10-Plans and Punishments
bligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.
Edited by: Void Uzumaki; B. Reader: Bub3loka
I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.
You can find all of my relevant stuff here.
Eddard Stark
His gaze inspected the crying Jeyne Poole, whose dress and hair were splashed by mud, before settling on the defiantly-looking Arya.
"She called me 'Horseface'!"
Vayon's daughter did not deny and instead cried harder.
The Lord of Winterfell sighed inwardly. This was the last thing he wanted to deal with right now, but the wolfsblood was not something to be contained.
But no longer. Ned had already lost Bran to this foolishness, which led his brother and sister to an early grave. Even watching the execution had not made her mellow out, unlike Sansa, who had shed some of her childish naivety.
What could he do?
Arya furiously resisted Mordane's futile attempts to shape her into a highborn lady. The old Septa was far from inept, but the wolfsblood would have its due.
"Jeyne, if you want to act as a gossipy serving girl, you'll go to help Gage in the kitchen as scullery maid until the King's party arrives," he decided before sending Vayon's daughter away, then looked at Arya. "What am I going to do with you, child?"
"Nothing?"
At that moment, his daughter's daring eyes infuriated Eddard Stark.
"Septa Mordane's lessons seem to be lost on you," he lamented.
"I hate the Septa and her stupid teachings!"
This was far from the first time since he had heard a similar phrase leave his daughter's lips.
"That's enough. Mordane is doing no more than is her duty, though the gods know you've made it hard for the poor woman. Your mother and I have charged her with the impossible task of making you a lady, but alas."
"I don't want to be a lady!" Arya mutinously proclaimed and bit her lip.
"Is that so?" Ned asked icily.
"Yes!"
The Lord of Winterfell looked at his daughter. At eleven, she looked like a younger Lyanna but thrice as wild. The memory of his sister's body at four and ten haunted Eddard Stark's dreams to this day. And an even fresher, more bitter memory of his son's head sprawled lifelessly on the ground with his head cracked open made his blood freeze.
"Fine," he agreed, and Arya's eyes lit up joyfully. "If you do not want the privilege of being a highborn lady, so be it. From now on, you'll have to work with the other washerwomen and scullery maids. You will be moved out of the Great Keep and sleep in the servant's quarters. You will no longer receive any allowance and will have to work for the roof over your head, the meals on your table, and the clothes on your back."
His daughter was aghast, and the earlier happiness was replaced with horror.
"But-"
"No buts, Arya. You wanted this. From now on, you'd have to earn everything you want with your own two hands. Did you think all the rights and privileges you enjoyed by being a daughter of House Stark came for free?"
Her face had gone pale. It hurt Ned to do this, but he did not see any other way how she could possibly learn.
He could not bury another one of his children.
He would not.
Hopefully, a taste of the harshness most had to endure would grant her a new perspective.
"But-"
"Enough, The Lord of Winterfell has no time to freely chatter with scullery maids and washerwomen. You have until tonight to vacate your quarters. And from now on, you're forbidden to use the name Stark. Your mother, brothers, and sister will be barred from seeing you either. The guards and the servants will be informed, so do not expect special treatment," Eddard warned. "Do not search for me unless you find your desire and willingness to become a lady."
Eddard Stark tiredly gazed at the unfurled map of the North before him when a knock on the door grabbed his attention.
"My lord, lady Stark and lord Robb wish to speak with you," Harwin's voice came through the door.
"Let them in."
Catelyn and Robb entered the solar, both looking rather wroth.
"Father, did you truly disown Arya?" Robb asked directly.
"Sit down," Ned ordered, and both his wife and son pulled over a tapered chair and sat on the other side of the desk. "Today, your sister threw mud at Jeyne Poole over some childish insult. This is far from the first time Arya is up to trouble or mischief. If your daughter did that, what would you do, Robb?"
His heir paused in thought for a few heartbeats.
"I'd punish her?"
"Indeed, such behaviour is unbecoming for a daughter of a Great House," Ned agreed. "But what would you do if your methods of disciplining failed to work? What if your daughter stubbornly keeps refusing to act like a lady, let alone become one, regardless of what punishments you mete out?"
Robb's face scrunched up, but he seemed not to find an answer to that query.
"Ned, she's still our daughter!" Catelyn protested.
"Aye, and Lyanna was my sister, and Brandon was my brother, but that did not save them from their own foolishness!"
His son looked thoughtful for a moment.
"What did Aunt Lyanna do? Wasn't she kidnapped?"
Ned sighed.
"At the Tourney of Harrenhal, one of House Stark's bannermen was being bullied by three squires. Your aunt fought them off with a tourney sword. Instead of bringing the matter to Brandon or me, she, at the age of two and ten, decided to enter the lists as a mystery knight to punish their masters. She succeeded, albeit battered and bruised, and grabbed the attention of both the Mad King and the Silver Prince in one fell swoop."
And worse, he feared that Arya could create an even greater mess with the royal court here in Winterfell. Those with the wolfsblood were prone to easily earning the royal ire.
"Lyanna was the Knight of the Laughing Tree?!" Catelyn stood there, face twisted in disbelief.
"Yes, and she was only a year older than Arya then. Now the king comes to Winterfell, and our daughter is even wilder than her aunt ever was," he sighed. "It's time she learns the consequences of her actions before it's too late. I only indulged her desire; by her words, she has no wish to be a lady."
Catelyn looked torn, but Ned could see acceptance find its way into her blue eyes.
