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Arya I
296 - AC
A day had passed since the southerners arrived.
The Manderly guards had taken their leave at first light, their armored cloaks dragging lines across the snow as they mounted and rode back toward White Harbor. Winterfell felt different with the Dornish guests inside its walls — louder in some ways, brighter in others. Arya could not decide yet if she liked it.
She had seen them during the feast last night — all gold rings, spear-calloused hands, and strange perfumes that clung to their cloaks. Even from where she sat beside Bran, she had noticed how the godswood-dark man at her father's right hand never seemed entirely still. A prince, Mother had whispered, as if she needed reminding to behave.
Her mother and Sansa had spent much of the evening speaking with the princess — Arianne Martell. Arya had watched from a distance, curious despite herself. Arianne looked like a woman from Old Nan's tales: copper-bright skin, hair like deep riverwater, eyes that shone like garnets set in gold. She was laughing — softly, politely — in a way Arya had never laughed in her life. Worse, Arya spotted Robb's own cloak draped around her shoulders.
She'd be mentioning that to him later.
But the feast had ended early by Winterfell standards; the Dornish were tired from weeks on the sea and days on the road and even father seemed keen to let them rest.
Now — morning again — She found herself regretting ever stepping into Sansa's room.
"Come along, Arya," Sansa said in that voice she used when she wanted to sound older. "Princess Arianne wishes to tour the keep, and Father asked us both to accompany her."
"Why me?" She muttered, though she followed anyway. "You can show her the proper lady things."
"That is precisely why you are coming," Sansa hissed. "We must present the Northern courtesy well."
Arya rolled her eyes and trudged after her.
The princess walked ahead, flanked by three women Arya had noticed the night before — Dornish, all of them, their eyes sharp, their steps light. They looked nothing like Sansa and her giggling friends. They carried short spears slung across their backs and curved daggers on their hips, as if strolling through a battlefield instead of a castle yard.
Princess Arianne moved with them easily, like she belonged among warriors.
Sansa pointed toward the First Keep, rambling off details that made Arya want to jump from it.
"And this tower, there is the Broken Tower," Sansa continued. "It collapsed ages ago — some say it was struck by lightning, but—"
"Have you ever fought anyone?" Arya blurted toward the Sand Snakes before Sansa could continue.
Sansa gasped. "Arya!"
The three women exchanged glances — amused, not offended — before the tallest, the one with her hair chopped short like a boy, stepped forward.
Obara, she remembered.
"Aye," Obara said simply. "I have fought. And bled. And killed, when need be."
"Truly?" Arya's heart leapt. "In an actual battle?"
Nymeria, the second one, with golden-brown eyes as calm as a cat's, smirked. "The Stepstones breed pirates like the Dornish breed sand. If we did not fight, we would drown in them."
Tyene gave a small, sweet smile. "There are always men who believe a spear in a woman's hands means no threat, They learn otherwise."
Arya beamed. "Mother says it's unbecoming for a lady to fight. But I don't think so. I want to hunt bears. Lady Maege Mormont hunted an elk with two axes, Robb told me."
Arianne turned with interest, her cloak fluttering. "We heard of the Bear Islanders on our journey. They sound formidable."
Arya nodded vigorously. "They are! And Robb said—"
"Speaking of your brother," Tyene cut in lightly, "Lord Manderly spoke much about him at White Harbor. Praised the Winter Sons as if they were a song brought to life."
"Is he truly as fearsome as they say?" Arianne asked Sansa with a gentle smile.
Sansa smiled proudly. "Ser Rodrik says Robb has grown into a fine swordsman. And Ser Jory once told us Robb took on a dozen men-"
"A dozen men?" Tyene finished with a laugh. "Surely that's a generous word, Boys of two-and-ten do not battle dozens."
"It's true!" Arya said, stamping her foot. "My brother—"
Before she could finish, the sharp crack of wood on wood echoed across the yard.
Arya froze.
Then sprinted.
"Come on!" she shouted over her shoulder. "I'll show you!"
"Arya!" Sansa called, horrified, glancing between their running sister and the princess. "Forgive her — she's wild."
