Arya I
Arya Stark despised embroidery with a passion. More than once she had to quell the urge to hurl her needle at Septa Mordane and flee the solar. It was not simply that she detested the task—she loathed the fact that she alone seemed so poor at it, while Sansa and Jeyne excelled. Since Arya could remember, Septa Mordane's chiding had filled her ears, ever ringing with the same refrain: ''You might take a lesson from your sister and Jeyne, child.'' Sansa and Jeyne would grant her smug little smiles, and Arya would snap some retort under her breath, calling both embroidery and the septa fools.
Today, though, all was different. Today, Jon and Arthur were departing, and she might never see them again. The notion clutched at her heart so fiercely that she bit her tongue and did not rail when the septa scolded her yet again. Even Sansa had no smug quip to offer, as though she too felt the pall of sadness that lingered in the air. Her mother's eyes flickered with concern at the sudden gloom, but if Septa Mordane took any notice, she gave no sign of it—or, perhaps, she simply did not care.
''They will find your uncle, my sweet children. You need not worry," Catelyn told them.
''Yes children, Ser Arthur is a knight. Sworn by the Seven to protect the weak and uphold the good.'' Mordane agreed.
Neither Sansa nor Arya replied. Instead, they decided that embroidery was so fun that they did not notice them, keeping their eyes down on the embroidery hoop.
''And your bastard half-brother will be alright as well. Ser Arthur will protect him.'' Septa Mordane added, making Arya turn her head up and meet her brown eyes, eyes narrowing.
''Don't call him that!'' Arya hissed at her.
''Arya!'' Sansa shrieked in shock, her gaze shifting toward her.
''Shut up!'' Arya shrieked back.
''Enough!'' Her mother roared, ocean blue eyes burning in fury. Jeyne had said nothing, keeping her gaze on the embroidery hoop. She never said anything when her mother attended the lessons, never giving her smug smiles or calling her Arya Horseface. Only spoke when spoken to, like a good little lady.
Arya spat a curse at Septa Mordane, loud enough to startle Sansa into a sharp gasp, and in that moment her mother's voice rang with command, sending her to her chambers at once. Hot tears welled in Arya's eyes. She hurled the embroidery hoop at the smooth grey stone of Winterfell's walls, then bolted for the door, heedless of the gasps and scolding that followed in her wake.
Once inside her chamber, she slammed the door closed, flung herself upon her bed, and buried her face in her pillow, her sobs muffled by the feather-stuffed linen. She had scarcely spoken to Jon since the morning in the courtyard, when she begged him not to leave Winterfell. Never before had she seen him look so distant—his grey eyes as cold and cutting as an icy wind. She felt sure he had condemned her for her outburst, for what she called him... and now he would depart hating her. Soon he would be gone, and she would be left truly alone.
Sansa and Jeyne would go on whispering and giggling behind her back, as they always did. Robb would be too busy with lordly lessons alongside Theon, sharing jests and brotherly bonds that seemed to leave no room for her. Bran had taken up with Donal Stane of Driftwood Hall, scarcely leaving her a moment's notice. And little Rickon was barely more than a babe. Once Jon rode away, there would be no one left in all the North who truly understood her—no one to stand at her side.
She heard a knock at the door. ''Arya, may I come in?'' It was her father; she did not reply. The door opened, and she heard a heavy sigh coming from her father as he made his way to her bed, sitting.
''What's the matter, sweet?'' she heard her father say softly. She felt his large hand on the back of her head, stroking her hair.
What wasn't wrong? Everything was changing; Arya hated change. Jon was leaving, and for all her efforts to hold him here, she had only driven him further away.
''Let them do it then! Why do you have to go? They will kill you, just like they did Uncle Benjen!'' Arya had begged Jon; why would he not listen?
''Uncle Benjen is still alive, little sister.'' Jon answered, not unkindly.
''You're not Uncle Benjen!'' Why can't he listen? He's being stupid!
Arya turned her gaze upon her father's long and solemn face, grey eyes meeting his own. His close-trimmed beard, once so neat, now showed the wear of years, making him appear older than his five-and-thirty. At length, she found her voice, though it trembled with uncertainty. ''I... I don't know what to do.''
''What do you mean?''
''He hates me,'' Arya said lowly, remembering what she had done, how she had hurt him.
''Who?''
''Jon.''
Eddard Stark looked perplexed. ''Why would he hate you, Arya? He adores you.''
''Arya…'' Jon sighed.
''No, you're being stupid! They might have kept Uncle Benjen alive, but you're just a bastard!''
Her cheeks flamed at the memory of it. ''I'm... I called him something. And now he hates me," Arya said, chewing her lip.
Her father frowned, his hand leaving her head. ''I didn't mean to; you must believe me!'' Arya pleaded.
''I believe you, my sweet, truly I do. But you must make amends with him, all the same. He leaves us this very day, and it may be many moons—mayhaps years—before he sets foot in Winterfell again.'' His father smiled softly.
