unfair! No one would have put Bran or Robb, or any of the other boys through something like this.
The Septa's hands were cold, her movements precise. She gritted her teeth while the old woman touched her in places Arya only touched when she washed herself.
"It's all right, child," Septa Mordane said. "You can get dressed now."
To Arya's surprise, the Septa kissed her forehead before leaving the room.
Sandor
The Prince was happy that his Dog had found the girl, although he couldn't care less about her. He was a petty boy, enjoying a petty victory. His Dog was better than the Northerners. Big fucking deal. But he didn't sneer at the reward of Lannister gold from the boy. Nor to his offer to take a few hours off to sleep after his heroic behavior.
The Hound retreated in the stables, certain that the four idiot boys would make sure he was not disturbed, following Arya's commands.
He prided himself that he understood how the world worked, and he hadn't thought he could be surprised by the lies people told themselves. That girl also understood how the world worked; she just refused to accept it.
It hadn't been his first sleepless night, and most likely it was not going to be his last, but Sandor was sure it would always count as one of the strangest. Even if he met dragons, white walkers or gods, he would still count Arya Stark as one of the strangest creatures he ever met.
He closed his eyes and relished the dry, clean hay. The noise and smell of horses were familiar and soothing. He was drifting to sleep when his senses alerted him to an intrusion.
He was surprised to hear the heavy boots coming straight toward him. Those fucking morons hadn't kept watch. He opened one eye, while his hand moved to the hilt of his sword. He stood up fast when he recognized the man in who had approached him.
"Lord Stark," he said, bowing his head a fraction.
"Sandor Clegane. I owe you a debt of gratitude for bringing my daughter back safely."
He held out a bag of coins that looked twice the size of what he received from the Lannisters. He looked Eddard Stark in the eye as he spoke.
"I don't mean to offend, my Lord, but I didn't do it for any reward."
"I had offered none. Take the gold, and know that you will always be welcome at Winterfell."
He accepted the money diffidently. He didn't like to get involved with highborns. At least he knew what cunts the Lannisters were. Eddard Stark reached up and wrapped an arm wound his shoulders, pulling him down into an awkward brief hug.
"You're a good man," he said, then swiftly walked away as if he was embarrassed by the display of weakness.
Sandor lay back in the hay, shaking his head. Family. Maybe it meant more than a name for some people.
Arya
She was still seething after the examination. Why were people so stupid? She wondered if her father had put her through this if one of his bannermen had found her.
The soft knock on her door jolted her out of her pondering. Her face lit up when she opened the door to see Jon Snow. She hugged him, and he held her in his arms longer than usual. When he finally let go, his gaze was dark.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"I'm leaving tonight with uncle Benjen."
Her heart froze. With uncle Benjen. Jon was going to the Wall.
"Jon, no. You… you… can't."
'… leave me. You can't leave me.'
Her voice broke. The words choke her.
"I have something for you," Jon said.
The skinny sword he brought her was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She held back the tears until the door closed behind him. She could break bones and not shed a tear, but Jon's leaving broke her heart in thousands of tiny pieces.
She didn't go to the feast that evening. Throwing food at Sansa in front of her precious Joffrey held no appeal.
She wondered about the courtyard, silent like a ghost, keeping to the shadows, away from people. Why did Jon have to leave? No one understood her like Jon.
She went to the kennels, to hold Nymeria. Burying her face in the direwolf's fur would help. But Ghost was there, too, and he was too much part of Jon. She changed direction and went to the stables instead. She liked sleeping in the hay.
There were so many new horses there since the King had arrived. Arya wondered if she would recognize his horse. When he had first rode in, she'd been too fascinated with the helmet, then with his scars, to pay any attention to the horse.
She was about to lay down in the hay when she heard his voice.
"Did you bring more ale?"
She started.
"I didn't know I had to bring ale," she said in a squeaky voice.
The man sat up, and Arya wondered how could she have missed his massive body laying in her favorite spot. If he hadn't spoken, she might have well sat on him.
"I thought it was one of the stable boys. They got it into their head that they have to be polite to honored guests."
Good. So, they had heeded her commands.
"I'll go bring you some," she said.
He waved a hand dismissively. "No need. I've about as much as I can handle. Folks have been real nice to me since I brought you back."
"Did I thank you?"
"No."
"I should."
"You look like you're at a funeral. Why aren't you inside, enjoying the feast?"
"Why aren't you?"
She sat down next to him.
"What's eating you, girl?"
"How do you say goodbye to someone you love?"
He shifted, trying to look at her.
"What are you talking about?"
She sighed, and hung her head.
"My brother is leaving for the Wall. I'll probably never see him again."
He seemed to consider his words.
"You have to respect his choice. It's a great thing he does. The Night Watch has an important mission."
"Would you join?"
"I'm pledged for life to the Kingsguard," he said.
He thought about it. Being a White Cloak wasn't all that different than taking the Black. Mostly just the weather. Scuffles with wildlings instead of skirmishes with bandits. They hadn't even had a minor rebellion against the King in years.
"But if you hadn't?" she insisted. "If you could choose now, would you go?"
He shrugged. "Why not? It could be right for someone like me."
And what choices did he have anyway? Kingsguard, Night Watch, sell sword or brigand.
"What would you do?" he asked. "If you were a boy."
"The Free City of Braavos," she said immediately. "Just think about it. Free City. Founded by slaves. Run by free people."
"Find a way to tell me if you ever go there," he said.
She heard the smile in his voice. She heard warmth, not mockery.
"I promise," she said.
And meant it.
Sandor
A few days later, at King Robert's insistence, another hunt was organized. The Queen sent word to him that the crown prince was not feeling well, and he would not be attending the hunt. He took the prince's horse and his back to the stables and decided to go to the training yard. His archery skills were pretty shit and this seemed like a good time to put in some practice without people watching him.
