chap 2

crooked

Sansa's stitch was crooked.

She frowned at the beginning arch of the blue thread and loosened it before she began anew. Slower. She glanced at Arya in the corner alone, jabbing through the fabric with a frown longer than her face. Threadwork was a practice in patience. A skill Arya lacked. Sansa wanted to say slow down, but she knew how that would come across.

Arya would raise her voice at her and then accuse her of being haughty before she ran off to Father or Jon.

She favors him more than me, Sansa thought. Jealousy stuck to her insides like poisoned honey to think about her half-brother. She and Arya were supposed to be sisters. Mother once told her that she and Aunt Lysa were inseparable growing up, and little Beth Cassel had a sister who was younger than Rickon and she was always talking about the words she taught her and how she brushed her soft hair every night. Sister was just a word when it came to Arya and her.

Maybe she and Myrcella would be better sisters. Sansa studied the younger girl who had graced their needling sessions. Her stitches were just as crooked as Arya's, but Septa Mordane kept encouraging the princess with gentle platitudes. She didn't even make her go back and re-stitch, unlike how she treated Arya, and Sansa on the rare occasion.

"I think the prince likes you," Jeyne Poole whispered in her ear.

Sansa turned to brighter thoughts.

Technically, there were two princes. Sansa knew Jeyne meant the handsome one. The gallant one. Joffrey.

Sansa blushed. She hadn't let herself presume such, though it gave her a thrill to have her hopes stoked, especially by Jeyne, who had already had her first kiss and was very pretty.

"He did compliment my dress," Sansa said. She kept her voice low to avoid attracting Septa Mordane, who thought idle chatter was common.

"And he couldn't take his eyes off you all night. He was watching you." Jeyne smiled.

Arya cut in before Sansa could answer. "What are you talking about?" she asked.

Jeyne gave her sister an appraising look, then giggled. "The prince."

Arya's raised eyebrows made Sansa squirm on her wooden stool. Arya was too young. She didn't know anything about princes and ladies and true love.

"Why were you talking about the prince?" Arya asked.

"Joffrey likes your sister," Jeyne answered before Sansa could. "He's going to marry her, then she will be queen of the seven kingdoms." Her voice took on a dreamy tone. Sansa wondered if Jeyne imagined herself at Sansa's side as a lady-in-waiting gainfully matched with a handsome Southron lord.

Arya snorted. "Are you soft in the head, Jeyne?"

"What do you know, horse-face?"

Arya flushed before her brown eyes flashed. "I know that Joffrey doesn't like Sansa. He spent last night talking to his sister. I bet he doesn't even remember your name."

Sansa gasped. Septa Mordane rose from the princess's side. She fixed her starched skirts. "Arya," she said harshly, apparently having heard the tale end of the conversation. "Apologize to your sister this instant."

But Septa Mordane might have had more luck making a Martell bend. Arya glared around the room before she dropped her stitching and ran out of the room. Sansa closed her mouth and gripped her silver needle. Silence flooded the room, coating them all until Septa Mordane cleared her throat.

She apologized to the princess for Arya's rudeness. Then, she asked. Her bony face creased. "Where is the Princess Perseide?"

Sansa noticed the absence with a small start. Where was the Princess? The royal party had been with them for only two days, but Sansa realized the Princess had never joined her or Arya. So far, it had just been the Princess Myrcella sweetly joining them. She hoped she hadn't caused her some great offense.

Myrcella smiled uncertainly as all eyes turned to her. She played with her hands. "My sister is likely at practice with the boys in the yard."

Sansa felt the second gasp climb in her throat. She pressed her lips tight together.

Jeyne Poole did not carry the same sense of shame. "The princess practices with boys? Won't she be hurt?"

"Er, I have never seen my sister lose," Princess Myrcella said. Her cheeks reddened.

"By your leave, my lady," Jeyne said. She put down her work. She didn't wait for a response from Myrcella or Septa Mordane. She walked out of the room, and Sansa knew where she was going.

She followed after her, for once forgetting her manners.

Sansa caught up to Jeyne. Hooking her thin arm through hers, they arrived red and breathless at the covered bridge between the armory and the Keep. They were not alone. Jon Snow and Arya were there settled on the ledge, too engrossed at the happenings below.

"Is that Perseide?" Sansa asked, edging closer to get a better look.

Both Jon and Arya shushed her loudly.

Below them were thuds and groans.

Sansa spotted the younger boys waiting at the sidelines patiently for their turn. The sight of Bran made her smile. Their brother, a needle of a boy of ten, was weighed down by his padding. He toddled where he stood. Tommen looked no better. He was more feathered pillow than prince.

The older boys, Theon Greyjoy and Robb Stark, wore considerably less padding. They each had a dulled sword in hand, fighting against the Prince Joffrey and Princess Perseide.

Perseide looked nothing like a fair maiden. She was sweaty from the bout, moving forward confidently, and Sansa thought smartly, taking on Theon. She was light on her feet and fast and vicious in her attacks, like a rushing creek over stones.

Theon glared meanly at her. "We aren't dancing at some damned ball. Fight me!" he said, clearly growing more frustrated as Perseide landed more attacks and evaded others.

