A CLASH OF KINGS – CHAPTER [ 4? IV? ] – ARYA

"It was a regular and calm day in the Red Keep, with the temperature outside gentle, as it had been lately. Summer was drawing ever nearer towards its end, and the beginning of autumn would be just around the corner, Grand Maester Pycelle had said, already a moon or two ago.

They were all in the side-wing of the [common hall/drawing room, Arya, Haelda, Sansa and her ladies, Septa Mordane, Father and Ser Balon. Trystane Martell was fretting around, walking back and forth, waiting for her to agree to play cyvasse with him yet again. She had played four or perhaps five games with him in total now, and she was already beyond bored with the game. She did not know how to place the elephants, and though she thought she had put up the tiles perfectly, Ser Balon had the nerve to tell her that she did it the same way every time. She hated him for it. When Trys had taken out her black dragon with his trebuchet the final time, she had had it.

He had been sent up to court, to her Father King Eddard's court at the Red Keep after all and everything terrible that had happened with [Prettyn/P[ ] and [Mycah? ] and Wynafryda and everything of accusations, conspiracies and things that had followed. Prince Doran Martell, his father and the Prince of Dorne, had sent him up as yet another ward, this time to Arya instead of to Robb, to assure the king even further of his unyielding loyalty and fealty to his reign.

To take his two only sons, and only leave only his eldest daughter at his home in Dorne, that was truly a mark of loyalty, Arya thought. What if Father had sent both Robb and Bran to Casterly Rock? The thought seemed impossible to her.

If Prince Doran did not love his daughter far more than his sons, of course, she thought to herself... She was his heir, after all. Succession worked purely according to age in Dorne – the way that it should be, Arya thought sometimes in secret to herself.

But then, if Sansa had been the elder out of her and Robb, she might have been Queen, and she still might be, if something befell Robb... And then Arya would stop up and usually felt glad again for Bran being before her elder sister in the line of succession. Bran would treat her well, she knew, if he ever came back from Winterfell. He would make a good king.

Furthermore, Doran was just like both of his sons from what she had heard of him. He also liked to play cyvasse, like Trys, and had a square, plain and frog-faced appearance, just like Quentyn. Of course, he would love his sons more then, if they reminded him of himself.

Princess Arianne might be different, as Arya had often fantasized about with great excitement before, as she would day-dream about travelling down to Sunspear to get a chance to meet her and go on adventures with her some day, just like Princess Nymeria had done when the Rhoynar first came to Westeros, but a long and quite dreary description from Grand Maester Pycelle on the Princess Arianne's interests and consitution, based on letters from Prince Doran, had stifled her hopes ever since a year or two back.

She did not particularly like to fight, or at least she was not very good at it. She was not a great rider either, and did not enjoy archery, or even hawking. Instead, she seemed to be just like Sansa, with her boys and suitors and dressing in fine dresses and probably doing Dornish needlework as well.

Arya was disappointed, but she was used to being disappointed by everyone and everything around her, and so she did not really care about it anymore. If she ever got leave to travel to Dorne, preferrably after Mother and Bran and Rickon came back, she could go with Ser Erryk or Jory, or perhaps even with Ser Balon or Ser Arys, if she had to, and meet up with the sand snakes instead.

They were the wild and fierce daughters of Prince Oberyn, Doran's younger brother, whom they called the Red Viper. Arya wanted to get to see them more than anything, to learn from them, to fight with them, to practice with them and to win over them, if in any way possible. Syrio would help her, Syrio would teach her how to, if there was a way at all, she knew.

Her water dancing teacher was becoming more entrenched at the castle, something Arya liked. Septa Mordane had even begun to curtsy properly before him, as they would enter each other in the hall. Previously, she had only ever done so for highborn lords and ladies, for Ser Aron Santagar, and for Sansa's harp teacher, Lady Pellegrara.

