Trials and Tribulations of the Oathkeeper

Chapter 23: Shadowbinder

—At King's Landing—

Red Keep — Tower of the Hand...

Arya Stark had been training by herself near the balcony; a year had passed since Syrio Forel returned to Braavos once he's been paid for tutoring the 12-year-old Stark girl. She moved and danced around, wielding her blade Needle with her left hand, spinning and twirling it in a fluid motion. Being a water dancer had apparently the thing Arya had excelled at. She seemed to mature since then, but Arya still remained adamant in wanting to find her own destiny instead of it being made for her. Balancing on her tiptoes for hours at a time, chasing cats around to improve her agility and reflexes... she had grown into fiercer than she had before.

"Left, right, right," Arya huffed, concentrating as she thrusted and spun. "Right, down, left, right, up, down, left."

She was venting her frustrations in her movements. War was going on around her, and heard rumors of a massive fleet on its way to the capital. Even though Arya couldn't care less about what happens to those she hates, she remembered her sister Sansa and her father Eddard. Arya couldn't bring herself to hate them; she doesn't get along with Sansa, but Arya still didn't wish anything bad to happen to her. She loves her father, even though she had yearned for Eddard to let her be the person Arya knows she is.

Arya had even wanted to at least help her soon-to-be brother-in-law in any way possible despite any differences they had, but her father Eddard expressively forbade his youngest daughter from being actively involved in the defense of King's Landing in any way possible. She had protested at being sidelined, but her father reminded her that Arya was still just a child; his child. She didn't want to disobey her father, but Arya reluctantly did as she was told. She knew it was because her father loved her and her sister, but still didn't like sitting around doing nothing.

"Right, left, right," she panted. "Left, down, right, up, left, right, up, down..."

Arya thrusted forward and stabbed the training dummy in front of her, piercing it in the center of the chest. Panting heavily, Arya pulled back and grabbed a rag to wipe the sweat from her brow. Soon as she put Needle down, Arya's mind slowly began to drift away.

In her daydreaming, Arya dreamt about being like the warrior-queen Nymeria of the Rhoynar or a skinchanger with the ability to morph into a direwolf at will. She missed Nymeria terribly, having to send her away to keep her safe from the Lannisters for mauling Joffrey's arm at the Trident nearly a year ago. She had heard gossips of a large wolf leading a pack around the Gods Eye that has no fear of men, though she had at least hoped, Arya begrudgingly conceded that she might not see her old direwolf again.

*KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!*

"Go away!" Arya shouted at the door.

"Arya, open the door. We need to talk," a voice called out.

Father! she recognized. Arya crossed the room and opened the door for her father. Eddard seemed more exhausted and tired, making the lines in his face more visible to show his age.

"May I come in?"

Arya nodded, and then stepped aside – allowing Eddard entry.

"You've been practicing?"

"Every day."

After a while, Eddard took notice how labored Arya's breathing was and how her hands slightly shook. "You have a wildness in you, child," he sighed. "'The wolf blood,' your grandfather used to call it. Your aunt Lyanna had a touch of it, and my brother Brandon more than a touch. It brought them both to an early grave."