ARYA V

"She, Princess Arya Stark, was a prisoner stuck in her room. At Winterfell she had been Arya Wolf, finally feeling that she belonged, as she had ran across the crenellations of the castle and all along the courtyard to the fret and laughter of all of the guards there.

There was Dacks, Mankan, Alebelly, Jekken and Donnis, and Shadd and Skittrick and Porther and Fat Tom... She did not feel like a wolf back at the Red Keep, however. Alyn and Varly and the other of her Father's guards were tired with her, their faces hard and condemning when they looked at her from their daily walks along the corridors of the Red Keep.

She was stuck inside her room, for three full days, as her Father had decreed, with only Ayla and her books and embroiderment for company. She did not have Nymeria anymore. Not since she had bit Joffrey and ran away at the Trident, after Arya had thrown a stone at her and told her to leave before they took her head for it. She grieved for her. Deeply. But at least she was still out there, somewhere... Perhaps in time she could return, but she would certainly have to wait a long long while, all the way until Father had forgotten his anger at her and rescinded his sentence over her.

That was terrible, how Father could have ever done such a thing. Nymeria was her pet. Her very own, and she loved her, as much as she had loved anyone or anything, even though she was so troublesome and fierce. She had raised her from when she was little, although that was not altogether too long ago...

Back at Winterfell, and still at the Barrowlands and the Neck, they had been so happy, although Nymeria had surely been a bit troublesome... Now, however... She had lost both her wolf and her sword due to Father's stern judgement. And she who had always thought that he was the one who understood her the most, who listened to her heart, out of him and Mother, but now apparently... That was no longer the case.

She wept, snivelling on greenish tears and snot coming out from her nose as she sat up on her bed, holding her stupid embroiderment in her hand, only as a null token of something... She did not want to sew, not at all, but Septa Mordane had told her to do so, and to do so quietly, peeking into her room with her disapproving eyes and sharp nose, looking like an angry hen, and... Arya had not even gotten her hen from Winterfell that she wanted, she realized suddenly. Then she burst out crying even more, turning down her head into her hands, tying them together, with the embroiderment pressed towards the edge of her dark hair, her hair that was the same colour as Father's, but which he had apparently stopped caring about. Their connection, the trust she had placed in him, and yet... He had taken away her Arya Wolf. He had taken her sword, and then the promise of a safe return for Nymeria.

She could not believe it, she still could not believe it, and yet, as it seemed to her, here on the edge of her bed she still sat, crying, with the stupid bory embroiderment in her hand and stupid buggering Septa Mordane standing outside like some evil witch keeping a close guard over her. She had learned the word 'buggering' from Mycah, and had used it ever since. At the very least, Mycah had gotten himself an excuse out of stupid girly-haired Joffrey. That was well, she supposed. But still... Mycah would have to wait down in the kitchens and the butchery for three full days before she could see him.

What if something happened to him in the meantime? What if Joffrey decided to go to him again and try and kill him this time around? Or what if Mycah thought that she had stopped being friends with him, because she did not come and see him? But she could not, for stupid Father and stupid bloody buggering Septa Mordane... If she had her Needle again, she would have poked them all full of holes until they bled... She thought. But she did not. And so she only cried instead.

Ayla came out into the bedchamber again from having cleaned and decorated the privy with candles. That had certainly taken her long enough... She thought. She might have said so, told her everything that she was thinking immediately, leave the stupid candles and come and sit here with me instead, I am your princess, all that she might have said, if she had had the strength in her heart and voice for it...

"Are you not sewing, Arya?"

"Could you call me princess some time? Or otherwise tell the King that I am not a princess, and have me thrown out of the castle instead, to live with the wildlings in the North where I belong?"

She was determined to get the best of the conversation.

But Ayla Seffrey was ever graceful and supple in her answers, preferring not to spite her when she was at a temper like this.

"Certainly I will call you princess, princess."

Arya scowled.

"But do you not wish to show the septa which wonderful stitchings you have made here, princess?" Ayla's voice was a mockingly sweet one, as she sardonised at Arya's will to be called what she was.

"No", she said simply, still sitting still on the bed.

Ayla stopped her jesting then, and instead walked up to her.

"Surely... Wouldn't you for once want to show them and knock the septa's lights out with how good you have become? Wouldn't that be the very best sort of revenge,... princess?"