"Can't we at least visit her?" Robb pleaded.
"What punishment would that be? Do you think I wish to cast out my own daughter, Robb?" The Lord of Winterfell shook his head. "I don't! But you can bring the mule to the river, yet you cannot force it to drink. Sometimes, there are no good choices, and you're forced to pick between two options you dislike."
Robb's shoulders sagged, but Catelyn was not appeased just yet.
"But to have our daughter chop onions and wash clothes like an ordinary scullery maid?"
"Well, what do you propose, Cat? Arya barely cares about her lessons when she doesn't run away from them. She's more wolf than girl and learns nought from the usual punishments. It's high time she realises what all of her privileges mean. She can always come back once she reconsiders being a lady."
Catelyn tiredly rubbed her eyes but provided no reply. It was unsurprising because they had already tried everything with their youngest daughter…
"But Arya is stubborn," Robb noted.
And that's why he asked Vayon to give her the harshest tasks and to work her to the bone. Not that he'd mention that to Robb or Catelyn.
"Let's see how stubborn she can be when she has to pour in blood, sweat, and tears just to barely eke out a living. Enough of this, I have already decided, and it's in your sister's hands now."
22nd Day of the 4th Moon, Beyond the Wall
Jarod Snow
The cry of a snow shrike echoed from the nearby pine grove. The meadow they had chosen for a resting place was blue with coldsnaps and frostfires. The horses were grazing peacefully on a few patches of grass sticking out of the snow-covered ground. He pulled his heavy woollen cloak closer. The air was frigid, even to Jarod, who had spent a lifetime in the harsh northern mountains. According to the rangers, there were only a handful of months each year when the land Beyond the Wall was not covered with a veil of snow.
Only the grey-furred hound called Helicent was here, circling around the camp; the rest had gone hunting with the white direwolf in the wilderness.
To the left, the distant rumbling of the Milkwater could be heard. They had settled on waiting for the Children of the Forest to come. And wasn't that a bloody surprise?
Children of the fucking forest in the flesh! Ethereal voices like a song, all clad in leaves and bark. And they even came bearing gifts. Dark Sister was a famed blade with a bloody history, and Jon had been wise to change its gaudy hilt and guard as much as possible.
At the start, Jarod had thought this journey was a foolish whim and had just agreed to follow the Jon because he saved little Lysara. Dying for a son of Winterfell was as good a death as one could get in his twilight years. Yet Jon Snow was a man with a mission, and every single movement had a purpose, and not even for a moment he wavered. Despite his young age, he had a very imposing mannerism and a harsh, steely gaze that brokered no disobedience. He was always the first to rise, the last to sleep, and led from the front. Even the Children of the Forest were following him unquestionably. But it was not all ironclad order - Jon Snow was open to advise and was amiable enough unless the situation called for otherwise.
And, the more time passed, the less Jarod thought they were chasing dreams and old wives' tales. Even the Children had freely spoken of the existence of the Others as a known fact.
Despite being young, Jon seemed to be versed in the hearts of men and had a jaded yet accurate view of things. The Night's Watch might have let them pass, but their little leafy companions would not have been welcomed. In fact, knowing the Southron faith, half the men would think them demons and attack.
Jarod shook his head and placed his newly gathered bundle of kindlings on a clean rock under the sun's rays so it would stay dry. Surely enough, Duncan was still pitching up a tent, and Jon was finishing his own. And gods, what a tent it was! Made of the finest leather, with a myrish silk cot inside, fit for a king! From the hands of the Silver Prince to the Stark and now his son!
They did away with simple bedrolls south of the Wall, but it was not enough here. It was too cold, and even if you placed a hide beneath your bedding, you could still wake up with a limb or two lost to the nightly chill. Carrying a cot and tent was chunky and took up a lot of space, but they could afford it with the additional horses.
"Let's spar," Jon proposed as he stretched his hands skywards. "I haven't swung a sword in nearly a moon, and it would not do to get rusty here."
"We didn't take any training swords," Jarod noted. "Using live steel is dangerous and can damage our blades needlessly, especially when the nearest smith is south of the Wall. Especially if you use the dragonsword."
"There's plenty of wood around," Jon said.
"Better than just waiting, as long as we don't tire ourselves out too much," Duncan agreed with a shrug as he nailed the final stake of his tent. And it was true enough a spar wouldn't hurt; they were already clad in armour and ready for a fight.
And under their stunned gazes, With a few measured yet powerful swings of Dark Sister, Jon Snow quickly fashioned three crude swords out of the thick branches of a nearby oak. The rippled blade cleanly sliced through the hardwood with nary an effort in the young man's hands.
The Dragonlords of old would weep if they could see their precious swords reduced to a woodsman's axe.
"We brought axes for things like these," Dunk indignantly noted.
"Aye, we did, but I want to get used to the feel of the blade in my hand," Jon explained as he handed them a crude stick in the shape of a sword each. "Valyrian Steel is not only inhumanely sharp, but it does not lose edge no matter what, so there is no harm done."
"You two spar first; I shall stand watch," Jarod offered. He would get a good chance to get a measure of Jon's skills, and hopefully, Dunk would tire him out.
He had no desire to lose to two young men not even half his age. Duncan was a fierce fighter with sword and axe, and Jon Snow carried himself as a veteran of many a battle.
Jarod threw a leather pelt over a rock and sat down as Dunk and Jon faced each other fifteen yards away amidst the small clearing. For a minute, they stared at each other without moving a muscle, but Jarod could see that Dunk was getting restless while his opponent looked as calm as a pool of water.
