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Sansa wondered, sometimes, if Arya was the way she was because she had no sisters, only brothers.
It wasn't as if there were no other girls in Winterfell. Mother was sure to encourage Arya to socialize with them, but sooner or later Arya would slip her minders and come to join her older brothers to spar or practice archery, or her younger brothers to explore the castle.
Sansa couldn't help but admire his sister's skill with the bow, but he felt uncomfortable raising a sword against her, even a wooden training sword. Knights were sworn to protect women and children, so taking up arms against one was the opposite of what he wanted to do. But when he had raised this objection, Arya had kicked him in the shin and yelled that she hadn't sworn not to attack knights until he finally gave in and fought back.
Mother had scolded him for that, which he thought was unfair, because usually Arya pestered Jon for sparring and Mother didn’t tell him off for it. But then, Mother usually turned a cold shoulder to Jon’s existence, while Sansa was the sibling most likely to listen to her. In some ways Sansa felt closer to his mother than to his father and brothers; Mother, after all, was from the South, where brave warriors swore knightly vows and fought in noble tournaments.
Traveling to King’s Landing was a dream come true, and Sansa had never been so grateful not to be the heir, since it meant he was free to go south with Father and Arya. Robb could be the Lord of Winterfell; Sansa was going to be a knight.
There was just one problem: Arya. Not that she was coming south with them; yes, she could be annoying sometimes, and she certainly wasn’t ladylike, but she would surely get into more trouble without Sansa there to watch out for her.
No, the problem was that Arya had been betrothed to none other than Prince Joffrey himself. Any other girl in the Seven Kingdoms, Sansa was certain, would have been overcome with joy. Leave it to Arya to behave as if being Queen someday would be a bad thing!
Maybe Sansa could even become a Kingsguard, loyally guarding King Joffrey and his Queen Arya just as the Kingslayer guarded Queen Cersei. He could think of no higher honor, no nobler cause, than joining the highest order of knights to defend his sister.
And Arya would probably need defending, because…
Honestly, he had no idea what Father and King Robert had been thinking, other than that the King was apparently determined to marry his heir to a Stark, and Arya was the only girl. But she would be a terrible queen, Sansa internally despaired. She couldn’t be any more different from the refined, glamorous Queen Cersei. Even on the road, the Queen carried an aura of elegance, as if the mud on the ground wouldn’t dare sully her shoes. Arya thought nothing of wading through muck.
Left to her own devices, Arya was sure to wind up grubby and not at all befitting the prince’s betrothed. So Sansa followed as Arya and Prince Joffrey strolled through the woods, hoping to avoid the judgmental stares that his sister either didn’t notice or pretended not to. Considering what he had to put up with, Prince Joffrey had been remarkably gallant thus far, Sansa thought, although at times he seemed annoyed by Arya’s churlishness, as anyone might be. It was at least a good sign that Arya had suggested this walk and Joffrey had accepted, wasn’t it?
“Why do you insist on having your beasts follow you everywhere?” Joffrey complained, glancing back at where Nymeria and Valor were following obediently.
Arya sniffed. “You’re just jealous because your house’s animal is a stag.” She had refused to leave Nymeria behind and had demanded Sansa bring his wolf as well. Sansa had to admit, if only to himself, that he did feel safer with Valor there, especially since the three of them were alone in the woods, having left their guards’ supervision.
“You forget that my mother’s house is the lion,” Joffrey said. “I should like to see one of the lions of Casterly Rock against your wolf.”
“Nymeria would win!” Arya said, grinning.
“I suppose we’ll have to see about that, my lady.” He smiled, and Arya seemed pleased, and Sansa dared to think that this was going well.
Of course, that was when Arya announced, “We should spar.”
Sansa internally groaned.
Joffrey made an odd expression that smoothed out into a smile. “My lady, I’m hardly going to fight my own betrothed.”
“Why not?” she demanded.
Sansa cut in. “Arya, it’s not proper —”
“If they’d wanted someone proper they should have picked someone else!” she snapped.
“I’m still not going to fight a girl,” Joffrey said. It was nothing Sansa hadn’t thought before, but the way he said it had an edge. He turned towards Sansa. “Perhaps, my lady, your brother could be your champion, and fight in your stead. That’s how it’s done by civilized people.”
A glance at Arya told Sansa that she was already working herself up into a fury, so he demurred, “I would prefer not to take up arms against my prince.”
“You won’t act as your dear sister’s champion?” Joffrey smiled.
“See?” Arya demanded before he could answer. “Sansa doesn’t even want to fight. I do.”
“My lady, you can’t use a sword,” he said.
Arya marched up beside Sansa and grabbed for the pommel of his sword. Sansa jerked away, but she lunged forward and drew his sword from its sheath. He gasped, freezing in place; if he moved, Arya might fumble the sword and hurt herself. Still, once Arya had raised the sword in slightly trembling arms, Sansa hissed, “Arya!”
“You didn’t want to fight,” Arya snapped.
“But that’s my sword!” He had only received it on the eve of their departure; if he misused it he wouldn’t get to touch real steel again for a year!
“Someone should use it,” she said.
Sansa was on the verge of grabbing it back when Joffrey sneered, “If my lady insists.” There was a glint in his eye as he drew his own sword, Lion’s Tooth, which he had been bragging about earlier that afternoon.
