It had not taken him long to find her that morning. He wouldn't call his sister predictable, necessarily, but she had certain routines when she was angry and he could only imagine the rage she felt upon learning she'd be taken from Winterfell, the home she'd always known, and dragged to the capital to be paraded about in silk dresses until she could secure a suitor. He thought it quite fortunate the dummy target that found itself on the receiving end of her ire could not bleed. Even Nymeria, barely more than a pup, tore into the base of the target, letting loose her most fearsome snarls.
"Who -" Jon fell silent as she spun around at the sudden noise, one of her wooden blades slipping from her grasp and thudding painfully against his ribcage. Someone else may have rushed to his side with frantic apologies, checking to see that he had not been grievously wounded, but Arya gave him a look that screamed 'that's what you get for startling me'. He bent to retrieve it for her, ignoring the ache in his side that would surely bruise. "Whose face is it you were envisioning?"
This was not a question he usually need ask. Most days it was Sansa and the rest it was Robb, but the disheveled top of a broom lay discarded at her feet and he did not suspect the yellow straw was coincidental. "Kingslayer," she grunted, confirming his suspicions.
"I don't expect Father will allow you a sword in the capital," said Jon.
Something far removed from anger flashed across her face. His sister had never wanted to be a lady, not even as a child. For as long as he could remember, she'd had dreams of being a knight. To pick up a sword like her father and go off to battle. To leave Winterfell and go South was the death of that dream and he could see the pain of that loss etched into her every feature. "No," she said. "I don't expect he will. D'you reckon the Night's Watch would make an exception for me?"
"Give me a few years to become the Lord Commander and I'll make it so," he promised.
Relief washed over him as she cracked a smile, finally taking her practice sword back from him. "I could be a ranger like Uncle Benjen," she said. It wasn't a knight, but it would do - especially when the alternative was marrying some fat little lordling and spending the rest of her years popping out heirs. "I'll hunt wildlings and Nymeria can hunt shadowcats."
"Uncle Benjen says there's a wildling who keeps one as a pet," said Jon.
"Varamyr Sixskins," she recited. Arya remembered all of the stories her Uncle told her about beyond the Wall in great detail. The wildling was a skinchanger, able to warg into three different wolves, a snowbear, a shadowcat, and an eagle, earning his moniker. Arya could only imagine what it would be like to warg into Nymeria - to see what she saw, to feel what she felt. She thought perhaps it best she couldn't as she didn't think she'd ever want to be herself again after.
Jon watched as the sadness crept back over her face. "I'll miss you," he told her, but that only seemed to make things worse as she dropped both of her practice swords in favor of embracing him, burying her face in his chest to hide the tears that were threatening to fall. He wrapped his arms around her quickly, pulling her impossibly closer and resting his chin atop her head.
They stayed that way for a long while, but the sound of a woman clearing her throat pulled them apart. Jon met Catelyn Stark's cold, disapproving gaze and did not hesitate to pull away from his sister. Arya seemed keen to protest, but he shook his head, slipping away without a fight. "Why do you treat him like that?" she demanded. A question she'd long wondered and long avoided asking. She knew Jon Snow was a bastard and she had no expectation of love from her mother, but she didn't have to be cruel.
"I pray you will never understand," her mother replied calmly, but sternly. "Come."
Arya followed her mother up to the chambers she and her father shared. The safest place in all the Seven Kingdoms, Arya thought, sitting on the edge of the fur lined bed next to the warmth of the crackling fire. She watched as her mother hesitated over a pile of blue fabric before holding it up to reveal a Tully blue dress, one that even now, merely held against her chest, did wonders for bringing out the blue of her eyes. It would not give Arya's slate grey eyes the same treatment, she was certain. "A dress?"
"This was the dress I wore when I met your father," said Catelyn, a smile on her face as the memories of that day passed over her. "I've had it hemmed, of course, and I want you to have it." Arya could only think of how much better it would have suited Sansa. It would not have needed to be hemmed for her. It would have made her eyes shine like sapphires. "I know this is not what you want. I was not ready when it was my time, either."
"You weren't ready to marry Father?"
"Heavens, no, I was terrified," she admitted. "But it was my duty as it is yours. With a bit of luck, you will love your husband as much as I love your father. That wouldn't be so bad, would it?"
Arya had long imagined her future husband as some long, wrinkly, tentacled thing. Part kraken, part Old Nan. But if she married a man like her father, a man like her brother Jon … "No," she said quietly. "But the prince is not-"
"The prince?" her mother demanded. Theon had teased her relentlessly about her future husband. "Oh, my sweet child, you will not marry the prince. He and your sister are both still too young to be married, so in a few years, when they're both ready … but you, you're ready now."
