Archive of Our Own ^beta

Amidst the roar and raucous of celebration, Ned watches as Arya quietly slips from the great hall. She’s too quick for either Jon or Robb to catch, their hands outstretched, ready to comfort. When Ned rushes past them, he sees the unbidden rage on both their faces. This isn’t right, Father. Not her. Arya’s down one corridor and rounding a corner when he catches up to her.

Arya. She stills and whirls around to face him, her expression raw and open from hurt. Ned goes to embrace his youngest daughter, apology ready on his lips, but she keeps him at arm’s length, a hand pushing against his chest.

Don’t, Father, she murmurs.

Ned had expected fury, but Arya’s resigned pain hurts him more. He tries to swallow past the lump in his throat and gently wraps a hand around her wrist, bringing her arm to her side. When he hugs her against his chest, he fumbles for the right words, his tongue clumsy. Arya, please, he croaks. I wish there was another way, child, but we knew this day was coming.

I’m not a child, Father, Arya whispers, and Ned holds her a little tighter. I’ve flowered, remember? Nearly a woman grown. That’s why we’re in this situation in the first place. She shakes her head, and when she tips her head up, Ned can see tears threatening to spill. You should have told me before agreeing to this, before announcing it to everyone. I deserved that much, she says, quiet betrayal slipping into her voice. But her words are biting. I deserve better from you, she means to say.

Ned wonders, not for the first time, if it’s supposed to feel like this. Had every father since the dawn of time felt such wretchedness at the prospect of giving away their daughters? Why had no one meant to warn him? He cups Arya’s face in his large calloused hands and wipes her wet cheeks. She feels naught more than a slip of a thing wrapped up in his arms. His wolf pup.

When Maester Luwin announced Cat had given birth to another daughter, Ned expected a soft babe with a placid smile and fiery locks. Tully blue eyes, just like Robb and Sansa. But instead, he was met with a wriggling squawking bundle, fit with dark chestnut hair and gray eyes. Lyanna, he thought. Is this my punishment? All it had taken was Arya reaching out and grasping his finger with as much strength a newborn could muster to dispel his moment of grief. She’d gurgled something and smiled, and Ned’s heart split. Now, he peers down at his daughter with guilt. Would she ever forgive him, he wondered.

Your mother and I were resolved to secure the betrothal as soon as possible. We did not go to you because… his voice falters.

Because you did not want to face my wrath? she asks with a wry lift of her lips. But in a second, Arya’s expression sobers, and she wrestles out of his embrace. You knew I would protest. I’ve always been contemptuous when it comes to betrothal prospects, and you and mother did not want to hear it. You knew I’d sooner run into the woods or live among the wildings than be married, and now you’ve meant to trap me in this without my consent. She grits her teeth and feels her knuckles go numb from how her fists are clenched. You foisted this decision on me, Father, and whether I would go quietly meant little, because once it was done, it was done. Mother will remind me of my family, my duty, my honor, but what’s your excuse?

Hearing it all spelled out so bluntly guts Ned. With a sigh, he grasps her hand and walks them to a nearby bench. Beckoning Arya to sit and facing his daughter, Ned chooses his next words carefully. Our duty is paramount, Arya. These aren’t just house words; we live and die by our duty to our houses and our people. Marriage is a way to secure the future, build power so that we may keep the realm safe … protect the smallfolk and put food on their table. It is a duty we are bound by, and unfortunately, little wolf, you could not escape it if you tried. Your birthright allows you certain privileges, but it ensures certain responsibilities as well. I know it sounds daunting, but you are strong, and he is a decent man, he offers. You make a fine match. He will protect and provide for you and your children. You may grow to love each other, just as your mother and I did.

Throughout his speech, Arya feels the fight seep out of her. Eyeing her father, she suddenly sees his wrinkles, the bags beneath his eyes, the near haggard look on his face. He’s old, she thinks with a twinge of grief. Is this what it means to be a father, a parent? To grow old and tired and have to explain to your children their duty as though it were the death of freedom? And yet he tries to make it sound palatable. Because he loves me, she thinks. He does not wish to hurt me further. But it does, it hurts. Arya hangs her head and grips the skirt of her dress. You don’t know what it’s like, Father, she says quietly.

What what is like, dear child?

You don’t know what it’s like to have someone look at you and never see you. The men who seek my hand don’t give a damn about duty. Less of honor, she starts.

Arya, Ned chides.

It’s true. You and mother did your duty and fell in love along the way, and I am thankful for it. It’s what makes Winterfell a loving home. But you are the exception, not the rule. When a man looks at me, he sees two things: my sex and the power he can take from me. But the northern kingdom isn’t so generous. You taught me that, she says. A quiver works its way into her voice and the sting of tears are fresh on her face again. You used to say I had the wolf’s blood in me, something wild, even. At first, I thought you meant to jape, that seeing me traipsing through Winterfell covered in mud and dirt brought a smile to your face, and you explained it away to keep me happy. But there’s truth in it too, isn’t there? When I sit beneath the weirwood tree, I can hear the whispers of the old gods. When I dream, I see through the eyes of a direwolf. My countenance is as wild as the northern winds. I know these lands and these people as well as you do, father. My place is here, my heart is here.

She’s crying now, and Ned is quick to smooth away the tears falling down her cheeks, a mournful expression on his face. Composing herself, Arya continues. But no man sees that. They mean for me to keep their bed warm and offer them a piece of the north. That’s not duty, that’s greed…it’s lust for something they don’t lay claim to, and I’d sooner fight off every suitor than give it so freely.

