Chapter Text
King’s Landing was hot, smelly and dull, and Arya had hated it at first sight.
“It cannot be more boring than Winterfell, can it?” Sansa observed, on the first morning she heard Arya complain. “And you were the one who wanted to leave.”
And that was unfair; Sansa had been the only one to know of Arya’s enthusiasm for the journey, before. Before the Trident, before Joffrey, before the day she’d realized that all the wonders of the South might be enough to make up for leaving home, but would never be worth looking at the prince’s smug face every day.
Father had thought it a good sign, that the Crown Prince seemed to make such efforts to get to know his future wife and her sister, and Arya hadn’t dared tell him what had happened. Maybe he’ll be angry, she thought, like Sansa would be if Arya ever spoke a word against Joffrey in her presence.
“I wanted to leave,” Arya said. “And now I want to go home. There’s nothing to do here.” Nothing, except sewing and dressing up and playing lady to Princess Myrcella. The princess was sweet, nothing like her elder brother, but as boring as everyone at court seemed to be. Even more boring than baby Rickon, who used to follow her and Bran around everywhere to play jokes on Robb whenever he was distracted.
She felt tears prickling her eyes at that, thinking of Bran and what had happened to him; and left the room without paying attention to Septa Mordane’s shrieks. If it wasn’t for me she’d be bored, too.
It was in her bedroom that Father found her, a few hours later.
“Arya?”
She heard him knock on the door, lightly, and groaned into her pillow. “Go away!” Arya said, her voice muffled enough that perhaps Father wouldn’t hear. Maybe he would think she was sleeping.
“Arya, open the door.”
No such luck.
Her father looked sad, and the tired glace he threw Arya was enough to make her feel more guilty than Septa Mordane could ever hope to manage. “You made a spectacle of yourself this morning, child.”
But surely he couldn’t be angry about that. Arya made a spectacle of herself all the time, or so she’d been reliably informed. “Who told you that?”
Father raised an eyebrow, but didn’t scold her for being rude like Mother would have. “Come again?”
“You weren’t there,” Arya said, not much caring if she sounded as pouty as Sansa and as childish as Rickon. “You never are, and I’m just alone all day with Sansa and….”
She was sobbing, Arya realized, crying like she hadn’t since she’d been a little girl. Only little girl cried, Robb had told her once, and she wanted to be a warrior, and strong and brave – only she was just a little girl after all, wasn’t she? A little girl, and not even a proper lady at that. “Sansa hates me,” she told Father, and it wasn’t news, not really, but it was worse lately, and all because of the stupid prince. “And it’s all Prince Joffrey’s fault, and she can’t see how much of a prick he is.”
Father didn’t look nearly as angry as he should have been at her remark. “You shouldn’t talk about the prince that way, Arya,” it was all he said. “Not where others can hear.”
“You are not others,” Arya blurted out. “And the prince is cruel, and he doesn’t even care for Sansa and she can’t see it. He told me so.”
That seemed to work, or close enough. Father frowned at her words. “Do you remember what he said?” he asked, “the exact words?”
He sounded like he might believe her, and Arya relaxed. Maybe she’d been wrong to wait so long, maybe she should have told him the same day it’d happened… “At the Trident, he came looking for me and I asked why he wasn’t with Sansa, and he said…” Arya paused, biting her lip. Father wouldn’t call her a liar, but maybe he would tell Sansa what she said, and Sansa would get angry for this. “He said that he doesn’t care for Sansa, and that he likes me better because I’m pretty.” It all came out in a long whisper, and maybe Sansa would never need to know, and it wasn’t Arya’s fault that the stupid prince liked her. She’d rather be ugly and be left alone.
“And then he said that a Prince can have all the women he wants brought to his bed,” she continued, rushed, and heard Father take in a sharp breath next to her.
Arya knew what Joffrey had meant – the things married ladies did with their lords, and she knew that it was a bad thing to speak of a lady that way. She knew it was a bad thing, but she hadn’t been prepared for just how angry Father looked right now.
“Are you sure about this, Arya?” he asked, and she’d never heard him sound so serious before. “It’s important, child. Is that what he said?”
She nodded. “I told him I would tell you, so he left.”
“Arya…” He’d moved in closer, putting his arms around her shoulder like he used to do when she had nightmares as a young girl. “I am sorry the prince said those things to you, child.”
“Are you going to tell the king?” she asked, and Father stiffened.
“I don’t know,” he said, eventually; and Arya knew that meant no, and that Joffrey would still go on doing whatever he did because he was a stupid prince, and it wasn’t fair at all.
“Will you…” Arya began, then stopped, not even knowing what she’d wanted to ask. Will you tell Sansa that it wasn’t my fault? Her sister would never dare call Father a liar, after all. Will you tell Joffrey to stop? But that wasn’t how things were done.
“Will you still let Sansa marry him?” she asked instead. “Joffrey?”
And this time the silence was longer, and Father never answered.