Arya's stitches were crooked again.
The thread pulled tight and knotted where it shouldn't, and the little wolf beneath her needle looked more like a squashed rat than anything meant to run. She frowned at it, chewing her lip the way she did when she was trying not to throw the whole stupid thing into the fire.
Beside her, Sansa sat as straight as a lady was supposed to sit, her back stiff and graceful at once, her hands light as feathers. The needle darted and dipped in her fingers as if it belonged there, as if it loved her. The stag she worked upon the silk looked ready to leap from the cloth and gallop across the floor. Sansa was always like that, always perfect.
Arya's gaze slid down the row to Princess Myrcella. Her stitches were no better than Arya's, all loose and crooked, the rabbit she was making sagging into a dog's shape. But Septa Mordane hovered close to her like a clucking hen, cooing soft as a dove.
"Such delicate stitches, Princess," the septa said, eyes shining as though Myrcella had sewn the Seven-Pointed Star itself into her cloth.
Sansa's laugh carried from farther down the bench. Jeyne Poole leaned in close beside her, whispering something, and Beth Cassel perched on her heels by their feet, staring up at Sansa like she was the Maiden herself come to life. Arya scowled at them, heat rising in her cheeks.
"What are you talking about?" she blurted. Her voice came out sharper than she meant.
Jeyne gave a start and smothered a giggle. Beth ducked her head, cheeks red. Sansa looked at Arya the way she sometimes did at a barking dog, half startled, half annoyed.
"Nothing," Jeyne said too quickly.
"Tell me!" Arya pressed.
Sansa's cheeks colored, but her voice was all sweet music. "We were only saying how gallant Prince Joffrey looked at the feast."
Gallant. Arya bit back a snort. "Jon says he looks like a girl," she snapped instead.
Sansa's sigh was soft, delicate as silk. "Poor Jon. He's jealous because he's a bastard."
"He's our brother," Arya said loudly. Too loudly. Heads turned. The room fell still. Beth stared with round eyes. Jeyne giggled again, but no one else made a sound.
Septa Mordane looked up from Myrcella's sorry rabbit-dog, her mouth tightening. "What's the matter, girls?"
Sansa's smile came smooth as cream. "Our half-brother," she said, her voice calm and sweet, like she hadn't just twisted the knife. She turned her face to the septa. "We were only saying how honored we are to have the princess with us today."
The septa nodded, "Indeed. A great honor for us all." Her gaze flicked back to Arya, "Arya, why aren't you at work?"
"I am," Arya muttered, stabbing her needle down hard. The point bit her finger, and a bead of red welled up bright against her skin. She sucked it quickly, hiding the sting.
Sansa never stuck herself. Sansa never spoiled her silk. Arya hated it. She hated the stupid needlework, hated the way the room smelled of silk and flowers, hated the way they all looked at Sansa.
They were whispering again, Sansa and Jeyne, all soft voices and stolen glances, cheeks pink as roses. Beth sat at Sansa's feet as ever, staring up with wide eyes, drinking every word.
Then Princess Myrcella spoke up, her voice lilting and sweet as a song. "Lady Sansa, do you think Ser Arthur would like me?"
Sansa blinked, startled. "Ser Arthur?"
"Ser Arthur Manderly," the princess said, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "He's terribly handsome. My uncle Tyrion told me he was fostered here at Winterfell. Then you must know him well."
Arya rolled her eyes. She couldn't help herself. "Oh, she knew him too well." She turned, grinning like a cat that had caught a bird. "Arthur was your prince before Joffrey, wasn't he, Sansa?"
Sansa's head snapped around so fast her head might have twisted off. "He was not!"
"You used to call him gallant and noble," Arya pressed, needle forgotten, her grin widening. "I heard you. You said his eyes were like starlight, and how he looked better in blue than any man alive."
Sansa's face went scarlet. "You're making that up!"
"I am not!" Arya cawed in triumph. "You even practiced signing your name in your books, 'Lady Sansa Manderly', I saw it."
Sansa's hands clenched, her stitches pulled taut. "You little liar."
Jeyne Poole leaned forward in a hurry, smiling all sweet at the princess. "Don't listen to Arya, my lady. She tells tales too often."
Beth bobbed her head, earnest as a pup. "Ser Arthur is kind, and Arya is not. Pay her no mind, Princess."
That stung, but Arya didn't let it show. She only smirked wider, though inside her chest felt hot.
Sansa had smoothed her face again by then, calm as a painted lady. "He was like an older brother to us all," she told Myrcella, voice sweet as honey. "That is all."
The septa's sharp voice cut across the room. "What is going on over there?" Septa Mordane loomed like a crow as she bore down on them. "Arya, show me your work."