"I won't marry the prince?" asked Arya. Catelyn shook her head solemnly, unaware of the relief washing over her daughter. "Who will I marry then?"
"A highborn lord," was all her mother could say. They had no prospects for Arya, not yet.
Arya was busy trying to recollect all of the noble houses and their lords to see who she may be stuck with. She doubted they would marry her to her Uncle Edmure and she hoped she would be spared the indignity of marrying her sniveling, little cousin Robert Arryn. Theon was the closest in age with her and the Greyjoys were, to some extent, considered a noble house, but he was a ward. There was Renly, but her father would not waste both his daughters on the same Baratheon alliance. She had heard enough tales of the Red Viper to hope for him, but Oberyn Martell was nearly a decade older than even her father. That only left the Lannisters and the Tyrells, but Willas Tyrell was a cripple and Tyrion Lannister was … well … she thought she'd prefer her cousin to the whoremongering Imp.
Her stomach was in knots when the door to her parents' chambers flew open and Ser Rodrik stood in the frame. "My lady," he said, sounding out of breath. "There's been an accident, your son …"
"What if he dies while I'm gone?"
She hadn't spent enough time with him. She'd said her goodbyes to Jon, to Robb, even Theon. But she'd had no heartfelt goodbye with Bran and now it seemed likely the opportunity had been lost to her forever. Her last memory with her brother would be out shooting his bow in front of father. She felt a lump grow in her throat and tried fruitlessly to swallow it down. "He won't," said Robb. "He'll wake up and recover and come to King's Landing to be a knight."
Her eyes were burning now. "No, he won't," she said. Bran would never walk again. She'd heard Maester Luwin telling her father so. Neither she nor Bran would ever fulfill their dreams of going off to battle.
"Arya," said Robb, suddenly much closer as he squatted beside her chair. She hastily rubbed her arm across her eyes to wipe away the tears that had welled up before he could see them. "He will outlive us both, I promise." He pressed his lips firmly against her brow, the whiskers on his chin tickling her nose. He pulled back, meeting her eyes for just a moment, before looking beyond her, over her head to where a fire was blazing in what appeared to be the library. Only then could he hear the shouts of panic from outside. "I'm sure it's nothing," he told his sister when she turned to see the fire, as well. "Stay with Bran."
She had no qualms with doing just that, grabbing his hand and running her thumb across his knuckles. His hands were so small, even smaller than her own, though if he survived, he would likely surpass her in height soon.
"You're not supposed to be here."
Arya snapped to attention, eyes quickly finding the man who stood mere feet from where Bran slept. He wasn't a Northman, she was certain, but he didn't look like any of the men the King had traveled with, either. "Neither are you," she told him plainly. "Go see to the fire that's started."
It was a command, one coming from the daughter of the Warden of the North, but the man didn't move. "It's a mercy," he said, pulling a dagger and advancing on her brother. "He's dead already."
"No," said Arya, her first and only instinct to put herself between her brother and the man. She was greeted with the back of his hand and she hit the bed hard, feeling like her brain had been knocked loose, before something tightened around her hair and yanked her back up. She could see the blade coming to her throat and there was little she could do but throw her hands up to stop it. It tore into her palms with more pain than she'd ever felt and hot blood poured out of her hands and down her arms. His hand was against her mouth and she opened wide to bite down on his finger with all the strength her jaw possessed.
The man let out a yelp and threw her, sending her head first into an armoire before she went sprawling to the ground. His footsteps were heavy as he approached her spot on the floor and her vision was blurry as she searched desperately for anything within reach. The base of a tall candelabra was all she could find, and she took hold of it, swinging it around to where she hoped the assassin stood. He caught it easily, effortlessly, she hadn't the strength to make it hurt, but he had dropped the blade in favor of the iron candelabra and it had fallen not far from her feet.
They saw it at the same time, but she was quicker and she didn't hesitate in lodging it into the fat of his calf, then his thigh, his stomach, and finally into the side of his neck. He was still alive, still gasping for breath that would never come, blood bubbling on his lips. She yanked the blade forward, tearing out his throat with surprising ease, and blood spurted out of his neck across her face as he plummeted, finally dead.
Arya slumped to the ground with him, trembling. Blood was all she could see, all she could smell, all she could taste. She wiped desperately at her face, trying to stop it from going in her mouth and her eyes, but she did little but mangle his blood with her own. "Arya," a voice called and Robb was with her again. "Get Maester Luwin!" he shouted at someone she couldn't see.
She could hear him approach and fall before her and soon felt him wiping something soft against her face, doing what he could to clean the blood. When she finally managed to open her eyes she found him searching her frantically, trying to see where the assassin's blood ended and hers began. He was only before her for a short moment before he was pulled away and her father took his place. Ned scooped her up into his arms and she knew she was safe as he took her to Maester Luwin.