''He will never be back; he will say that stupid oath and leave us behind.'' Arya said sullenly. He will leave me behind...
''You cannot know that for certain, Arya. He may yet change his mind. And though I share your sorrow at his leaving, it is no small honour to serve upon the Wall. Your brother has weighed this choice for many moons, and if this is truly his will, is that not enough for you?'' Eddard said with a touch of sorrow before continuing. ''We're the Starks of Winterfell; you know our words.''
''Winter is coming...'' She whispered, feeling cold all of a sudden.
''You were born in the warmth of the long summer, child. You've never felt aught else. But winter nears in truth, and when the cold comes, all that matters is that we keep one another safe. We cannot afford to wage war among ourselves.''
Arya considered his words, about to say something but was interrupted by a knock at the door.
''Who is it?'' demanded Arya harshly.
''It's me, Arya. May I come in, please?'' Jon Snow replied, the voice appearing muffled through the oak door. Arya's face turned pale. She was not ready to face Jon right now.
Her father smiled reassuringly at her, probably noticing her pale face. ''Come in, Jon,'' said Eddard, forcing her hand.
She shook her head at him but stopped quickly as the door opened to reveal her brother holding something wrapped in a blanket. He looked uncertain. ''Father, I did not know you would be here.''
''Do you want me to leave?'' Eddard asked kindly.
Jon did not reply immediately, seeming deep in thought. ''No... no, it's, um... it's alright, I suppose. I'm sure you would find out soon enough.''
Eddard's brow creased with worry, even as a flush of colour returned to Arya's cheeks. Still, she found no words to speak, no courage to meet Jon's gaze. Though to her quiet relief, he took the reins.
''I… I had something made for you,'' Jon began, his voice tentative. ''It's… well, it must be handled with great care.''
''A present?'' Arya managed; the prospect of a present was enough for her to find the courage to meet his eyes.
Jon shut the door behind him, casting one last wary glance at their father. He then placed the wrapped bundle upon the small table near the chamber's threshold, turning his back to them as he worked at the bindings. A quiet sigh escaped him before he spun around, gift in hand. A sword? Arya's eyes went wide at the sight of the slender blade, thin as a needle, but a sword nonetheless. Her gaze darted to her father, who regarded the blade with grave attention, his brow knitting. Yet Lord Eddard said nothing, leaving Arya's heart to hammer in the hush that followed.
She took her father's silence as approval to grab the handle and inspect the sword more closely. Jon had made this for me?
''This is no toy.'' Eddard finally spoke.
''No, it is not,'' Jon agreed. ''As I said before, Arya—handle it with the care it deserves.''
''It's so skinny,'' Arya observed.
''So are you. I had Mikken make this for you special. The Braavosi use swords like this in Pentos and Myr and the other Free Cities. It won't hack a man's head off, but it can poke him full of holes if you're quick enough.'' Jon said, looking calmer now.
''I can be quick,'' Arya said enthusiastically.
Jon smiled sadly. ''I won't be here to teach you, but I'm sure if you ask Father very kindly, he can help you.''
Arya turned to her father once more, eyes pleading, though no words came. Lord Eddard regarded her in silence for a long moment.
At length, he exhaled, his gaze softening. ''You are so like your aunt,'' he murmured, a trace of sorrow in his voice. ''Very well. I'll see what I can do.''
Arya exploded with delight, laying the blade on the bed before jumping and squealing before flinging herself upon her father.
''Thank you, thank you, thank you!'' Arya said, breathless.
Eddard Stark only chuckled at her exuberance. The girl's eyes shone as she reached for the hilt of her new blade, pride swelling within her like a warm hearth fire.
Yet when she turned to Jon, her excitement faltered. His smile was gentle, but the uncertainty returned all the same, taking the place of her bright delight.
''First lesson, stick 'em with the pointy end,'' Jon murmured.
Arya could not still the roll of her eyes, tense as she was. ''I know which end to use...''
Jon offered no reply—only silence and a long, measured look that set Arya's heart racing. He hates me still, she thought.
''Jon, I'm...I didn't...'' Arya said, eyes widening at her own blunder.
''Aye, that's all I am.'' Jon said coldly, releasing his grip on her shoulder and rising to his feet. ''As I am so commonly reminded here, now even by you, it seems.''
Arya could feel the tears welling in her eyes; this is not how she wanted it to go. Why is this happening? ''Jon! Please, I'm—''
''If it would please the Lady Stark, I would like to freshen myself up.'' Jon interrupted before marching off the courtyard, leaving her there, alone.
Her throat tightened at the memory, and the words she wanted to say died on her lips. Gods, why is this so hard? Fear gripped her at the thought that he would reject her, ride away to the Wall, and never return. Worse yet, she imagined him dying beyond the Wall, remembering her with bitterness as his last thought.
''I'm going to miss you, sweet sister.'' Jon said, at last.
