She'd felt anxious upon arriving to King's Landing, but it was nothing compared to the way she felt now that she was leaving. She should've been relieved knowing she would be returning home, but they weren't out of the city just yet. "You expect a fight," she observed, watching Willas as he and Loras both put on armor that looked pristine and beautiful and as if it had never seen battle.
Willas flashed her an easy smile and it looked nearly sincere. "Expect the worst and you'll never be caught off guard."
His smile did little to alleviate the rampant beasts thrashing about her belly. Sansa did not seem nearly so worried; mostly she was angry that her father was so selfishly tearing her away from her one true love, Prince Joffrey. It was enough to make Arya want to knock her in the head, but she refrained, choosing instead to focus her nervous energy on twirling her dagger around her fingers as she watched her father's men finish loading their things on the back of a wagon. It was far less than what they had come with, but her father promised to replace the things they were leaving behind.
Sansa looked positively despondent as they sat atop their horses, marching through the crowded streets of Flea Bottom. Arya couldn't be entirely sure why. Perhaps she was sad to leave King's Landing, or perhaps she was dreading spending a very long journey atop a horse instead of in a sheltered, comfortable carriage. Father had told them a carriage would meet them somewhere along the way, but for now, they must be able to move swiftly and a carriage would only serve to hinder them. It almost made Arya feel excited, as if she were going off to war.
They traveled from the Red Keep down River Row, along the Street of Steel, past Tobho Mott's shop. Arya willed for Gendry to peek his head out as they passed, as anyone in their right mind would upon feeling the earth shake beneath their feet. Two hundred horses stormed through the streets of King's Landing, making their way to the Gate of the Gods. The most logical exit of the city, least likely to be guarded, Renly had told them.
But that wasn't entirely true. Red and gold lined the streets ahead, blocking their escape, the goldest figure of all at their helm. "Such a small pack of wolves," Jaime noted from atop a strong, white mare. Arya had never suspected anyone would find two hundred to be a small number, but the combined forces of the Lannister guards and gold cloaks was more. "Was this all you could assemble for your daring escape from the city?" A funny feeling Arya couldn't quite describe formed in the pit of her belly. It had been only a few hours earlier that the hand now resting on the hilt of his sword had been pressed against her cheek.
She watched as her father led his horse to the front of their assembly, and she willed her horse to trail as closely behind him as she dared. "You've left your king's side prematurely, Ser Jaime," her father observed. "The second to die under your guard."
Arya watched as the mirth left Jaime's eyes. "Come, Lord Stark," he said. "Your life and the lives of your daughters are not forfeit yet. Turn your horse around, bend the knee to your king and you will be allowed to live out the rest of your years in that grey waste you call home."
"Your son has no claim to the throne," said Ned. "To swear him loyalty would be treason."
Son? wondered Arya, her stomach plummeting into her shoes, her mouth as dry as a Dornish desert. Jaime's son, not Robert's? The reason her father had gone to visit Gendry, and Jon Arryn before him. He had seen Robert Baratheon's true son and knew Joffrey was not it. Sansa had often insisted, whenever Arya might disparage the young prince, that Joffrey looked a bit like his uncle Jaime … "I would rather you die with sword in hand," was Jaime's reply, as he drew his own blade.
"If you threaten my father again-"
"Threaten?" Jaime interrupted, his eyes finding hers amongst the hundreds. "As in I'm going to open your father from balls to brains and see what Starks are made of?"
The sound of two hundred swords being drawn deafened her and chaos soon consumed her. She had always dreamt of going off to war, but she had never imagined war to be so … congested. There was nowhere for her horse to move, not forward, not backwards. "Arya!" she heard Willas call to her, but she could not find him among the clashing soldiers. How did men even know who was friend or foe upon the field? She couldn't tell. The only man she could focus on was Jaime, bright and golden and easy to spot as he crossed blades with her father. He was better, far better than her father, and sent the older man stumbling backwards into her horse. A horse that reared its head in response, sending her toppling off the back of it and into the dirt below.
