CRASH INTO ME

Chapter 1: Waking

Arya

The first rays of the sun bathed Arya's skin as they peered through the open windows of her bedchamber. She could feel its heat seeping through her face then to her eyes causing them to finally flutter open.

It took a lot of willpower for her to decide to get up from bed as she continued to wrestle with her sheets, her lazy eyes threatening to close and claim some more sleep. She would have preferred staying in her featherbed a little longer, but she was well aware of its impossibility considering her duties as a highborn lady.

For some unknown reason, her thoughts suddenly drifted to those rare and random conversations she had with her father, most especially those that involved marriage prospects. It would be her name day soon, and she knew she would be having another one of those talks with him about getting her to accept that she would be wed to some lord someday.

She cringed at the thought, strengthening her resolve to stay in bed for the rest of her life than face the inevitable.

But then again, she had to consider the fact that aside from her favorite brother, Jon, it was her father who understood her much more than her mother and her other siblings. Lord Eddard knew that Arya was always the wild, stubborn, and free-spirited child in their family, so she knew not to take her talks with her father lightly.

She heaved a deep sigh as she sat up on her bed, dangling her bare legs just above the cold floor. The excitement of a new day died down the moment reality came sinking in—the reality of needlework, continuous lady lessons and social graces with her septa, her perfect sweet sister, Sansa, and the rest of the other ladies in the castle.

Seven hells.

She would pick history and language lessons with Maester Luwin over lady lessons any day since she found history and learning languages more interesting than perfecting how to act proper in front of everyone else. She was never the type who would pretend to be someone else just for the sake of everyone's approval. She never needed validation from other people, anyway.

Arya was entirely her own.

It was never her dream to become a lady, much less become a wife.

It was always swordfighting, and riding horses, and reading all those interesting books in the library for her, and not mastering the art of prancing around the castle like a simpering fool.

She despised how a woman was being treated as nothing but mere commodities in their time, child-bearers and simple housewives, and never a woman who had her own decisions.

Perhaps the only consolation she could see for now was how she had not flowered yet despite her age of seven-and-ten. She never did look forward to her first flowering, using what little freedom she still had to turn down potential prospects and savor the last moments of her childhood without the inconvenience of subtle political alliances masking as betrothals.

Finally standing up, she stretched her arms before removing her white cotton nightgown in the process. She changed into her favorite white tunic and brown breeches stolen from Bran's closet some time ago. She did her usual morning ablutions before finally heading out to break her fast with the rest of her family.

Arya emerged into Winterfell's Great Hall where everyone was already indulging their first meal of the day, her direwolf, Nymeria, padding along with her.

She took a seat next to Jon, as always.

"What took you so long, young lady?" Mother asked her.

Arya only had herself to blame for their impatience because it did take some time for her to get up. Well, she'd always been a lazy fuck. That was the truth. But fuck it.

"I'm sorry, mother." Was all she said, refusing to elaborate her evident procrastination inside her bedchambers because really, she'd had enough of her mother's early morning chastisement.

But it seemed as though her mother always found a reason to berate her for she never failed to notice Arya's clothes yet for the hundredth time.

"Why are you not wearing your dress, Arya? You're supposed to be a lady and therefore you should act like one. By the gods, you're not ten years old anymore! You ought to be wearing dresses starting tonight or I swear I will burn all your boy clothes if you do not heed my demands." Her mother chided.

They're Bran's clothes, mother, I stole them from him. It's not like he still needs them, anyway. He's taller than me now. Arya said her snide reply only through her thoughts, and instead, schooled her features into fake contrition. She knew better than to engage in a verbal sparring with her mother at this time of the day, so she ate her meal silently.

Before their morning meal ended, her father silenced everyone for an important announcement. She noticed a piece of parchment on her father's hand, her instincts telling her that the letter came from King's Landing.

"We just received a message from the King himself." He announced, loud enough for everyone in the hall to hear. "The King and his guards ride for Winterfell in a month's time, so we all have to prepare for his arrival."

They all looked at each other in surprise.

Never in Arya's existence had the King visited the North after the war. But it's not like it had an impact on her or anything. She didn't care much about King Robert Baratheon, truth be told. He was nothing but a war-mongering drunk who loved to fuck whores all his life. Treasonous, but true.

In the midst of her hateful thoughts, a realization suddenly crossed her mind. She knew well that the King's Hand, Jon Arryn, died all of a sudden (and if they were to ask her, his death was rather questionable in every sense).

"I think I know why the king's travelling this far north. It's easy enough to conclude that he's meaning to make our father his new Hand." Arya whispered to Jon.

Jon only looked at her and shrugged.

"You have a good point." Jon told her. "Since when have you grown to be politically inclined?" He japed.

She rolled her eyes in annoyance. "It's not difficult to put it all together, you know. Jon Arryn's death means a spot open for the position of the King's Hand. Obviously." Then she drew closer to Jon's ear, this time turning serious. "I don't even see any reason why Father has to be the hand to some drunk, stupid king." She added resentfully.

