Life as a Snow was no easy thing. The name of a bastard was not you wanted, especially in the Hall of honorable Lord Eddard Stark. To be the only thing existing that proved he'd broken a vow made one forget they were anything but that- a mark against his honor.
Arya Snow had spent the better part of her fourteen years trying not to let the stares burn her. Some weren't as bad as others, like the openly curious stares from the smallfolk, some had become more familiar than the palm of her hand, like the hostile stare of Lady Catelyn Stark, but some would always sting, the baffled look every time a visitor saw Lord Stark's natural born daughter with his trueborn children. They never understood why he'd like to keep his shame close.
Snow, Pyke, Rivers, Stone, Hill, Storm, Sand and Waters- the names for reviled bastards in all the Seven Kingdoms and the Crownlands besides. Arya, though fondness for books was not in her nature, had made a hobby out of researching noteworthy bastards in Winterfell's library. That was where she was when the King was spotted coming up the Kingsroad.
They'd been going on about this visit for a month now, and Arya was quite tired of hearing Lady Stark clucking over Sansa and Bran and Rickon. The children had been reminded over and over how important their behavior was, and no hair was allowed out of place. Robb, at seven-and-ten, insisted he was too old for Lady Stark's' ministrations. His new bride, Jeyne Westerling fussed enough anyway. Jon had always been good at taking care of himself. Catelyn never worried about her second eldest son.
Seeing Sansa getting fussed over always made Arya angry. It wasn't like she needed it. Her half-sister was absolutely beautiful. She looked just like her mother, eith long thick auburn hair and Tully blue eyes. Arya, on the other hand, had the long face and grey eyes of a Stark. Her hair was dark brown and unruly. If anyone's hair needed brushes, it was Arya's
"Arya," a hurried whisper broke through the silence of the library. She glanced up from the passage about House Blackfyre.
"Jon?"
"Father wants to see you," he explained, still whispering.
Arya rolled her eyes. "Maester Luwin isn't even here, Jon. You don't need to sneak."
"Father wants to see you," he repeated, louder this time, "and I think you'll want to get there before my mother's done helping Sansa get ready.
"Stupid Sansa and her stupid hair," Arya muttered. Jon pretended he hadn't heard. She joined him at the door, leaving her book for later. Maester Luwin had learned early on how useless it was to clean up after her.
"So, are you excited to see the royal family?"
Arya scoffed, "What, from the back row, next to Hodor? Why would I want to meet a whole new group of people who don't understand why father bothered to acknowledge me?"
Sometimes she felt like she was older than all of her half-siblings. They could be so naive, even Jon. "Sansa hasn't shut up about our handsome Princes in weeks- and she hasn't yet seen either of them."
"She won't need to wait much longer- the King's riding up our road as we speak. Which is why, Arya, we need to hurry."
"Would you like to race, dear brother?" Arya asked with a grin. Jon rolled his eyes, feigning aloofness, but when Arya took off down the corridor, her brother was hot on her heels.
When Jon and Arya skidded to a halt more or less in front of Ned Stark, the man was trying not to smile. There was no such conflict on Catelyn's face.
"Arya," Ned began. She sobered at how fast his almost smile disappeared. So this was serious. "It's imperative nothing happens when the King arrives. Do you understand?"
Of course she did. Arya wasn't stupid. She'd hardly be pulling pranks on the Queen. But Arya doubted that was all he was asking of her. Out of sight, that's what he wanted- or rather, that was what Lady Stark wanted.
"Yes, father," she answered mildly. Arya had learned to keep quiet. It did no good to anger Lady Stark. She would never harm Arya, but she was good at making her feel small.
Ned nodded, seemingly satisfied, and took his wife's arm. Catelyn sent Aerya a look, "You'll stand behind Sansa, " she commanded. Arya nodded. Not next to Hodor, but definitely not out in the open.