Surely enough, Dunk moved first. His nephew was quick and fierce, but Jon seemed unphased by the furious assault, easily blocking, evading, or deflecting all of Duncan's strikes. The minutes flowed, and Jon Snow had not moved from his position even by a single step despite only defending from the fierce onslaught, while Dunk was slowly beginning to grow winded. Not only that, but Jon had only defended until now.
Suddenly, his steely eyes sharpened, and he finally moved. Dunk barely managed to block the first lightning strike, but the equally quick follow-up knocked the wooden sword out of his hand, and the sharpened oak pointed at Dunk's throat.
"I yield," his nephew said, respect clear in his voice. Breathing heavily with a brow shining with sweat, Dunk came over and whispered: "Beware, he is not only quick but far stronger than he looks."
Duncan was one of the most formidable warriors with sword and axe in Little Hall, second only to Torren himself, yet he lost without giving his opponent a sweat.
Jarod pushed down his apprehension, stood up, and gave his makeshift sword a few swings. The crude, thick branch was heavier than a typical training sword, but not by much. The balance was a tad too skewed towards the front, making it a bit unwieldy, but it was usable for a training blade.
Jon Snow was using a similar weapon, so there was no room for complaints.
He stood in the clearing and faced the young man of six and ten. Despite his relaxed posture, Jon showed no openings and gave Jarod the feeling that he was facing a master.
Jon moved quickly, and Jarod barely lifted his sword to parry in time. The strength of the blow rattled his wrists, and he had no doubt the makeshift weapon would have broken if it wasn't thick and hardy oak.
Instantly, Jarod found himself on the backfoot of the storm that was Jon Snow. The fierce and lightning-quick deadly strikes quickly overwhelmed Jarod, and he could barely defend himself. Every blow rattled his bones as if he was fighting against an Umber. The worse thing was that the strikes were getting even quicker and stronger.
With a sharp crack, his sword broke, and Jarod found a crude wooden blade at his neck.
"I yield," he conceded with a sigh. The last time he had felt so severely outmatched in strength, speed, and skill was when he was still a green summer child. Despite getting on in years, Jarod might have lost some of his vigour, but his sword hand was still strong, and he had plenty of experience to make up for it, yet it helped him little.
But the thought brought a smile to his face; no matter what, it was good to be led by a fierce and capable warrior. The son of Winterfell did not disappoint once again. Gods, he had barely broken a sweat!
"We should practice every day from now on," Jon said as he sat down.
"Wouldn't it be too dangerous to get tired while travelling in unknown territory?"
"Soon, the singers shall rejoin us, and they can stand watch. Practice is essential. The Others are said to be inhumanely quick and powerful, wielding crystalline swords of ice of unnatural sharpness," Ned's son explained with a deathly serious tone, and Jarod felt a cold chill crawl up his spine. "Regardless, we won't push ourselves to the limit but just train enough to stay sharp."
The prospect of fighting such fearsome foes excited Jarod. There was no valour, no glory in defeating weaklings or dying to them!
"What are we going to do after the leafcloaks return?" Jarod asked.
Until now, he had refrained from inquiring about their next actions and was content to sit back and take a measure of Jon Snow out in the open, and he was not disappointed so far.
"We'll head to Craster's Keep."
"I thought the wildlings did not work stone, let alone raise holdfasts?" Duncan scratched his ear.
"It's not a stone tower or anything like that, just a small wooden hall with a dike surrounded by a palisade," Jon explained as he began arranging the kindlings and dried bark for the fire. "Craster is a particularly vile wilding who has nineteen wives."
"By the gods," Jared couldn't help but whistle. "He must have sired an army from his loins!"
"You would think so," Jon hummed in agreement, but his eyes darkened dangerously. "But he takes his daughters as wives when they come of age."
Jarod started cursing under his nose. Not even the valyrian sisterfuckers slept with their sons and daughters!
Duncan's face had begun to redden.
"Wait, did you just say this Craster takes his daughters as wives?!"
"Aye, he does," Ned's son confirmed impassively. "A small mercy, for he is said to sacrifice any of his newborn sons to the Cold Gods themselves."
His nephew spat on the ground. Not only an incestuous demon worshipper but a kinslayer as well?! Jarod shook his head; this was vile even for a savage.
"How would you know what happens North of the Wall?" Jarod couldn't help but ask sceptically. "I doubt this Craster advertises his foul deeds for all to hear, or he would have lost his head long ago."
"He lets the rangers rest under his roof, so the Night's Watch leaves him be. And a black brother told me about the rest," Jon shrugged. "That's why we'll go there, to see for ourselves. It's a good place to begin our search as any."
"Aye, true," Jarod agreed with a grimace. "But what then?"
Jon started hitting his flint with the steel striker, producing a showerful of sparks, and soon enough, the dry splinters of broken bark were aflame. The fire slowly started crackling, and Ned's son straightened up.
"Afterwards, we'll look for Mance Rayder's army."
"You want us to join the King Beyond the Wall?" Duncan asked incredulously.
"Nay, not join," Jon shook his head. "No matter what you say, wildlings might be proud and fierce, but they are not stupid. Mance Rayder gathered them out of desperation, they have no way of fighting the Others and would rather take their chance at attacking the Wall. What I intend to do is give them some hope. Knowledge to use obsidian to fight back against the so-called Cold Ones."
Jarod could admit that it did not sound like a bad plan. His nephew had gone quiet, deep in thought.
