Chapter Text
ARYA
“Arya! For the last time, come to breakfast!”
“I’m coming! Gods, Sansa!” Arya groaned, lingering a moment longer beneath the warmth of her woolen blanket before swinging her legs off of her hay pallet. The days had indeed been growing colder–even in the South, she had begun finding frost on her window glass on certain crisp mornings.
Racing to beat the chill, she dressed quickly, although Arya detested the fashions of King’s Landing. Despite the impending cold, women in the capital dressed as if for perpetual summer, wearing linen bloomers and short corsets beneath featherlight chemise slips. The bloomers were comfortable enough, but Arya had given up on corsetry long ago. She was never able to get the delicate laces to behave, and they always ended up a lumpy, tangled mess beneath her dress. The insubstantial fabric of the chemise gave Arya the shivers, and the constricting cut of the dress made her trip whenever she tried to run or climb. Fed up and freezing, Arya had passed her chemises off to a goldsmith’s apprentice in the city, who wanted them as a gift for his lady love. In return, he’d given her a pair of his old roughspun knickers, two tunics he’d outgrown, a worn leather belt, and a smart little coat that was missing its buttons. Sansa had scolded her for dressing like a ragamuffin, but Arya was just glad to no longer be freezing.
The only items she hadn’t managed to get rid of were her pair of wretched satin slippers, which always made her slip and fall on the palace lawn. She had half a mind to toss them in the Blackwater and be done with them, but she figured they could be bartered for a decent pair of boots.
Arya carefully slid Needle through her belt and stared down at her grubby, silk-slippered feet. Letting out a sigh of displeasure, she made up her mind to be rid of them by day’s end.
Trotting down the crooked stairs, Arya found her sister sitting at their worm-eaten wooden table, picking at a bowl of gluey porridge. Whisking past Sansa, Arya snatched her soiled cloak from the wall and made to leave.
“Arya?” Sansa called.
“I’m going out.”
“Won’t you eat?”
“Not hungry.”
“Where are you going?”
“Into town.”
“With who?”
“Myself.”
“Arya, you’re too young to be wandering out unaccompanied, will you wait a moment longer? I’ll just fetch–”
“You aren’t Mother," Arya spat. "You can stop trying to be. I’m going, Sansa. Please don’t follow me.” She stalked out, dragging her muddy cape and leaving the frail door swinging petulantly behind her.