Syrio had given her many lessons already so far. Most of them hurt, but they all made her stronger. By now she could almost balance on her toe for a full hearing of The Bear and the Maiden Fair, at least if it was the short version, and she only swayed a little, perhaps once or twice. Perhaps thrice.

"Princess", a snipey old voice interrupted her thoughts to her right.

"What?" Arya turned around. Septa Mordane was staring at her with a look of constipated patience.

"I was just asking whether you wanted to have some plum pudding, princess."

"No thankyou, septa", Arya replied. "I am not hungry."

In truth, Arya liked plum pudding well enough, but so had Mother. She would always have it brought to her, no matter what time of the day it was. Even at Winterfell Queen Catelyn had nibbled on the delicacy and shared it with Arya and Bran and Rickon. Arya tried to forget the offer from Septa Mordane, and went into the other corner of the room. Thinking about her Mother and little brothers made her sad.

…

She went down into the courtyard a little while after, bringing Needle with her in her small sheath hidden beneath her pretty grey-and-blue dress. Jory had his eyes on her, more than usual, however, and she made a face as he caught her.

"Going anywhere, princess?"

"I only wanted to go out into the city for a little bit.", she said, trying to sound all light and airy, as if she were her older sister. Sansa could get away with anything.

"Did you tell your royal Father about such a plan? Or the septa?" Jory asked, his eyes suspicious.

"No", she admittedly grumbled.

"Well, maybe we should ask them first then", he decreed, and took her by the hand and led her back towards the keep, where the guards stood smirking by the entrance.

She hated them for it. I could have you both stripped of your duties and sent up to the Wall, she thought, even though she knew that Father would never do such a thing. He was far too honourable and just, but he did not give his own people a sense of respect for his children, for the princes and princesses of the realm. She was a princess, the royal Princess Arya of House Stark, and she had even been up to Winterfell with her uncle Benjen and her cousins, but she was still not an adult. Noone took her seriously. She hated the feeling.

She wished that she would grow up soon, and not have to suffer the humiliation of the pig-headed guards whenever she wished to go outside. They all wanted her to grow up into a fine lady and a courteous princess just like Sansa, she knew. Someone who never did or said anything wrong. They wanted her to marry Trystane, and perhaps even be shipped off to Dorne some day, but she would never. She would like to see Dorne some day, but not as a wife to anyone. Not until Mother came back, at the very least. Not until she had Nymeria with her again. And not until she knew that she could defend herself towards any Dornish lord or knight, and fight just like a Braavosi waterdancer.

Yes. That she was certain of most of all. She would not marry Trystane until she was fully trained with Needle, however long time that would take. Father said it was important for them to grow good and better relations with Dorne, after what had happened to Wynafryd, and to Lord Tywin's men, the lords Brax, and Quentyn's new companions from Yronwood. But Robb and Quent were fast friends. They had always been. That would not change now, she knew.

And if the peace between Dorne and the rest of the Seven Kingdoms wavered on her coming to marry Trystane when the time for it came, then what was the point of Quentyn having been fostered here in the first place? Friends were quite enough. She did not have a problem being just friends with Trys, as long as she didn't have to play his stupid cyvasse game any more times.

When they arrived into his solar, Father looked up from his letters and gave her the relief, thanks to all the gods. She could go out for a little bit, as long as both Jory and a small group of ten guards went with her. Arya did not think that ten guards was a small group by any means, and she most of all did not want the pig-headed guards from the castle entrance to go with them, the men called Olgar and Kyff, but she nodded politely and thanked Father nonetheless. She knew that he had other things on his plate than to worry about his wild wolfling daughter at the moment.

...

When they went out beyond the castle gates, there was a broad and lively commotion from the people in the streets, as peasants were hawling oxcrates and wheelbarrows of barley, wheat and turnips back and forth, stocking up for autumn and the winter that they all said was to come. Arya did not feel like it would be winter soon. It would feel like forever, to her, no matter what Father and all the others said, but you would not know it the way that the peasants were looking protectively at all of their harvested bounty.

