Arya’s stitches were crooked1 again.
She frowned down at them with dismay and glanced over to where her sister Sansa
sat among theother girls. Sansa’s needlework was exquisite2. Everyone said so.
“Sansa’s work is as pretty as she is,”
Septa Mordane told their lady mother once. “She has such fine, delicate hands.
” When Lady Catelynhad asked about Arya, the septa had sniffed4.
“Arya has the hands of a blacksmith.”
Arya glanced furtively5 across the room, worried that Septa Mordane might
have read her thoughts,but the septa was paying her no attention today.
She was sitting with the Princess Myrcella, all smilesand admiration6.
It was not often that the septa was privileged to instruct a royal princess
in thewomanly arts, as she had said when the queen brought Myrcella to
join them. Arya thought thatMyrcella’s stitches looked a little crooked too,
but you would never know it from the way SeptaMordane was cooing.
She studied her own work again, looking for some way to salvage7 it,
then sighed and put down theneedle. She looked glumly8 at her sister.
Sansa was chatting away happily as she worked. Beth Cassel,Ser Rodrik’s
little girl, was sitting by her feet, listening to every word she said, and Jeyne
Poole wasleaning over to whisper something in her ear.
“What are you talking about?” Arya asked suddenly.
Jeyne gave her a startled look, then giggled9. Sansa looked abashed10.
Beth blushed. No oneanswered.
“Tell me,” Arya said.
Jeyne glanced over to make certain that Septa Mordane was not listening.
Myrcella said somethingthen, and the septa laughed along with the rest of the ladies.
“We were talking about the prince,” Sansa said, her voice soft as a kiss.
Arya knew which prince she meant: Joffrey, of course. The tall, handsome one.
Sansa got to sitwith him at the feast. Arya had to sit with the little fat one. Naturally.
“Joffrey likes your sister,” Jeyne whispered, proud as if she had something to do
with it. She wasthe daughter of Winterfell’s steward11 and Sansa’s dearest friend.
"He told her she was very beautiful.”
“He’s going to marry her,” little Beth said dreamily, hugging herself.
“Then Sansa will be queenof all the realm.”
Sansa had the grace to blush. She blushed prettily12. She did everything prettily,
Arya thought withdull resentment13. “Beth, you shouldn’t make up stories,”
Sansa corrected the younger girl, gentlystroking her hair to take the harshness
out of her words. She looked at Arya. “What did you think ofPrince Joff, sister?
He’s very gallant14, don’t you think?”
“Jon says he looks like a girl,” Arya said.
Sansa sighed as she stitched. “Poor Jon,” she said. “He gets jealous
because he’s a bastard15.”
“He’s our brother,” Arya said, much too loudly. Her voice cut through the
afternoon quiet of thetower room.
Septa Mordane raised her eyes. She had a bony face, sharp eyes, and a thin
lipless mouth made forfrowning. It was frowning now. “What are you talking
about, children?”
“Our half brother,” Sansa corrected, soft and precise. She smiled for the septa.
“Arya and I wereremarking on how pleased we were to have the princess with
us today,” she said.
Septa Mordane nodded. “Indeed. A great honor for us all.” Princess Myrcella
smiled uncertainly atthe compliment. “Arya, why aren’t you at work?” the septa asked.
She rose to her feet, starchedskirts rustling17 as she started across the room.
“Let me see your stitches.”
dskirts rustling as she started across the room. “Let me see your stitches.”
Arya wanted to scream. It was just like Sansa to go and attract the septa’s attention.
“Here,” shesaid, surrendering up her work.
The septa examined the fabric18. “Arya, Arya, Arya,” she said. “This will not do.
This will not do atall.”
Everyone was looking at her. It was too much. Sansa was too well bred to smile
at her sister’sdisgrace, but Jeyne was smirking19 on her behalf. Even Princess
Myrcella looked sorry for her. Aryafelt tears filling her eyes. She pushed herself
out of her chair and bolted for the door.
Septa Mordane called after her. “Arya, come back here! Don’t you take another step!
