The next chapter will be a combination Bran/Rickon.
Arya Stark – Part One
Left, left, right, left, right, right, turn, left, left.
Arya ducked, avoiding the oncoming sword and twirled behind her attacker, bringing her sword to his neck, "Now you're a dead boy."
Jon pushed away from her, panting, and turned to face her, his grey shirt sticking to him, "Nicely done, your dancing lessons have served you well."
She curtsied, sword in one hand and smirked, "I'm a better fighter than you and Robb."
One intense stare met another, steely greys that nearly mirrored one another. Jon shook his dark curls away from his face, wiping the sweat from his brow, watching Arya as she turned away from him, fighting an invisible enemy. She could feel his eyes on her back as she jabbed and ducked, twirling away from an invisible blade.
It had been Jon who had first taught her to fight, carrying her into the Godswood where two wooden swords awaited them. Later, it had been Jon who had begged their father to let Arya learn how to wield a thin sword he had commissioned for her, a sword she had named needle and slept with nearly every night. She had him to thank for Syrio.
She had filched the swords they were using now from a pair of drunken Iron born soldiers after dinner.
He came closer, reaching out for her, his hands heavy on her shoulders as he gently pulled her near. She held her breath, waiting; something had changed in the air. He turned her slowly, staring down at her with hooded eyes.
His voice was hoarse when he spoke, "Being better than your brothers will not be enough Arya. If you are to come with me, you need to be the best. Do you understand me?"
She nodded, silently, staring up at him with a fierce determination on her face.
"Hide these in your room," he nodded towards the swords, "I can't bring you Syrio, but I can help you practice. We need to leave soon Arya."
"I'll be good Jon, I promise."
She leapt at him then, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck as she pulled him close. She heard him say into her ear, relaxing a bit as he lifted her from the ground, holding her tightly against him.
She would be good for him.
xXx
She'd half expected to see Baratheon ships appear on the shoreline at any moment. Surely someone must have told the King that they had survived. But the days past one after the other without a sign of a Bolton or a Baratheon or any other noble house that aligned with them. Perhaps, the Frey's had, after all, kept their word.
They were safe at Pyke, though Arya feared she would die of boredom. Robb spent most of his time locked up in private with Asha or Theon, sometimes both. Even Jon was forced to attend these meetings, keeping tight lipped later when he would seek her out. Bran and Rickon explored the island on horses specially fit for them and Sansa spent most of her time in their shared room, working on her embroidery.
Arya felt the worst for her sister. Iron born women were not proper ladies, not like the woman of Winterfell or even the South. No, like Arya, Asha and most of the women preferred pants and tunics, weapons strapped to their sides. It had taken two days time for a new dress to be procured for Sansa and it had been so plain and ill-fitting she had almost cried.
Normally Arya would have rolled her eyes at this, but she felt the ice around her heart melt ever so slightly for her sister. All her life Arya had been an outcast in Winterfell; she knew how Sansa hurt now, an outcast amongst the other woman.
She tried to stay with her, comfort her, but the room suffocated with her sadness and Arya found herself fleeing, seeking sunlight and fresh air she would not find on the damp, overcast island.
She walked the perimeter of the castle, ignoring the damp chill that seemed to have settled to her very bones since they arrived. Up ahead a tall, dark figured leaned against the wall. She contemplated turning in the other direction, but she was a Stark and Stark's feared no one.
A closer look yielded a familiar face.
"Well if it isn't little Arya Underfoot," Theon cooed, his voice dripping with sarcasm as his eyes surveyed her.
They had never gotten along, even as children. Though ten years her elder, Theon had held a hostile hatred towards the girl ever since she was old enough to speak. Constantly pulling pranks on him, scolding him, treating him as an inferior. She had hated him just as thoroughly, as she watched him talk down to Jon, boss around little Bran who only wanted to spend time with the big boys and leer after the women, even her own mother. They had been constantly at odds, pulling Robb into things, making him chose. Every time he chose his sister, it was a sharp slap in the face to Theon, so desperate to fit in with the Starks. And when he would chose to spend time with his friend, over his wild little sister, it would push her further away from him and closer to Jon. It was always a push and pull between the two.
