The thistle bit at her legs as a hostile reminder that she didn't belong here, and that she was not welcome.

That's what daughters are for, Ned, she could still hear the fat old king say. Marrying off, forging alliances. She chopped and swung at the weeds at her feet, imagining Robert Baratheon's fat head, but she came up with pollen instead of the blood she had wanted and a powerful urge to sneeze cut her assault short. It was a violent sneeze and it sent her swaying; she plopped down into the grass rather than fighting it and Nymeria was quick to do the same, nipping at the blades nearest her mouth.

It had been but a week in King's Landing and her father already had a suitor lined up for her. Some lord from the Vale named Harrold Hardyng who was meant to rule the Eyrie if by chance her sickly little cousin Robert died. She was meant to be meeting him now and that was why she found herself out in the gardens where she was certain no one would find her. At least not until poor Harrold Hardyng ran out of patience and left to return home. She could only hope he'd tell every eligible lord in Westeros what a terror she was and then perhaps her father would give up on this whole marriage idea and let her return home.

Hearing a rustling in the grass, she fell onto her back, grateful, for once, to be so small and easily hidden. Pleased to find her master's face so accessible, Nymeria shifted her attention from eating the blades of grass to licking Arya's eyelids and nostrils. "Stop it," she urged the wolf, pushing the great beast away. But Nymeria was a pup no longer and not so easily moved so she continued on diligently with her work, licking her chin, her hair, and down to her ears as Arya tried to stifle her laughter. "Nymeria-"

The wolf moved so sharply Arya's breath caught in her chest and she pushed up to her elbows to see what had startled her. "Not the best hiding place," Jaime commented, eyeing Nymeria warily. Though she did not want to, she placed a soothing hand on Nymeria's back to be certain she would not attack. "Up you go, Stark," the knight murmured, hooking his hands beneath her shoulders and lifting her to her feet.

He turned from her, stepping through the grass without glancing back to see if she was following. She took a step back instead of forwards, wondering if she'd be able to outrun him. He was considerably taller, admittedly, and took much longer strides, but he was wearing heavy armor. As if reading her thoughts, Jaime glanced over his shoulder at her. "Couldn't you pretend you didn't find me?"

"I could," he said, watching as the hope splayed out across her features before he yanked it away. "Would you prefer to be found by Ser Meryn or the Hound?"

"I'd prefer to not be found at all," she corrected.

"Then you should've left the castle grounds," said Jaime. "How long did you imagine you'd stay hidden within the Red Keep?"

Admittedly, Arya had not expected her father to dispatch anyone who knew their way around the castle grounds. Jory would not have been able to find her so quickly, nor any of the men he commanded. She knew Jaime Lannister was unlikely to let her slip away so she reached down to pick up her wooden practice swords that Syrio had given her. Jon had been wrong to assume her father would not permit her a sword in the capital. It seemed that the Braavosi swordsman had been a peace offering, something to will his daughter to actually leave the her chambers. It had been unlike her to remain in bed so long her first few days and he couldn't bear to see her in such a way, despite having told Catelyn he would do what he could to curb her interest in swordplay.

"Two of them?" asked Jaime, glancing down at the wooden practice swords in her hands before searching the tall grass for her sparring companion. It took a moment before he remembered her tussle with her brother in the mud and dirt at Winterfell and how she'd fought with two blades then, as well. "It's not often you see someone attempt dual blades. The last I saw was-"

"Ser Arthur Dayne," she answered before he had the chance.

"A hero of yours?" he wondered.

"My father says he was the greatest swordsman to ever live," Arya told him. He had insisted the Dornishman was far superior, though her father had defeated him in battle. Arya never understood that, but he had long been one of her heroes. "He says there was never a knight with so much skill or honor."

Good old Ned wasn't wrong about that. Jaime had always wanted to be Arthur Dayne but he'd lost himself somewhere along the way. "It was skill that afforded him the right to forego a shield," said Jaime. "A skill I doubt you in equal possession of."

The little Stark girl gave him a dubious look. "I'm better than any of my brothers," she told him, as if being better than green boys who'd never gone off to war meant anything. "Why would I want a shield? Two swords, twice as deadly."

"Until you run into an archer," he replied. "How do you plan on stopping a stray arrow from tearing through your throat?"