Arya grinned, triumphant. Then she rushed forward and clashed her sword — Sansa’s sword — against Joffrey’s, which Joffrey deflected.
Her form wasn’t terrible, Sansa managed to think underneath the frozen panic, but the weight of the sword was clearly too much for her. She had to work harder to lift her sword than Joffrey did, and it showed. Joffrey lazily parried her strikes, at least until a lucky hit scored a line of blood along his arm. He snarled and fought back with more aggression, sending Sansa’s pulse racing. Arya was visibly tiring; her blows were clumsier, her muscles straining, and soon Joffrey disarmed her, Sansa’s sword clattering to the ground as Arya let out a soft cry of pain. She held her wrist carefully, grimacing slightly.
“What else did you expect?” Joffrey sneered. Sansa silently picked up the sword, stomach clenched with unease.
Arya lifted her chin. “I’ll beat you someday,” she promised. When she said it like that, Sansa almost believed her.
“No, you won’t.” He stalked forward. “I refuse to have a wildling as my queen. If we’re to be married, you’ll learn your place.”
“I don’t even want to be your queen!” Arya scowled. “Kings get to do whatever they want. Why can’t queens do that?”
Joffrey’s face twisted. “A queen has to submit to her king,” he spat, and raised his sword once more, lifting it to Arya’s cheek. She took a step back, eyes widening, and he stepped forward.
“My prince,” Sansa said, heart hammering in his throat, “don’t…”
He smirked. “Lady Arya wanted to fight. She ought to learn what happens when you lose. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt… much.”
The paralysis that had rooted Sansa’s feet to the earth vanished and he surged forward, lifting his sword to knock Joffrey’s blade away from his sister’s face.
“You had your chance to be her champion,” the prince spat.
“My prince, you defeated her,” Sansa pleaded, stepping in front of Arya. “There’s no need for anything more.”
“She lost and still doesn’t know her place. It’s no wonder, with brothers like you spoiling her.”
“Ha! As if,” Arya said, but her voice was shaky.
“Let’s go back,” Sansa tried.
“Stand aside, Stark. That’s an order from your prince.” He sneered. “It’s for her own good.”
Why was this happening? a voice wailed in the back of Sansa’s head. Where was the noble prince? The future king Sansa had already begun to imagine serving as Kingsguard? Who was this cruel boy in front of them? How could he be Arya’s future husband — Sansa’s future king?
A memory of Father’s voice cut through the maelstrom, something he’d said time and time again: When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.
Protect the pack.
Sansa took a deep breath and straightened out his stance, looking Joffrey in the eye. “No. We’ll sheathe our swords and go back to the inn, like civilized people.”
“Or what? Sansa the Craven will fight after all?”
Arya stepped up beside him. “Or we’ll see how the lion fares against the wolves,” she said. Behind them, Sansa felt more than heard Nymeria and Valor prowl closer, teeth bared. Joffrey’s face went sheer white.
“You’ll pay for this,” he snarled, but he took a step back. Nymeria growled, and he took another step back. Rage and fear warred on his face, and Sansa wondered if he would attack after all. Then he spat at them and stormed away, still clutching Lion’s Tooth.
Sansa watched until he was sure he was gone before finally sheathing his sword.
“I hate him,” said Arya.
“We’ll tell Father. He’ll call off the betrothal.” He glanced at his sister, who looked down. “He must call it off, when he hears.”
“I heard the queen talking about me,” she said. “She wanted to break the betrothal right away, but the king does what he wants.”
“They still can’t without Father’s permission,” Sansa said, frowning. What if the king demanded it? What would Father do?
There was quiet for a moment before Arya blurted out, “Jon gave me a sword.”
“Jon did what?”
“Its name is Needle,” she said, ignoring his outburst. “It’s thinner, so it doesn’t weigh as much as yours.”
That might make up for her lack of arm strength, Sansa thought helplessly. “Arya…”
“I’m going to learn,” she declared. “I’m not going to just stand there and have to be saved next time.”
“I’ll protect you — Nymeria will protect you,” he hastily added. “The pack survives.”
“Well, I want claws of my own!” Arya yelled, and stomped over to Nymeria, burying her face in the wolf’s fur.
Sansa watched, heart twinging with worry. Valor nudged his arm, and he absently pet his snout while he thought.
Arya wasn’t going to be queen. Father would break the betrothal, he had to. But Arya also wasn’t going to be a lady who could be queen. Father permitted her unladylike behavior; Jon encouraged it.
Sansa always thought that if his sister would just do as she was told, she wouldn’t get herself in trouble all the time. But if Arya had been properly polite and ladylike, and Joffrey had acted gallant and charming, as he had until today, and they had wed as planned…
“I’ll train with you.”
Arya whipped around. “Really?”
“You’ll just do it without me anyways. I might as well help.”
She broke out in a wide grin and launched forwards, wrapping her arms around him. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He put his arms around her in turn. “I won’t go easy on you anymore,” he warned.
“Good,” she said, wild and victorious.
Sansa knew they were in for an earful when they got back to the inn; Father would be worried, the Queen would be furious, and he shuddered to imagine how the King would react. Yet as much as he dreaded their reactions, he felt a sense of relief… and clarity.
The pack would survive, and sharpen their claws for next time.