The breath knocked out of her, she had no time to collect it again before dodging out of the way of heavy hooves nearly trampling her. She scrambled to her feet, weaving in and out of clashing blades and horse's legs until she found them again. Her father was slower than when she'd last seen him moments before, already covered in cuts along his arms and legs while Jaime didn't have a scratch on him or his golden armor.
"Stop it!" she shouted, hurling herself between them and knocking Jaime's sword out of the way with her own. Fingers tangled in her hair again as they had done a few days before, but it hurt much more now as Jaime threw her out of the way.
"Arya! Find your sister," her father commanded, blocking blow after blow from Jaime as he advanced with a vigor that Ned could not match. "Find Willas, get out of here!"
Asking her to abandon him was like asking her to abandon everything she was. She charged again, in perfect sync with her father. Jaime swung his sword into hers, knocking it out of her hand and into the swarm that surrounded them. He deflected Ned's next strike, as well, but was less forgiving of her father's mistakes as he had been of hers, capitalizing on the opening, stabbing his sword through the meaty part of Ned's thigh.
Arya watched as her father dropped to his knee, the sword slipping from his grasp. The world seemed to move in slow motion now, the sounds of clashing steel and screams disappeared as Jaime raised his sword again, leveled to her father's neck. Her body moved absent thought, finding the dagger at her hip and raising it over head, swinging it down at the man who had taught her how.
Jaime dropped his sword in favor of her wrist, catching it before she could lodge that damn dagger of hers into his neck. He brought his other hand to her jaw, gripping it so tightly he could hear it crack but her eyes showed only anger absent pain. " Arya, " he urged, sounding almost as if he were pleading with her. But that didn't suit the man before her, so Arya was certain she'd misunderstood him. "Go, you stupid girl. Find your cripple and–" The words caught in his throat as his belly grew warm and wet. How? he wondered. She had lost her sword and the dagger-ah, he realized, looking to her empty hand still in his grasp and then down to where the dagger now rested, lodged between his ribs, her free hand still wrapped around its hilt. "Well done," he complimented, glancing over her head to where the Hound was quickly approaching before back down to her. "Remember that I tried to let you leave."
Arya didn't have the time to wonder what he meant before what was surely a hammer slammed into the side of her head, sending her flying away from Jaime and towards her father. Every inch of her body hurt. Her head, the epicenter of the pain, felt as if her brain had grown too large and was trying to force itself out of her skull. But it also felt warm and wet. She flopped a heavy hand to the side of her ears, feeling something hot and sticky pouring out of it. "Leave her be," she heard her father plead. A sound she had never heard before, not from him. The pain and desperation and helplessness - it hurt nearly as much as her body. The same body that urged her to sleep, to close her eyes and drift off to a quiet place where things were safe, but she fought against it, trembling hands pressing into the dirt as she tried to push herself back up.
The world around her spun, the figure approaching her too fuzzy to make out. She'd nearly got to her knees before her hands slipped out from beneath her again, the world going blissfully dark once more. No , she pleaded with herself. Not here, not now . This couldn't be how it ended. She forced her eyes open again. The light made everything hurt all the more, but she would suffer through it. Her vision had cleared enough to recognize the Hound as he grew near. It had not been a hammer to hit her.
It had taken every ounce of strength her tiny body possessed to stand again before the man. She had lost her dagger to Jaime's stomach, and her sword to the crowd. She had nothing left to fight him with, save for her father's sword, discarded at her feet. Her body wobbled as she reached down, wrapping both hands around its hilt. She put all her might into lifting it, but it wouldn't budge. The Hound chuckling was the last thing she heard before her eyes rolled back into her head and she collapsed, this time for good.
Her world was blood. It was all she smelled. All she saw was red. The metallic flavor coated her tongue, invigorating her, body and soul. She wanted more, and she wanted his. The big man, the one who'd hurt her. She could smell him, he was near, his sword raised high above her father's head.
She wrapped her mouth around his leg, her teeth digging into the juiciest bits. He screamed as she snapped her jaw shut, sweet liquid rushing down her throat. She wanted more, she wanted all of him. She opened wide again, biting down on the hand that had been poised to strike her.
