The Three Houses of Westeros: Chapter 9 (Patreon)

Chapter 9:

Dimitri: 

“It seems to have been little more than a brief winter’s chill my Prince.”

The Maester’s hands were soft, Dimitri had always heard that healers had soft hands; he never gave that statement much weight, he’d been examined throughout his life by many Maesters, from King’s landing to Lannisport, Casterly Rock, Highgarden and damn near everywhere else.

Their hands, much like the people who had those hands, varied.

But with Luwin he perhaps began to understand what those old wives tales were getting at.

The Maester nodded calmly, pulling away as he seemed to finish. “It is not unusual for bodies to take time to adjust to the climate here in the north. I suggest, my prince, that you stay within the castle, and dress perhaps a bit more warmly for at least five days until your body fully acclimatizes to our northern snows.

Dimitri smiled, almost sardonically. “If my duties allow.”

But Luwin didn’t seem deterred. “Should I inform the King or Queen if that will help my prince?”

It was a rare man indeed who would brave the potential displeasure of the King or Queen of Westeros without batting an eye. 

“No I-”

“Inform the queen of what?”

To Dimitri, and his uncle Jamie’s complete surprise his mother stepped round the corner, having entered the Maester’s chamber as quietly as he’d ever heard her.

“Mother/Your Grace.” He and Luwin answered at once, the both of them standing even as the wide eyed Jamie bowed lightly.

Cersei turned her eyes towards Luwin, raising an imperious eyebrow. “I am not one to repeat myself, Maester.” She warned. 

Luwin bowed. “I was merely informing the Prince that his spell in the courtyard was likely caused by his body being unused to the chill as of yet. A mere four to five days of his stay he should take care to remain within the castle walls where it is warm, or to dress with heavier clothes if he should need to head out.”

His mother’s jade green eyes narrowed “And you needed to ask to inform me; Why?”

Dimitri winced, ready to intervene on the poor Maester’s behalf, but Luwin deftly handled the situation. 

“Merely trying to ascertain and respect the crown Prince’s wishes your grace-” He bowed “-forgive me if I’ve erred”

His mother wasn’t happy but she did accept the answer.

Somewhat anyway. 

“He’s my son-” She answered. “-if his health is the subject I’m to be informed immediately.”

Luwin took the offered escape with a bow. “As your Grace desires.”

“Leave us-” She ordered.

“Mother.” Dimitri’s voice held the barest level of reproach he’d allow himself against his mother. “We’re kicking the Maester out of his own chambers.”

Cersei’s lips pursed with displeasure. “Not for more than a moment-”

It was the closest thing to an apology anyone, even he, could pry out of her.

Again, Luwin took the offered escape with nothing more than a bow before quietly marching out of the room. 

And so they were left, the room was a spacious one, with scrolls and books, velum pages, the smell of ink and medicinal concoctions making for a strange, eclectic mix of smells. 

“I thought you would be settling in your rooms, or taking a tour of Winterfell with our hosts.”

“The servants can settle our things in our rooms, and the tour can wait.” She answered, before reaching forward to place a hand on his cheek, as if trying to take his temperature. “How are you feeling?”

In spite of himself, he smiled at her fussing. It was good to see. “I’m fine, mother. I promise. Nothing but a dizzy spell” He lied. 

“You’ve rarely been sick-” She mused, almost thinking aloud really.

For lack of anything better to say, he shrugged. “Sorry mother.”

She released a breath through her nostrils, sighing, but not quite before straightening; “Your father-” Her features soured considerably. “Is down in the crypts with Ned Stark.; I have a feeling I know what they’re discussing.”

That made him raise an eyebrow. “The handship? It’s what we came here for.” He answered.

But that answer seemed to be the wrong one, because his mother gave him a very disappointed look shortly before scoffing derisively “No, Betrothals.” She spat. “Specifically yours. I have no doubt that oaf is waxing Nostalgic about a ghost and is fully planning on getting you in bed with the Stark girl.”

Dimitri winced. That… made a lot of sense actually.

He remembered his father’s ‘promise’ of course, to let him marry who he wished, but no doubt this visit, with the haunting phantom of Lyanna Stark that loomed so large over his life was going to… color his emotions a bit. 

“That is… less than ideal-” He conceded.

“I’ll not have you marrying some insipid half wildling from the north. She’s like to run off with the first man she sees like his precious Lyanna did.”