"No, of course not!" Arya said. "Then I'd be doing exactly what they want me to do!"

"But surely, if you were to become good at it here, without the septa sitting next to you, you have more peace and quiet to do it at your own pace. Is that not so...?"

Arya said no, and then no again, of course not. But then the thoughts came to her... She tried turning them away, but she quickly soon realized that Ayla was propbably right. Besides, Jon Snow had told her as much all the way back at Winterfell. That she was to accept that she was a lady stuck at sewing. And he in turn had been told by the imp... So strange it all was.

She sighed, for another stinking time, and cursed, as she put her fingers into the work and began sewing, angrily, sullenly, slowly, markedly, treading each needle as if it were a mountain to climb. But then there came another one, the second one, the third one, the fourth one, the fifth, the sixth... And finally she was in on it.

Her fingers swept over the sewing as she felt herself improving gradually, gradually, and imagined how she would smack the septa to the floor with her talents. She would be so surprised, and the look on her stupid old face would all be worth it, as she would throw away Sansa's stitches and only have praise for Arya's, and then she would finally have won over her sister and the septa.

Ayla smiled at the sight, and then went back to clean the walls and shelves from cobwebs and dust, as Arya continued sewing happily, intensely, with all the power of her strong fingers indeed.

A quarter passed by. It must have done, surely. Then another quarter. Arya was beginning to feel fine about her work. Great, even. Yes. Here she would be all alone, and no stupid septa to bother her with her idiotic remarks and scoldings. Arya was finally at peace. She was finally happy.

But then she was reminded of why she should not be so.

...

There was a knock on the door suddenly. Father's voice came from the other side of the door.

"Arya, are you in there? I need to speak with you."

"Go away!" She cried, her voice almost breaking.

There was silence at the door.

"Arya...? … Arya, open the door. … Arya?"

She cursed herself, for being so stupid as to trust him all over again, as she walked across the cold hard stone of the floor, leaving the comfort of her red cozy bedside Myrish mat to open the door for him. Reluctantly, sad, but still reluctantly curious, she supposed, at what he would possibly be able to say. If not some more punishment. That she would not have been able to bear, however, as she felt it inside of her.

But Father's voice and face was calm. He stood like a scared statue when she opened the door. He only looked down on her, his visage surprised at the sight of her tears.

"Arya... " He said, holding out his arms as she leapt up and hugged him.

He hugged her hard back, holding her tightly, closely, stroking her dark hair, as she felt it entangle with his own, and the scruff of his thick, bushy beard, which was always sticky but somehow made her feel at home and feel warm and safe all the same...

She began crying again, though silently this time, shedding and letting her tears go into the soft embrace of Father's long greyish dark brown hair. The sound she made was a wheezing one, and one which she did not understand why it sounded like it did, though she felt with all her heart where it came from.

"Arya, I'm sorry..." Father said. "But I had to do something. You've been running wild throughout the entire trip. You know you have."

"I have not!" She insisted, her voice thick with red tears, her vision blurry, as her eyes were closed into the muffle of his hair and beard at the side of his neck. "I only didn't want Joffrey to hurt poor Mycah! He didn't do anything against me that I didn't tell him. … Well, except that he hit me on the hand with his stick when I stopped up, but... But he didn't...- He... - " Her voice broke again.

"There, there..." Father said, as he patted her back, letting her cry out all of it in a red, raging stream of tears, of guilt, of anguish and of sadness and anger at her fate.

"Why did you punish Nymeria...?" She cried. "Why did you condemn her?"

"Arya, I...- She is dangerous.", Father said.

"She is not! She is my pet!" Arya shot back, deaf to the pleas of reason.

"What if you had not been able to bend her away from Joffrey? Then what would have happened?"

Arya cried again, a wordless howling wail echoing through the hall of the bedchamber, letting her red stream of tears wind deeper and deeper into Father's neck.

"Ey. Arya. Come on. Get up", He said, his voice choppy, and trying to be encouraging, as he put her down on the floor in front of him, planting her feet on the floor and holding her hands still, as he bent down to be on her level of height.

"I just want my... I just want my friend back..."

"Your friend...? … Mycah?"

"NYMERIA!" She practically screamed in his face. "You sentenced her to die!"

She howled again, throwing her head down into her chest, until she felt her neck tugging still, and she could not bend anymore, and then she fell down to her knees in front of Father, to her horror and shame. This was not the way one should kneel to a king... A quiet but truthful voice of reason at the back of her mind reasoned.