By the time Ned and Catelyn had taken position, Bran and Rickon were already hurrying out. Robb stood with Jeyne by his side, her belly swelling with their first child. Sansa looked enchanting in her bright blue dress, and Arya knew the embroidery along the neckline as her half-sister's own fine even stitching. She shuffled behind her. Sansa was much taller than Arya, which made her feel very neatly hidden away from royal eyes.
It was while she was positioning herself just right, so as to peer through the gap between Sansa and Jon, that they all heard the hoofbeats. The sound thundered through the courtyard, announcing what seemed like an army. She could have sworn to the Old Gods and the Seven that the King had brought all of the South with him to Winterfell. She tried to pick him out of the crowd, going off of descriptions in books and her father's memories, but couldn't find the barrel-chested man with the long black beard and the burly arms. The only crowned man was old and fat. Robert Baratheon was not as described. Arya guessed that that tangled, filthy beard hid sagging jowls, and his eyes reminded her of a pig's. Where was the large, handsome lad who had fought a war for her dead aunt's honor? Where was the jolly, fun-loving king? This one looked washed up. He looked just as old as stodgy Lord Ned.
He needed a stool's help off of his horse, and when he was off, he didn't even bother waiting for his wife, Queen Cersei Lannister. The Lioness stepped out of her carriage just then, hardly bothered by her husband's abandonment, if her haughty expression was to be trusted. She had hair like spun gold, which fell in intricate braids down to her waist, and a gown of crimson silk. Three golden-haired children followed behind her like ducklings, although the oldest was less of a child. He looked to be of an age with Sansa, and Arya guessed he must be Prince Joffrey, second in line to the throne. Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella both had their mothers look.
But where's Prince Gendry? Arya wondered. He was the crown Prince, the one Sansa wished to marry. Arya was holding out hope that he was be as ugly as his father, as pig-eyed and fat, but the young man who sprung off his mount and hurried to catch his mother's arm was not ugly. He looked stiff beside Cersei, but handsome nonetheless. His shoulders were broad, and he looked well-muscled, but he wouldn't be called fat. A perfect Prince for perfect Sansa, Arya thought. How irritating.
After they bowed briefly, Robert strode to Ned.
"Ned!" King Robert roared, voice tinged with laughter. He was red-cheeked and grinning as he greeted her father. "Look at you! The North has made you old and fat!"
Father lifted an eyebrow "As the South has you," he japed. There was a moment of nervous silence as Robert scowled at his old friend.
But then Robert's laughter boomed, and Arya watched everyone around her give a sigh of relief. The King moved on to Lady Stark, giving her a brief peck on the cheek.
"How are you Cat?' he asked brightly.
"Very well, Your Grace," she replied. Arya couldn't see her face from where she was, but she knew the smile Catelyn probably wore, polite and completely false. It was the one she wore with all guests.
"Ah, and here's Robb, yeah? Congratulations!" Robert chuckled, giving Robb a knowing smile and kissing Jeyne's cheek.
He shook Jon's hand and patted Sansa's cheek. He ruffled Bran's hair and gave Rickon a piggy smile. All of this happened in only a few moments, as Arya tried to watch as well as keep herself hidden. Cersei Lannister's greeting wasn't nearly so enthusiastic, she allowed Lord and Lady Stark to kiss her hand and only spared their children half a glance. Prince Gendry shook Ned's hand and kissed Catelyn's, but he followed after his mother. Joffrey and the children didn't even pause. When the greetings were done, Robert's smile suddenly faded.
"I'll see her now," he announced gruffly. The grimace on Cersei's face told Arya exactly who he was talking about. Her Aunt Lyanna.
"The dead can wait, Robert," she told him, but he barely spared her a glance. Her father led the King off to the crypts and Arya fled the courtyard. Mayhaps she could read a few more pages before she had to ready herself for the feast.
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Arya had no time to herself before the feast. Almost immediately Catelyn had intercepted her, giving her a brief order to make herself look proper and not dally, which meant that if Lady Stark learned she wasn't in her room until it came time to go to the Great Hall, she'd face all Seven Hells.