Dimitri winced again. “Mother- The Starks are our closest allies.” He said gently. 

“Lannisters and Starks are hardly allies.”

“I am a Baratheon-” He reminded her with a smirk even as her features soured again at said reminder. 

He shook his head. “Even so, like I said it's not ideal-” Not because he held any particular animosity towards the Northerners, so far, they seemed a solid bunch. But, again, his hand was far too valuable to reinforce a solid alliance. “A Betrothal would be a good thing… just… not with me” 

His mother’s cat green eyes snapped to his and she very nearly seemed ready to hiss before his Uncle came to the rescue. 

“Why nephew-” Jamie cheekily smirked. “I never thought you’d throw your cousin Lancel straight to the wolves quite so literally.”

In spite of herself, his mother let out a sharp, unintended bark of laughter at the thought, Dimitri could have kissed his uncle right then. 

“There’s a thought.” He joined in on the joke before shaking his head. “But no- The Starks are our closest ally, and Ned Stark lost much during the war that placed father on the throne and myself in line to succeed him.” He made a point to be speaking to his uncle. His mother was usually more receptive to ideas when it didn’t look like you were quite arguing with her but rather with someone else. “Loyal service should be rewarded, and the North must be secured for the future. The North is by far the most ‘independent’ and isolated of the seven Kingdoms. Quite frankly, affairs below the Neck rarely involve the North, as affairs above it rarely involve the south. And what few times the North has descended below the neck- it always affects things. The Hour of the Wolf, the Rebellion, even the Greyjoys. We’d be fools to embitter them by acting as though they need no reward.”

Out of the corner of his eye, in spite of herself, he could see his mother beginning to consider the idea. 

—

Jeralt

It had started innocently enough.

Two lads stepping up to the archery range for a bit of practice.  

Nothing out of the ordinary.

Then, you know, as bullseye after bullseye was hit. One boy maybe stepped back a bit farther than the other one. Maybe for the next shot they stepped past the safety fence for the most distance, or for the other they did a quick turn around for a “quick draw” shot.

All without saying a word.

Now there was a betting pool forming, Two sets of quivers emptied, bullseyes that looked like pincushions and a rowdy crowd of Winterfell guards, Lannister bannermen, Baratheon Soldiers, and a motley crew of mercenaries cheering and howling around the training yard as arrow after arrow was nocked and loosed in ever more ridiculous ranges and distances. 

Even Jeralt himself had to laugh when… Connington, hung upside down by a tree branch to fire off a shot that landed perfectly in the bullseye, only to have Greyjoy quietly one up him by climbing to the very top of the Winterfell battlements at double the distance to hit his target just as perfectly. 

And still, neither boy had said a single word to each other, or even acknowledged each other's existence. Still pretending they weren’t competing. 

If this were a play, they’d sell out to a full house in seconds. 

Honestly, at this point he wouldn’t be surprised if one of them decided to show off by doing their next shot one handed.

“What a bunch of idiots.”

Jeralt huffed out a laugh at Shamir’s annoyed voice. “Let em have their fun while they’re young.” He said.

The Mercenary woman leaning over the railing at his side grunted. “Are you calling me old?”

“You act like you’re older than me-” He shot back.

Shamir’s red eyes narrowed. “I can and will cut you.”

Again, he laughed, the sound mingling in with the cheers as Claude landed another bullseye, this time from horseback.

Where or when the hell he’d gotten a horse saddled and ready he had no idea. But points for showmanship.

“You gonna tell me what’s the history between you and Stark?”

He didn’t react, too practiced, and he knew her well enough to have been half expecting it anyway. “Fought in the war. Old friends”

“Uh-huh. That why you look so stiff when you, Stark and the King were talking?”

He shrugged, still staring out towards the show in the courtyard. “Little Mercenary like me talking to some really important nobles- Gotta be a little nervous. Make em feel important, ya know.”

“I take that non answer to mean you want me to drop it?”

Still, he didn’t glance her way, though his eyes did dart towards one corner of the arena below. Towards a certain youth clad in black. “Like a hot iron poker.”

Luckily, she didn’t catch his slip from her angle. “Hmm. Must be bad. You’re acting even weirder than when I asked you why you hate Mr. Fish.”

Jeralt’s features turned dark.

He’d get back at that giant red bastard one day.

—

Dimitri:

Winterfell was an immense castle.

