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I. Ned
“She hasn’t stopped screaming since sun up, m’lord,” the nursemaid warns, depositing the squawking bundle in Ned’s arms when he eagerly visits the nursery. Catelyn had been at her wit’s end following Arya’s birth, he knows, and she’s retired to their chambers for some much needed rest.
Ned cradles the babe in his thick, battle weary arms, gently cupping the back of her head and peering down at her with wonder. He runs a thumb across his daughter’s wet cheek, smoothing down her hair and cooing nonsense words to soothe her cries. When Arya finally quiets, she blinks up at the man with an intense curiosity, gray meeting gray. Ned continues to bounce the babe and back and forth, and when she raises a pudgy hand to pat at his beard, he presses a kiss to her fingertips and is rewarded with the softest gurgle of a laugh, a sound so clear and earnest in its newness.
“Arya,” he croons.
Another hand joins her first, patting at his cheeks, grabbing for his nose, anything she can get a hold of. A series of burbles and warbles pass her lips, melodic and warm, interspersed with giggles.
Ned takes in her fair skin, her thick mane of dark tresses, and those glittering eyes the shade of the skies after a good storm. “Oh look at you,” Ned murmurs. “You’re a beauty, little wolfling.” He shifts the babe to lay her against his breast, her cheek contentedly pressed against his shoulder. Rubbing circles down her back, Ned can’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of love and fear. Love for his Northern daughter, whose disposition will surely be as wild as the lands surrounding them. And fear, at his vow to protect another life, another member of his pack. It does not escape Ned Arya’s uncanny resemblance to Lyanna, and he wonders if this is the gods’ way of punishing him. That he could not save his baby sister from the sways of the realm remains a black stain on his heart. Ned misses her so; her ghosts haunt him in every nook and cranny of Winterfell. His heart betrays him when he considers the pain of looking at his littlest daughter and only seeing his late sister.
Later that evening, he wakes in the nursery, still holding Arya in one arm while the other is wrapped protectively around Jon. The boy must’ve found them earlier and crawled into Ned’s lap. Arya and Jon’s heads are joined together, hair so dark and intertwined it’s hard to say where one begins and the other ends. When Ned presses a kiss to both their heads, he feels warmth creep into his chest. I was wrong, he thinks. This isn’t punishment, it’s a gift. Lya, I see you in them.
II. Robb
Arya tips her fork back and lets it fly. The morsel of pigeon pie lands beautifully on Sansa’s cheek, and Arya hoots along with Theon and Robb’s chuckles. Jeyne and the septas are scandalized, but the Lady of Winterfell simply sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. With a pointed look to her oldest, Robb dutifully makes his way to his baby sister and swoops her up in his arms.
He’s still laughing when he peers down and shoots her a grin. “I think it’s time for bed, little one.”
Amidst Sansa’s fraught cries, Arya grumbles. “It was just getting fun.”
Her legs dangle clumsily from Robb’s hold, and she wriggles around to better hang off him like a lemur, chin buried into his shoulder and fingers absently playing with the neckline of his doublet. Making their way out the great hall and down a corridor, Robb chides her in his best Lord’s Voice. “You should be kinder to your sister, Arya.”
“She should be kinder to me when she calls me Arya Horseface or whispers that I’m another Stark bastard!” she exclaims, suddenly furious. She is tired of remembering her courtesies, tired of the tittering southron folk, tired of the fat king and this ridiculous feast. Most of all, she is tired of feeling small in comparison to her pretty, perfect sister.
Robb’s arms tighten around his baby sister, expression darkening. When they reach her chambers, he gently lets her down before kneeling to meet her gaze. “Arya,” he murmurs, pressing a hand on her narrow shoulder. But she quickly turns her head and tries to wrestle from his hold, embarrassed. The young lord is quicker; he wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her into a clumsy embrace—for Robb is still a green boy too preoccupied running wild with Theon and Arya is all harsh angles and biting words. “You are not … a horse face,” he settles on, finally.
