Arya II
Silence; all there was, was silence.
The wind grew to a howl, pushing the leaves growing on the many trees and piercing the silence inside the forest like a needle through an embroidery hoop. Arya Stark was hiding, her stormy grey eyes scanning the green vastness before her, just like Syrio Forel had taught. The hunt had been slow, however, excruciatingly so, and her father would be most displeased once she returned; she already knew. I only need to catch one, only one.
Yet as the sun began to properly rise, and all she had to show from her little hunt was a muddy gown and fresh scratches, mostly gained from the fierce battle between Arya and the bush she was residing in, she knew that Eddard Stark would not be the only one disappointed.
Chasing and catching a cat was an art that any water-dancer residing in Braavos knew of and had mastered. Her instructor, Syrio Forel, told her that every swordsman should study cats, because they are quiet, light on their feet, and quick. Arya and Bran had no difficulties in finding some in Wintertown; they had even managed to catch some of them. Harrenhal seemed a different beast, though. Arya had not found a single one since her family had arrived at the great ruin; she had hoped today would be different.
''Arya!''
She stiffened, her hand instinctively going to Needle's pommel. Her lips were firmly closed, careful not to give away her position. Quiet as a shadow. She could not help but think. She could turn this into another trial. Test her limits in the art of disguise.
''Arya! We know you're here!''
''Show yourself, already!''
The voices were growing louder, drawing nearer, and Arya began to brush her thumb across the smooth pommel of her little sword, wishing—hoping... In truth, she wasn't even sure what she wished for. Sitting in silence, waiting for a cat to wander through the forest, was hardly a pleasant way to spend her time. A small part of her longed to show herself and be escorted back to the warmth of the tents. Yet here, within the vast, peaceful stillness of the forest, Arya found a different kind of warmth—a faint warmth that reminded her of the Godswood of Winterfell. Beyond that treeline, where the ruined towers of Harren the Black loomed beside a sea of tents, lay the pretty, empty maidens she had to sew with and the perfumed lords whose smiles never reached their eyes. Beyond that treeline, lay Sansa and Jayne Poole's dream—the lady's dream, the southern dream.
Here, within the forest, where Ghost usually prowled, and the air was fresh with the scent of earth and pine, there was a sweetness—one Arya found she already missed. Here, in this stillness, lay Arya's dream, Jon and Robb's dream, the northern dream.
Yet her feelings on the matter seemed for naught, as an unwelcome surprise flew down and landed just outside the bush she had made her camp.
''Corn! Corn!'' The raven croaked.
''Go away, you stupid bird!'' Arya hissed.
The raven tilted its head. ''Go! Go! Away!''
She tried to wave it off, yet it only seemed to make it worse as the raven started croaking loudly while flying around the bush.
''She's here!'' Arya suddenly heard. A hand on her arm followed, grabbing and dragging her out of her camping spot. Arya squirmed and kicked, yet the Winterfell man proved too strong.
''There you are.'' Harwin, the new captain of the guard, said, the relief clear in his voice. ''What are you playing at?''
Arya bit her lip. ''I was hunting,'' she meekly said.
Harwin scoffed. ''The Others take your hunt! Your father is worried sick with fear for you." He looked her up and down, a weary sigh escaping his lips. Arya's gaze shifted, avoiding Harwin's face, and her sharp eyes caught sight of it. There, just behind an oak tree at the edge of the treeline, sat a grey cat, calmly licking its paws with indifferent yellow eyes, utterly unconcerned. Arya tugged at her arm, trying to break free of Harwin's grip, but his hold was unyielding. A faint rustling sound came from behind the cat, growing louder, though Arya couldn't see who or how many were there. Eventually, the noise became enough to startle the cat, which darted away deeper into the forest.
''Men, fall back from the forest. Return to camp at once,'' Harwin commanded the small searching party of men that had made their way towards them from deeper inside the forest.
Arya pouted in irritation, but the expression was melting as Harwin began to guide her south once more, away from the dense forest that had stood silent to the north of Harenhall and its tourney. From one dream to another, she thought bitterly.