But Arianne lifted a hand. "No, Lady Sansa. I would like to see this."
And all at once the Dornish followed.
The yard was alive with motion when they arrived — the kind of motion Arya loved. The swing of practice swords, the scuff of boots on packed snow, the focused stillness of a duel unfolding.
Robb and Jon were on hard ground.
Theon lounged nearby with folded arms, a grin fixed to his face. Ser Rodrik stood with a scowl that meant he was actually pleased.
Arya slipped straight to the railing.
Robb stood steady as a stone, feet planted wide, shoulders squared. He held his sword with patient calm — waiting, watching. Jon struck at him fast, quick as shadow-cat paws, his hair damp with sweat despite the cold.
They moved in circles, boots grinding frost beneath them.
Jon attacked. Robb parried. Jon struck again, faster this time — Robb caught it, barely shifting his wrists.
"He moves well," Arianne said softly beside Arya. "Swift."
"He is quicker," Tyene agreed. "See how he pushes forward? He means to overwhelm."
Obara snorted. "Speed is wind. Wind does not fell a man with one hit. Stark is watching for the opening."
Nymeria leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowed with interest. "He wastes no movement. That is… uncommon at his age."
Arya grinned smugly. "He's the best."
Jon feinted left, switched right, then lunged. Robb blocked high, then swept Jon's blade aside with a force that made Jon skid on the snow.
Jon recovered instantly — but Robb didn't chase him. Didn't grow eager. He only reset his stance. Waiting again.
Arianne tilted her head. "Why does he not press the advantage?"
"Because he's not stupid," Theon muttered from behind them. "Jon bites when you think he's down."
Tyene giggled. "Does he?"
Theon straightened, suddenly trying much too hard. "Well, I didn't mean—"
Obara ignored him, eyes fixed on the fight. "Robb will win."
Tyene blinked. "Truly? But Jon has him—"
"No," Obara said firmly. "Watch his grip. The Stark will take him in the next exchange."
As if on cue, Jon charged.
Robb stepped aside — by a breath, no more — and struck downward, not on Jon's body but on his blade. The blow was perfectly placed. Jon's sword spun from his hand and clattered across the ground.
Jon froze, chest heaving, eyes wide.
Robb held the tip of his sword near Jon's throat.
"Yield," Robb said, breathless but steady.
Jon let out a sharp breath. "Yield."
Cheers rose from the men around the yard.
Ser Rodrik grunted. "Well done. Both of you. Jon, you grow impatient again. You cannot win by rushing through and hoping it blows your foe over."
Jon flushed. "Aye, Ser."
Robb offered a hand, hauling him upright with an easy grin. Jon took it, reluctantly amused.
Theon clapped loudly. "See it, Robb knows his way with the sword."
Obara folded her arms. "He is competent."
Nymeria nodded. "Disciplined."
Tyene smiled. "Impressive enough. Though the tales seem… larger than he is."
Theon's grin vanished. "You doubt him?"
"Not doubt," Tyene corrected sweetly. "Only… question. Men do like to boast. Even Northern ones."
The Greyjoy's smirk soured. He pushed off the rail, stepping forward with a cocky swagger.
"Aye?" he said, voice loud enough to pull all eyes to him. "Then perhaps you'd like a proper bout"
Obara's brows rose. "From you?"
Theon flashed a grin. "I could take the three of you at once. Spears, daggers, sand and sun — all of it."
Nymeria blinked slowly. "You believe that?"
"I know it," Theon boasted. "Women or not—"
Obara's expression sharpened like a whetted blade.
But before any of the Sand Snakes could answer, before Obara could step into the ring and break his jaw.
A hand landed on Theon's shoulder.
Robb.
"If there's doubt to be settled," Robb said, calm but firm, "it's mine to settle — not yours."
Theon opened his mouth to argue.
Robb didn't let him.
His grey eyes flicked to Arianne and then to the Sand Snakes "If I can, I'll prove myself."
Tyene stepped forward with that soft, innocent smile of hers.
"Well," she said, folding her hands behind her back, "My sisters can test the Stark when his turn comes."