It definitely worried her that her father would be left to run the Seven Kingdoms in the king's stead as the Hand. And it would also be because of this that her father would have to be away from Winterfell.

"Don't call the king stupid. You know he's not really that bad, all things considered." Jon told her.

She scoffed at his remark. "Not bad? Really? The man drinks too much and goes on whoring like there's no tomorrow. I doubt he could ever run Westeros without the help of that son he just legitimized. I bet the crown prince would be a better ruler even if I don't really know anything about him. I don't even see how father has put up to him all this time." Arya said.

Jon just shrugged. "Well, King Robert's our father's best friend in the first place. There has to be a good reason why they're still friends until now because Father has a reasonable judgment. Always remember that." Jon explained.

Arya only sighed in resignation.

Only three days were left before the King and his men would arrive for Winterfell. It was said that they were stopping at Winter Town in the meantime.

Since everyone in Winterfell was busy with all the preparations, it left Arya with greater liberty to escape her lessons altogether without anyone batting an eye on her. She found that the King's visit wasn't so bad after all.

It was only when she had been absent from her lessons for quite some time already that she took one day to attend her needlework just so that they wouldn't be suspicious of her. They had their stupid needlework lessons with the septa just right after breakfast.

What a better way to start her day than prick her fingers with needles all because she had the clumsiest hands when it came to sewing stitches.

She frowned at her stitches with dismay and glanced over to where Sansa sat among the other girls. Her sister's needlework was exquisite.

Everyone else said so.

She remembered when her Lady mother asked about Arya, the septa only sniffed and said, "Arya has the hands of a blacksmith."

Arya only rolled her eyes in frustration at the thought of their remarks toward her stiches.

If they think I have the hands of a stupid blacksmith, then they should have just let me work in the bloody forge instead of letting me do some stupid needlework. I'd rather forge my own sword that sit here to bitterly gawk at how stupid my stitches are!

Arya glanced furtively across the room, worried that Septa Mordane might have read her thoughts, but the septa was paying her no attention today and had her attention instead to Beth Cassel, Ser Rodrik's little girl, who was very good with following her instructions with today's needlework.

She studied her own work again, looking for some way to salvage it, then sighed and put down the needle.

Arya looked glumly at her sister.

Sansa was chatting away happily as she worked, and one of her friends, Jeyne, was leaning over to whisper something to her ear.

"What are you talking about?" Arya asked suddenly.

Jeyne gave her a startled look, then giggled. Sansa looked abashed. No one answered.

Arya huffed a frustrated sigh.

"Tell me," she demanded.

Jeyne glanced over to make certain that Septa Mordane was not listening.

"We were talking about the prince," Sansa replied, her voice soft as a kiss and giving Arya a knowing look.

Arya knew that they were not talking about Joffrey. When Sansa was as young as a toddler, she used to be betrothed to Joffrey Baratheon before the scandal of their lineage broke out—an abomination of the greatest sort. After it had been discovered that Joffrey and his other siblings were not really the King's children, thanks to the assistance and the brilliant mind of the great Tyrion Lannister and of course Jon Arryn, they had been stripped off their royal rights and banished out of King's Landing and back to Casterly Rock with their mother, Cersei Lannister.

Her Lord father made sure to find another suitable match for Sansa immediately after the news broke out and now, she was betrothed to Willas from House Tyrell, who was nothing but smitten by Arya's beautiful sister.

Arya was certain that they were talking about the true prince, the real heir to the Seven Kingdoms, who had been discovered by Jon Arryn many, many years ago. She couldn't even recall the name of that prince they were eagerly talking about and she never even bothered at all. It's not like she had plans on getting herself acquainted with him when their party arrived, anyway. She had far more pressing things to consider rather than mingle with royalty.

But then again, her curiosity always got the better of her.

Even if she couldn't care less about the crown prince's name, she still wanted to know what her sister and Jeyne were talking about. At least this temporary diversion would get her mind off her stitches.

Arya raised an eyebrow at them resentfully.

"What about the prince?" She asked.

"What do you think about the prince, sister? They say he's very gallant, very handsome and very good-natured even if he came from the most humble of beginnings. I heard he used to be a smith's apprentice in Flea Bottom when he was younger." It was Sansa's turn to ask her.

She noted how unusual it was of Sansa to ask for her opinion, especially about princes and whatnot, but Arya only shrugged, her eyes averting back to her stitches.

"I don't really give a shit about what the prince is like, Sansa." She retorted stoically.

Sansa and Jeyne giggled foolishly. "I heard that he rides for Winterfell as well, along with his King father and Lord Renly."

Arya instinctively rolled her eyes and scowled at them. "So? He can bloody ride wherever and whatever he pleases even if it was some bloody whore in Winter Town for all I bloody care." She finally said, unfortunately loud enough to garner Septa Mordane's attention.

"Watch your mouth, young lady!" The septa chastised, her nostrils flaring angrily. Her face only irritated Arya more. "That is not how a highborn lady of the castle talks." Then she averted her eyes to the stitches left forgotten on Arya's lap. She rose to her feet, starched skirts rustling as she started across the room.