Arya's hands went stiff. She wanted to bolt. "Here," she muttered, thrusting out her cloth.
Septa Mordane held it aloft between two fingers. The crooked wolf sagged limp in the light. "Arya, Arya, Arya," she said, heavy with scorn, as though her name were a curse. "This will not do. This will not do at all."
Their eyes were on her. Jeyne smirked openly now, Myrcella's mouth curved in pity, and Beth grinned. The heat rose to Arya's face, tears pricking hot behind her eyes, traitorous as anything. She hated them, hated them all. She shoved back from the bench so fast her chair toppled over with a clatter.
"Arya, come back here!" Septa Mordane's voice rang sharp across the chamber. "Do not take another step! Your lady mother will hear of this, in front of our royal princess no less! You would shame us all!"
Arya halted at the door, heart hammering, cheeks wet. She bit her lip hard. Turning stiffly, she gave Myrcella a dramatic bow. "By your leave, my lady."
The princess blinked at her, uncertain, looking to Sansa and the other girls for guidance. But Septa Mordane needed none. "Just where do you think you are going, Arya?" she demanded, robes swishing as she strode closer.
Arya glared at her, the words slipping out sharp and sweet at once. "I have to go shoe a horse."
The look on the septa's face was worth every prick of the needle.
Before she could be seized, Arya spun and ran, her feet flying down the cold stone corridors. The air smelled of dust and freedom. Her tears dried on her cheeks as she burst out into the yard, and the wind kissed her face like a friend.
Nymeria was waiting. She bounded to Arya's side, tongue lolling, yellow eyes bright. Arya dropped to her knees and threw her arms around the direwolf's thick neck, burying her face in her fur.
"Come on, girl," she whispered. "Let's go." Nymeria loped at her side as they darted towards the yard.
The sound of clashing wood reached her before she saw the yard. Crack. Thwack. The ring of boys at play, though there was nothing playful in the way Robb moved. Arya slowed as she came around the corner, wiping her cheeks on her sleeve quick as she could. No one would see her cry out here. Not Sansa. Not the septa.
The sun was sinking low, staining the sky pale gold, and the shadows stretched long across the packed earth. Robb circled Prince Joffrey in the center of the yard, hair damp and clinging to his brow, his wooden sword flashing as he pressed his attack. Joffrey moved with quick grace, too quick, his blade snapping like he wanted to swat a fly.
On the far side, Bran sparred with Tommen, though 'danced' was the better word for it. Bran ducked and darted, his stick clattering against Tommen's every wild swing. Tommen's face was red and pinched with effort, his fat arms flailing. Bran was panting, and Arya almost laughed at him.
Jon sat apart, perched on the low stone wall, Ghost stretched white and silent at his feet. He looked watchful, serious, and unhappy. Beside him lounged Arthur, dressed not in mail or steel but in a blue doublet, his long legs stretched out before him. He watched the sparring like it was mummers' play, the faintest smile tugging his mouth.
Arya darted closer to Jon, her feet stirring dust, "Is Robb winning?"
Jon gave her a sidelong glance. "He is. Shouldn't you be at your stitches, little sister?"
Arya grinned at him, quick and defiant. "I wanted to see them fight."
"You've acquired quite the talent for vanishing from needlework, little wolf," Arthur said with a knowing smile, his arms resting lazily across the backrest.
Jon added, "Septa Mordane will sniff you out soon enough, or worse, your lady mother."
Arya wrinkled her nose. "I hate needlework."
"Blasphemy!" Arthur drawled mockingly, one brow lifted. "In the very halls of our ladyship, no less."
"I'd rather spar with Bran." She kicked at the dirt, eyes fixed on her little brother darting circles around Tommen.
Jon smirked. "It'd be a fairer match." Arthur's laugh was easy, rolling out of him like summer wind. Arya smiled too, warmed by it.
"You want to join us at the gallery, my lady," Arthur said with a grin.
"I'm not a lady," Arya said, shrugging. "But aye, I do. Girls' needlework is stupid, and the boys' sparring is fun, even if I can only watch it."
Arthur replied, "So it may seem. Yet sometimes only a needle can stitch soft threads, binding what a sword would only tear."
Arya frowned. She never understood half of what he meant when he talked that way, but she liked it all the same. He never made her feel small, even when his words went past her.
"Why aren't you in the yard?" she asked them both, glancing from Arthur to Jon.
Jon's half-smile was bitter. "Bastards are not allowed to bruise young princes. Any wound they take must come from trueborn swords."
"Oh." Arya felt foolish. She should have thought of that. It was the same as Sansa and her stitches, one rule for her, another for Arya. Life was not fair.
"And you?" she asked Arthur.