As Arya and Harwin emerged from the treeline, her pout returned with a rising anger as the sun struck down, nearly blinding her. She lifted her hand to shield her eyes, blinking furiously to clear her vision. Harwin, thankfully, had loosened his firm grip on her arm, to which Arya was grateful. Once her eyes began to adjust, she caught sight of a tall, familiar figure making his way toward her, his expression tight with concern.
''Arya! Thank the gods!'' Jon said, breathless as he dropped to his knees. Before she could react, he pulled her into a fierce embrace, uncaring of the mud and leaves clinging to her ruined gown. Arya held him just as tightly, the faint, earthy sweetness of the forest wrapping around her like an old memory. In that moment, she struggled to recall why she had been angry at all.
''I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.''
''Hush now, it's all right. We were simply worried, that's all.'' Jon said, slowly catching his breath. ''Why did you not tell anyone where you were going?''
A hundred reasons swirled around her mind, but Arya only managed to shrug. ''All of you would have frightened the cats off.''
If Jon was puzzled by her words, he gave no sign of it. They broke from their embrace, and Arya finally took in the faces of those who had come to her 'rescue.' Most she recognised, whether by face or by the familiar garb of the North—men of Winterfell. She could pick out Manderlys, Flints, and Umbers among them. Many wore looks of relief, though some seemed... disappointed. Why that was, Arya could not guess. Amid the throng stood another figure—a withered man with a stern, weathered face. His rough-hewn armour bore a purple star emblazoned across his chest, somewhat roughed up, much like the man himself.
''Now, come with me, m'lady. Your lord father will be expecting you.'' Harwin eventually said. Arya bit her lip anxiously but managed to find the courage to follow him.
Jon offered a faint smile and ruffled her hair before rising. Arya longed for her brother to stand beside her, to share the weight of facing their lord father's icy wrath. But Jon had already turned away, striding toward the stern-faced stranger waiting in the shadows. Can't you come with me, Jon? She thought to ask—but she already knew the answer.
Everything seemed to be changing, and Arya liked it not one bit. Jon was always busy now with his 'lordly duties.' ''I'm sorry, sweet sister. I'm bound to meet Wendel Manderly,'' he would say, or ''I have duties to attend to with my regent. I shall join you later.'' Those times stung, but the worst by far were when he claimed he had to go sparring with that stupid weed knight.
Arya Stark held no fondness for Ser Loras Tyrell. She despised the smug smirk he perpetually wore and the air of arrogance that clung to him like a second cloak. She often wondered what it was that Jon saw in him. Loras was no Robb—steadfast and true—but more akin to Theon Greyjoy, all swagger and sharp words. And Jon hated Theon, did he not?
So, as she watched her brother disappear once more into the sea of tents, Arya Stark's bitterness crept back. With a final glance toward Jon, she turned, forced herself to swallow it, and followed Harwin toward his father's tent.
Her father was alone with Bran in the tent when Harwin and Alyn ushered her in, an oil lamp casting a soft glow at his elbow. He was bent over the largest map of the North Arya had ever seen, but he rolled it up as he listened to Harwin's report. Bran embraced Arya warmly, his voice bursting with a thousand questions before she could even speak. Eddard Stark's face remained as stern as ever as he dismissed the men, sending them away with Bran.
''You realise I had half my guard searching for you?'' Eddard Stark said, his voice low and stern once they were alone. ''Septa Mordane is beside herself with worry. I just sent men to the ruined sept to dispatch her; she has been praying for your safe return. Arya Stark, you know you are never to go beyond the camp without my leave.''
''I didn't mean to!'' she blurted out. ''I was around the camp, just like you said. Only... they ran away, so I had to follow them.''
''Follow? Who did you follow?''
''It was nothing. I wasn't in danger.''
Ned's soft expression seemed to harden. ''You may think it was nothing, but I have enough on my plate right now. I need answers, Arya, not excuses.''
Arya bit her lip. ''If I had time, I would've called for an escort, honest! But the cats were too fast; I could not risk—''
''Cats? You were chasing cats? This is not Wintertown, Arya. There are dangers you don't understand. The world is not as simple as chasing cats through the woods.''
