Arya let out a sigh of satisfaction, as she dropped her spoon into her empty bowl, and sat back, patting her full stomach. Every drop of her oxtail soup had been drained, and she could not help the smile that rose on her face after consuming such a delicious meal.
Glancing around, she saw Rickon eyeing the last piece of oatbread, a mischievous look in his eye, and Arya knew he was waiting for his chance to pounce and claim it for himself. He may have been small, but he was quick.
Bran's spoon clattered in his cleared bowl just moments after Arya's did. It was as if they were always competing against each other. At swordplay. At games. Even mealtimes had turned into a competition of who could scoff down their food the fastest.
Jon gave her a smile when her eyes met his, and she could see Sansa nibbling demurely on her slice of warm oatbread, savouring the tangy taste of dates, apple and orange, in between chattering to Robb.
One by one, her family finished their meal and sat back to relax for a couple of minutes before going about their daily lives.
"Bran, I had a very interesting conversation with Old Jeyne this morning," Arya heard her mother say.
Her little brother's face instantly turned white, and Arya could not blame him. Old Jeyne had a nasty habit of complaining about all the children who lived around here. She didn't like how they spoke, she didn't liked how they acted, and she certainly didn't like the fact that they existed. The wizened, old woman thought that children were a blight upon the earth, but Arya thought the exact opposite was true. Old Jeyne was definitely a blight upon the earth, if Arya had ever seen one.
"What did she want, Mother?" Robb asked, rolling his eyes slightly. He knew what Old Jeyne was like too.
"She wanted to inform me of an incident a few days ago in which it sounded like a herd of goats were being chased to the slaughter across her roof," Catelyn said, a faint hint of amusement in her tone even though she was attempting to be stern. "Her words, not mine."
Robb and Jon let out snorts of laughter, and Arya saw Bran stuff a fist in his mouth to keep from giggling. Sansa did not look quite so amused.
Catelyn cleared her throat, and suddenly the laughter stopped. "From now on, keep your feet on solid ground," she said, focusing her eyes on her son for a second before turning to glance at Arya. "That goes for you too, Arya. I highly doubt Bran was alone in this."
"Yes, Mother," they replied meekly in unison. They knew better than to argue with her to her face, although they might still occasionally disobey her behind her back.
Catelyn stood up and began to gather up the bowls, with Bran and Rickon helping to pass them up, before heading to the kitchen.
When Arya raised her grey eyes to gaze out the window, she saw Sansa staring at her, an utterly superior look on her face, and a slight smirk threatening to appear on her lips. That irked Arya no end. As far back as she could remember, her older sister had always taken intense pleasure out of any situation in which Arya got scolded. Indeed, Sansa actually managed to get Arya in trouble a lot of the time as well.
In a flash, she stuck out her tongue at her older sister, knowing how much Sansa hated it when she acted unladylike. Though why Sansa felt the need to act like a lady in this part of town was beyond her comprehension.
Sansa's face twisted in disgust. "Is it your mission to make me vomit up my food?"
The boys seemed to take that as their cue to leave and shuffled from their seats, heading quickly for the open doorway, not willing to sit in the crossfire between their two sisters.
"And here I thought I was being discreet in my intentions," Arya retorted before rising to follow her brothers out of the house, wanting to get away from her sister before she lost her temper entirely which was a common occurrence where Sansa was concerned. Arya was four, she remembered, when she had realised that she and her sister should never occupy the same space for a lengthy period of time. It only led to insults, hair-pulling, and more scolding than Arya had the stomach for.
Just as she reached the doorway, Arya heard her mother call her. Unwillingly, she turned back around and waited for her to appear, aware of Sansa's eyes on her the entire time.
"Arya," Catelyn said, "I need you to stay inside today and help with the mending. Beth and Mylessa will be coming over, so you girls can keep each other company while I head to the market."
The young girl felt her stomach churn. Beth and Mylessa were nearly as annoying as Sansa. An afternoon sewing with them would be one of true horror. Groaning internally, she nodded her head. It wouldn't be fair to leave her mother with all the mending, though the gods knew Arya was useless it. Thankfully, the boys had learned not to complain about her stitches, unless they had a deathwish, and Sansa always fixed her own clothes and their parents' clothes, so she never had to fumble with her needle to try and get those mended neatly.
Sneaking a glance at Sansa, she saw that her sister's face mirrored her own, an overwhelming expression of dismay marring her perfect features.
Unfortunately, that didn't make Arya feel even an ounce better about being trapped in a confined space with her all afternoon.
Frowning in concentration, Arya slipped the needle in and out of the grey fabric of Bran's breeches. She stilled the needle for a second, sweeping a stray strand of uncooperative hair behind her ear. Glancing at her stitches, Arya once again was reminded that she was utterly useless at sewing. Indeed, she had already stabbed herself twice that afternoon, and it wasn't as if her stitches had been worth the effort. Arya got the feeling that Rickon would be better at needlework than her, and that was saying something.
Sighing, she shot a quick glance at Beth and Mylessa. They were giggling and gossiping to their heart's content at the other side of the room, ignoring Arya entirely. No doubt their stitches were perfect, she thought bitterly. The two girls were nearly as good as Sansa. Arya was trailing so far behind them in skill that she wasn't even sure if they were in the same race.
Sansa had vacated the room twenty minutes ago in order to find a book that Mylessa must read immediately, and she hadn't returned since. In that amount of time she could have walked to the market and purchased a new book. Arya resented her sister for deserted her and leaving her in the company of these two imbeciles. Knowing that listening to their inane chattering for one more second might cause her to explode and leave her guts lining the walls, Arya decided to be a dutiful hostess instead.
She hopped up and set her sewing down. "Would you care for some drinks?" she asked the other two girls.