An arrow sailed past her ear, lodging itself neatly in the big man's shoulder. A familiar voice rang out, and its source smelled familiar too. She watched with muted interest as he reached down and scooped a girl up off the ground. Just beyond them, a more familiar scent waited. Father , she thought, and lunged for him, her teeth biting into his arm as she dragged him through the dirt. He shouted at her, angry and in pain, but she kept tugging until his fingers tangled in her hair and his weight rested upon her back.
Then she ran.
A fearful, high thin sound emerged from her throat, the sound of a man trying to suck a river through a reed; then it stopped, and that was more terrible still.
"Arya! Arya, please ," a voice begged of her. "Please don't go again. You can't, I need you!"
That voice could only belong to one person. She knew it, somewhere down deep, but the name wouldn't come to her tongue. She saw a flash of red - blood? No, not blood, but hair. Red hair, like their mother's. "S-" she tried, but the word was choked from her.
"Sansa," the voice said. "It's Sansa, your sister. You know me, don't you?"
Sansa . That had been her name. Of course she knew Sansa, didn't she? If only she could open her eyes, she could see the red and she would know. A drop of something warm and wet hit her cheek. Blood again , she thought. But this smelled more like salt than iron; another droplet rolled down her cheek. "Nnnn …" she tried again, annoyed as droplet after droplet hit her. Was it raining? "No."
She heard a choked sob from above her as hands grasped at her frantically. "You don't know me?" asked Sansa, sounding hysteric. "He said-he said you might not wake up again, and that if you did, that … that you wouldn't … that you wouldn't be you anymore. It's all … it's all my fault, isn't it?"
"Nnnnn-no," she repeated, the only word she seemed to remember.
Her eyes struggled to open, to see where she was, what had happened, to see that flash of red. Sansa was nothing more than a blur above her, trembling hands wiping away at the tears she had spilt upon her sister's cheeks. "It is, it is ," she insisted. "I didn't mean for it … for this … the queen told me that if I just-just told her, that I could stay and I could marry Joffrey and be queen, but-but I-"
It started coming back to her now. More and more flashes of red. Not hair this time, but the blood she had wanted. Her father's blood, Jaime's, her own - it had poured from her ears, she remembered. She remembered the dirt and the sound of horses' hooves, the taste of the Hound's blood, metallic and sweet- "No," she said again, more firmly this time.
"She promised me they wouldn't hurt Father, she promised but she lied and oh, Ser Loras-"
"Shut up , Sansa," snapped Arya as she struggled to sit despite the pain coursing through her every limb.
Sansa threw herself on top of her, holding her into place. "You have to lay still," she urged. "You'll hurt yourself."
They'll hurt you , Arya thought. They'd have her head for this, she knew, whether it be a Baratheon or Tyrell. She remembered the corpses that littered the streets of King's Landing, all good and loyal men, all men her sister had put there. "You're a liar," she accused. "You haven't talked to the queen in days. Do you understand?" She didn't, Arya could tell. Confusion was etched in her features, her brow knit tightly together. "Not in days , Sansa. Say it."
"I haven't talked to the queen in days," said Sansa.
"That's what you say, even if Father-" Arya hesitated, trying quickly to take in her surroundings. It was dark inside, but she could see the sun creeping in through the corners. The biggest hint of all was that they seemed to be moving - a carriage, but headed to where? "Where is he? Where's Father?"
Sansa looked away from her and Arya's stomach sank. "He hasn't woken up yet," her sister admitted. "Lord Tyrell, Willas, he said that Father should be fine. He lost a lot of blood but we're no more than a day's ride from Highgarden now. He says it's only Father's leg that may be a problem, but that he'll live."
Arya finally felt as if she could breathe again. Her father would live, her sister was alive, and Willas could not tell Sansa things if he were dead. "What happened to Ser Loras?"
Everything hurt.
Nothing was quite as miserable as going from such blissful nothingness to a world full of pain, but apparently it was necessary. At the very least, Cersei seemed to think so. "You've been asleep long enough," she said, no tenderness to her voice. He'd have been a great fool to have expected any from her.