He feels Arya snort against his neck. “You have to say that, you’re my brother.” She lifts her head, her gaze unsure. “I know I’m not proper or beautiful like Mother and Sansa,” she starts, “but there are other things I’m good at. I’ve a good head for sums. I’m a better shot than Bran. And Father says I’m a natural on a mare.” Arya shrugs and stares at the floor. “Why isn’t that enough?” she asks quietly.
Robb suddenly wishes Jon were here; he’d know exactly what to say to make Arya feel better. He tips a finger beneath her chin, looking her square in the face. “It is more than enough, little sister,” Robb says solemnly. “And you are beautiful, as lovely as the winter roses Father loves so much. I’ll gut anyone who says different.”
“Promise?”
“I promise."
III. Jon
“Are you busy sulking, or can I join you?”
Jon’s head whips around to find Arya climbing up the side railing, carefully making her way towards him. She looks a mess, hair an unkempt crown of knots, face lightly covered in dirt, and hem of her dress torn. Fondness bloom in his chest. His wild little sister. “M’not sulking,” he grunts, nudging Arya’s shoulder when sits beside him.
“You keep frowning like that and your face will get stuck,” she scolds. She reaches into the side of her cloak and pulls out a slightly rumpled piece of spice cake, ripping it in two and offering Jon one half. “Why are you hiding?” she asks simply, biting into her dessert.
Jon grimaces, swallowing around the unpleasant feeling of having been found and so easily assessed by Arya. He’d felt on edge all evening. Usually, he paid little mind to Lady Catelyn’s frosty glare or the disapproving tuts from the nobles, but after this morning’s incident, Jon had had enough. While taking a break from training, Theon made an unsavory jape about visiting Wintertown’s brothel and perhaps running into Jon’s mother. It’s possible, he laughed, since no one knows who she is. It took both Robb and Ser Rodrik to hold Jon back from throttling the Ironborn. The truth was Jon hated how he entertained the possibility when Theon made the comment, distasteful as it was. But this was all too much to explain to his eleven year old sister.
“I’m thinking about my mother,” he says quietly, trying to avoid Arya’s inscrutable gaze.
Arya’s expression softens at his response, though, and she’s silent for a while. “When I was younger, I was scared you’d find out who your mother was, who your other family was, and you’d leave us.” She plays with the hem of her cloak. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you, Jon.”
Jon wraps an arm around her shoulder and sighs. “I’m not going anywhere, Arya, I just—” but she cuts him off.
“I know. But now…now I wonder if you might be happier. They might be a better family to you than we are.”
His next words are bitter. “I don’t even know if my mother wanted me.”
Arya angles her body towards his and fixes him with a steely glare. “Don’t say that! Your mother loved you! And she must’ve told Father to take good care of you. You don’t see it, the way he looks at you, Jon. He’s so proud. He’s proud you’re a Stark.”
“I’m a Snow, just a bast—”
Arya shakes her head furiously. “I don’t care what anyone says, you’re my brother, your blood runs through my veins, you are a Stark. I swear it, by the old gods and the new.”
Jon’s never seen Arya so serious. He’d make a playful comment if he weren’t trying to clamp down a sudden wave of sentimentality. His eyes start to sting.
“Don’t listen to Theon,” Arya continues. “Your mother was a good lady, kind and smart and beautiful. She had to be, because look how you turned out.” She nods to herself, finding her reasoning good as gold.
“How did you know what Theon said?” Jon asks.
Arya snorts, a decidedly unladylike sound that brings a smile to Jon’s face. “It’s Theon. At any given hour, he’s saying something stupid. Don’t mind him.” She reaches over and pats his thigh with a delicate and dirty hand. “Finish your cake, then meet me in the godswood later; we can practice swordplay!” Her tone is light, tense moment forgotten. Arya presses a sloppy kiss to his cheek and giggles when Jon wraps her in a hug, scruffy jaw pressed behind her head.