Mylessa looked up from her conversation, seeming startled by Arya's interruption. "Oh, that would be lovely," she said, giving a sweet smile that Arya knew was faked.
The young girl practically sprinted for the door and sighed with relief the moment she entered the quiet, empty kitchen. For a few seconds, she contemplated jumping out the window and going to find Gendry, but she knew her mother was counting on her, so instead she stole a small piece of lemon cake and sat down at the kitchen table, savouring every last delicious bite.
After a few minutes, she felt a lot better, ready for round two of trying not to murder anyone with a sewing needle. It only took her a few seconds to pour some drinks and make her way back into the hallway.
She stopped still when she heard snippets of Beth and Mylessa's conversation seeping through the walls.
"Do you think their brother will make an appearance today?" she heard Beth ask.
"Robb?"
"No. Jon," Beth replied, her tone suddenly warmer.
Mylessa merely laughed. "Honestly, Beth. He's a bastard of a bastard. You cannot get more lowborn than that. Mother would never allow such a match anyway, especially now father's shop is doing so well. Soon, we may be moving to one of the richer districts, and then we can leave these Snows behind in the dust."
Arya's hand was twitching to slap her. She hadn't felt this strong an urge in quite some time. Gritting her teeth, she decided to listen to a little more.
"Are you sure they're bastards?" Beth asked.
"Their last name is Snow," Mylessa pointed out, an exasperated air to her voice.
"I know," the other girl replied, "but they don't act very lowborn, especially Sansa. I'd almost swear that she's of fine breeding."
"She certainly thinks she is anyway," Mylessa scoffed.
Beth left out a nervous laugh. "Well, she's better than the other one anyway."
Arya knew they meant her, and she gripped the goblets of water so tightly in her hand that she thought they might break. Her knuckles were white, and it was taking all her strength not to go in there and teach them not to talk about her or her family that way. Jon didn't deserve it, and Arya had to admit that, as annoying as Sansa was, she didn't deserve to be spoken about like that either.
"Well, obviously," Mylessa said, laughing, "Arya has a face like a horse, and we both know the gods didn't grant her a nice personality either."
Having heard quite enough, Arya began to move down the hallway, anger flushing her face pink. She hadn't even moved half a step when she felt a hand rest on her shoulder, as if to stop her. Startled, she jumped, and liquid flew out of the goblets, flying all over the walls, falling down to create a puddle on the floor, and dripping down the front of her dress.
With wide eyes, she turned around to face Jon who had a grave look on his face. The girl's face immediately softened at the sight of her favourite brother. The boy laid his hand on her right shoulder. "Don't do anything stupid, little sister," he said.
"But they said-" Arya protested.
"It doesn't matter," Jon interrupted. "Their father owns the only apothecary around here. What happens if one of us gets sick, and he won't serve us because you beat up his daughters?"
"I...," Arya trailed off. "I hadn't thought of that."
"You need to start realising the consequences of your actions, Arya," he said, giving her a small smile. "Now, go outside and play. I'll make your excuses to those two idiots."
"Thanks, Jon," Arya said, giving him a smile, before depositing the goblets in the kitchen, and rushing out into the bright sunlight of the afternoon.
Seeing as it was still a little too early to meet up with Gendry, Arya decided to head to the marketplace to see if her mother needed some help carrying the groceries home.
The marketplace held a delicious aroma of spices and freshly baked goods that made Arya's mouth water. As she wandered around the stalls, she took her time to view the wares the merchants had out on display, glancing at this and that. She found an abundance of interesting items from ruby encrusted swords to books about daring adventures. The merchant with the swords eventually chased her away to get rid of her. Wistfully, she dreamed of the day when she had a sword of her own, instead of playing around with a wooden stick.
Turning the corner, she found a sizable group of people occupying the market square. Strangely, they all seemed to be huddled around, chattering at looking at some sight Arya couldn't see.
"What's going on?" she asked a man standing close to her.
"It's the prince, girl," the man replied, giving a strange look to the juice stain on her dress.
Arya smiled her gratitude before moving on, a slight embarrassment tingeing her cheeks as she glanced at the stain on her dress. She had completely forgotten to change before leaving the house. It was far from unusual for her to wander around town in dirty breeches, but as she was meeting her mother in a stained dress, Arya knew there was a slight possibility that she might be given out to for her dirty appearance. Hopefully, Catelyn would let this one slide.
The crowd seemed very enthusiastic about this prince, and Arya couldn't for the life of her understand why. Her last encounter with a royal had involved a lot of burping on his part, and the king sending a lot of strange glances in her direction. The young girl was more than keen to avoid a repeat performance.
Slipping through the sea of people, she overheard one man speak. "He'll make a good king. I can't wait for the day when he takes the throne."
"Oh, yes," the man's companion replied, "When he discovered that my daughter was ill with the Bloody Flux, he brought medicine to my house straight from the castle Maester's wares. He'll be a true 'King of the People'."
Continuing her journey through the crowd towards the Fishmarket stalls where her mother surely was, Arya felt the throng of people begin to disperse. People had work and homes to get to, she supposed.
As the amount of people in the square lessened, Arya snuck a glance towards the area where everyone's eyes were avidly trained. Curiosity had bit her, and she wanted a peek of this prince.
Raising herself up on her tiptoes, she finally saw the face of the 'Prince of the Seven Kingdoms."
In a moment, she felt her mouth go dry, her cheeks burn, and her stomach do a flip so hard that she felt it might actually escape.
"Gendry...," she whispered, unable to move to a muscle. She would recognise that messy head of hair anywhere. It was only when his bright blue eyes, even brighter in the sunlight, locked with her grey ones that Arya snapped out of her reverie and fled.
Gendry called after her, a mixture of panic and desperation in his voice.
His voice echoed in her ears long after she had left his sight.