Of course, it looked immense just from the outside, but inside is where one truly could grasp the enormity of the scale.

Especially when he and Uncle Jamie got lost.

…Twice.

Luckily, they happened upon one of the guardsmen who graciously offered to lead them towards Lord Stark, which is where his father was.

A few minutes and far too many dizzying turns later, they arrived at one of the many halls.

It wasn’t the main hall, he knew, with its large, elevated table and its room to sit all the Lords of the North, it was something smaller, easier. If he had to guess it was a family hall, with one Long table in the center and smaller sitting chairs and tables along the side.

His father and Lord Stark sat in one of those now, drinks in hand, and as the door opened, both men turned to look, his father immediately placing the horn of ale on the table as he stood.

“Ahh, there’s my boy!” Robert declared as though he wanted half the castle to hear, marching toward Dimitri to place his hands on the blonde’s shoulders. “What’d the Maester say?”

“Just a Winter chill.” He answered. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Aye.” Robert nodded. “Neither you nor your siblings have ever seen Winter. It's no wonder. We’ll get you some nice northern furs for our stay. Ned. You must know a good fur trader, or coat maker or what have ya in Wintertown yea?”

“Several.” Lord Stark answered easily. “I’ll send a message to him immediately, Your Grace. I can summon him to take your measurements as soon as you like, My Prince.”

Dimitri tried to wave off the concern, “Please I-”

Tried was the operative word. 

“Tomorrow morning!” Robert declared over his son’s protests. “First thing.”

And Lord Stark nodded. “Of course.”

His father smiled, clapped Dimitri on the shoulder and proceeded to almost pull the boy beside him to sit at the table.

“Join us son, Join The King and the King’s hand.” He declared heartilly, sitting down.

“I haven’t yet accepted Robert.” Lord Stark reminded his father as Jamie took his place beside Ser Barristan. 

But his father just laughed it off, grabbing hold of the horn of ale again as Dimitri took his seat. 

“Now son-” Robert called, pulling free a third horn and beginning to pour some ale from the flagon, clearly he’d been waiting for Dimitri. “Me and Ned have been talkin-”

“I imagine so.” The prince answered with a cheeky smirk. “It has been a few hours, no?”

The Lord Stark nodded with a small, barely there smile, his father huffed something into his cup as he gulped down.another mouthful.

After that, in typical Robert Baratheon fashion, the King dove right into the subject. “Well son, I told Ned here ‘ned, I promised my boy he could marry anyone he likes-”

“You did.” Dimitri acknowledged semi cautiously.

He was suddenly glad his mother had sought him out in the Maester’s chamber. If he’d had stepped into this conversation a bit more off guard he probably would have been caught flat footed and made things worse in some way. 

“But in order to like someone you’ve got to get to know them.” Robert said with what passed for a sagely nod. “So while we’re here, why don’t you spend time with the lady Sansa?”

And there it was.

Robert continued. “You two are of an age, She’s a good northern girl I’m sure Ned has raised right. And you’re a good lad who’ll treat her right too.”

He could almost see the painting his father was making in the confines of his own mind as the Baratheon King nodded. “I think it’ll be good for you.”

Dimitri darted his eyes to Lord Stark who’s features were neutral, even unreadable.

So… he decided to risk the question. “And how does the Lord Stark feel about such?” He asked. 

“It would be an honor of course.” The Warden of the North said with that same placid neutrality.

Dimitri fought the urge to frown. Yes, should have guessed that answer even if Stark were opposed to the match he’d hardly say so.

It looked like he’d have to thread a needle most carefully here. “I’m not… opposed to the idea on any particular principle father.

Robert smiled, looking at Stark with a triumphant glint in his eye, as though he was a great genius for proposing the idea. 

“I would love to get to know the Lady Sansa while we’re here, of course. But-” He continued quickly. “Getting to know her is not a firm commitment, you understand.”

He’d been addressing his father, but it was Stark who nodded. “Of course my prince.”

Dimitri, again, quickly shook his head. “No- no. What I mean is. It wouldn’t do for us to make dealings as though it is a commitment. As in, I speak with the lady Sansa and then should things not turn out well, the Crown leaves house Stark with nothing for their loyal service.”

Now, Robert paused, his flaggon halfway to his lips. “Wait.” Great black brows knit together in thought. “Are you proposing we make a firm betrothal agreement with your siblings?”