"And how would you make them listen?" He prodded. "Most of them hate us as much as we hate them and would not trust a single word you say. And they might attack the Wall anyway."
"If speaking does not work, I shall show them. If that does not work, I will beat them until they listen. If that does not work, I shall break them," Jon boldly declared. "I'd rather have half a hundred thousand men fighting the Others with their lives on the line instead of the Others having half a hundred thousand wights more under their thrall."
The camp sank into silence at the daring words. Jarod would call him a madman for such a crazy idea, but if anyone could pull it off, it was him. Duncan looked less conflicted; using the wildlings to fight against the Others seemed to agree with him. Anyone south of the Wall would rather leave the savages to die or even kill them themselves than make peace with them or fight together, common foe or not, and Jarod was no different. There was just too much enmity. But even he was impressed by the boldness of the plan. If nothing else, things would certainly be interesting.
"You never intended to bring any proof south of the Wall, did ya?" Jarod pointed out.
"No, not when alone. I've already warned my Lord Father. And what good would proof do? What's to stop them from decrying it as a sorcerous trick?" Bitterness seeped into Jon's voice. "Even if the North and the Watch acknowledge the Others were a threat, they would still happily let the wildlings die and bolster the ranks of the wights while hoping that the Wall would stop them."
"Didn't the Builder raise the Wall for the same exact reason?" Duncan asked.
"He did, but any wall is only as strong as the men that guard it," a heavy sigh tore out of his mouth. The fact that the Night's Watch was at its weakest in recorded history was left unsaid, but all three knew it. "And in the last half a hundred years, the Bay of Ice froze once during a harsh winter, and the Bay of Seals froze twice. I'd rather strike first, strike fast, and strike hard than risk it!"
As soon as he uttered the last word, Jon Snow's head snapped towards the northwest, instantly stood up and unsheathed his dragonblade.
Duncan instantly reached for his greatax, and Jarod cursed under his nose as he grabbed his spear.
"Did I miss anything?" Leaf's short, lithe figure appeared from behind an old, thick sentinel pine. Her eyes golden eyes glinted with mischief.
Arya Stark
27th Day of the 4th Moon
This was stupid!
Everything had gone wrong!
Her back hurt. So did her legs, feet, and hands. Everything hurt. Her fingers and palms were rubbed raw from washing clothes by the moat for the last five days. The food consisted of little more than hardtack and tasteless stew that was not only little but bland, and she could barely chew, let alone swallow it. She still felt hungry.
Her eyes still stung from the onions she had chopped earlier. She felt tired, she felt dirty, miserable and alone. There were no longer servants to draw her a warm bath and clean her clothes.
She thought her father was just jesting and would forgive her as he always did, but no. His eyes had grown as hard as a stone, and his voice had been as cold as ice.
Her mother did not come to visit and sing her a lullaby before sleep nor comb her hair. The thought of the rough, hard bed in the dingy, cold little room made her want to cry. Nymeria was locked up with her father. There was no Old Nan to tell her stories, Rickon to run after her, there was no Robb with his easy smiles, and most importantly, no Jon. Ever since he had gone missing, everyone had started acting stupidly.
She regretted it; she did. It wasn't fair!
Even Septa Mordane had said she had the hands of a blacksmith. Unlike Sansa, Arya's stitches were crooked, her voice was too scratchy to sing, and she was not nearly as pretty or graceful. Why did they want to turn her into a lady so badly?!
Arya knew she'd be a terrible, terrible lady. She looked at her dingy, roughspun bedding and barely held in her tears.
She had stubbornly held on, working everything they threw at her, but it was unbearable.
The thought of spending another night in here made her want to cry. At that moment, she finally made a decision. Arya left her quarters and dragged her tired feet towards the Great Keep. If they wanted a lady, she would give them one!
Walder's gigantic, hulking figure could be seen from afar guarding the large oaken door at the entrance. She always wondered if the giants were truly as big as he was.
"Hello, little Arya," his voice rumbled kindly as he dipped his head. "You're not supposed to be here."
"I want to speak with my father," she said. "I have changed my mind."
"Go in, then," he acquiesced. "Lord Stark's at the solar."
The climb up the steps was harrowing as all of the muscles in her legs ached, her waist hurt, and she was already tired from the hard day's work.
It felt like forever, but Arya eventually reached the topmost hallway where the solar resided.
Desmond, the guardsman guarding the door, looked at her questioningly before announcing her.
The first thing that greeted her inside the chambers was her father's tired gaze. Sitting on the lord's chair, he had large circles beneath his eyes and looked troubled.
"I'm sorry, Father," she eked out, failing to hold her tears any longer. "I'll t-try to be a good little lady and no longer make t-trouble, I promise! My stitches m-might be little crooked-"
Father abruptly got out of his seat and pulled her into a tight hug before gently wiping away her tears. Gods, she missed him; she missed them all so much!
"I'm sorry too, Arya," he sighed, and she felt his large, warm hand soothingly circle over her back. "It seems that Septa Mordane does not have the skills to properly instruct someone like you. You will no longer need to attend her lessons; instead, I'll call for a different governess to tutor you," his voice cracked, heavy with feeling, "and if you behave like a proper lady during the length of the royal visit, I'll allow you to train with the bow."
Author's Endnote:
Edited by: Void Uzumaki; B. Reader: Bub3loka
I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.
You can find all of my relevant stuff here.