''I can take care of myself,'' she said stubbornly. ''Syrio says—''
''Look at you, sweetling,'' Ned interrupted. ''Your arms are covered with scratches, and your gown...'' Ned paused, glancing down at the ripped and dirty gown and Needle that she was holding; a heavy and tired sigh followed. ''This madness has gone on long enough. Tell Syrio Forel that I want a word. I've had enough of his folly, and I've had enough of you running off playing a ratcatcher.''
''Please, Father, 'twas my fault, not Syrio's. He did not even tell me to go out in the woods.''
Her pleading had no effect on Lord Eddard. ''Give me your Needle,'' he commanded. ''No more chasing cats while we're here. Behave properly, as a lady befitting your station, and perhaps you can start again once we're back in Winterfell.''
No, not Needle.She meekly thought, her heart sinking. The flaps to the tent suddenly opened to reveal Alyn. ''Lord Eddard, pardons,'' Alyn called out, ''but there's a Petyr Baelish here begging audience. He says the matter is urgent. I thought you would want to know.''
Ned frowned. ''Very well. Have Arya cleaned, and see that the servants bring her new attire. She's not to leave your sight from now on.''
''Yes, m'lord,'' Alyn said. ''There are ravens for you as well, one from Winterfell, another from Castle Black.''
Ned Stark nodded, a brief flicker of tiredness in his grey eyes before they shifted to her young daughter. ''You will not attend the feast tonight. This is your punishment: you will stay at this very tent, with Alyn to accompany you, and you will reflect on your conduct here.''
Arya's heart sank even further. The one thing she'd been looking forward to was taken from her just like that. She handed over Needle, her fingers lingering on the sword for a moment. Then Alyn gently placed a hand on her shoulder, and the guard moved to escort her out.
She didn't, couldn't, look back as they led her away, not when her own feet were looking so interesting suddenly.
Arya had to borrow Jon's tent to get cleaned up. Whether Jon knew or cared, she could not say—not with how busy he always seemed. The warm water stung her scratches as she scrubbed the dirt and mud from her skin, leaving faint pink lines where the brambles had clawed her. When she was done scrubbing, she sank deeper into the water, her hands tracing the marks on her arms and knees, gained from her chase through the forest's stillness. I should've brought Bran; he likes chasing cats too... she thought, her chest tightening. Maybe Jon would've had time, if I'd just asked...
A soft rustling from Jon's bed caught Arya's attention. Her gaze darted up just in time to see Ghost emerging from the shadows, his pale fur as white as freshly fallen snow. His crimson eyes locked onto hers, unreadable as always.
Arya felt her heart lift despite herself. She managed a small, lopsided smile as the direwolf padded silently over to the edge of the bath, his massive paws making no sound against the ground. The white wolf lowered his head slightly, sniffing the air before settling onto his haunches, staring into her very soul.
She hadn't realised how much she missed Ghost's presence, even if he wasn't hers to claim.
Nymeria, oh, how she missed Nymeria. Her warrior wolf, named after the Rhoynar queen who led her people across the sea, always by her side, always fierce and brave. She missed her more than she could bear. Nymeria was still in Winterfell, roaming the castle walls, hunting in the Wolfswood, or curled up in the kennels with her pack, wild and happy. She would dream of her sometimes, she thought, and suddenly, there were tears in Arya's eyes.
She reached out for Ghost, seeking comfort, but before she could reach out fully to stroke his fur, a loud, jarring caw broke the stillness. The water suddenly felt very cold as she turned her head just in time to see the raven swoop in through the tent's flaps, its wings flapping wildly in the air before it landed with a loud thud on the nearby table.
''Corn! Corn!'' The raven Bran had come to call 'Shadowbeak' called, almost demanding.
Arya gritted her teeth; she hated that stupid bird. The raven had been a constant nuisance ever since Jon had found it, and it seemed to take an especial delight in tormenting her. She had no idea why—it always seemed to hate her, and Arya always seemed to hate the raven. Ever since the first time Jon had brought it back from the very forest she had been hunting in. She had asked Jon why he was so insistent on keeping it, to which he answered something about House Mormont.
Her father did not like it either; at least she thought so. She had seen him eyeing it warily once or twice.