Now, Lord Stark looked intrigued, and again, Dimitri was eternally grateful he’d had time to think on this beforehand with his mother and the walk down here. If he hadn’t; there was no way he’d be able to navigate the situation as deftly as he hoped now.

“As I’ve said,” He addressed both of his seniors seated at the table. “My getting to know Lady Sansa is no firm commitment, and I would not wish to leave House Stark feeling slighted if it doesn’t pan out into a betrothal-”

It wouldn’t.

He was sure Sansa was a wonderful young woman… he had no reason to think otherwise.

But his hand was just… too valuable to… waste. On a secured alliance here in the north. 

Dorne, Highgarden, Hightower; even the Crownlands. Any of these could be brought firmly into the fold with nothing but his hand in marriage as an offering.

The North, Lannister, Arynn. These alliances would need to settle for siblings. 

“Myrcella with your Robb.” Again, Robert’s brows knit together, eyes narrowed in thought as he threaded his fingers through his thick black beard, scratching at his neck. “I can see the potential.”

“Ahh-” Dimitri cut in again with a nervous laugh. “Not… quite Myrcella, father.”

Robert blinked, and then his eyes narrowed… dangerously and Dimitri could see the misunderstanding there instantly.

There was no way; his father would ever consent to Joffrey jeopardizing his friendship.

“Tommen.” He yelped before his father could erupt in fury.

And like that the fury was gone, replaced by gobsmacked confusion. “Huh?”

Lord Stark however, still only looked curious, neither approving, nor disapproving. 

“Think of it, father. We are making talks with the possibility of my betrothal to Sansa being, exactly that, a possibility. Just as I’m proposing this betrothal in the event such a possibility doesn’t come to pass, we must think on the eventuality that it does.

He’d lost his father, but Lord Stark seemed to be following his logic.

“Prince Joffrey and Princess Myrcella are too valuable in the event that you take Sansa as your bride.” He noted.

Dimitri nodded. “Yes. Exactly. We would be showing house Stark too much favor with both a first and second son, or first son and first daughter of the crown.

“But a fourth son wouldn’t be seen as a great boon.” Stark finished shrewdly. “In some eyes, he’d not even stand to inherit much.”

The crown prince nodded.”

Robert, now scratching at his head; seems to have followed the explanations.

Loosely.

“The Lady Sansa is a bit older than him, but a seasoned girl is always good for a young lad.” He laughed bawdily only to choke it down remarkably quickly as lord Stark gave him a very dry look at the dirty joke and he seemed to remember that the “seasoned girl” was, indeed, Sansa Stark. 

But once more, Dimitri had to… correct things. 

“Ahh… I wasn’t thinking of Tommen and the lady Sansa.” He laughed.

His father blinked. ‘Oh right- the other girl, little Arya, right Ned? Ned?

And right then Dimitri too seemed to notice that the lord of Winterfell had gone remarkably pale. 

—

Arya:

Today; had started incredibly!

There were so very many new people and things in Winterfell. The King, the Queen, the Kingsguard, Lannister and Baratheon Soldiers, Mercenaries! Even Women Mercenaries! Arya had seen them! Two of them. A woman with two swords and many daggers! And another who’d rode out of the gates on a blood red horse the size of carriage!

And even Theon had gotten into a contest with one of their guests! A dornishman archer! She heard the competition stopped when one of their bows broke. She wasn’t sure who’s. Too many people said different things. 

She’d ask Theon later. 

…

She’d ask Jon later. He’d tell her true. Theon would brag.

But still, the day had started incredibly and already by the time supper was being served she’d made at least six different plans on how to skip lessons with stupid Septa Mordane tomorrow to try and follow one of the women mercenaries and see them fight or train

Father and mother were seated at the high table of the main hall alongside the King, the Queen and the Prince; Robb, Sansa, Felix, Bran, Rickon, herself, cousin Bernadetta, Marianne, Theon and lord Bolton, alongside the other princes and princess were seated just below them

She didn’t know what to think about Lord Bolton. He’d been residing in Winterfell for weeks now. He was quiet, and snuck up on everyone even her. Always watching things with those cold eyes. He reminded her of those stories Old Nan would tell them of the living dead.

Now he sat at Robb’s side, between him and Theon, those black eyes of his always watching everyone, especially the Royal family.  