Eddard Stark
His gaze inspected the crying Jeyne Poole, whose dress and hair were splashed by mud, before settling on the defiantly-looking Arya.
"She called me 'Horseface'!"
Vayon's daughter did not deny and instead cried harder.
The Lord of Winterfell sighed inwardly. This was the last thing he wanted to deal with right now, but the wolfsblood was not something to be contained.
But no longer. Ned had already lost Bran to this foolishness, which led his brother and sister to an early grave. Even watching the execution had not made her mellow out, unlike Sansa, who had shed some of her childish naivety.
What could he do?
Arya furiously resisted Mordane's futile attempts to shape her into a highborn lady. The old Septa was far from inept, but the wolfsblood would have its due.
"Jeyne, if you want to act as a gossipy serving girl, you'll go to help Gage in the kitchen as scullery maid until the King's party arrives," he decided before sending Vayon's daughter away, then looked at Arya. "What am I going to do with you, child?"
"Nothing?"
At that moment, his daughter's daring eyes infuriated Eddard Stark.
"Septa Mordane's lessons seem to be lost on you," he lamented.
"I hate the Septa and her stupid teachings!"
This was far from the first time since he had heard a similar phrase leave his daughter's lips.
"That's enough. Mordane is doing no more than is her duty, though the gods know you've made it hard for the poor woman. Your mother and I have charged her with the impossible task of making you a lady, but alas."
"I don't want to be a lady!" Arya mutinously proclaimed and bit her lip.
"Is that so?" Ned asked icily.
"Yes!"
The Lord of Winterfell looked at his daughter. At eleven, she looked like a younger Lyanna but thrice as wild. The memory of his sister's body at four and ten haunted Eddard Stark's dreams to this day. And an even fresher, more bitter memory of his son's head sprawled lifelessly on the ground with his head cracked open made his blood freeze.
"Fine," he agreed, and Arya's eyes lit up joyfully. "If you do not want the privilege of being a highborn lady, so be it. From now on, you'll have to work with the other washerwomen and scullery maids. You will be moved out of the Great Keep and sleep in the servant's quarters. You will no longer receive any allowance and will have to work for the roof over your head, the meals on your table, and the clothes on your back."
His daughter was aghast, and the earlier happiness was replaced with horror.
"But-"
"No buts, Arya. You wanted this. From now on, you'd have to earn everything you want with your own two hands. Did you think all the rights and privileges you enjoyed by being a daughter of House Stark came for free?"
Her face had gone pale. It hurt Ned to do this, but he did not see any other way how she could possibly learn.
He could not bury another one of his children.
He would not.
Hopefully, a taste of the harshness most had to endure would grant her a new perspective.
"But-"
"Enough, The Lord of Winterfell has no time to freely chatter with scullery maids and washerwomen. You have until tonight to vacate your quarters. And from now on, you're forbidden to use the name Stark. Your mother, brothers, and sister will be barred from seeing you either. The guards and the servants will be informed, so do not expect special treatment," Eddard warned. "Do not search for me unless you find your desire and willingness to become a lady."
Eddard Stark tiredly gazed at the unfurled map of the North before him when a knock on the door grabbed his attention.
"My lord, lady Stark and lord Robb wish to speak with you," Harwin's voice came through the door.
"Let them in."
Catelyn and Robb entered the solar, both looking rather wroth.
"Father, did you truly disown Arya?" Robb asked directly.
"Sit down," Ned ordered, and both his wife and son pulled over a tapered chair and sat on the other side of the desk. "Today, your sister threw mud at Jeyne Poole over some childish insult. This is far from the first time Arya is up to trouble or mischief. If your daughter did that, what would you do, Robb?"
His heir paused in thought for a few heartbeats.
"I'd punish her?"
"Indeed, such behaviour is unbecoming for a daughter of a Great House," Ned agreed. "But what would you do if your methods of disciplining failed to work? What if your daughter stubbornly keeps refusing to act like a lady, let alone become one, regardless of what punishments you mete out?"
Robb's face scrunched up, but he seemed not to find an answer to that query.
"Ned, she's still our daughter!" Catelyn protested.
"Aye, and Lyanna was my sister, and Brandon was my brother, but that did not save them from their own foolishness!"
His son looked thoughtful for a moment.
"What did Aunt Lyanna do? Wasn't she kidnapped?"
Ned sighed.
"At the Tourney of Harrenhal, one of House Stark's bannermen was being bullied by three squires. Your aunt fought them off with a tourney sword. Instead of bringing the matter to Brandon or me, she, at the age of two and ten, decided to enter the lists as a mystery knight to punish their masters. She succeeded, albeit battered and bruised, and grabbed the attention of both the Mad King and the Silver Prince in one fell swoop."
And worse, he feared that Arya could create an even greater mess with the royal court here in Winterfell. Those with the wolfsblood were prone to easily earning the royal ire.
"Lyanna was the Knight of the Laughing Tree?!" Catelyn stood there, face twisted in disbelief.
"Yes, and she was only a year older than Arya then. Now the king comes to Winterfell, and our daughter is even wilder than her aunt ever was," he sighed. "It's time she learns the consequences of her actions before it's too late. I only indulged her desire; by her words, she has no wish to be a lady."
Catelyn looked torn, but Ned could see acceptance find its way into her blue eyes.
"Can't we at least visit her?" Robb pleaded.
"What punishment would that be? Do you think I wish to cast out my own daughter, Robb?" The Lord of Winterfell shook his head. "I don't! But you can bring the mule to the river, yet you cannot force it to drink. Sometimes, there are no good choices, and you're forced to pick between two options you dislike."