Arthur heaved a sigh as heavy as a maester's tome. "Too bloody hot today. Can't fight in this heat."
Arya barked a laugh. She hadn't heard that one before. Jon's lips twitched, and soon he was laughing too. Arthur's excuses were always foolish, yet that was his intention. He said them only to make them laugh, and she liked that. She knew Arthur sat here for Jon's sake, so he would not be left alone while Robb and Joffrey crossed sticks in the yard.
Arya liked Arthur best, after Jon and Robb. He was not her brother, not by blood, but in her heart she thought of him as one all the same.
Arthur had taught her to ride proper, not just a lady's trot but the way the boys rode, fast and daring, wind in her hair and dirt on her cheeks. He'd shown her how to draw a bowstring, too, how to make the arrow fly true. He'd even taught her figures and tricks to keep them easy. And Arya took to them all quickly. Sansa had her stitches, but when it came to sums, she was hopeless, and Arya let her know it.
Arya loved the bow Arthur had given her. It was a beautiful thing, light and strong, the yew wood polished smooth, the string humming when she loosed an arrow. He said it came from his cousin Wylla, down in White Harbor.
"Wylla is much like you," Arthur had told her with a smile. "Wild, stubborn, quick as a fox. She had this bow made when she was a little thing. It's light in the hand yet swift."
The bow had been cut for a right hand, but Arthur had it readjusted, so Arya could loose left-handed. It fit her perfectly. She had beaten Bran with it, and some of the other boys too, and once she had struck three arrows in a row on the heart of the target while Theon was still fumbling his string. Arthur had laughed that day, clapping her on the shoulder as if she were one of the lads. Arya had walked back to the hall, grinning so wide her face hurt.
"Shut up," Jon said while laughing, "You're just too bloody arrogant, thinking none of us are good enough to beat you."
Arthur's mouth curled into a smirk. "You aren't. I could beat you with both hands tied behind my back."
Arya burst out laughing. "No, you couldn't."
Arthur pressed a hand to his chest in mock hurt. "I'm wounded, little wolf. I thought you'd be on my side."
"She's smart," Jon put in, his eyes gleaming, "She won't pick the loser."
That earned them both a laugh, then Joffrey's voice cut through like a whip. "These sticks are for children."
Theon Greyjoy barked a laugh. "You are children."
Robb's hair clung damp to his brow, his chest rising quick from exertion.
"Robb may be a child, but I am a prince!" Joffrey snapped, "And I tire of swatting at Starks with a play sword."
"You got more swats than you gave, Joff," Robb shot back, his grin fierce. "Are you afraid?"
Joffrey's golden hair glinted in the dying sun as he turned his smirk on Robb. "Oh, terrified. Of the little wolf pup." His words drew laughter from the Lannister men who stood watch.
Jon leaned close, muttering low, "He's truly a little shit."
Arthur's lips twitched. "You've no idea."
Ser Rodrik stalked forward, white whiskers bristling. "My prince, wooden blades are used for safety. When you've proven yourself—"
"I am proven!" Joffrey snapped, stamping like a child denied a toy. "And I want live steel."
"Done!" Robb shot back at once, fire flashing in his eyes. "You'll be sorry."
Ser Rodrik rounded on him, "No. It's too dangerous. I'll permit tourney swords, blunted steel, no more."
A hoarse, rough voice rolled across the yard. "And who are you to permit your prince, ser?"
The Hound. Arya's skin prickled at the sound of him. Sandor Clegane stood with arms folded, his burned face twisted into a grin that was no grin at all.
"Master-at-arms of Winterfell," Ser Rodrik said, squaring himself like an old bear, "And you'd do well to remember it, Clegane."
Sandor's laugh was low and mocking. "Master-at-arms! Are you training girls here? For I see no warriors here. Only children with sticks."
"I train knights," Ser Rodrik said, planting his feet. "They'll have live steel when they're ready."
The burned man's head tilted, his good eye fixed on Robb. "How old are you, boy?"
"Fourteen," Robb said, jaw tight.
"I killed a man at twelve." Sandor's voice was rough as stone. " You can be sure it wasn't with a blunted sword."
Arya saw the way Robb stiffened, his shoulders bristling like Grey Wind's hackles. He hated being made small.
Theon Greyjoy laughed. "Careful, Clegane. Ser Rodrik trained the man who put you on your arse at the joust, and he killed a man at six."
That got a roar from the watching crowd. Even Arya grinned.
Sandor's head snapped toward Theon, his ruined face twisting. "What did you say?" His voice was a growl. He took a step forward, but Joffrey interrupted.
"I want a match," the prince declared suddenly, his voice carrying high. "Let Manderly fight Sandor. That's what I want. A real duel, not this peasant play."