He stayed with Robb a lot; if she guessed he was trying to be Robb’s friend. That made sense because he was, or would be Robb’s bannerman now that his father, the previous Lord Bolton, was dead alongside his brother. 

She knew she should feel bad about, what happened to him but truthfully, rather than feeling bad, she just hated the fact that he made it so much easier for mother to hate Jon!

Just because Hubert had a Bastard brother who was everything her mother was afraid of didn’t mean his Bastard and Jon were the same!

Felix didn’t like him, but Felix didn’t like anyone. 

Actually; come to think of it, Felix seemed to be acting much nicer towards cousin Bernadetta.

Arya didn’t know what to think about their Arryn cousin. She’d only been around Winterfell for less than a day of course but she seemed stupid. Scared of everything and only really talking to Sansa or mother 

She’d just stuffed herself in the guest room mother provided and didn’t go out to explore Winterfell at all. Hadn’t even left until she was called down for supper.

Bloody weird.

Only bit of good sense she saw was that her cousin shied away from risen dead Lord Bolton. So that was something.

Still, weird or frightened cousin or not; the King’s retinue had brought women warriors, cousin Bernadetta could stay stuffed in her room if she wished. Arya had much more fun things to do tomorrow.

The next tables were all the assembled Lords of the south. Northern lords hadn’t arrived yet for the most part. Arya had gathered that the Prince’s cousin, Stannis’ son was there, he had a fancy purple shirt that must’ve been cold, even in the castle, the Dornishman that Theon had been competing with, another Stormlander house, Dondarion or Connington; she couldn’t quite remember.

Odd that he looked Dornish while being a Stormlander…

Huh.

Anyway, there were some Lannister lordlings sprinkled here and there of course. As the Northern lords arrived that table would fill up right quick, especially if Lord Manderly or the Bear Islanders brought all their daughters.

Ohh, she hoped the Mormonts came with their daughters. They fought too; so maybe they and the mercenary women would fight in the training yards!

The only reason Lord Bolton wasn’t there and was seated with her family and father’s wards was because he was an honored guest or something. 

After that came the tables filled with soldiers and guards, and those were indeed full. She could see the Prince’s squire, a boy who’s name she remembered as Ash; she remembered because his hair looked like ash, of course. So that was convenient. 

And he was seated beside several of the Mercenaries, who were given a seat, also as honored guests. 

If she understood the story correctly, the leader, Jerard, or something had fought with Father and the King during the Rebellion and they were good friends. 

She liked him. He had women fighters…

Maybe he’d let her join. She’d have to ask father.

One thing, or one person rather that she didn’t see… was Jon.

“MY LORDS!” 

The shout came from Robb of all people and Arya whirled her head around to look at her brother with a bit of shock. 

He wasn’t normally one to draw attention to himself; especially like this.

A hush fell on the hall and Arya darted her eyes over towards father and mother, seeing no alarm on their faces, so whatever was happening was happening, probably with their blessing. 

“Let us show our southern guests good northern merriment!”

Several cheers arose from the crowd, Stark men, yes, but also southerners too.

“Bring out the music!” Robb laughed.

And like that the bards and Skalds began to play in earnest.

It was a jaunty, merry tune that one could dance to, and Robb wasted no time in asking Sansa for a dance which, the perfect little lady accepted, on the high Table, Prince Dimitri descended in order to ask his own sister Myrcella for a dance, which the princess also accepted.

Soldiers danced with serving maids and minstrels soon enough in the center of the hall, twirling around the fire. She saw some of the Mercenaries dancing too; the large one that laughed all the time looked downright spry as he took the hand of the dark haired woman with two blades and led her round the room; the leader, Jerard danced with a merry smile with the other one, the one that had ridden the red horse. 

Theon coaxed Jeyne Poole to a dance, and Marianne took Bran’s hand to join in. Even Felix- Felix of all people- joined in on the dance managing to convince little scaredy Bernadetta to step out of her seat. 

Partners were exchanged as the music progressed, The Prince danced with Jeyne, then a serving girl, then Marianne and the two Mercenary women. 

Lord Bolton danced with Bernadetta and she had to suppress the urge to laugh at her cousin’s terrified face. Lord Hubert seemed to find it amusing as well, judging by the rather frightening smile on his face shortly before exchanging partners again to dance with a blushing Princess Myrcella

Bernadetta looked ready to run back towards her table before the Mercenary horsewoman grabbed hold of her hand and kept her dancing with narry a word. Women dancing with women? Was that allowed?