Your ladymother will hear of this. In front of our royal princess too!
You’ll shame us all!”
Arya stopped at the door and turned back, biting her lip. The tears were running
down her cheeksnow. She managed a stiff little bow to Myrcella. “By your leave, my lady.”
Myrcella blinked at her and looked to her ladies for guidance. But if she was uncertain,
SeptaMordane was not. “Just where do you think you are going, Arya?” the septa demanded.
Arya glared at her. “I have to go shoe a horse,” she said sweetly, taking a
brief satisfaction in theshock on the septa’s face. Then she whirled and made her exit,
running down the steps as fast as herfeet would take her.
It wasn’t fair. Sansa had everything. Sansa was two years older; maybe by the time Arya
had beenborn, there had been nothing left. Often it felt that way. Sansa could sew
and dance and sing. Shewrote poetry. She knew how to dress. She played the high
harp16 and the bells. Worse, she wasbeautiful. Sansa had gotten their mother’s fine
high cheekbones and the thick auburn hair of theTullys. Arya took after their
lord father. Her hair was a lusterless brown, and her face was long andsolemn.
Jeyne used to call her Arya Horseface, and neigh whenever she came near.
It hurt that the onething Arya could do better than her sister was ride a horse.
Well, that and manage a household. Sansahad never had much of a head for figures.
If she did marry Prince Joff, Arya hoped for his sake that hehad a good steward.
Nymeria was waiting for her in the guardroom at the base of the stairs.
She bounded to her feet assoon as she caught sight of Arya. Arya grinned.
The wolf pup loved her, even if no one else did. Theywent everywhere together,
and Nymeria slept in her room, at the foot of her bed. If Mother had notforbidden it,
Arya would gladly have taken the wolf with her to needlework.
Let Septa Mordanecomplain about her stitches then.
Nymeria nipped eagerly at her hand as Arya untied20 her. She had yellow eyes.
When they caught thesunlight, they gleamed like two golden coins.
Arya had named her after the warrior21 queen of theRhoyne, who had led her
people across the narrow sea. That had been a great scandal too. Sansa, ofcourse,
had named her pup “Lady.” Arya made a face and hugged the wolfling tight.
Nymeria lickedher ear, and she giggled.
By now Septa Mordane would certainly have sent word to her lady mother.
If she went to herroom, they would find her. Arya did not care to be found.
She had a better notion. The boys were atpractice in the yard. She wanted
to see Robb put gallant Prince Joffrey flat on his back. “Come,” shewhispered
to Nymeria. She got up and ran, the wolf coming hard at her heels.
There was a window in the covered bridge between the armory22 and the
Great Keep where you hada view of the whole yard. That was where they headed.
They arrived, flushed and breathless, to find Jon seated on the sill, one leg
drawn23 up languidly tohis chin. He was watching the action, so absorbed
that he seemed unaware24 of her approach until hiswhite wolf moved to meet them.
Nymeria stalked closer on wary25 feet. Ghost, already larger than hislitter mates,
smelled her, gave her ear a careful nip, and settled back down.
Jon gave her a curious look. “Shouldn’t you be working on your stitches, little sister?”
Arya made a face at him. “I wanted to see them fight.”
He smiled. “Come here, then.”
Arya climbed up on the window and sat beside him, to a chorus of thuds and
grunts26 from the yardbelow.
To her disappointment, it was the younger boys drilling. Bran was so heavily padded
he looked asthough he had belted on a featherbed, and Prince Tommen, who was
plump to begin with, seemedpositively round. They were huffing and puffing27 and
hitting at each other with padded wooden swordsunder the watchful28 eye of old
Ser Rodrik Cassel, the master-at-arms, a great stout29 keg of a manwith magnificent
white cheek whiskers. A dozen spectators, man and boy, were calling outencouragement,
Robb’s voice the loudest among them. She spotted30 Theon Greyjoy beside him,
hisblack doublet emblazoned with the golden kraken of his House,
a look of wry contempt on his face.