"Arya. Stand up", Father said again, as he took her head and tried looking at her.

She attempted to calm down then, but her breath was fast, rapid, frantic even, and she felt that she couldn't get any air, as she shuddered with bursts of rage and sorrow again, and again, like shockwaves etching their way through her body... What has my life become? She thought. To sit here kneeling like this? She was not Arya Wolf in that moment, only a scared little girl, perhaps even less than that, in front of her Father, who stood like a statue in front of her, and Mother who was away all the way back at Winterfell, having left her to care only about Bran, and Bran... He was still asleep somewhere. Poor poor Bran... She gasped for air.

"Arya! Listen to me.", Father said, as he yanked her up to stand on the floor, and put her to rest with her back towards the bed, steadying her down a bit.

"A direwolf is a terrible creature for most men. I had hoped that you might raise them to be better than that, and to be more like hounds, to have a love for men in their ways, a calm and predictability about them, but it would seem that it was a task all too large."

"No it wasn't!... She let go eventually. … She didn't... She didn't kill him..."

"Joffrey is the son of Gerion Lannister, the brother of Lord Tywin. The Lannisters are a prouder house than most. Powerful. And dangerous. It is a miracle that nothing more has happened with this entire thing as of yet. I need to know that there is no danger at court. I always need to know that. You know that, Arya. I am the Father to you and your sister and brothers, but I am also the Father to all the realm, as a good king must... And so I must see to the protection of Joffrey and all his kin as well."

"But I... But he... He is a terrible lord!" She sobbed. "He's arrogant, and mean, and stupid, and... and... And he looks like a girl!"

Father seemed almost to stop up somewhat at that, though he held it inside himself, preferring to be still.

"...Joffrey? Like a girl? Why?"

"What do you mean 'why'? He has that long, blonde hair! And a pouty mouth like some dumb girl who is pulling her tongue out at someone! And he is so cruel and mean! He called me the most terrible things! And he was meant to Sansa too! I don't want Sansa to marry him. Please!..."

Father said nothing. That told her all that she needed to know, but did not want to hear.

"Arya..."

"I don't want it! I don't want to have to call him my good-brother some day! I hate him! He's a stupid shit lord and he hurt Mycah!"

She had learned to say 'shit lord' from the guards at Winterfell, who spoke dirt on the eerie leech lord, Roose Bolton, a true shit lord according to Jekken, a bad lord who had hurt one of his subjects at a mill, a poor woman, and gotten her with child as well, against her wishes, as Arya recalled.

"Mycah is fine", Father said then. "He is running around the kitchens same as ever. Trust me."

How can I trust you again? Arya thought. After you took away my sword, you took away Needle, that I got from Uncle Benjen, and that my cousin Jon helped me to name... I was Arya Wolf, I was a Wolf Queen at Winterfell, I wanted you to be proud of me, and yet instead you fear me, and fear what I do, and you are helping Joffrey to nestle his way inside our home instead...

She was so confused by it all. Yes, her Father was the king to all his people, not only those who he liked, but surely the king could have decided to not have Joffrey inside his castle? He did not have to entertain every single lord that came to him, especially not now that their journey to Winterfell and back was at an end... But Joffrey's father was Lord Tywin, of course, and apparently even Father had to care about Lord Tywin, even though Father was the King.

He seemed to have sensed what she thought regarding her Needle.

"As for your sword... I recognized it the first time I saw it in your packing. Mikken's steel is great work. I had my very first sword from him, when I was only a little older than you, as I prepared to leave for the Vale. It is certainly no toy. That is why I don't want you to have it around you until you can handle it properly. … And also to teach you a lesson."

"I didn't even use my sword! I didn't even do anything! I had a stick! It was only Nymeria..."

"And you have not trained her well enough", Father insisted once again. His voice was hard.

They were silent for a long while, as Arya said nothing, giving up trying to argue with his deaf ears, and Father sighed and looked out through the window behind her.

Ayla still stood in the room watching everything, as silent as a mouse, as she rubbed at some of the dust from the window panes and pretended not to hear.

Arya's sobs had stopped now at least. She felt almost slightly like herself again. Calm. Determined. Humble yet calm and knowing how to feel. She felt all right, she supposed. Father held her some more, stroking her across the back and across her hair.