He wasn't the only one to have that idea. In the middle of the yard, Arya Stark was training. It was a generous assessment for what she was doing. It didn't look like anything he'd been taught. It sure didn't look like any of the ugly, efficient moves he used in brawls.
He had to admire her determination. And her fearlessness. She was one with her tiny blade. He smiled to himself. The thin short blade was perfect for her, and judging by how she held it, it must have been well balanced, too. Someone had put a lot of thought into that blade.
"Are you going to laugh at me or help me?" she said turning to look at him.
"Are you any good with that?" he asked, pointing at the bows.
She put the sword in its sheath and placed it neatly on a table. She chose one of the smallest bows and one arrow, then came next to him. She took aim and fired the arrow straight through the center of the target, on the far side of the yard.
"Pretty good," she said.
"I'll help you with the sword if you help me with the bow."
She looked him straight in the eye, trying to figure out if he made fun of her. He was wondering why he'd done it, wondering if he could turn it into a joke, when she pointed with her chin toward the bows.
"Show me."
He managed to hit the target, but barely. She brought him another arrow, and made a few small modifications to his stance. He was about to pull the bowstring when she stopped him. She arranged his fingers on the other side of the arrow. It was unsettling to see her slender fingers next to his. To feel her fingertips on his skin again.
She placed her palm over his hand and looked into his eyes.
"When you pull it back all the way, don't hold. Let the arrow go immediately."
"What about aiming?"
"No aiming. You have to know where you want the arrow to end up when you start drawing the bow string."
He did as she said, ignoring the ghostly sensation of her fingers on his. The arrow hit the target an inch closer to the center.
"Good," she said. "It took me months of practice to see that much improvement."
The problem with real combat was that you either got a shit lot better very fast, or you died.
"What were you practicing earlier? Didn't look like any sword fighting I ever saw," he said.
"I found a book from Braavos. They don't fight like us. Not with armors and big swords. They're fast and nimble and can kill you as soon as look at you."
Braavos again.
"I don't know about that. I can show you about fighting in Westeros."
A few hours later, they were both tired and hungry. Arya led him to her hidden corner of the kitchens and started messing about with the chair. She took off the seat and got a book out.
"No one ever looks for me here," she said. "I can read in peace here. I'll go get us some food."
It took her four trips to the larder to get everything. He occupied his time looking over the book. It was about Braavos. He flipped through it, and his eyes caught on some pages more than others. He wasn't a fast reader, so he didn't get very far by the time Arya had filled the table with chicken, mutton, cheese, bread, and wine.
He thought she might have exaggerated with the quantities on his behalf, but she started to tear through the food like an angry wolf. The sound of bones breaking under the table alerted him to the presence of the direwolf. Arya fed it bones as soon as she cleaned the meat off them. He put away the book and started eating, mildly worried she and her wolf would finish everything before he had a chance to eat.
"What do you know about the Freys?" she asked suddenly.
He winced at sound of the name. He'd met Walder Frey. Even by his low standards for nobility, the Hound had been disgusted by the cowardly, lecherous old man.
"Not much," he said. "Old house. Not much for fighting. Good strategic position. Why?"
The girl's jaw clenched and she put down the drumstick she'd been enjoying up to that point.
"I heard my parents talking. They want to marry me to one of them."
He put down his own food. What could he tell her? They both knew it would happen sooner or later. He was a little surprise by the Starks choice. He would have expected them to choose another Great House for their daughter.
"They wanted one of the boys, but my parents don't want a Frey to be born into the Stark name and have a solid claim to Winterfell."
Whatever reasons the Starks had to want an alliance with the Freys, they were making sure that whatever children resulted from that marriage would have the weakest claim to the North. They were sacrificing their youngest daughter for the good of their House.
He watched her grit her teeth, hating there was nothing he could do for her.
Arya
They spoke once more before he left. Arya was all cried out after Jon's departure. She had no more tears to shed for this stranger who had somehow become important to her without even trying.
He looked for him the night before they left.
"I want to give you something," she said.
"I have something for you, too," he said.
He looked big and serious. She would always be grateful for the way he had treated her. He hadn't mocked her confessions about wanting to do boys things. Hadn't laughed at her for practicing with Needle. He took her seriously. Talked to her like an equal.
She scrunched her nose a little. His big brown eyes looked even sadder than usual. She was sad but she didn't like to see him sad.
"Me first," she said.
She pulled out the needle she had stuck in the hem of her tunic, took out a small magnet from her pocket, and showed them to him.
"Let me show you how it works."
She demonstrated how to magnetize the needle. She placed it on a leaf, placed the leaf on the water and the leaf turned around in the water.
"It points to the North. This way, you can always find your way back to Winterfell."
Sandor
"Thank you," he said, taking the needle and the magnet from her hands.
He had thought that his gift was significant, but now he was almost embarrassed to give it to her. He had spent too much time around Lannisters
"You can use any needle, and any magnet," she said. Just remember how to do this, and you'll get here."
He reached into his pocket and handed her the bag. He had combined the coins he got from the Lannisters and from her father.
"I got them for bringing you home. Use them if you decide to go to Braavos."
She looked at the bag in her hand, and at him with big round eyes. The usual response to gold was greed or gratitude or both. Not tears sparkling like diamonds in a girl's eyes.
He watched her leave, knowing he would never see her again.
He packed his things for the trip back to King's Landing, thinking that he should have learned more about the world. He knew that Braavos existed, but not much else.
He wished he could ask the Imp about it. He was the one with his nose in a book whenever he didn't have his face in a cup or his cock in a whore. But Tyrion Lannister had gone North, to see the Wall.
A city founded by slaves.
A Free City.
The mere words plucked a chord in his cynical soul.