His words stole the breath from Arya's lungs and left her completely dazed. She glanced down at the slender blade in her hand—the one he had made just for her. Tears blurred her vision, as the sword slipped from her grasp. In a heartbeat, she flung herself at Jon, arms clinging so tight she feared she might crush his bones. Pressed against his chest, Arya sobbed as she had never sobbed before, all her fear and regret spilling out in great, wracking sobs that left her shaking.
''I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!'' she wailed. ''I didn't mean it. I'm...'' Arya tried, but she could not speak; she could only cry.
''I know, little sister. I know...'' Jon said calmly, as he returned her hug.
She could not say when their father's arms had joined their embrace, nor how Nymeria had broken free of the kennels, slipped through the door, and nestled herself between them. She had only the faintest recollection of glimpsing Robb and Ser Arthur hovering in the hallway, looks of utter confusion etched upon their faces. But none of it mattered in that moment. She welcomed all of it—every comforting hand, every gentle word, and every startled onlooker. Because for the first time in what felt like ages, despite her tears, Arya Stark was truly happy.
It wasn't until later that day, when the courtyard swelled with commotion as the men prepared for their march north, that sorrow took ahold of her again. Already, she could spy some departing through the East Gate, horses at their heels. She caught sight of Jory clasping Ser Rodrik Cassel in a fierce embrace before mounting his own steed and trotting away toward the gate.
Arya and her kin stood in a silent row, bracing themselves to bid farewell to Jon. He was deep in conversation with Ser Arthur across the crowded yard, but when Arthur turned and made his way to join the Starks, Jon himself broke away and set his course for the kennels.
Father was in the middle, Robb to his right and Catelyn to his left, holding little Rickon. Theon was to the left of her mother, while Sansa, Bran, and Arya were all to Robb's right. Arthur spoke with Eddard and Catelyn, but she could not hear the words.
''Look out for my brother, ser. Make sure he doesn't make a fool of himself," Robb said to Ser Arthur.
Arthur Dayne smiled in return. ''I swear it; I'll give my life if need be,'' he replied.
''Please try to avoid that as well,'' Robb said, cringing; it made Arthur boom in laughter.
''Goodbye, Ser Arthur, stay safe.'' Sansa said to Arthur when he made his way to her.
''I will; you take care of yourself, Lady Sansa.'' Arthur kissed her hand, while Sansa smiled her obnoxious, ladylike smile.
''Please promise to tell me all about The Wall and what's beyond it,'' Bran said, grinning.
Arthur chuckled and ruffled Bran's hair, earning himself giggles from Bran. ''I promise, little Brandon.''
Arya looked deep into Uncle Arthur's violet eyes, trying to spot any lies when she spoke: ''Find Uncle Benjen, keep my brother safe, and please talk him out of taking that stupid oath. And don't die, do you understand?''
Ser Arthur did not smile; he only met her gaze solemnly. ''I cannot swear I'll find your uncle, nor can I promise I'll sway him from the black cloak. But this I will pledge: Jon and I shall not be breathing our last any time soon.'' Not what I hoped for, but good enough. Arya thought before she launched herself toward him. Arthur returned the hug, chuckling before releasing her.
''Keep training with that blade of yours; I want to test your mettle when I return.'' Arya grinned, nodding fiercely.
Jon arrived not soon after with Ghost at his heels, standing before Robb. They spoke in what could only be their own stupid tongue, laughing before embracing fiercely.
Sansa looked uncertain when Jon arrived before her; she tried to speak, but nothing came out.
''Take care of yourself, Sansa.'' Jon said with a soft smile.
''Stay safe, Jon.'' Sansa said meekly as Jon kissed her hand.
Jon went down to his knees to embrace Bran, who looked close to tears.
''Do you have to go?'' Bran asked him. Jon smiled softly and wiped a single tear that had managed to escape his eyes.
''I must, but I will return, little brother, or you could visit me at The Wall. We could even go walking atop the wall if you're not afraid.'' Bran smiled excitedly and nodded.
Jon did not manage to fully meet her before she was on him, embracing. Jon chuckled and squeezed her.
''All the best swords have names,'' Jon whispered to her.
''Like ice,'' she said, releasing Jon. ''Does mine have a name? Please, tell me.''
''Can't you guess?'' Jon teased. ''Your very favourite thing.''
Arya seemed puzzled at first, then it came to her. They said it together: ''Needle!''
Jon stepped up to their father, whispering words too soft for any but the two of them to hear, before they joined in a final embrace. By then, a horse waited behind him, courtesy of Arthur's forethought. With a heavy sigh, Jon swung into the saddle and cast one last, lingering glance upon his kin. Arya felt tears brimming anew, but she blinked them back, lifting a hand in farewell. Jon answered with a nod and a wave of his own, then urged his mount toward the East Gate. Ser Arthur followed close behind, his horse's hooves echoing Jon's as they departed Winterfell.
Before long the courtyard was empty, and her family ate their evening meal in the Great Hall. The melancholy feeling that she had felt when she woke up was now replaced with warmth. Their family laughed and japed at the dinner table. And as she dragged herself to her bed, she closed her eyes and dreamed of wolves.