“I love you, little sister.”
She taps at his back in a staccato rhythm. “You better.”
IV. Aegon
“You duped me. I’ve been hustled,” Aegon grunts, lifting his blade and barely escaping an oncoming attack from Arya.
“You said you wanted to train!” Arya huffs with a laugh. She swings Needle again, advancing on the ‘Tyroshi’ with complex footwork and artful lunges.
“You said you knew nothing of proper swordplay! What do you call this?!” He staggers back, and Duck chortles from the sidelines, hulking form shaking from his mirth.
Arya scoffs and taps his side with her blade. “I said I knew little of Westerosi fighting,” she drawls. “There was no mention of Braavosi water dancing though.”
And despite his mounting frustration at feeling entirely out of depth, Aegon can see the unbidden glee on Arya’s face, the brightest he’s seen her expression in some time. Her moves are graceful and dangerous, and he feels a traitorous wave of attraction for the scrappy maiden. Later, when she’s bested him, Aegon on his back and the tip of Arya’s sword catching his throat, he can only smile.
-----
It’s when they’ve stopped by a nearby port town for supplies that they hear whispers of the recently undead Lord Commander.
The bastard’s alive! More ‘an a dozen knives to the gut and he’s alive!
He’s like to take Winterfell back, I hear.
Aye, he’ll have a decent go at it, I presume. The gods be looking down kindly on that one.
Arya is running back towards the ship before anyone can blink.
-----
Aegon quickly follows her into the cabin, barring the door and watching helplessly as she shoves loose clothes and possessions into a sack.
“You could stay,” he blurts out stupidly.
Arya whirls back, surprised at the sight of him. Her hands still, and she cocks her head in confusion. “What?”
With great resolve, Aegon bounds right up to her, clutching her hands in his clammy ones, eyes wild. “Stay. Don’t go. We could ride to King’s Landing together, lead our men, I know no greater warrior than you, Arya,” he rambles.
Arya halts his words with a rough squeeze of her hands. “Aegon,” she whispers, eyes pained. “I have to go back. Jon, my brother, he needs me.” She falters for a second. “I need him.”
I need you, he thinks sorrowfully. When they part and she makes her way to another ship for Eastwatch-by-the-sea, Aegon will kick himself for not following her.
V. Edric
“My lady,” the Dornishman murmurs.
Arya looks up from her place among the gardens and shoots him a grin. “Were you tasked to find me, good ser?”
“My aunt was worried, yes.”
“I’m fine, just admiring the view.”
Ned moves towards Arya and gracelessly drops beside her, slumping against the tree and mirroring her gaze skyward. She looks beautiful like this, he thinks, among the flowers and saplings, face pale like the waned moon and dark eyes glittering. “How are you finding Starfall, my lady?”
Arya peers back at him and smiles cheekily. “Certainly prefer it to King’s Landing.”
Ned snorts. “I’m not sure that’s high praise, my lady. Most places are preferable to the capital.”
She bumps into his shoulder and smiles softly. “Your home is beautiful, Ned. And I like it here best, with a clear view of the stars. Would that I could spend all my time here instead of in that dreadful council meeting.”
“Negotiations are almost done, my lady,” he offers.
“Ned, truly, I wish you would just call me Arya. At least when it’s just us two.”
“The last time I tried that, the new Lord of Storm’s End seemed ready to pummel me to death, Arya.”
Arya’s answering laugh is bright. “Ah, he’s all bark and no bite.”
Ned doesn’t miss the way her words are said with naked affection, and he swallows down the bitter pill of rejection. “You’re saying he doesn’t want to gut me,” he says lightly instead, tone disbelieving.
“Of course he does. And he can,” Arya says simply, shrugging. “But he won’t. He knows you’re my friend. Now, dear friend, tell me what else there is to enjoy around here. If I have to listen to another round of griping from the nobles, I’m like to go mad.”