Arya saw her sister dance with Robb, Theon, the Jolly Mercenary, Ash- The Prince’s squire, even Bran.

But when she danced with the Prince, even Arya had to admit; her sister looked radiant.

The two of them danced perfectly together and even to Arya’s scrutinous eye and not jealous irritation… they looked beautiful.

Even thinking the word brought up a well of nausea.

Even the King himself joined in; though not with his wife. The ruddy cheeked Baratheon made his way to the dance floor and joined in on the circle of merriment with a serving girl, Arya passed a careful eyes towards the Queen who sat with a mask cold enough to chill the wall, but otherwise made no move.

The entire hall filled with laughter and good cheer, and even Arya herself found that she couldn’t help but sway in time with the music and the beat of stomping feet.

“Might I have this dance?”

She turned, startled. “Father?”

Ned Stark smiled down at his youngest daughter his hand extended.

Arya scowled. “No. Dancing is stupid.” 

Her father laughed. “Please, just one for me?”

Arya resisted the urge to squirm in her seat. In her heart of hearts, deep within, she had been feeling left out ever so slightly. And so, it wasn’t a hard concession to make as she held out her hand and took hold of her father’s fingers, letting him lead her to the dancing space.

Clearly, her father was taller than her, but still he spun and turned her alongside the others as best they could, even she could tell they were not in time with the music as Septa Mordane instructed, but before too long she found a smile creeping up on her.

They bumped and bullied their way through the Dance floor with so many others, but father laughed, and that made her laugh too. She caught Robb’s eye and he smiled as he traded Marianne for her, and that made Arya smile just a bit more as father danced with his blue haired Ward and Arya danced with her big brother. 

By the time the music began to end, Arya could barely hear the laughter in the hall over the pounding of her own heartbeat. Her hair, so neatly done up by her mother earlier was out of sorts she knew, sticking to her neck and forehead, But still she laughed as her brother escorted her back to the table. 

“AYE! Our Northern hosts know how to throw a FEAST!”

The men roared and cheered at the King’s voice while Arya herself was halfway back to her seat. 

King Robert laughed, a horn of ale in hand as the dancers either encircled him or returned to their own seats. 

“Aye, we’ve come a long way to visit the North; always, Ned has stood by me when I needed him, Piss on Dragons and Squids, put a wolf at my side any day!”

Now the Stark men roared their agreement, their voices consuming the whole hall, but Arya noted something… odd, her father, speaking hurriedly with the Prince before his eyes darted around the room and found… her.

He began to make his way over, quickly. The look on his face worried Arya.

The King kept talking.

“And such loyalty deserves its due! For no truer friends do we have!”

“Father?” She asked as he reached her, kneeling beside her seat. 

“Arya-” Her father’s fingers reached, threading through her hair. “I need you to keep calm, love.”

“Calm for what?”

“And so-” The King slurred, raising his horn to the air. “A BETROTHAL!”

Lannister, Baratheon and Stark men cheered, and Arya understood.

Sansa would be marrying the prince.

She knew it would happen, there was no need for father to worry. Why on earth would he think she-

“My son, Tommen Baratheon, and the lady Arya Stark of Winterfell!”

Later, much later, Arya would remember the cheer half dying in a semi shocked almost there silence before it was taken up with gusto again.

At the moment though, she didn’t quite hear it. 

‘Whut?’

There was a ringing static in her ears, and she was sure that she was dreaming suddenly, because this made no sense. Like her dream of Felix wearing a dress and Sansa being a swordswoman. 

She looked around, desperate for something–anything–to clear up the confusion; because she must have heard wrong.

But all eyes were on her, eyes that were shocked and wide with disbelief and stunned surprise.

King Robert smiled as though he’d just won the grandest of tourneys, and Princess Myrcella clapped enthusiastically, a beaming smile on her face, Prince Dimitri stood at his father’s side with a smile that seemed almost apologetic as he clapped along with the others. 

Of all the southerners; The Queen was the only one who made sense! Her face scrunched up like she’d swallowed a lemon– because of course she wanted Sansa and not Arya Horse-face as the betrothed for her child!