The raven's eyes suddenly met her own, and it tilted its head slightly, looking at her as if seeing her for the first time. She glared at it in return, hoping to scare it away.
''Price!'' It croaked.
''Leave! I don't want you here!'' Arya hissed.
''Price!'' The bird flew up suddenly, straight toward her hair. Her eyes widened as its wings started brushing against her face; Arya recoiled, almost slipping in the water. ''Price!'' it croaked again, and Arya hissed in annoyance, ready to throw water at it when the raven cawed again, its wings flapping wildly in front of her before landing on her head, making itself comfortable.
Ghost began to growl; it was a silent thing, but still loud enough for her to hear when the direwolf was so close. The raven stopped its cawing immediately and swooped down from her head to land once more at the table, its feathers settling with a huff.
''Thank you, Ghost.'' She smiled at the wolf before turning toward the bird with a scowl on her face. Stupid bird.
The day turned into late evening, when Arya sat alone in her family's tent, poking halfheartedly at the plate of food left for her. The stew had gone cold, and the bread sat untouched. She did not have to spend the rest of the day inside the tent, yet she had chosen to do so. Now, though, she truly could not leave. Her thoughts wandered toward the Great Hall, where the feast was surely in full swing. She imagined the laughter, the music, and the smell of roasted meats filling the air. She could picture Sansa there, dressed in something lovely, probably hanging on every word some pretty lordling said. She had looked forward to it; there had been talk about Essosi bards and mummers. Instead, she was to spend her time here, trapped with only her thoughts to entertain her.
Suddenly, the low murmur of voices outside her tent caught her attention. Her ears perked up at the familiar sound of Alyn's voice speaking to someone. There was another voice as well; could it be?
The tent flap shifted, and Jon stepped inside, his arms full of books and scrolls. Ghost and Bran padded silently at his sides.
''Jon! Bran!'' Arya cried, springing from her seat and racing toward her oldest brother. She jumped and threw her arms around his neck, holding him tightly. Jon let out a soft laugh while setting down the books.
''You missed him that much?'' Bran asked, aghast.
Arya let go of Jon before throwing herself at her younger brother. ''Of course I did. I didn't know you were going back tonight.''
Bran giggled. ''You're so stupid.''
''Didn't know myself that I would pass the feast up until a few hours ago,'' Jon answered.
Arya let go of Bran, her attention shifting to Ghost. ''Why is Ghost with you?''
Bran started jumping up and down excitedly. ''He and Shadowbeak had a fight; you should've seen it. I have never seen Ghost jump so high.''
Jon chuckled, shaking his head. ''That raven and Ghost shall be the end of me, no doubt. I deemed it wise to separate them after that.''
''What happened to the raven, Shadowbeak? Is it dead?'' Arya asked.
''No, no, they are both fine.'' Jon answered quickly; Arya tried very hard to hide her disappointment. Then, she giggled, imagining Ghost snapping at that shrieking raven. ''I wish I could've seen the look on everyone's faces if you brought Ghost into the Great Hall for the feast!''
''I'm not going,'' Bran said, puffing up his chest. ''I told Father that I wanted to stay with you.''
Arya's eyes widened. ''Truly?''
''Aye! And he agreed, so long as we don't leave the tent, and sent more guards for good measure.'' Bran grinned; something then passed through his eyes, and his face fell slightly. ''You seemed sad, so I wanted to cheer you up.''
''I'm not going to the feast either.'' She heard Jon say, her gaze shifted to him, and she saw that Jon's expression had darkened slightly; his smile remained, though. ''I'd rather be here—with both of you.''
''Aye! Who cares about that stupid feast anyway?'' Bran agreed, smiling widely.
Arya smiled back at Bran; it was a sad smile. ''You didn't have to do that.'' Her gaze then shifted once more to her half-brother, ''And you, why? What about your important, lordly people?''
Jon merely shrugged; he looked tired. ''I've had enough of important people for one lifetime already; besides...'' He tapped the books stacked beside him. ''I have matters to resolve, and I could certainly use both your help.''