Jaime flicked his finger into her throat for emphasis, causing her to smack his hand away and give him a dirty look. She opened her mouth to answer, the perfect solution on the tip of her tongue, and yet … "Well, how did he stop them?" she demanded instead.

"Never got the chance to ask him," he answered with a shrug.

"You knew Arthur Dayne?"

"He's the one who knighted me," said Jaime, feeling uncomfortable with the current topic of conversation. It was not an easy thing to look back at the boy you were when you were so certain you had not become the man he would've wanted to be.

He could see the girl out of the corner of his eye looking up at him now with a much different look than she'd been giving him earlier. "Did you ever spar with him?" she asked from his elbow. "Did he teach you anything? Could you show me?"

"No," was all he said.

The girl stopped following him as soon as he said it, falling several steps behind him as he continued to walk. With a sigh, he turned around to see what her problem was only to have a sword tossed at him. He caught it easily, much to her apparent disappointment. "He must've knighted you for a reason," she insisted. "Show me."

Clearly Ned had not been singing his praises as he much as he had other knights. Jaime had never sparred with a woman before, and certainly never a girl that came up no higher than his elbow. He could only imagine what Ned might say if he stumbled upon Jaime Lannister crossing blades with his daughter. Robert would have even worse to say. "I said-" Arya gave him little chance to deny her a second time as she lunged forward, swinging her sword down at his arm. With a flick of his wrist, Jaime had deflected it away from himself and sent her stumbling to his side. "You're not a very good listener," he told her.

"I know," she replied with a smile, lunging for him again, but this time going for his leg. It was better than her first attempt, but he still had little difficulty in redirecting her, hitting his blade into hers so hard her hand throbbed. She dropped the hilt into her other hand and swung again, this time aiming for his head.

Disappointed with the strategy, he struck hard enough now to knock it from her hand. "You're short," he told her as she bent to pick it back up. "Stop trying to be tall." She looked up at him curiously, waiting for him to elaborate. "Don't go for the head or torso. I'd bleed out just as quick if you nicked one of the arteries in my leg. Less armor there, too."

She nodded curtly and Jaime smiled as he watched her circle him, her brow heavy as she actually paused to consider what her next move should be. She'd have made a better squire than any he'd had before. At least a more keen listener, he thought, as she swung at his ankle this time. He stepped backwards and out of her line of fire before aiming his own sword for her head. He was pleased when she ducked under it and swung again, aimed at her head once more.

Growing more confident, Arya followed what she'd learned from him and threw her own sword up to block, but the wooden stick did little to lessen the blow that thunked into the side of her head and sent her sprawling into the dirt. Jaime prayed to the Warrior that it would not bruise, but he knew it would. "You're not strong enough to block," he told her. "Best to dodge."

He had expected a dirty look and certainly a few tears, but the Stark girl merely nodded. "I'll remember that," she assured him. The throbbing in her head would not soon be forgotten. He watched as she struggled to her feet, swaying as the world around her spun. He caught her by the elbow before she got too unsteady and held her in place as she went from seeing three of him to only one. "Thanks," she said, offering him another toothy grin as she stepped back and away from him and lifted her sword, ready to continue.

Jaime marveled at how quickly the girl's resentment for him had faded. He'd never had a particularly pleasant interaction with any Stark or even Stark bastard. Even this one had seemed to dislike him from the start, but she smiled at him now, looking at him as if he were some sort of mentor, eagerly awaiting another lesson from the man Arthur Dayne had deemed worthy of knighting. "Go," he told her.

"What?" asked Arya, refusing to drop her guard, remaining light on her feet in case he was trying to distract her before swinging at her head again.

"You don't want to meet the Hardyng boy," he said. "Go. I couldn't find you."

Arya was overcome with an urge to hug the man before her but she was quite certain he would not appreciate that and she didn't want him to change his mind. "Thank you," she said, more earnestly than Jaime could stand. He grunted his acknowledgment, handing the other practice sword back to her and turning back to the Red Keep so he wouldn't see which way she ran off.

She had been three days from the Red Keep. At first she'd only hoped to stay hidden long enough to avoid meeting her suitor, but then she'd gotten lost. Flea Bottom was not the easiest place to navigate for a highborn girl and the winding, narrow streets had confused her. The longer she was from the castle the more she feared repercussion. It was one thing to disappear for the afternoon and another thing entirely to be lost for days.