"Let me see your stitches." She demanded.

Arya wanted to scream.

It was just like Sansa to go and attract the septa's attention.

"Here," she said, surrendering up her crooked work.

The septa examined the fabric, then shook her head, clearly disappointed by her work. "This will not do. This will not do at all."

Everyone was now looking at her. It was too much.

Sansa was too well bred to smile at her sister's disgrace, but Jeyne was smirking on her behalf.

The septa's reaction irked her. Because no matter how hard she tried, Arya knew that that was all her hands could do as far as stiches would go. She'd had enough of all the berating for her stupid stiches and it's not even her fault for using the wrong hand to sew.

She pushed herself out of her chair and bolted for the door angrily.

Septa Mordane called after her. "Arya, come back here! Don't you take another step! Your lady mother will hear of this. You'll shame us all with your unruly behavior!"

Arya stopped at the door and turned back, her eyes filled with searing rage. "By your leave, Septa Mordane, ladies." She seehed.

"Just where do you think you are going, Arya?" The septa demanded.

Arya glared daggers at her.

"To find something better to do than waste my time on crooked stiches. I'm a hopeless case, anyway," She said in a mockingly sweet manner, taking a brief satisfaction in the shock of the septa's face. "Or better yet, go to the forge where I truly belong. I have the hands of a blacksmith as you said so, anyway." Then she whirled and made her exit, running down the steps as fast as her feet would take her.

It was too early in Arya's age to realize that life was not really fair. Her sister already had everything. Since Sansa was two years older, maybe by the time Arya had been born, there had been nothing left for her, or maybe if she believed that gods existed, she could have thought that they had created her just out of sheer mockery.

It often felt that way.

Sansa could sew and dance and sing. She knew how to dress. She played the high harp and the bells. Worse, she was very beautiful. Sansa had gotten their mother's fine high cheekbones and the thick auburn hair of the Tully's.

Arya took after their lord father. Her hair was a lusterless dark brown, and her face was long and solemn. Jeyne used to call her Arya Horseface, and neigh whenever she came near. It hurt that the one thing Arya could do better than her sister was ride a horse, and read books she considered more substantial than those cheap and mushy novels about love and romance.

Nymeria, was waiting for her in the guardroom at the base of the stairs. The wolf bounded to her feet as soon as she caught sight of her. Arya plastered a very wide grin, her burst of anger already forgotten. Nymeria loved her, even if no one else did. Had her lady mother not forbidden it, Arya would've gladly taken her to needlework.

By now, the septa must have already sent word to Mother of her misdemeanor but Arya did not care to be found as she had a better notion. The boys were at the practice yard as usual. Arya and her wolf headed toward the window in the covered bridge between the armory and the Great Keep where there was a better view of the whole yard.

As soon as they arrived, Arya was surprised to see Jon seated on the sill, one leg drawn up languidly to his chin. Her older brother was watching Robb and Bran spar at wooden swords, seemingly so absorbed that he was unaware of her presence until Ghost moved to meet them.

Jon gave her a curious look.

"Shouldn't you be on your stitches, little sister?"

Arya grimaced at his remark. "I'm not so little anymore, Jon. Besides, my stitching is all too hopeless anyway."

He smiled at her. "Come here, then."

He beckoned for her to climb to the window to sit beside him. There was a chorus of thuds and grunts from the yard below.

"Is it another case of unsalvageable crooked stitches, then?" Jon observed.

Arya nodded in agreement, a smile threatening to break out.

Jon only grinned and reached over her, messing up her hair like he always did. They had always been close. Her favorite brother had their father's face, as she did. They were the only ones. When she was still a snotty child, she had been afraid that she was a bastard too. But it had been Jon she had gone to in her fear, and Jon who had reassured her all the time.

He suddenly turned serious as he continued to look at her.

"No matter what happens, you will always be my favorite little sister, even if you're not so little anymore… Gods, how time flies by so fast. I would miss you, you know." He suddenly said, almost sadly.

Arya gave him a puzzled look.

"What are you talking about, Jon? It's not like I'm going away or something. And it's not like I'm off to marry some stupid lord and bear his stupid babes. You know I won't let that happen." She told him.

Then her eyes widened in realization.

"Wait, are you off somewhere? Are you going to be wed to some lady far, far away? Please say no…" She told him, her eyes giving away fear.

Jon grinned at her widely and brought his arm around her shoulders to draw her closer.

"No… I'm not going away, Arya. I'm just saying I'm going to miss you because you're growing up too fast." He told her.

Then he pulled away from her as he motioned to stand up.

"You had best run back to your room, you know. The septa will surely be lurking. The longer you hide, the sterner the penance. You'll be sewing all through winter."

Arya only snorted.

"Oh come on, I'm too old for that crap. I don't care if they beat the pulp out of me, I hate needlework. The only Needle I love is the one you gave me a few years ago." She said, her scowl turning into a smile.