Tyrion whistled cheerfully as he approached the breakfast spread laid out before his siblings. "Little brother," greeted Jaime, a hint of a smile on his lips as Tyrion lifted Tommen, eliciting a giggle from the young prince, before moving him to the side so he could take his seat.
"Beloved siblings," he returned, avoiding Cersei's gaze as she watched him with mild disgust as he found any scraps of bacon yet remaining on the table.
"Is Bran going to die?"
It was Myrcella who'd asked, always the sweetest of Cersei's children, he thought. There was a genuine concern in the young girl's eyes that her mother would never be able to imitate. "Apparently not," he answered.
Myrcella smiled in relief but Cersei looked concerned. "What do you mean?"
"The Maester says the boy may live," said Tyrion, watching as his siblings exchanged a rather interesting look. "Despite the attempt on his life."
The table sat in uncomfortable silence for a long moment before Jaime finally asked, "Attempt?"
"An assassin sent late in the night," he answered. "They set a fire in the library in the hopes of pulling everyone away from the boy, but fortunately his sister never left his side."
"They're both alive?" Jaime asked incredulously. How had a crippled, unconscious child and a young girl survived an assassination attempt? Tyrion nodded his confirmation, his mouth full of bacon. "The little one stopped an assassin?"
Tyrion thought Jaime's question was flawed. Arya was the older sister, but she was considerably smaller, scarcely taller than he was. "Arya, yes," he said. Jaime's eyebrows quickly shot up. "She didn't just stop him, she killed him. With his own dagger, I've heard. These Starks are proving difficult to kill."
"Must've been a piss poor assassin," muttered Jaime, glancing at his sister as she guided Tommen and Myrcella away from the table and rising to his own feet, though he had no intentions of following her. She would be a bundle of nerves, prone to paranoia and violence, and he thought it best to give her time to cool off before trying to reassure her that the boy would not be a threat to them.
He was nearly to the door before his brother called out to him. "Or a very impressive little girl."
It seemed an odd twist of fate that he should find the girl, not moments after discussing her. He had thought she'd be on bed rest, like her brother, and their return to King's Landing would be delayed again. Instead he found her sitting on a fence outside of the stables, her direwolf pup rolling about at her feet. She looked paler than the last time he'd seen her, the bags under her eyes a deep, sunken shade of lilac and a particularly nasty bruise was forming on her cheekbone. Her hands were bandaged, but she still held a dagger, trying to roll it between her fingers and wincing at each and every movement. "Was it your first time?"
She must've recognized his voice because she didn't look up, rather hesitating a brief moment before continuing with what she was doing. She was silent so long Jaime thought, perhaps, she intended to ignore him, but finally she answered, "Yes."
"You'll cut your hands to ribbons with that," he told her, watching as she accidentally nicked the tip of her finger with it and dropped it, bringing her finger into her mouth. He bent down and picked it up, offering it back to her. "It's Valyrian steel."
She had been eyeing him with a look of resentment but now her eyes went wide as she looked the dagger over. "How do you know?"
Jaime decided against telling her he'd seen that blade before. "Do you see the little rippled patterns?" he asked instead, watching her closely as she brought the steel near up to her nose to observe it. "Like the steel has been folded over itself a thousand times." Finally seeing it, she nodded, shifting her eyes from the steel to his own. "That's one way to tell. The other is that it's bloody sharp."
"Is that why it tore through his throat so easily?"
It was odd to hear the girl speak so casually about the man she'd murdered the night before, but he nodded. "It cuts through bone like flesh and flesh like it's water," he said. "That's why you shouldn't use it until you know how." The resentment that had left her quickly found its way home again as she gave him a dirty look before focusing on her hands again, rolling the hilt of the blade over her knuckles. "The guilt will pass," he told her, turning on his heel to leave her.
"Should I feel guilt?" she wondered, her eyes finding his again with a kind of vulnerability Jaime hadn't expected. Her question had been genuine and his answer suddenly felt oddly important.
"It's not an easy thing to take a life," said Jaime. "It weighs heavy for years."
Arya held his gaze a moment longer before looking down again, her brow furrowed. "He would've killed my brother," she reasoned, though with him or with herself, Jaime couldn't know. "I could kill a thousand men for such a thing and never feel the burden of it."
Jaime searched for a hint of bravado as the girl returned to practicing with her dagger, but could not find any. She'd meant what she'd said and the weight of what she'd done did not appear heavy upon her shoulders. Not like Ned Stark at all, Jaime thought. Perhaps his brother had the right of it after all.