She hadn't eaten since breakfast three mornings prior and the simple shirt and trousers she'd been wearing were now covered in mud, piss and shit. She doubted they would even let her in to see her father if she made her way to the castle. By the time the fourth morning rolled around, the situation had grown dire. She had little on her to trade apart from her Valyrian dagger and she was nowhere near desperate enough for that.

Instead she focused on what she'd learned from Syrio. He'd told her every swordsman should study cats. They were as quiet as shadows and as light as feathers. You had to be quick to catch them and Arya was quick. If she could catch a cat, she could catch a pigeon. It had taken her no time at all to catch one and break its neck, but trading it off for something better had proven more difficult. "Can I have one?" she asked a shopkeeper who had a range of tarts on display. Her stomach ached at the sight of them.

"Three coppers," he answered briskly, barely sparing her a glance.

"How about a fat, juicy pigeon instead?" she tried, holding the bird up on display. The man cut her a look now and it was not a friendly one. He stepped toward her harshly and shoved her away from his stand, not wanting her raggedy appearance and stench to repulse anyone who had the coin to make an actual purchase.

She wandered Flea Bottom for over an hour carrying that stupid pigeon and no one had shown the least bit of interest in it. Desperate, she'd taken to entering shops instead and had been met with similarly negative results. Smoke and heat hit her hard as she entered the next shop and she coughed loudly as she tried to wave the smoke from her face. "What do you want?" an impatient voice called from further in.

"Have you got any food to trade for this pigeon?" she asked, holding it up higher as she paused to glance around the shop now. It was darker than most apart from the fire in the corner lighting it up. All around her were swords and shields and the boy who'd greeted her was holding a large hammer. "It's really fat."

"This is a smith's shop," he told her blankly.

She had realized that now but she'd already gotten further with him than she had with most. All of the other shopkeepers had thrown her out at the sight of her or tried to hit her with brooms. "You still have food, don't you?"

"What do I want with a pigeon?"

"Well, you could eat it," she said.

"You could eat it," he countered, looking at her like she was stupid. She felt stupid, too.

"I don't want to eat a pigeon," Arya explained, but that didn't make the boy stop looking at her like she was an idiot.

"Neither do I," he said, thinking this was an awfully picky street rat. She was as thin around as one of his arms and he thought she ought to be eating four or five pigeons, not refusing the one she had. Her face fell at the rejection and she nodded, turning to leave the shop. "Come here," he called after her, regretting it as soon as the words left his mouth. With eyes as wide as saucers and filled with more hope than he could stand, he knew he couldn't change his mind now. He reached behind him and grabbed a loaf of lopsided bread, his lunch, and tore it in half, offering the larger portion to her. He could almost see her mouth watering even in the dimness of the shop and she was quick to offer her pigeon to him. "Keep your damn pigeon," he grunted.

She let the bird drop in favor of grabbing the bread with two dirty hands. She didn't hesitate in shoving as much of the bread into her mouth as she could and her eyes rolled back as she swallowed it. "Thank you," she said before taking another massive bite. "I'll pay you back, I promise."

"You going to bring me a rat next time?" he asked.

Arya glared at him, opening her mouth to tell him her father was the Hand of the King and could offer him a great deal. She knew he wouldn't believe her. "You'll see," she told him instead. "What's your name? So I may find your shop again to thank you."

He didn't think he wanted to be thanked by this girl. It was bad for business for a girl like her to be within the shop. They catered to the likes of Renly Baratheon and Loras Tyrell. Neither lord could've stomached being in the shop alongside her stench. "Gendry," he answered all the same. "But my master's Tobho Mott."

"D'you know the way to the Red Keep?"

"Well you're on the Street of Steel," he told her. "You could follow it to Fishmonger's Square then take the Muddy Way-" Gendry stopped himself short upon seeing the look of confusion on her face. What kind of gutter rat didn't know her way to Fishmonger's Square? It was the best place to get scraps of food for free. For that matter, who in Flea Bottom couldn't find the Red Keep? "Or you could go to the Sept of Baelor," he said and she nodded now, having seen it quite clearly before entering his shop. "There's a path straight to the Keep from there."

She smiled before shoving the rest of the bread into her mouth and thanking him again. She was gone a moment later, leaving the dead pigeon on the floor, much to Gendry's annoyance. It didn't take long at all for her to find her way back to the Red Keep now that she had directions and she was brought before her father shortly after. "You know I had half my guard looking for you?" he demanded after releasing her. The sight of her had been enough for him to lose all resolve and pull her in for a hug, but he was furious with her. "Robert sent the Kingsguard and half the goldcloaks and no one could find you."