Arya's heart leapt into her throat. Jon tensed beside her, eyes sliding to Arthur. He only raised a brow, calm as still water.
Robb stepped forward, chest heaving, voice hot. "You want a fight, Joffrey? Fight me. Or are you only brave when you're hiding behind your dog?"
"I'll fight you with real steel!" Joffrey barked, red with rage.
Ser Rodrik moved quickly between them, hands raised. "Enough!" His voice cracked like thunder. "There'll be no blood drawn in the yard today."
But the tension hung, tight as a bowstring. Sandor looked ready to snap a man's spine, his burned face shadowed in the low sun. Theon was half-laughing, half-taunting, hungry for someone to strike. Robb's fists were clenched white, Joffrey's face purple with rage.
Arya's fingers itched for a sword of her own. She wanted to leap down into the yard, to show them all, to bloody Joffrey's nose herself.
"My prince," Arthur said, voice mild as summer rain, "a duel would not teach you what you came here to learn. It would only amuse the wrong crowd."
Sandor Clegane gave a low, harsh snort. "Afraid of a real fight, merman?"
Arthur's smile came slow, cold, his eyes never leaving the Hound's burned face. "No, Clegane. I simply have no need to prove myself useful… like a dog might."
Theon howled, and even Jon's mouth twitched into a smirk.
Arthur rose in one smooth motion, brushing dust from his tunic. He turned to the yard, his voice carrying easily. "Robb. Prince Joffrey. You've both shown you're no strangers to steel." He stepped between them, "But the yard is for practice, not fights. One day, you may each command armies. You must learn when to hold your ground and when to step back. My words are no insult, only the truth. All of us have much to learn. Better to learn restraint now than regret later."
Robb's chest heaved, his shoulders taut with fury. For a heartbeat, Arya thought he would argue. Instead, with stiff reluctance, he lowered his blade.
Joffrey hesitated longer. The yard was watching. The Northmen. The prince's own men. And Arthur stood steady and sure. At last, Joffrey tossed his stick away with a mutter. "Fine. Keep your sticks." His lip curled as he turned and stalked off. Tommen scurried after him, red-faced and puffing to keep pace.
Arya wanted to laugh. But before she could, Robb came striding over, cheeks still hot. "You should have stood with me," he snapped at Arthur. "We could've put that arrogant brat in the dirt and silenced his dog as well."
Theon folded his arms, smirking. "He's right, you know. That would've been a fight worth seeing."
Ser Rodrik turned on them, whiskers quivering. "That is not how we train in Winterfell, and you know it. You don't bare steel to feed your pride."
Arthur stood as he always did, calm and tall. "And if I had taken Joffrey's bait, what then? Do you think the queen would thank Lord Stark for letting her son be bloodied in a northern yard? Or the king?"
Robb hesitated, anger flickering in his eyes. "Still. You could have—"
Arthur put a hand on Robb's shoulders. "Robb. Sansa will soon be his bride. That will make Joffrey your brother. One day, you will be uncle to his son… a future king. These are not games of boys in the yard any longer. Every step you take now, every word you speak, will echo in the years to come."
Arya blinked, suddenly unsure if she liked that thought at all. She saw Robb's jaw worked, tight as iron, but he had no answer.
Arthur's eyes softened as he looked from Robb to Jon, to Arya and Bran. "Your father rides south soon. Some of you may go with him. You'll live beneath the same roof as lions. Bare your teeth only when it matters most."
Before anyone could speak, another voice cut across the yard, deep and steady as stone. "You speak wisely, Arthur."
Arya turned, startled. Father.
Lord Eddard Stark stepped from the shadows of the covered walkway, his dark cloak stirring in the breeze. The yard fell silent. His gaze moved over the boys, then found Arthur. "You did well to stay your hand. I will not have my children brawl as ruffians for pride or false glory."
Robb's head dropped. Bran's grin faded. Even Theon bit back his smirk. Jon stared at the ground.
Then Father's eyes fell on her. "And you, little one. Should you not be with your stitches?"
Arya groaned aloud. "Father—"
"Your mother will not hear it," he said, though his voice was not unkind. "Upstairs. Now."
As she turned, Arthur leaned down, his voice sly and low. "Run."
Arya blinked.
Behind her came the sharp, shrill cry she dreaded most. "Arya Stark!" Septa Mordane, red-faced and panting, stood beside Lady Catelyn on the steps. Her mother's arms were crossed, her eyes cold as polished steel.
Arya bolted. Nymeria bounded after her with a joyous yip, and laughter broke from the boys like a dam. Even Father's mouth twitched. For one bright heartbeat, the heavy yard rang not with anger or pride, but with wild laughter chasing her out into the crisp northern air.