Arya knew the attention wouldn't be on her tonight. It never was, but considering how important this night would be if Sansa truly wanted to marry a Prince, even less so. Still, she just knew that if she didn't do as Catelyn had ordered, the Lady would somehow know. She clambered into her best gown, which paled in comparison to most of Sansa's dresses. This was mostly because Arya had grown quickly out of her first best gown, spilled wine on her second, and gone riding in her third. After she was dressed, Arya braided back her wild hair, draping it over a shoulder and falling back onto her bed.
Nymeria, the snow-white direwolf her brothers and father found along with the rest of its litter, near their dead mother, padded towards the bed. Arya had forgotten that Catelyn had ordered the wolves out of sight when the King arrived. Most of the others could be told to stay, indeed it was simple to command all but Rickon's fierce Shaggydog, but Nymeria resisted commands, and had to be shut in Arya's room.
Ned had proposed that their direwolves had taken after each of his children. Greywind was amicable and playful, Robb's perfect companion, charming as he was. Jon's Storm was quiet and restrained. Sansa's Lady was pleasing and well behaved. Bran's Summer was curious and active. Rickon's Shaggydog was a ruffian. And Arya's, Nymeria, the runt of the litter, nature's version of a bastard, was as stubborn as could be. The pup couldn't make a sound though.
Arya patted Nymeria's head softly. "Hello, girl," she muttered. She was already feeling the stifling boredom, only a moment spent in her room. She wished she'd thought to knick a book from Maester Luwin, maybe one about Braavos this time. She also wished she hadn't been banished to her room. it was hardly fair, and Arya doubted the King would be offended by the sight of one bastard-girl. Arya had heard that the King wasn't short on bastards himself.
But she didn't disobey Lady Stark. She stayed on her bed with Nymeria until Jon knocked on her door. He escorted her only as far as the entrance to the Great Hall, the two parting ways to get to their respective tables. Jon was seated on high, next to Sansa, but Arya sat with the interesting people. It also helped that no one took the time to count how many cups of ale she drank. Father allowed the Stark children only one glass of wine at supper- she could get well and truly drunk.
She barely even watched the southern king and his haughty family parade up to the table, instead trying to engage in conversation with Mikken, the castle blacksmith.
"There'll be no sword for you, Arya Underfoot," he told her adamantly. He even used her old nickname. When she was nine and decided she'd learn to do every job necessary to run a castle like Winterfell. The servants had from then on dubbed her Arya Underfoot, whether affectionately or not.
"Well why not? Shouldn't I be able to defend myself?" she asked.
"You'll have your brothers, and then your husband to defend you."
"I'll never marry," Arya argued. She drank down her cup, signaling for another. "I won't tell anyone, if that's what you're afraid of. I swear it."
Mikken scowled at her, and she could tell she was wearing the old armorer down. "It'll be hard to hide a sword, girl."
"Not a small one!" she exclaimed.
He only glared.
"If I promise secrecy?" she prompted.
"Not a word to anyone," he snapped. Arya laughed, hoping he wouldn't change his mind in the light of day.
By the time the night began to wind down, Arya felt sloshed. Nymeria was napping lightly at her feet, directly under the table. The room swum around her, and King Robert's loud laughter felt like a hammer to her skull. He'd left his seat at the high table around the same time that Queen Cersei gathered her children and quit the Hall. Now he sat only a table away, a kitchen maid planted firmly on his lap. Catelyn had long since ushered all but Robb off to bed, and her father looked exhausted. The only thing keeping Ned at the table was Robert, who, though bleary eyed and swaying, didn't look tired.
He was pawing at his kitchen maid's bottom when Arya left her own table. She stumbled out of the Hall into the courtyard, unsteady on her feet, Nymeria close on her heels.
"Are you the little bastard girl?" a voice said. Arya spun in it's direction, and was met with empty air. "Down here."
"The Imp!" she gasped, staring down at Tyrion Lannister. He was less fearsome in person than his descriptions gave him credit for.
"Yes, that is what they call me," he answered, giving her a tight-lipped smile.