“There’s time tomorrow, we could explore together. I might even let you ride a true Dornish steed.” His words are teasing but his expression shy. Ned always feels out of sorts around Arya; navigating friendship with her is as frightening as it is exciting. He’s familiar with bold women having grown up in Dorne, but the fierce wildness Arya displays is unlike anything he’s encountered. Something inexplicably Northern, something other.
Her answering grin is dangerous. “We could race,” she says excitedly.
And Ned can only chuckle, tender and exasperated. Would that I could keep pace with you, Arya. Maybe then…
His thoughts are cut short when Arya nimbly rises to her feet and offers him a hand. “Let’s get back inside before your lady aunt worries, hm?” Ned clasps her hand in his, reveling in the warmth for as long as is proper.
VI. Gendry
“What are we doing out here, Arya?”
“Getting married, stupid.”
Gendry frowns and eyes her like she’s gone soft in the head. “That’s tomorrow,” he says slowly.
Arya rolls her eyes and steps into his arms, knocking her forehead against his broad chest and feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat. He only managed to pull on a thin tunic and cloak in her haste to get them to the godswood. The heart tree stands before them, gnarled and proud, pale as snow, with an ancient, haunting face carved into the bark. In truth, the sight of the clearing had frightened Gendry at first. He doesn’t follow the faith, but he knows Arya does, or at the very least, she finds comfort in kneeling before the tree and quietly communing with the spirits. Instead, he’d felt an eerie presence there, and when he mentioned as much to Arya, she simply smiled. “It’s the old gods,” she’d said, like that was explanation enough. “They keep watch over us.”
As he peers down at his betrothed, Gendry wonders if she’s looking for a bit of reassurance before the ceremony. He lifts a hand to cup her face, smoothing away stray hairs blown wild and askew from the northern winds. “Hey.”
“I know it’s tomorrow,” Arya grumbles, “but that’s so…official.” Her nose crinkles at the word. “I’ll be in a pretty dress, my face all done up, my hair twirled into some inane crown. Everyone will be watching. The new Lord and Lady Baratheon is all they’ll see. But, I just wanted a moment for us, just us, and the gods. I know you don’t believe in praying to a tree or any o’ that but—”
Gendry cuts her off with a kiss. “Arya. Will this make you feel better about the wedding?”
She thumps her forehead to his. “It makes it feel more real,” she says quietly.
With a smile, Gendry leans back and steadily meets her gaze. He’d have married her in a tavern, or by a river, or, or in the kitchens of Hot Pie’s bread shop if she wanted. They’d felt like partners long before planning the ceremony back in Winterfell. “Alright,” he says simply. “We say our vows, then, yeah? I’m no wordsmith but,” he trails off and shrugs, suddenly shy.
Arya reaches out and clasps his hands in hers, looking him square in the face and starting. “I, Arya of House Stark, come before the old gods and the new to join in this marriage. I pledge my honor and abiding love to this man, I take him as my husband, and vow to be his trusted partner until we are parted by death.” The words tumble out of her easily, unsure if they’re the right phrases, but her voice never falters, her words ring true.
Gendry squeezes her hands and responds, eyes shining, voice like a warm caress. “I, Gendry Waters, famed armorer’s apprentice of Flea Bottom and honored Knight of Hollow Hill—” Arya huffs a little laugh at his title, completely charmed, “—come before the old gods and the new to join in this marriage. I pledge my honor and abiding love to this woman, I take her as my wife, and vow to be her trusted partner until we are parted by death. I love you,” he adds, unclasping his cloak and blanketing it around her shoulders.
“I love you.” Then Arya reaches up and cradles his face, pulling him into a tender kiss. “For all my days,” she whispers.
“For all my days,” Gendry repeats.
The heart tree regards the newlyweds with warmth, bleeding face somehow twisting into a wry grin. When they make their way back to the castle, playfully bumping hips and stealing kisses, Arya and Gendry cross the threshold as husband and wife.