Robb's shoulders sagged, but Catelyn was not appeased just yet.
"But to have our daughter chop onions and wash clothes like an ordinary scullery maid?"
"Well, what do you propose, Cat? Arya barely cares about her lessons when she doesn't run away from them. She's more wolf than girl and learns nought from the usual punishments. It's high time she realises what all of her privileges mean. She can always come back once she reconsiders being a lady."
Catelyn tiredly rubbed her eyes but provided no reply. It was unsurprising because they had already tried everything with their youngest daughter…
"But Arya is stubborn," Robb noted.
And that's why he asked Vayon to give her the harshest tasks and to work her to the bone. Not that he'd mention that to Robb or Catelyn.
"Let's see how stubborn she can be when she has to pour in blood, sweat, and tears just to barely eke out a living. Enough of this, I have already decided, and it's in your sister's hands now."
22nd Day of the 4th Moon, Beyond the Wall
Jarod Snow
The cry of a snow shrike echoed from the nearby pine grove. The meadow they had chosen for a resting place was blue with coldsnaps and frostfires. The horses were grazing peacefully on a few patches of grass sticking out of the snow-covered ground. He pulled his heavy woollen cloak closer. The air was frigid, even to Jarod, who had spent a lifetime in the harsh northern mountains. According to the rangers, there were only a handful of months each year when the land Beyond the Wall was not covered with a veil of snow.
Only the grey-furred hound called Helicent was here, circling around the camp; the rest had gone hunting with the white direwolf in the wilderness.
To the left, the distant rumbling of the Milkwater could be heard. They had settled on waiting for the Children of the Forest to come. And wasn't that a bloody surprise?
Children of the fucking forest in the flesh! Ethereal voices like a song, all clad in leaves and bark. And they even came bearing gifts. Dark Sister was a famed blade with a bloody history, and Jon had been wise to change its gaudy hilt and guard as much as possible.
At the start, Jarod had thought this journey was a foolish whim and had just agreed to follow the Jon because he saved little Lysara. Dying for a son of Winterfell was as good a death as one could get in his twilight years. Yet Jon Snow was a man with a mission, and every single movement had a purpose, and not even for a moment he wavered. Despite his young age, he had a very imposing mannerism and a harsh, steely gaze that brokered no disobedience. He was always the first to rise, the last to sleep, and led from the front. Even the Children of the Forest were following him unquestionably. But it was not all ironclad order - Jon Snow was open to advise and was amiable enough unless the situation called for otherwise.
And, the more time passed, the less Jarod thought they were chasing dreams and old wives' tales. Even the Children had freely spoken of the existence of the Others as a known fact.
Despite being young, Jon seemed to be versed in the hearts of men and had a jaded yet accurate view of things. The Night's Watch might have let them pass, but their little leafy companions would not have been welcomed. In fact, knowing the Southron faith, half the men would think them demons and attack.
Jarod shook his head and placed his newly gathered bundle of kindlings on a clean rock under the sun's rays so it would stay dry. Surely enough, Duncan was still pitching up a tent, and Jon was finishing his own. And gods, what a tent it was! Made of the finest leather, with a myrish silk cot inside, fit for a king! From the hands of the Silver Prince to the Stark and now his son!
They did away with simple bedrolls south of the Wall, but it was not enough here. It was too cold, and even if you placed a hide beneath your bedding, you could still wake up with a limb or two lost to the nightly chill. Carrying a cot and tent was chunky and took up a lot of space, but they could afford it with the additional horses.
"Let's spar," Jon proposed as he stretched his hands skywards. "I haven't swung a sword in nearly a moon, and it would not do to get rusty here."
"We didn't take any training swords," Jarod noted. "Using live steel is dangerous and can damage our blades needlessly, especially when the nearest smith is south of the Wall. Especially if you use the dragonsword."
"There's plenty of wood around," Jon said.
"Better than just waiting, as long as we don't tire ourselves out too much," Duncan agreed with a shrug as he nailed the final stake of his tent. And it was true enough a spar wouldn't hurt; they were already clad in armour and ready for a fight.
And under their stunned gazes, With a few measured yet powerful swings of Dark Sister, Jon Snow quickly fashioned three crude swords out of the thick branches of a nearby oak. The rippled blade cleanly sliced through the hardwood with nary an effort in the young man's hands.
The Dragonlords of old would weep if they could see their precious swords reduced to a woodsman's axe.
"We brought axes for things like these," Dunk indignantly noted.
"Aye, we did, but I want to get used to the feel of the blade in my hand," Jon explained as he handed them a crude stick in the shape of a sword each. "Valyrian Steel is not only inhumanely sharp, but it does not lose edge no matter what, so there is no harm done."
"You two spar first; I shall stand watch," Jarod offered. He would get a good chance to get a measure of Jon's skills, and hopefully, Dunk would tire him out.
He had no desire to lose to two young men not even half his age. Duncan was a fierce fighter with sword and axe, and Jon Snow carried himself as a veteran of many a battle.
Jarod threw a leather pelt over a rock and sat down as Dunk and Jon faced each other fifteen yards away amidst the small clearing. For a minute, they stared at each other without moving a muscle, but Jarod could see that Dunk was getting restless while his opponent looked as calm as a pool of water.