Today she had put it up just like him, with a hairpin or two at the back, like he was wont to do at times when it grew too long and flew in the face of him on particularly warm days. She felt him untangle her hair, as he cleaned off her snot with his handkerchief tenderly. He had never done so before, she thought. But perhaps he had to do so now and further on. Mother was not here to do it, and Septa Mordane was being a witch, aye...

"Little princesses shouldn't play with swords", Father said then. "Nor sticks like swords", he added, as he sat down slowly beside her on the bed.

"I wasn't playing. We were practicing. And I don't want to be a princess. Septa Mordane never calls me a princess anyway, she only calls me a child, so it doesn't matter...!"

Father stopped in his tracks at that.

"She doesn't call you a princess? … But surely sometimes?...-"

"No, she doesn't! She only ever calls Sansa a princess, and always says that Sansa is such a good girl, and she always just gives me shouts and bark! And... Well... She is not kind."

"She only wants to raise you into a proper young lady, I'm sure..." Father said, carefully, though he seemed himself not to be entirely sure about it, from having heard what Arya said.

"As for your sword... Who were you wanting to spear with it? Joffrey? Your sister?"

She didn't say anything.

"Do you know the first thing about sword fighting?"

"Stick 'em with the pointy end", she said, mirroring what Jon had told her at Winterfell.

Father laughed. A sudden, chuckling great warm laugh. "Aye, that is the essence of it, I suppose..."

They sat still for another while, Arya to the left and Father to the right on the bed, as Arya thought.

"I was trying to learn", she said. "Really. I was. … I asked Mycah to practice with me. … I asked him to practice with me. I asked him to try and hit at me. But... He was too good for me..."

"Perhaps you need someone closer to your age to practice with. Mycah is all of twelve, is he not?"

"Thirteen..." She admitted.

Father said nothing, as they felt the passing of time go by. The chamber was so still now, and Ayla still stood behind them, tending at the walls and windows, saying nothing as she listened with intent.

"But I don't want anyone to be with but Mycah. I hate them. I hate all of them. Jeyne, and Pasker, and stupid Joffrey, and Sansa... "

"Sansa is your sister", Father interrupted her. "You are meant to love eachother. Take care of eachother."

"We are as different as anyone can be. How am I supposed to love her when she is so stupid?"

"Listen to me. You might have been born and lived all of your life down here, in the Long Summer... But you are a Stark of Winterfell, just as I. You know our house words."

She looked up at him, uncertainly. "Winter is coming..."

"Aye. And in winter, we must protect ourselves, and look after one another. When winter comes, and the cold winds blow over the land, the lone wolf dies,... but the pack survives. … Sansa is your sister.", he said again.

Arya sat quiet for a while, as Father held her shoulders, trying to inprint his words onto her.

"...I don't hate her, I suppose... Not really... I just... I get angry with her sometimes..."

"That is fine. You are allowed to get angry. But you must understand that Sansa's path in life may be a different one than yours. She might actually like Joffrey, whether you would like so or no.

"And I must sit next to him on feasts, every time me and Sansa meet, for the rest of our lives..."

"I have not even said that they are to be married. But if that should come to pass, or with any other lord which you may not like yourself, but whom Sansa likes... Then yes... You would."

He smiled down at her, at last. "But the king can surely choose where to put princess Arya of Winterfell at the feasts, and who to place next to her. Perhaps Ser Mycah the red..."

Arya smiled back at him. "Thanks. … But I am not Arya of Winterfell. I am Princess Arya of the Red Keep."

He seemed to understand her. She had reconciled herself with her fate, at least somewhat, it seemed. They sat some time more, just feeling the comfort of each other, as Father's great strong arm rested on her back, holding her close, as Ayla swept and cleaned the walls a sixth time behind their backs.

"Now... " Father said, as he slightly arose from the bed, creaking in his entire knees and looking down with a pained look of stiffness in his legs or back, "if you are going to use a sword... In three days' time, that is... If you can keep inside of your room until then... You had better learn how to use it. If you manage to do that... I shall get you a sword instructor as good as Ser Aron. … Better. But that is only if you learn your lesson, and stay in here and work on your sewing all the while. Three days, Arya... Can you do that?"

Arya nodded, strangely, feeling the emancipation from the promise and [ ] of it.

"Yes, Father. I can do it. I promise. … Three days."