The sun was high in the sky, for all the world to see, but within perhaps a year or two, it would begin to slow its course, to come lower and lower on the sky, and then to only appear a couple of hours a day, if at all. That would be the time when autumn and winter would come, Pycelle had told them during their lessons a couple of days past. Arya knew that the Grand Maester was very wise, but she still somehow couldn't quite believe it. Even up at Winterfell, when she had seen snow for the first time in her life, it did not feel as if winter was fast approaching.

But Father had told her so, had told her and Robb and Sansa and all of the court thusly, time and time again. It cannot become winter so soon, she thought. I will not allow it. Not until Mother and Bran and Rickon comes home. She and Bran would crack open chestnuts over a roasting fire, the way Father had said they did in the North in winter time. They would tell each other ghost stories, the way Ser Balon had said people did more and more when autumn came. Perhaps they could even take a journey out to Dragonstone, like Father had done, and see the strange dragon gargoyles of the Targaryens' castle with their own eyes.

All of it when they were a little older, of course. She was ten now, and she would be eleven in a little more than a year. Eleven was a lot. Bran was younger, only aroun eight even now, but even he would be nine by the time they could ask Father. He would not be able to say no then, she hoped. Lord Stannis could take them, and Jory and Ser Balon could come with. It would be a good trip, she decided. Just like at Harrenhal.

...

The common people out in the streets carried on with their bustling carts and wagons, all the while the sun in the sky showed the fine beauty of the end of the Long Summer, if indeed it was. But there was another thing in the sky as well. A new thing.

The red comet slit through the blue belly of the heavens like an open wound. Its burning red colour made Arya go almost mad with wonder, as she looked at it in disbelief. What was it? Where had it come from? Was it yet another sign that winter was on its way, or opposite that, a sign that the warm and red-hot summer could continue on for another ten years? Red was fire, after all, and fire was warm, but it was also something that was needed when winter would come, Father had reminded her. She stared at the comet for longer than she could think, while the smallfolk around her scuffled about and made their daily work, some of them bowing to salute her and giving her blessings.

Gerion had said that it was a bloody sword, the red sword of King Eddard's Ice, signalling what judgement would soon be to come, or perhaps even Robb's sword, if he would fight Joffrey soon. But Arya knew that even Robb would not wish to kill Joffrey, no matter how much the horrid Lannister boy might deserve it.

Father did not wish for any further discontent between himself and Lord Tywin, and Arya, even though she did not like it, could understand. Septa Mordane had told them about the virtues of Baelor the blessed, and how he had not hurt the people who had ran after him with swords on his long way to Dorne. If Baelor could be so kind in the face of danger and evil coming after him, then Arya supposed that she could try her best to not be unkind towards Joffrey.

But if I had Nymeria back at me again, he would never dare to give me any scowling looks again, she knew. She could not wait for that day to come, if it ever would.

Grand Maester Pycelle had said that it was the sword that slays the season, and that it indeed signalled the end of the Long Summer, and a long autumn and winter to come. He had also said that a similar comet had been present in the final days of the Mad King, when the little crown prince Aegon had been born. Prince Rhaegar had thought it to be a sign from the gods that his son was special somehow, and that he would be a good king or warrior.

But Prince Rhaegar was dead, killed with a warhammer of uncle Robert on the banks of the Trident long before Arya had even been born. And his children had been killed as well, she thought, though Father nor anyone in the Red Keep would ever tell her the true story of it, no matter how much she and Bran had begged in times past. She assumed it must not be a very nice story.

"It's a sign of dragons", a thin and gnarled wellerman with intense blue eyes was telling his friends. "Prince Viserys will come back here, to claim his birthright, and try and take his old throne back."

"The dragons are long dead", another man said. "And Prince Viserys isn't going anywhere besides on his little island. King Eddard went there hisself, aye and yes there be true, his very own self, to give him a proper scolding not two moons ago. I heard it with me own ears from one of the captains down by the docks."