He opened his mouth, trying to speak as the world came into blurry view, but his voice had not been used in several days and nothing came out despite his best efforts. Cersei let out an impatient sigh as she sat down beside him on the bed, waiting for him to rediscover his voice. "Wh-" he tried, but his throat burned. Cersei brought a goblet to him and he quickly downed half its contents before laying back in the bed, already feeling dizzy from the exertion. "Where is she?"
"Who?" asked Cersei. He gave her a look. "That little beast left you for dead and still you ask after her," she remarked with a laugh, though Jaime had serious doubts she actually found him, or the situation, particularly funny. "Has there ever been a bigger fool?"
"You wouldn't be so angry if you had her," Jaime noted, wincing as he lifted an arm up so he could glance down at his abdomen. Wrapped in bandages, he couldn't see what damage she had done to him, but he could certainly still feel it.
Cersei's jaw was clenched so tightly Jaime might've mistaken her for Stannis Baratheon. "What happened?"
He had fallen in love with Arya Stark. That was the short and long of the tale. He had fallen in love, let his guard down, and taken a Valyrian dagger to the gut for it. It was a very short story with little room for interpretation. "You know what happened."
When Arya woke again, she wasn't moving. No, her bed now was quite stable, and rather inviting. It felt as if she were resting atop a pile of warm, soft sheep, enveloping her tiny frame to keep it safe. It was difficult not to succumb to its seduction once more, but she needed to know where she was.
Her gaze drifted first to the sunlight drifting in from her balcony, covered in ivy and yellow flowers that crawled across the walls even inside her room. In the distance, she could see a large lake surrounded by tall, green trees. Looking around her room, she realized that green seemed to be a pattern. A green canopy overhead with gold trimmings, golden roses sewn into her green blanket. Green and gold , she thought. Tyrell colors. They must have arrived in Highgarden while she slept. "There she is," a voice spoke, accompanied by a warm, rough hand engulfing her own. "There's my little soldier."
At first she thought she might still be dreaming when she saw her father sitting beside her. Sansa had told her he was likely to recover, but she struggled to believe it. She feared the worst, as she often did, but how could she yet deny him when she could feel his hand within hers? "Father," she said. "I thought that you-"
"I'm alright," Ned assured her, "and so are you."
"But your leg," said Arya. She had seen Jaime's sword go clean through it.
Ned glanced down at his wrapped leg. He had expected to lose it, truthfully, and likely would have had he been in Winterfell. The Maester at Highgarden seemed to know more. "I may not be as spry as I once was," he admitted. "But I'll walk again, they say." He was smiling at her now, but that couldn't stop the lump growing in her throat as she tried to choke back her tears. "What is it, sweetling?"
"I thought that I was … that I could be …" she tried, but the lump grew larger still, blocking her words from escaping her throat. She had thought she could be a knight, like Ser Jaime. Like Ser Arthur Dayne. She had worked so hard for so long, training under the man himself, but when it had come time to fight, she had been nothing. No more than an annoyance to him, like some insect that he must keep swatting away. It hurt her, down deep in her soul, far more than her body ached. "But I wasn't. You and Mother were right to tell me no."
Ned smiled again, the corners of his eyes crinkling. She had always loved her father's smile, but it was not often that she got to see it. "And here I was preparing to tell you how wrong I've been," he admitted. "It was you who took Jaime Lannister off the field. It was your wolf who stopped Sandor Clegane. We would not have escaped had they been able to fight, Arya. It was that wolf of yours that saved me, she-"
"She bit your arm, I know," said Arya, looking sheepish. "She's sorry for that."
Her father's smile had gone now as he stared at her. "How do you know that?"
"Well, I don't … I don't know she's sorry, but I know she would never mean to-"
"No," her father interrupted. "How did you know she bit my arm? I've not told a soul what she did, and you … I feared you dead, you could not have seen." Hadn't she seen? She could remember it perfectly. "What did Nymeria do to the Hound?"
"She bit his leg and then his hand, and then Anguy shot him with an arrow. Right in the shoulder," she said, tapping on herself where she'd seen the arrow go through.