Surely enough, Dunk moved first. His nephew was quick and fierce, but Jon seemed unphased by the furious assault, easily blocking, evading, or deflecting all of Duncan's strikes. The minutes flowed, and Jon Snow had not moved from his position even by a single step despite only defending from the fierce onslaught, while Dunk was slowly beginning to grow winded. Not only that, but Jon had only defended until now.
Suddenly, his steely eyes sharpened, and he finally moved. Dunk barely managed to block the first lightning strike, but the equally quick follow-up knocked the wooden sword out of his hand, and the sharpened oak pointed at Dunk's throat.
"I yield," his nephew said, respect clear in his voice. Breathing heavily with a brow shining with sweat, Dunk came over and whispered: "Beware, he is not only quick but far stronger than he looks."
Duncan was one of the most formidable warriors with sword and axe in Little Hall, second only to Torren himself, yet he lost without giving his opponent a sweat.
Jarod pushed down his apprehension, stood up, and gave his makeshift sword a few swings. The crude, thick branch was heavier than a typical training sword, but not by much. The balance was a tad too skewed towards the front, making it a bit unwieldy, but it was usable for a training blade.
Jon Snow was using a similar weapon, so there was no room for complaints.
He stood in the clearing and faced the young man of six and ten. Despite his relaxed posture, Jon showed no openings and gave Jarod the feeling that he was facing a master.
Jon moved quickly, and Jarod barely lifted his sword to parry in time. The strength of the blow rattled his wrists, and he had no doubt the makeshift weapon would have broken if it wasn't thick and hardy oak.
Instantly, Jarod found himself on the backfoot of the storm that was Jon Snow. The fierce and lightning-quick deadly strikes quickly overwhelmed Jarod, and he could barely defend himself. Every blow rattled his bones as if he was fighting against an Umber. The worse thing was that the strikes were getting even quicker and stronger.
With a sharp crack, his sword broke, and Jarod found a crude wooden blade at his neck.
"I yield," he conceded with a sigh. The last time he had felt so severely outmatched in strength, speed, and skill was when he was still a green summer child. Despite getting on in years, Jarod might have lost some of his vigour, but his sword hand was still strong, and he had plenty of experience to make up for it, yet it helped him little.
But the thought brought a smile to his face; no matter what, it was good to be led by a fierce and capable warrior. The son of Winterfell did not disappoint once again. Gods, he had barely broken a sweat!
"We should practice every day from now on," Jon said as he sat down.
"Wouldn't it be too dangerous to get tired while travelling in unknown territory?"
"Soon, the singers shall rejoin us, and they can stand watch. Practice is essential. The Others are said to be inhumanely quick and powerful, wielding crystalline swords of ice of unnatural sharpness," Ned's son explained with a deathly serious tone, and Jarod felt a cold chill crawl up his spine. "Regardless, we won't push ourselves to the limit but just train enough to stay sharp."
The prospect of fighting such fearsome foes excited Jarod. There was no valour, no glory in defeating weaklings or dying to them!
"What are we going to do after the leafcloaks return?" Jarod asked.
Until now, he had refrained from inquiring about their next actions and was content to sit back and take a measure of Jon Snow out in the open, and he was not disappointed so far.
"We'll head to Craster's Keep."
"I thought the wildlings did not work stone, let alone raise holdfasts?" Duncan scratched his ear.
"It's not a stone tower or anything like that, just a small wooden hall with a dike surrounded by a palisade," Jon explained as he began arranging the kindlings and dried bark for the fire. "Craster is a particularly vile wilding who has nineteen wives."
"By the gods," Jared couldn't help but whistle. "He must have sired an army from his loins!"
"You would think so," Jon hummed in agreement, but his eyes darkened dangerously. "But he takes his daughters as wives when they come of age."
Jarod started cursing under his nose. Not even the valyrian sisterfuckers slept with their sons and daughters!
Duncan's face had begun to redden.
"Wait, did you just say this Craster takes his daughters as wives?!"
"Aye, he does," Ned's son confirmed impassively. "A small mercy, for he is said to sacrifice any of his newborn sons to the Cold Gods themselves."
His nephew spat on the ground. Not only an incestuous demon worshipper but a kinslayer as well?! Jarod shook his head; this was vile even for a savage.
"How would you know what happens North of the Wall?" Jarod couldn't help but ask sceptically. "I doubt this Craster advertises his foul deeds for all to hear, or he would have lost his head long ago."
"He lets the rangers rest under his roof, so the Night's Watch leaves him be. And a black brother told me about the rest," Jon shrugged. "That's why we'll go there, to see for ourselves. It's a good place to begin our search as any."
"Aye, true," Jarod agreed with a grimace. "But what then?"
Jon started hitting his flint with the steel striker, producing a showerful of sparks, and soon enough, the dry splinters of broken bark were aflame. The fire slowly started crackling, and Ned's son straightened up.
"Afterwards, we'll look for Mance Rayder's army."
"You want us to join the King Beyond the Wall?" Duncan asked incredulously.
"Nay, not join," Jon shook his head. "No matter what you say, wildlings might be proud and fierce, but they are not stupid. Mance Rayder gathered them out of desperation, they have no way of fighting the Others and would rather take their chance at attacking the Wall. What I intend to do is give them some hope. Knowledge to use obsidian to fight back against the so-called Cold Ones."
Jarod could admit that it did not sound like a bad plan. His nephew had gone quiet, deep in thought.
"And how would you make them listen?" He prodded. "Most of them hate us as much as we hate them and would not trust a single word you say. And they might attack the Wall anyway."