She looked to her mother, who stood at the high table, wide eyed and shocked, but delight quickly overtook that. Her eyes found Arya’s but the youngest daughter didn’t miss the moment her mother’s gaze darted quickly towards Sansa and then back to her. And Sansa…

For all that Felix had managed to curb the most unrealistic aspects of his twin’s daydreams of Southron honor and gallantry, she still fantasized about being swept off her feet by the handsome Prince Dimitri.

And it had happened! It had happened right there on that dance floor! Even Arya thought they looked beautiful together!

What… WHY was this happening!?

Sansa’s eyes met hers, and her sister spent several moments gaping like a fish before tears began to gather in her eyes, Even Felix stood slightly behind her next to Robb and he looked worried.

And then- Sansa shut her eyes, visibly swallowed down… everything she was feeling and joined in the polite applause with the stiffest of hands, utterly unsmiling and staring dead ahead of her, not looking at anyone. 

Arya heard the cry of a wolf outside, Lady’s cry. It was so rare for the sweet and gentle wolf to act out that whenever she did, it was noticeable. 

Arya stood on shaking legs, feeling the urge to run before her father took hold of her hand, seemingly reading her mind and stopping her. 

She managed to steal a look towards the… well… her betrothed. Prince Tommen, small, plump Tommen looked wide eyed- it didn’t look like anyone had told him either, and his brother Joffrey was laughing at his side with a wicked looking smile, that was cowed quickly as Prince Dimitri drew close with a warning look.

“A TOAST!” The King roared. ‘To the Union!”

The hall roared back.

“Of Stark and Baratheon!” 

The men roared again and King Robert’s face was sheer joyous triumph. “Long overdue!”

And as the hall filled with laughter and cheers and music, Arya had never wanted so badly to run away and hide in the whole of her life..

—

“GO AWAY!”

She screamed at her door, the knock giving way to a mournful sigh.

“Open the door little wolf.”

It was her father’s voice and Arya glared at the door, tears burning at her eyes as she sat on her bed and hugged the pillow to her chest.

“Why!?’ She sniffed. “You have the key anyway. It's not like I can choose anything!”

Her father sighed. 

“I do have the key. But I would like it if you opened the door instead, Arya; I don’t think you want to speak through a door”

After a moment, in spite of herself, Arya did move to the door, unlocking it with a heavy turn of the key.

Quietly, it creaked open, allowing her father inside.

His look was gentle, but his voice didn’t shake. 

“It was not meant to be revealed how it was.” He nodded. “I would have come to you tonight. Spoken with you, your mother and Sansa. The King was too enthused and into his cups.”

“Why did it even happen!” She shouted, the tears coming back to her eyes. “I’m not- I don’t even want to be betrothed to anyone! Why not Sansa!?”

Her father knelt in front of her, his hands rising to touch her arms. 

“I know it's not what you wanted, or what you thought would ever happen… But all girls need to find a husband. As far as I’ve seen, Tommen is a kind and good boy, one that can grow into a kind and good man that will treat you well.”

“Why can’t I just stay like this!?”

Her father smiled. “Would that we could all be children forever.” He said, before his smile fell away. “Give the boy a chance, Arya. A real chance. See if you like him, if you can be friends with him. He can be good to you, and you to him.”

“And if I don’t like him!?” She pressed.

Her father opened his mouth, but before he could answer, the door opened behind him. 

“One does not say no to a King sweetling.” Her mother answered in place of her father, entering the room and shutting the door. 

Her father frowned, “How is Sansa?”

Of course, her mother went to Sansa first…

“She must hate me.” Arya mumbled, realizing only as she heard her own voice that she’d spoken aloud. 

“She was… surprised. She is sad. But she is happy for you.” Her mother said with a look Arya recognized as her trying to be polite.

The youngest Stark daughter snorted in disbelief.

Her father sighed. “Sansa will forgive soon enough. She knows it wasn’t your fault, or your decision.” He reached up, passing a hand through her hair. “You’re a Stark.” He said. “So please, promise me, as a Stark, that you’ll try at least to get to know little Tommen. You might find a friend.”

Arya looked down, staring sullenly at her own feet, feeling trapped and cold, but knowing somewhere in her mind that not many other girls, not even Lords daughters ever had even the chance to get to know their betrothed before they were wedded.

…

Maybe if she didn’t like him she could get him lost in the Wolfswood and he’d be eaten by a Bjorn. 

Or Nymeria.

“I promise.” She mumbled, her father giving her a grateful kiss over her head.