Ned had seen how Arya's body draped in the archer boy's arms. She'd been limp, unconscious, and there was no way she had seen her wolf tearing into the Hound. She could not have known how the wolf had saved him, and yet she remembered details that had already gone fuzzy for him. "And how did it taste?" he wondered. "My blood." Sweet , she thought. Like her favorite tarts. But how could she say that? How could she know it? "You have a wildness in you, child. 'The wolf blood,' my father used to call it. Lyanna had a touch of it, and my brother Brandon more than a touch. It brought them both to an early grave. And you … you have more of it in you than even Brandon. You're quick to anger, unyielding, foolhardy with your bravery and …"
"And?"
"And you have a very unique bond with your wolf," her father said. "A bond that could get you killed."
A gentle knocking on the door prevented Ned from sharing his thoughts, but Arya had a sneaking suspicion he hadn't planned on sharing them anyway. He had said more to her today than in all her previous days combined. "You're awake," Willas called from the door, a heavy tray filled with tea and biscuits balanced in his arms.
"Only just," Ned answered for her. "We'll talk more later," he promised, patting her hand gently before struggling to his feet. It was not as effortless as it had always been before, but he stood tall in the end, giving Willas a curt nod as he hobbled out of the room with the assistance of a cane.
If Arya had wolf's blood, Willas had the blood of a snail. He was slow and deliberate, calculating, even, and took so long with setting up her bedside table that she began to grow anxious. He'd not said a word since her father left, nor spared her a glance. She watched him as he finished with her tray, then moved around her bed to adjust her curtains. "I'm sorry," she finally blurted, unable to sit on and watch as he moved about her room like a handmaiden instead of her intended. "About your brother." He paused to glance at her. "He was … kind, my sister says. I never spoke to him, not really. But I know he was a …" She looked to him again, praying he may step in to help her, but he didn't. "... good swordsman, and a … good brother, and … a-"
"He was a knight," said Willas. "Blood is the seal of their devotion."
A cold response , thought Arya. He may have been a knight, but he was still his brother. "Still," she insisted. "I am sorry."
"What need have you to be sorry?" he asked her with a smile, coming at last to take the seat her father had vacated. "It wasn't a Stark who killed him."
"No," she said, perhaps a bit too quickly. "Of course not."
His eyes scanned hers for another moment, before gentle fingers brushed against her forehead, moving her damp, sweaty hair out of the way so he could lean in and press a kiss atop her head. Her first, she thought, as he pulled away, though she wasn't entirely sure it counted considering Robb had been the one to kiss her there last. "You're alive and you're you and I can keep you safe here," he said. "That's all that matters now."
"You did say I should have a taste of summer before it fades away," said Arya.
"You'll have more than a taste," promised Willas. "When you're well, of course. My brother-" Willas hesitated for a moment, looking away from her. " Garlan ," he specified. "He's heard of your training with Ser Jaime and he's keen to see what you've learned. He trains with three or four swordsmen himself, to prepare better for actual battle. I know you're not ready for it now, but-"
"You would let me train with him?" she asked. "With a sword?"
" Let you? What sort of man do you take me for?"
She could only stare at him. She didn't think it made him one kind of man or another to permit or deny her anything; it was his right, or would be, as soon as he was her husband. That was simply the way things were done. "I hadn't meant … I don't meant to say–"
"I know what your father told you would happen if you failed to secure a marriage, but this same threat was not held over my head. I was not forced into this, Arya. I could have married ten years ago or ten years from now and it would make no difference," he told her. "I chose now. I chose you. Do you expect I deliberately chose the most willful girl in the seven kingdoms because I wished to control her?" Willas grabbed her hand and squeezed it gently between his. "When we're married, you will be afforded every freedom and every choice that I am, I promise you."
Arya found herself unable to hold eye contact with the man and chose instead to stare at their hands. She'd never had a man confess such feelings for her. To hear that she was what he wanted, that he had chosen her when he need not marry at all … it was not an easy thing for her mind to accept as true. "What if what I want is to go off to battle and kill Jaime Lannister myself?"
Willas smiled at her now. "You'll need your strength for such a task," he said, leaving Arya with the distinct feeling that he was most certainly teasing her. "Sleep now, we'll discuss this again once you've healed."