"Beg your pardon, my lord," she corrected sloppily, giving a shaky curtsy.
"Someone gave you one too many drinks, didn't they?" Tyrion asked. His small black eyes held cunning that Arya was instantly wary of. He seemed to see even more than what was there.
"I'm not a child," she snapped, hating his tone, hating the way he was looking at her.
"You certainly look like one," he countered. He was referring to the style of her dress, the way she wore her hair, but Arya knew that was hardly the only measure of a woman.
"So do you," she told him.
"As I asked before, are you Ned Stark's bastard?" he prompted, abandoning her slight easily.
Arya bristled. "How is that any of your concern?"
"I'm curious- I make it my concern."
"I am Lord Stark's natural-born daughter," she admitted after a beat.
"His bastard, then," Tyrion quipped. "It's a bit dangerous for you out here all alone, faculties compromised, don't you think?"
"I'm strong. I can fight," Arya boasted.
"A grown man?"
"I don't see any around," she bit out. "Besides, I have Nymeria." The white direwolf stood at her side, almost reaching her waist.
"Nymeria? The name is apt, I'll give you that," Tyrion allowed, shrugging.
"Is that all you wanted, to inquire after my safety?" Arya asked incredulously.
"Honestly? No. I was curious, wanted to see if I recognized any of your features, but you're a Stark through and through."
"What else would I be?" she wondered.
"Dornish."
"That's just a rumour. Father has never admitted that Ashara Dayne was my mother. Besides, Ashara was beautiful."
"Rumours are not always fully lies," Tyrion assured her cryptically.
Arya sat in bed that night, struggling to fall asleep, and she wondered what he could mean by that. Was he telling her that it was true, that Ashara Dayne truly was her mother? Or was he trying to hint at the truth of a another rumour? What had the Imp really wanted, other than to make her confused and upset?
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Calling Gendry Baratheon handsome was as useless and obvious as calling the sun bright. Everyone already knew the sun shone brightly, and the realm was already well aware how dashing their future king was. This frustrated Arya Snow to no end.
She'd yet to speak to him, having decided to keep the relative peace between she and Lady Stark, to keep quiet and not give anyone any reason to punish her. she was rather pleased with herself, actually, and had become adept at avoiding all of the King's family over the course of their visit. Unfortunately, this had left Arya entirely unprepared for the King himself.
She had left behind the library in favor of her own rooms late one night, and His Royal Largeness caught her off-guard in the dim torchlight of the corridor.
He looked half-mad, and Arya wondered immediately where his KingsGuard was, where anyone was. Robert Baratheon was at least twice her size, and the hands that clamped down on her shoulders felt like anvils.
"Lyanna?" he choked out. She could smell the strongwine on his breath.
"Your Grace- I'm not-" she gasped, but he wasn't really there. That look in his eye- he looked like he was years away. All that meant was that she was in much more trouble than it might seem.
"Lyanna! I knew you'd come back to me," Robert whimpered, pulling her closer. "I'd have been a good husband to you, Lya- I swear it."
"Your Grace," Arya repeated, struggling in his grip. She wanted to fight, to scream and scratch, but she could just imagine how her father- how Catelyn would react. It do her no good to humiliate both her and the King.
"Lyanna," he repeated, barely a breath, and suddenly his thick, fat lips were on her own, and his tongue was in her mouth.
He tasted like rot and too much wine, like the old drunk man he was. Arya tried to turn her head away, but Robert was persistent. His movements were unsteady, but strong, and he backed her up against the stone wall, warm with the heat from the hot springs. The lines of stone bricks dug into her shoulder bones, and Arya felt like she couldn't breath.
Robert pulled away to gaze upon her face, and Arya gulped in air.
"Your Grace- I am Arya Snow. I am not my Aunt. Please-"
But before she was reduced to begging something pulled the King aw3ay from her. Arya scrambled away, back against the wall so no one could approach her from behind, and tried to catch her breath.