Arya's face lit up with excitement. Helping Jon meant helping with something lordly, something important. She scooted closer to the books and scrolls, eager to see what kind of tasks he might have in mind. She managed to glimpse a few of the books. The Books of Law: The Conciliator, The Nine Voyages, The Nine Free Cities: Trade and Tyranny and Trade and Taxes Under the Dragon Kings.
As the evening advanced, both Arya's and Bran's interest in Jon's burdens slowly drained, and they instead decided to start sparring with wooden swords. After a while, they both asked Jon if he wanted to join, to which he replied by waving his hands dismissively, his eyes never leaving the book he read. Every once in a while, they could both hear him make a triumphant sound and proceed to write something down; other times, they would hear him sigh or grunt in frustration.
She had now come to truly understand why Jon was busy much of the time, and found that she liked it even less; he was becoming like Robb, she realised. Arya would always hold a fondness for Robb Stark; she loved him, like any sister would, yet over the years he would have less and less time to play with her or Bran. It had stung; it still stung sometimes, but it had stung less as they both had Jon instead. But now, he too was becoming a lord, and 'Lord Robb' or 'Lord Jon' did not waste time lightly.
''Jon, you've read that scroll three times now. I don't think you're going to find what you're looking for in that.'' Bran said as he took a cheap blow at Arya's side, smirking triumphantly as he did so. Arya huffed in reply.
Jon chuckled, closing the scroll. ''Aye, you have the right of it, little brother.'' He glanced at both of them before taking a new look at the books and scrolls in front of him at the table. ''Perhaps I shall go to the Godswood and pray for a big dowry; 'twould certainly make this a whole lot easier,'' Jon murmured.
Arya lowered her sword. ''Dowry?'' she asked, frowning.
Jon blinked before wincing slightly. ''Aye,'' he chuckled weakly. ''I forgot to tell you, I spoke with Father today. It seems I am to—''
Loud voices could be heard from outside the tent suddenly, before the tent flaps opened once more. Arya immediately pouted once she saw who it was.
''Jon, I, um... I was told you were here,'' said Ser Loras Tyrell. His gaze shifted to Bran and Arya. ''Lord Bran, Lady Arya.'' I'm not a lady, she wanted to say; he had that stupid smirk on his face again, though it looked different than usual; it looked more tired.
''Aye, what is it?'' Jon answered.
Loras blinked. ''Could we talk?'' He suddenly blurted out, moving his hand and opening the tent flap slightly.
Jon sighed before rising. ''Very well,'' he said, before shifting his gaze towards Bran and Arya. ''I'll be back soon, I promise.''
Jon followed Loras out of the tent, their voices growing fainter and fainter until they were nothing more than whispers.
''What is it about them?'' Arya asked Bran.
''It's Jon,'' Bran whispered. ''He is to be married, I think.''
Arya's eyes widened, and her mouth began to hang open. Bran only nodded meekly. ''To whom?''
''Margaery Tyrell... I think,'' he whispered even softer, as if the Old Gods themselves might listen. ''Me, Jon, Meera, and Jojen were just trying to keep Ghost and Shadowbeak from tearing into each other when Father showed up. He pulled Jon aside, said he needed to speak with him—just the two of them. We didn't mean to listen, truly... but they weren't exactly quiet.''
''Jon? And Margaery Tyrell?'' Arya mused aloud, more to herself than anyone nearby. They seemed as different as fire and frost. She had seen Lady Margaery once during a dreaded sewing session with the queen. Arya wracked her memory for details about the Tyrell girl. Queen Cersei hadn't hidden her distaste—that much had been clear, though Arya couldn't say why she disliked her. It was just... a feeling, a sharpness in the queen's gaze whenever Margaery spoke, all honeyed smiles and graceful curtsies.
Still, like every girl Arya had met from the Reach, Margaery Tyrell seemed all flower—soft smiles, sweet words, and gentle hands. Jon was more ice: cold, steady, and fierce when pushed. Arya had always imagined her brothers marrying northern girls, women as strong and unyielding as the land they came from. She remembered Lord Manderly's visit to Winterfell, bringing his two granddaughters in tow. Theon had teased Robb mercilessly about him marrying one of them, and Robb had never denied the possibility. There was also that one time she'd overheard Father and Mother talking about Alys Karstark in hushed, serious tones.