"If you try and scold a dragon, you will be sure as all seven hells to wake the fires in him", an old decrepit man with a long grey beard half the size of Pycelle's said. "Just you take my word for it. It will be better for him to invade now, that the days will be growing shorter, and the seas more troublesome with autumn storms as well. I sailed those waters once. Believe me when I say it is not a pretty journey to make, and even harder going from west to east, when the waves are t'other way around. If he remains on Dragonstone, noone can touch him, and if he sets sail to come here, he will have the wind in his back. Just you trust me."

"I would farther trust my own fart to light the hearth when winter comes", the second man said, slapping his big belly and buttocks. "There's more a chance of Balerion the black dread coming out of my backside after I've had beans than a Targaryen ever coming near the iron throne again. The old Mad King is done and dusted, and for all the bloody good it is, I say."

"Aye, there is not the time for dragons no more", a yellow-haired man agreed. "It's the time of the wolves now. A great big hairy beast, it was, seen up to the side of the Kingsroad to the west. Not four moons past, I say it, and you can trust it even as it comes out my mouth. Must have been one of the young princes' wolves, I reckon. Prince Robb had one so hideous he named it Grey Storm. That thing could kill a dozen men with a shake of its head, I tell you. "

…

"It's been many wolves this year, all right", a sallowy man in a travel-stained green cloak added. "Around the God's Eye the packs have grown bolder'n any man can remember. Sheep, cows, goats, dogs, makes no matter, they kill as they like, and they got no fear of men. It's worth your life to go into those woods by night."

"Ah, that's more tales, and no more true than the other."

"I heard the same thing from my cousin, and she is not the sort to lie", an old woman said. "She says there's this great pack, hundreds of them, mankillers. The one that leads them is a she-wolf, a bitch from the seven hells."

A she-wolf. Arya had to bite her tongue not to yell out to Ser [ ] right then and there, or not to run up to the crowd and ask them more about it. The God's Eye was close to the Trident, where she had lost Nymeria. She knew that her friend still lived out there somewhere, she knew, she hoped...

...

"Ain't no ordinary wolves, neither", the yellow-haired man continued. "Them's the direwolves of the frozen North. 'Sigil of the Starks of old. Not been sighted south of the Neck for a thousand years. But now they are back. I know I won't be having a piss in the bushes any time soon after this."

Some of the other men laughed, while some shook their heads in disbelief.

"No, you'd much rather like to piss right on my turnip stand when you're drunk of a night", a fourth man put in, to the great shock of laughter from all the rest. Arya did not hear what the response was, as the men slapped eachothers' backs and rounded a corner heading right to the Street of The Conciliator.

A direwolf being sighted in the Riverlands? She thought again. A she-wolf? Nymeria? Her heart took yet another pounding leap, as she stirred alive with hope.

…

The man in the green cloak said: "I heard how this hell-bitch walked into a village one day, on market day, people everywhere, she walks in, bold as you please, and tears a baby from his mother's arms. When the tale reached Lord Mooton, him and his sons rode to put an end to it. They tracked her to her lair with a pack of wolf-hounds and barely escaped with their skins. Not one of those dogs came back. Not one."

"That's just a story!" Arya told Ser [ ]. "Wolves don't eat babies, do they?"

"More than I could say, princess." , he answered, wary of saying anything to either side of the argument.

Arya went back inside the castle, stiff with a quiet concern.

They don't-... Nymeria would not...- She would never-... Would she?

She traced her hands along the Targaryen murals covering the red bricks of the castle walls, as she and Sansa had done half a hundred times before. The dragons looked just as ferocious as ever. They might have eaten babies, Arya thought to herself, dragons burned everything without a second thought, but a wolf? No... She became angry at the thought. Why would anyone say such a thing about Nymeria? She was innocent. She had only bit Joffrey a little, to defend her princess, and Joffrey had deserved it.

…

...

Arya went to sleep in her bed that night, with the baldaquine like clouds above her, cradling Needle and wondering when her Mother would return, if ever."