But, she was a guest in his home now, and biting her tongue, she greeted him as politely as possible, "Theon," she said with a slight bow of her head.
He was smirking widely, as if he knew something she didn't and couldn't wait to tell her.
"Have you enjoyed my home?"
She wanted to tell him she hated it, but kept quite, nodding briefly in his direction.
His smirk grew wider still, "Don't grow use to it little girl, I don't think you'll be here long. Your brother seems to agree."
She briefly wondered if he had overheard her and Jon talking, but they were so careful it couldn't be, that could only mean – "Robb is taking me with him? Is that what he told you?"
Perhaps her eldest brother was starting to come to his senses.
She realized this assumption was wrong as Theon broke out into hearty laughter, clutching his sides, "You really think your brother, the Lord of Winterfell, would bring a little runt to battle? Be serious, you're a girl."
"I could beat you!" She hissed, her cheeks flushing red.
His laughter cooled, the hatred replaced on his face, "The only thing you'll be fighting off is the advances of your husband and his filthy relatives."
Her stomach dropped.
Theon was good at reading people and read the confusion on her face quickly, "You mean you don't know then? You're meant to be a Frey, don't you know that?"
The passage across the Twins. The curious stares. Robb's avoidance of her. It all made sense now.
"Shut up stupid, you don't know anything."
"Lady Perwyn Frey; that's what we'll be calling you soon. A fifteenth sons wife, a nobody. Won't be so high and mighty then will you bitch? No longer a lady of Winterfell, no longer anybody!"
"SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!" Arya was screaming herself hoarse now, fighting back the tears blinding her eyes.
"Lady Frey, has a ring to it." His voice was taunting, playing over and over in her head. A nobody.
The sound of foot steps behind her revealed they were no longer alone. She turned, her two eldest brothers coming closer through her blurred vision.
"Arya what's wrong?"
Jon. The traitor. He must have known, Robb told him everything. Their plans, all their practice and planning, just a rouse to keep her spirits up when all along he knew she would be married off and taken away.
"I hate you!" She screamed, her voice loud, accusing, as she shook with rage.
Robb reached her first, grabbing her by the shoulders, "Calm down Arya, you're acting crazy."
"GET OFF OF ME! I HATE YOU!" She wrenched free from his grip, shoving off him and turning to run, glad she was no longer stuck in her dress.
Behind her their footsteps pounded, following her as she ran for the gates, leaving the castle behind. They were fast, but she was faster, small and lithe and able to quickly gain distance on them. Before long the shore line grew closer and their footsteps disappeared.
She stopped, out of breath, by the rocks that littered the shore, climbing over them and wedging herself down into a flat area, with a little overhang. Her tears came then, hot and accusing on her cheeks, the first she had cried since they had left home. Robb and Jon were liars, and traitors. She hated Theon Greyjoy. She hated the Pyke and the Iron Islands. She wanted Nymeria and her father's comfort, her mothers soothing touch. She wanted home.
"Don't cry little one, the world isn't going to end. Not today."
She straightened up, startled at the strangers voice, looking around. From around the corner of the rock came Asha Greyjoy, dirt streaking her face she must have just come from riding.
"My brother is a bully and a cock, don't listen to him."
The older girl sat down beside her, letting her hair fall freely from her plait.
"I hate them all," Arya breathed out at last, staring down at her hands.
Asha nodded, "Fuck 'em then. Men only want you for two things little girl, a good fuck or a good deal. You'd do well not to forget that."
"I won't marry a stupid Frey. I won't marry anyone."
Asha smiled slightly, "Perhaps you have a bit of iron in you after all little one. If you don't want to marry, you have to leave. You understand that don't you? They'll make you go, chain you up in pretty dresses and send you off to the Twins, to an old man who will come to your bed every night to lay with you."
Arya flinched at her words.
"But how?"
"I can help you."