"I got lost," she told him, truthfully enough. She decided to leave out the bit about Jaime Lannister finding her and sending her out of the castle grounds.

"They said you came from Flea Bottom," said Ned, examining his daughter for any signs of abuse. She was covered in things he thought best not to ask about, but she seemed unharmed aside from a dark bruise along her cheekbone. "What happened here?"

"I tripped on some steps," she lied.

"Why did you leave?" he asked. She'd been happier after he'd brought Syrio Forel to her. Arya's mouth fell open as if she intended to tell him before changing her mind. "You didn't want to meet the Hardyng boy," he guessed. "He was a good match, Arya. Lost to you now. You'd have been the Lady of the Vale someday."

"I don't want to be that," she told him. "I don't want to be a lady."

Ned sighed as he pulled away from her in favor of sitting behind his desk. "You leave me with little choice," he told her. "I know it's not what you want but it is your duty and great or small, we must all do our duty. Do you understand?" Arya set her jaw, unwilling to answer. "I will find you other suitors and you will meet them. You will be bathed and scented and you will wear a gown. You will curtsy when you meet them and call them 'my lord'. If you refuse, you will have no more dancing lessons with Syrio. I will take that sword your brother had made for you and have it melted down. Do you understand?"

It had been nearly a month since the Stark girl had gone missing from the castle and he had not seen her since. His place was with the King and often with Ned Stark, and while he caught sight of the younger girl fairly often, always trailing after Joffrey like a lovesick pup, he never saw Arya. Not until now. The hallway outside of the Hand's chambers was dimly lit, with only a handful of candles and the moon above to light it, but he could make out her small frame, standing atop a set of steps on one leg, with each of her arms outstretched and holding a heavy wooden sword.

A thousand nasty comments sprung into his head, each meaner than the last, but she beat him to it. "Shut up," he heard her call before he'd even had the chance to speak.

"It's a hard fall down those stairs," Jaime replied, watching her wobble where she stood. He could see her arms trembling and knew she couldn't do … whatever she was doing for much longer.

"Syrio says every hurt is a lesson," said Arya, smiling despite the throbbing in her arms, "and every lesson makes you better."

Jaime had no idea who Syrio was. Jaime also didn't particularly care who Syrio was. "How long have you been up there?"

"Syrio says a proper swordsman rises with the sun," she told him, glancing out the arch of the wall to see where the sun had long set. As if on cue, she could feel her stomach cramping up, reminding her that it was empty.

Hearing the name again irritated him and he wasted no time in drawing his own blade, bringing it down hard onto one of her practice swords. She was too weak and too tired to withstand it and dropped the blade, losing balance and toppling down the length of the stairs, rolling to a painful stop at his feet. He watched her groan on the floor and felt quite pleased. "You must be much better after that lesson," he remarked, smiling when she swung a tiny fist into his shin. "I've come for your father."

"He's not here," she grumbled, rolling from her back to her knees before forcing herself to stand. Her legs were throbbing and she would've given anything to sit and rest but that wasn't how you got stronger. "Why d'you need him?"

Jaime hesitated in sharing what was supposedly good news. "It seems your brother is awake," he said, watching as she stopped rubbing her bruised ass to gape at him. "They say he'll make a full recovery."

"Now that he's better will he come to live with us?"

"A question better put to your father," he replied, turning on his heel quite intent to leave her and the current conversation very far behind him.

"He wanted to be a knight of the Kingsguard," he heard her mumble to herself and found himself hesitating, looking over his shoulder at where she stood. "He can't be now, can he?"

"No."

If ever a girl had worn her heart on her sleeve, it was Arya Stark. Or at least she wore it in her eyes, expressing more emotion in a look than any Lannister had ever shown in their entire life. "Can girls join the Kingsguard?" If her brother could not do it, she would fulfill his dream for him. Jaime shook his head. "If you became Lord Commander you could change the rule."

"Ser Barristan would have to die for me to become Lord Commander," said Jaime. "You'll be married long before that happens."

"Not likely," she said, letting out a huff of air. "I've met a dozen lords and none of them have wanted to marry me."