Jon was to be Lord of Dragonstone, was he not? Dragonstone lay far from the North; perhaps he would have to marry a southerner after all. Arya shuddered at the thought. Sansa and Jeyne were tiresome enough with their endless talk of princes, knights, and gowns. The idea of adding Margaery Tyrell to that bland porridge made her stomach turn. Another pretty, perfect lady was the last thing she needed.
Jon did return, just like he promised, only much later. His steps looked quite heavy, and beside him walked their father, Lord Eddard Stark. In that moment, Arya thought they had never looked more alike—two solemn figures carved from the same northern stone. Their grey eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, yet faint smiles tugged at their lips, as if they had just faced Queen Visenya herself atop the mighty Vhagar and lived to tell the tale.
From behind them, Sansa peeked into the tent, her face alight with a joy Arya had scarcely seen before. She glided inside with effortless grace, her eyes sparkling as she giggled with Jon, her voice bubbling with excitement about a wedding. In that moment, Arya and Bran exchanged a knowing glance; there was no mistaking it now—it was all true.
Jon had said very little, though he offered faint nods and a tired smile to Sansa and ruffled Arya's and Bran's hair before gathering his books and scrolls. Without another word, he slipped away into the night toward his own tent. Arya wanted to go with Jon while Sansa wanted to talk to him more, but Ned had put a stop to it. ''Let him be,'' he had commanded, leaving no room for argument.
Arya, Bran, and Sansa were sent off to bed by their father not long after, the hour grown too late for even their stubborn wills. Arya felt weariness tug at her, though sleep proved elusive when the soft flicker of the oil lamp persisted. Lying still beneath the furs, she could swear she heard the rustling of an enormous parchment—the sound of her father unfurling that massive map of the North once more. Lords never have any free time, do they? she thought, her eyes growing heavy despite herself.
The days slipped by after that fateful night, each one marked by her father's stern judgment. Needle was gone, tucked away beyond her reach, and with it went her cherished water-dancing lessons. The sentence weighed heavier than any words ever could: no more water-dancing for the rest of the tourney—and perhaps never again if she continued rebelling.
Yet, there was still a glimmer of hope. He had offered her a path back to her sword and her lessons, though it came wrapped in a dull, hindered price. All she had to do was endure the endless sewing circles, the empty courtly chatter, and every tedious duty of a proper lady. If she could bear it silently, without rebellion, she might one day find herself with Needle and Syrio again—free as the wind, swift as a deer, quick as a snake.
The challenge proved far greater than she had ever anticipated. No matter how hard she tried, the embroidery remained a constant source of frustration—her fingers were clumsy and the stitches uneven. Each pass of the needle seemed to mock her, the thread knotting at the most inopportune moments. She had nearly bitten through her tongue in order to stifle the words she wanted to hurl at Princess Myrcella, whose pointed comment about it had stung more than any needle could.
At that moment, in the heat of her quiet fury, Syrio's voice had echoed in her mind, calm and thick with accent. Calm as still water, quiet as a shadow. She had closed her eyes for a moment, imagining the stillness she felt before Syrio and her swords danced through the air. She had to be patient. Just like Syrio taught her.
So patient she had been, so quiet, even during that moment in the archery competition when some Vale lordling had snickered and badmouthed a Flint when he had missed the target. Calm as still water, quiet as a shadow.
When Arya and Jon had gone to their usual quiet and empty spot for a light spar, the Imp had once more showed up with a wine flask, a book too big for him with a big mouth to match. Calm as still water, quiet as a shadow.
Even when she had overheard Elinor, Megga and Alla Tyrell, together with Desmera Redwyne whisper about Lady Margaery's new husband to be. How rough and frozen he looked, how he was nowhere near Prince Joffrey in handsomeness. Calm... Calm as still water, quiet as a shadow.
The burden had grown easier after she had tolerated those moments, she had even grown quite impressed with herself. Even if her stitching work needed more work, it was progress.
Lords may not have much free time, Arya Stark realised then, yet lady's, lady's had to be calm as still water and quiet as a shadow.