"Ser Arys, Ser Preston, please escort the King back to his rooms," Prince Gendry ordered, voice hard. The sight of his son, of his guards must have triggered something in Robert, because his eyes clear a bit, and he goes with them easily.
Before the Prince can say a word Arya starts "I did nothing wrong!"
"I know."
"I didn't encourage him. He thought I was Lyanna. I tried to explain."
"I heard you," Gendry assured her.
"I didn't do anything wrong," she repeated.
"No, you didn't"
"Good. I-I'm glad we agree," Arya said, nodding mostly to herself.
"Would you mind if I escorted you back to your chamber?" the Prince asked. Arya fought the relief the request brought her.
Aiming for indifference, Arya nodded. "If it would make you feel better."
"It would," he assured her, laughing softly.
Arya peeled herself away from the wall, glancing back the way King Robert had been led. The Prince tucked her arm into his. She pulled back immediately.
"I wouldn't presume to walk arm in arm with Your Highness," Arya explained. Gods, she almost sounded like Sansa. Unfortunately, an impolite bastard was an unhappy bastard indeed. She'd adapted, shedding the boldness of a little girl Arya Stark had learned manners.
"No one's about," Gendry pointed out.
"Someone's always about- especially with the King here," Arya replied.
"Fine then," Gendry relented. "It's good to meet you, aside from the circumstances."
Arya nodded her thanks. "It's nice to meet you as well."
"Your brother has told me some tales about you," Gendry revealed.
"Which one?" she wondered. The pair moved down the hall away from the library. It was on the same floor as her room, but the walk was no short journey.
"Jon. He seems a good sort. My father-" Gendry shot her an apologetic look "-says he bears a striking resemblance to Lord Stark when he was young."
"My father says the same about you," Arya told him.
"Yes. I've heard as much," Gendry agreed. He was grimacing in displeasure. Of course, Arya didn't know the King anymore than she had fifteen years prior, but she had a feeling that the man had changed, time on the Iron Throne and marriage to a Lannister making him what he was today. At least, that's what she hoped. He was her father's best friend, and she liked to think Ned hadn't befriended the King Robert of now.
"I think you look more like your mother," she said. It may have been the truth, but Arya said it only to spare his feelings.
"Is that so?"
"Yes. You may have your father's coloring, but you have the jaw of a Lannister."
"I'm surprised you took note of my appearance, Lady Arya."
Arya snorted. "Lady Arya- you mustn't call me that. It drives Catelyn mad, the thought that I might be equal to her true born sons and daughter.
"We call my brother, Edric, Lord," Gendry said. The sympathy in his eyes made her uncomfortable. What could he possibly know about what Arya suffered under Lady Catelyn.
"Well things are different in the North."
Gendry looked away. Arya couldn't puzzle out the emotion that lingered in his Baratheon blues. But then, she hardly knew this southron prince. He was a stranger to her.
"It's been fifteen years, and it feels like he's mentioned her every day of my life," he muttered. "Lyanna this, Lyanna that."
"Father hates talking about her."
"The King didn't know her like Lord stark would have. He talks about a fantasy, I think. No woman could be that perfect."
"Old Nan says that memory taints the past, makes everything seem shiny and new."
"The realm thinks my mother is a bad wife, and an even worse Queen, but my mother is only what King Robert made her. How could she be a good wife if he constantly measures her against a dream?"
They were silent as they came to the corridor which held her rooms. Neither wanted to speak, and Arya new that she at least didn't want to say good night.
"I'm sorry for my father's actions, my lady."
"I'm no lady," she insisted. "And it's not as if you forced the strong wine on him. You didn't make him drink himself to delusion."
"Still. I'm sorry."
Nodding, Arya stepped away from the warmth of his shoulder next to hers.
"Will I see you tomorrow?" Gendry asked.
"Mayhaps," she answered evasively.
"I hope to."
So do I.
As soon as the door closed between them, Arya let her frustration out in a loud breath. If she dug herself any deeper into this bloody hole, she'd be digging her grave.