A pregnant pause hangs between them, and Ned tries to find his voice. Arya’s right that the north can’t be bought, and her stating it so plainly doesn’t surprise Ned. She’d grown up heeding her lord father’s teachings. Winter is coming was more than house words, too. It was a threat, a promise of harsh times. The only way to combat it was with resolve. In Arya’s case, that resolve had manifested in a near mystical way. Her connection to the north was as wild and unpredictable as the snowstorms. Arya had always been a passionate child, quick to anger but giving with her wolfish grins and biting wit as well. The ferocity with which she threw herself into life always terrified Cat, but Ned knew it was just the wolf’s blood running clear in her veins. You can’t tame it, love, he’d told her once. But as she grew older, that passion grew into something steely and beautiful and dangerous. Arya commanded herself with patience and presence now, and many flocked to her for it. The northern beauty, they whispered. The she-wolf.

A few moons earlier, Ned was surveying the grounds when he came upon Arya sparring in the practice yard with one of his men. Blow for blow, their swords met, but while Willis swung a sizable sword, Arya managed to deflect his advances and attack with a dagger and a thin, skinny rapier. Needle, she’d named it. A gift from Jon. She spun round the larger man and bested him by using quick force and sent him tumbling to the ground. In a split second, Needle’s tip grazed his neck.

Dead, she’d said, a little smile playing on her lips.

Well played, m’lady, Willis said, his eyes full of mirth.

Arya offered him her hand and as she swung him up, she couldn’t help the rich laugh working its way out of her chest. With the northern winds blowing through her unkempt braid, a sword in hand, and a truly glorious smile on her face, Arya was the picture of wild beauty. Every man in the yard eyed her—with affection, with want. Even Willis seemed reluctant to let go of Arya’s hand, much to Ned’s disapproval. Their staring, though, turned surreptitious when they noticed Lord Stark’s presence. A round of m’lords came his way, and he gave a rough harrumph, gripping the pommel of his sword in frustration. She’s still a child, he thought. Isn’t she? When Arya had bounded up to her father, excitedly asking if he saw how she’d bested a soldier, Ned could only offer a weak smile before pulling her forward in a fierce hug.

I saw, sweetling.

Father?

Ned could hear the question in her voice, but she dropped Needle and happily hugged him back.

As he holds Arya’s hands in his now, Ned is reminded of that feeling of looming sadness. I’m losing her, he thinks. And worse, it’s by my own hand this time. He means to say something, anything, but Arya speaks in a hushed murmur.

You are an honorable man, father, and the men follow you for it. You are also bound by obligation, and while I think it makes your life harder, she grouses—at that, he chuckles—I can’t help but be jealous. I wonder what it must be like to have people see all sides of you and respect you for it, she admits sadly. But if I must, if it is my duty to be a wife to some high lord and mother to his children, then I should’ve known from the start. The minute a house came to you with prospects, I should have known, father. Her tone is reproachful.

Ned can only clutch her to his chest yet again and whisper an anguished I’m sorry, sweetling.

Arya grabs at his cloak and tries to keep the growing panic out of her voice. I will lose myself, father. I know it. I will disappear in marriage; they will want me to be something else and when I cannot—either because I refuse, or my mind and body won’t will it—they will look down on me and the north. They will think my wildness something shameful, when I know it is not. You taught me it is not. And it does not matter if my betrothed is kind or patient, because he has a duty of his own, a family of his own that will expect things of him. And if he cannot manage one little girl, he will grow to resent me. Any love between us would wilt; I would ruin him. And the vision is suddenly so clear to her, she chokes on it. Her breaths come in harsher, and she pulls away from Ned.

Arya?

I can’t, she gulps. I—Father I—

Ned gently grabs her upper arms and guides Arya’s torso down, having her lean her head between her legs. He rubs circles on her back and holds her hand, squeezing in time with a steady heartbeat. Just breathe, Arya. Take deep breaths. A noise pulls his attention away, and he watches as Jon and Robb hastily make their way down the corridor and towards Arya.

What’s wrong? Jon whispers.

Robb kneels by his sister and means to tip her face up, but Ned shakes his head. Give her a moment.

Her breathing is steadier, and she stretches a hand out to squeeze Robb’s knee. I’m fine, she whispers, peering up at them. I’m just short of breath is all. This stupid dress Mother forced me in has the bodice of a maypole, she lies. Still, it pulls a small smile from her brothers, and Jon reaches down to smooth a hand along Arya’s cheek.

I’ll sneak you breeches next time, he offers.

Finally, a bit of lightness worms its way into her chest. With a soft snort, she rises from the bench and offers her brothers a hug.

Arya, Ned starts. But he doesn’t know what else to say.

She shakes her head at him, smoothing away the sad expression on her face and replacing it with a solemn one. She looks so much like Ned in that moment. I am more than the warmth of my cunt and the price of Winterfell, she says quietly, almost to herself. Robb and Jon go stiff, and Ned feels something drop in his stomach. A flash of a grubby little girl with a brilliant smile, hands and feet dirtied as she thrust a bouquet of wildflowers in his direction. Do you like them, father? They made me think of you.

I should get back. Mother and the septas will notice I’ve been gone too long. With that, she clasps her hands behind her back and makes her way towards to the great hall.