Her eyes slid toward Theon like a blade hidden in silk. "But I should like a bout with the squid. His smirk offends me."
Theon barked a laugh and stepped forward, rolling his shoulders as if he'd been waiting for exactly this.
"Offends you?" he asked. "I've barely said three words."
Tyene tilted her head. "Yes. And each one was unfortunate."
Jon snorted. Robb's mouth twitched.
"If you want the Greyjoy," Robb said, arms crossed, "then take him. Theon fights first."
"Gladly," Theon said, swaggering into the ground before anyone could change their mind. "I'll teach her Northern manners."
"No," Tyene answered lightly, "but you might learn some yourself."
Ser Rodrik grumbled under his breath but nodded his approval.
"Very well," he said. "Wooden weapons. No thrusts to the face."
One of the men tossed Theon a wooden sword. Tyene accepted a practice spear — a smooth ash shaft with no sharpened head — and spun it easily in one hand, testing the balance. The motion was fluid and effortless, like water curling around stone.
Arya grinned watching them both.
The fighters squared off.
Snow drifted between them. A circle formed. Every eye in the yard watched.
Ser Rodrik dropped his hand. "Begin."
Theon lunged first, of course he did.
He came in fast, boots skidding on packed snow, swinging wide with the easy confidence of a boy who thought strength and speed solved every problem. The wooden blade hissed through the air.
Tyene only stepped back. One step. Two.
Her spear flicked outward at just the right distance, keeping him from closing in.
Theon pressed harder, slashing again, and again, growing more irritated with every breath.
Tyene did not strike. She… drifted. Light on her toes. Breathing softly, eyes warm but watchful.
"Stop dancing and fight!" Theon snapped, swinging harder.
"I am fighting," Tyene said sweetly.
Theon growled and pushed in, more reckless, more eager to break past her reach. He dove low, going for her legs.
Tyene spun.
The spear cracked against the side of Theon's head — a sharp, hollow thwack that echoed across the yard. He stumbled, boots slipping on frost.
Arya burst into delighted laughter.
Theon nearly fell but steadied himself, face reddening. "You little—"
He charged.
Tyene dropped low, spear sweeping in an arc but this time Theon was ready. He dove under the shaft and hooked her ankle with the flat of his wooden blade.
Tyene's feet slid out from under her.
Gasps rose from the watching boys. Sansa clutched Arianne's arm.
Theon saw his chance and roared, surging forward for the final blow.
But the Dornish girl was faster still.
Tyene twisted on the ground, spinning her legs in a sharp, sudden sweep. Theon's boots were kicked clean out from under him. He crashed into the snow with a shout.
Before he could breathe, before he could even curse, Tyene was atop him.
One graceful movement. One breath.
She straddled him, knees planted firmly at his ribs, pinning him like a hawk pins a hare.
Her spear pressed lightly, yet undeniably, to the hollow of his throat.
Theon bucked beneath her. Tyene only leaned her weight, holding him fast, expression still sweetly pleasant.
Robb stepped forward. "Yield, Theon."
Theon snarled, trying to twist free. "She— I— I almost—"
Tyene pushed him down, her thighs tightening at his sides. Her spear dipped a fraction closer.
Theon's breath hitched.
"Yield," Robb repeated.
Tyene's blue eyes lowered, soft as snow.
The spear never wavered.
Finally, furious and breathless, Theon gasped,
"Fine. Yield. Yield!"
The yard erupted — laughter, shouts, even a few cheers. Obara smirked. Nymeria folded her arms, approving. Arianne watched with an unreadable expression that was half-amusement, half- calculation.
Only Tyene remained serene.
She leaned down, her lips brushing Theon's ear as lightly as snowfall.
"Perhaps next time," Tyene murmured, voice like honeyed milk, "you'll learn not to smirk at women who can put you down."
Theon's face flushed a deep, humiliated red.
Tyene rose gracefully, brushing snow from her knees, and stepped away without looking back.
Theon stayed on the ground a moment longer, dazed, breath uneven.
Arya grinned.
By the Gods, she liked the Dornish.