Jaime's brow raised. She was the daughter of the Hand of the King, the Warden of the North, and one of the oldest Houses in the realm. It would take a special kind of stupid for any lord to refuse her. "Why not?" he asked.

"Sansa says it's because I'm ugly," explained Arya. Jaime thought it wisest not to comment on her appearance either way. "Septa Mordane says I don't know my courtesies well enough, but I'm trying really hard," she told him earnestly. "Have you ever met Willas Tyrell?"

"The cripple?" asked Jaime. He'd met the boy in passing at a handful of tournaments years ago, but nothing beyond that. "Not since Oberyn Martell dropped a horse on him. Why?"

The man who stood before her now resembled nothing of the monstrosity Jaime had promised her. He stood tall and regal, with a straight nose and cheekbones that looked as if they'd been carved from marble. His eyes were warm and reminded her of chocolate, with cropped hair but a few shades lighter. He did not possess the full beard she had come to expect from her suitors, but the journey from Highgarden left him with whiskers spread across his jaw.

Somewhere nearby she heard her father clear his throat. "My lord," she murmured, realizing she'd been silent for too long. She grabbed her skirts, the blue dress her mother had given her, and fell into a proper curtsy, eyes darting to her father for approval before falling upon the man again.

"Willas will do just fine, my lady," he said. Arya thought he was awfully soft spoken to be the heir of the second richest House in Westeros. "May I call you Arya?"

Her eyes found Ned again. "Yes," she answered after seeing his nod.

Willas had a keen eye and had noticed how many times Arya Stark sought her father's counsel before speaking. He'd counted at least four since the moment he'd walked into the room and he did not think the number would dwindle as their conversation continued. "Lord Stark," he said. "As lovely as your chambers are, I had hoped to see the gardens. I've been a long time from the city."

Arya'd had nearly two dozen suitors in her time in King's Landing and none had asked to leave the Red Keep. Ned supposed none of them were the heir to Highgarden and exceptions would have to be made. "Of course," he said. "I'll summon-"

"I had hoped," Willas repeated, interrupting Ned so politely the older man scare noticed he'd done it, "your daughter to be the only one to accompany me." As if on cue, the door to his chambers opened and servants brought in a tray covered in biscuits, sweets, and tea. "It is difficult to get to know one another with an audience."

Arya had suspected her father to refuse. It was not common to trust a lord alone with one's daughter, especially when she was an unwed maiden. Perhaps he grew wary of the growing number of lords who'd refused her. Perhaps he did not find Willas Tyrell a threat with his walking cane. Arya may have found the man's slow pace irritating had she not been balancing a tray filled with sweets, careful not to spill anything, as he led her out into the gardens.

Willas must have known her father would not refuse. A large blanket was laid out before them, covered in at least two dozen pillows, sat beside a large fountain filled with water lillies. As Arya carefully sat the tray down and sat atop the blanket, she could only think of how Sansa would've died from jealousy if she could see her. With a smug smile, she grabbed a lemon tart from the tray and shoved it into her mouth for good measure. "You like lemon cakes," the man observed from beside her.

"Not really," she answered, her mouth still full as she chewed. "My sister likes them."

"Your sister Sansa," he said. "I hear she likes dresses and chivalrous knights." Arya shrugged her shoulders, already regretting bringing her up. She was certain Willas would have preferred to have brought Sansa to the gardens. "I hear you would rather be that knight."

Arya could feel her face growing warm. Why did her ambition feel embarrassing now before this man when she'd always felt proud of it before? "How do you know so much?" He seemed to know a lot about her family and she knew so little of him.

"My grandmother is a very calculating woman," Willas explained. "She would not send me unwitting into any situation."

Arya wished her father had been so forthcoming. All she knew about Willas was that Oberyn Martell had dropped a horse on him and she didn't think that was the best topic of conversation. She didn't even know who his grandmother was to comment on her. "What is Highgarden like?" she asked, focusing on the only thing she did know about him.

Willas smiled, thinking that was a loaded question. "In Highgarden there are fields of golden roses that stretch away as far as the eye can see. The fruits are so ripe they explode in your mouth-melons, peaches, fireplums, you've never tasted such sweetness. The walls and towers are covered in ivy and grapes and climbing roses. It's filled with statues, colonnades, fountains, courtyards, arbors … a visit would be better," he said. "You should have a taste of summer before it withers away."