Joffrey was different from his sister. It seemed to Sansa that he thought of his attacks rather than thinking on his feet. He dodged more than Perseide, striking when he was close to Robb, willing to take more hits if it meant closing the distance. They were evenly matched. Both her brother and Joffrey breathed heavy and hard.

Robb shoved Joffrey in the dirt, his sword at Joff's belly, just as Perseide shoved the tip of her sword underneath Theon's chin.

"Enough!" Ser Rodrik, master-of-arms, roared. "Well-fought." His claps echoed in the yard. "We need to have the young boys have a turn if we ever expect them to be knights."

The younger boys eagerly set onto the courtyard. Sansa was still watching how the princess offered a conciliatory hand toward Theon, but he waved her off. He headed in the opposite direction. Joffrey stood, and he looked to go in the same direction before Perseide touched his arm minutely.

"I have to go and talk to her," Arya said, bouncing. Nymeria followed at her heels. "Theon's not an easy opponent. He's beaten Jon plenty of times."

"Hey!" Jon said, messing with Arya's hair. Arya swatted him absently. "Once or twice is not plenty of times."

"You're the best swordfighter," Arya said. "Then Theon and then Robb. I can't believe her Father lets her fight." Her eyes gleamed in wonder. "Mother won't be able to argue if I tell her that the princess is allowed to fight. I have to talk to her."

Sansa took that back. Arya knew about love when it came to fighting. Of course, she would love Princess Perseide because Arya named her dog Nymeria. The warrior queen of the Rhoyne. She wanted to be a fighter, not be a lady.

"I'm coming with you," Sansa said. She glanced at Jeyne. "You can return to Septa Mordane and tell her I'll be along shortly."

Arya darted between them. She hurried down the long wooden bridge, down the creaky wooden steps, to the first floor. Sansa followed at a slower pace.

"Perseide!" Arya greeted. "Do you have your own sword? What's its name? Does your Father, the King, let you compete in tourneys? I've never heard of a lady knight before-"

"Arya. Breathe," Sansa said.

Breathe. It was worth remembering. Up close, Perseide was the type of beautiful who turned heads and started wars. Sansa heard Cersei Lannister was the most beautiful woman in the seven kingdoms, and Sansa believed it when she first saw the queen step lightly from her great carriage. She had an ice beauty to her. Her daughter followed in her footsteps. She had to be the most beautiful girl in the seven kingdoms. Even when she was sweaty and covered in dirt and grime.

Perseide raised her black eyebrows, blinking rapidly. She broke into an awkward laugh. "Percy will do. No one calls me by my full name unless I'm in trouble. As for your other questions, let's see: I do have a sword; its name is Riptide; and I'm no knight. I do this for sport. So, I've never thought to ask Father to compete in a tourney."

"You should." Arya pressed. "You're really good."

"Thank you, my lady," Percy said.

"I'm no lady," Arya said. She did a stiff little bow, stumbling over her words. "I meant. If you're just Percy, then I'm just Arya."

Percy nodded. "Arya, then."

"Can you teach me how to fight with a sword?" Arya asked. Sansa noticed the tips of her ears were as red as winter cherries. "Mother won't let me because I'm a girl, of course. But if you were to teach me, then she couldn't say anything against it. At least, she won't in front of you."

That was true. Mother was exceedingly polite and observed stations. Anything she wanted to say, she would keep to herself and paste on a genial smile.

"Er, I don't know how good of a master I would be," Percy said.

Arya wore her disappointment out in the open.

"But I suppose while I'm here, you could join me for some of my morning practices. You can use wooden swords–"

Arya opened her mouth to protest. Percy finished her thought.

"It isn't because I doubt your skill. Swords are heavy, and if you haven't practiced, I doubt you could lift a tourney sword like this one with blunted edges. A wooden sword is good practice until you get stronger and your footing is correct."

Arya nodded. Sansa bet Arya would be slower at this, eager to be correct. She glanced furtively at the Prince off to the side, watching the younger boys drill with a bored expression. She wished he would come over here and save her from this conversation.

As if hearing her thoughts, Joffrey looked up, directly at her. Sansa felt as if her heart would rip from her chest. He smiled, and she smiled, and he began to walk over. Sansa hooked her long red hair behind her ears, running through scenarios with his first acknowledgment. Did she congratulate him on fighting bravely and well? Perhaps she did not mention it all because he had lost to her brother.

"My ladies. Sister," Joffrey greeted them with a charming smile. "I don't want to watch our baby brother lose poorly."

Sansa spared a glance at the boys. Tommen had fallen, and Bran was making a sport out of whacking him on his feathered behind. Sansa coughed to hide her giggle.

"Mother will be expecting us for dinner," Joffrey continued. "And she hates when we show up-"

"Slovenly." Percy frowned. "Yes. I've heard the speech a thousand times." She rolled her blustery green eyes before settling on them again with a tight smile. "I'm sorry to cut this short. I look forward to seeing you bright and early on the morrow, Arya. Lady Sansa."

The princess knew her name?

Joffrey and Perseide walked close together in the opposite direction.

Sansa didn't take her eyes off them until they disappeared from view.