"If speaking does not work, I shall show them. If that does not work, I will beat them until they listen. If that does not work, I shall break them," Jon boldly declared. "I'd rather have half a hundred thousand men fighting the Others with their lives on the line instead of the Others having half a hundred thousand wights more under their thrall."
The camp sank into silence at the daring words. Jarod would call him a madman for such a crazy idea, but if anyone could pull it off, it was him. Duncan looked less conflicted; using the wildlings to fight against the Others seemed to agree with him. Anyone south of the Wall would rather leave the savages to die or even kill them themselves than make peace with them or fight together, common foe or not, and Jarod was no different. There was just too much enmity. But even he was impressed by the boldness of the plan. If nothing else, things would certainly be interesting.
"You never intended to bring any proof south of the Wall, did ya?" Jarod pointed out.
"No, not when alone. I've already warned my Lord Father. And what good would proof do? What's to stop them from decrying it as a sorcerous trick?" Bitterness seeped into Jon's voice. "Even if the North and the Watch acknowledge the Others were a threat, they would still happily let the wildlings die and bolster the ranks of the wights while hoping that the Wall would stop them."
"Didn't the Builder raise the Wall for the same exact reason?" Duncan asked.
"He did, but any wall is only as strong as the men that guard it," a heavy sigh tore out of his mouth. The fact that the Night's Watch was at its weakest in recorded history was left unsaid, but all three knew it. "And in the last half a hundred years, the Bay of Ice froze once during a harsh winter, and the Bay of Seals froze twice. I'd rather strike first, strike fast, and strike hard than risk it!"
As soon as he uttered the last word, Jon Snow's head snapped towards the northwest, instantly stood up and unsheathed his dragonblade.
Duncan instantly reached for his greatax, and Jarod cursed under his nose as he grabbed his spear.
"Did I miss anything?" Leaf's short, lithe figure appeared from behind an old, thick sentinel pine. Her eyes golden eyes glinted with mischief.
Arya Stark
27th Day of the 4th Moon
This was stupid!
Everything had gone wrong!
Her back hurt. So did her legs, feet, and hands. Everything hurt. Her fingers and palms were rubbed raw from washing clothes by the moat for the last five days. The food consisted of little more than hardtack and tasteless stew that was not only little but bland, and she could barely chew, let alone swallow it. She still felt hungry.
Her eyes still stung from the onions she had chopped earlier. She felt tired, she felt dirty, miserable and alone. There were no longer servants to draw her a warm bath and clean her clothes.
She thought her father was just jesting and would forgive her as he always did, but no. His eyes had grown as hard as a stone, and his voice had been as cold as ice.
Her mother did not come to visit and sing her a lullaby before sleep nor comb her hair. The thought of the rough, hard bed in the dingy, cold little room made her want to cry. Nymeria was locked up with her father. There was no Old Nan to tell her stories, Rickon to run after her, there was no Robb with his easy smiles, and most importantly, no Jon. Ever since he had gone missing, everyone had started acting stupidly.
She regretted it; she did. It wasn't fair!
Even Septa Mordane had said she had the hands of a blacksmith. Unlike Sansa, Arya's stitches were crooked, her voice was too scratchy to sing, and she was not nearly as pretty or graceful. Why did they want to turn her into a lady so badly?!
Arya knew she'd be a terrible, terrible lady. She looked at her dingy, roughspun bedding and barely held in her tears.
She had stubbornly held on, working everything they threw at her, but it was unbearable.
The thought of spending another night in here made her want to cry. At that moment, she finally made a decision. Arya left her quarters and dragged her tired feet towards the Great Keep. If they wanted a lady, she would give them one!
Walder's gigantic, hulking figure could be seen from afar guarding the large oaken door at the entrance. She always wondered if the giants were truly as big as he was.
"Hello, little Arya," his voice rumbled kindly as he dipped his head. "You're not supposed to be here."
"I want to speak with my father," she said. "I have changed my mind."
"Go in, then," he acquiesced. "Lord Stark's at the solar."
The climb up the steps was harrowing as all of the muscles in her legs ached, her waist hurt, and she was already tired from the hard day's work.
It felt like forever, but Arya eventually reached the topmost hallway where the solar resided.
Desmond, the guardsman guarding the door, looked at her questioningly before announcing her.
The first thing that greeted her inside the chambers was her father's tired gaze. Sitting on the lord's chair, he had large circles beneath his eyes and looked troubled.
"I'm sorry, Father," she eked out, failing to hold her tears any longer. "I'll t-try to be a good little lady and no longer make t-trouble, I promise! My stitches m-might be little crooked-"
Father abruptly got out of his seat and pulled her into a tight hug before gently wiping away her tears. Gods, she missed him; she missed them all so much!
"I'm sorry too, Arya," he sighed, and she felt his large, warm hand soothingly circle over her back. "It seems that Septa Mordane does not have the skills to properly instruct someone like you. You will no longer need to attend her lessons; instead, I'll call for a different governess to tutor you," his voice cracked, heavy with feeling, "and if you behave like a proper lady during the length of the royal visit, I'll allow you to train with the bow."
Author's Endnote:
There's so much to unpack here. Because the Rebellion happened two years earlier, Arya is two years older(11), and Lyanna died two years earlier (14), any parallel between the two is far easier to make for Ned. He has too much on his mind, worries too much, and literally lashes out. Arya is both spoiled and a bit neglected, knows very well she's the daughter of a highlord.
His punishment might or might not be too much, but it comes from a place of concern and anger (not a great combination). Tl; Dr Ned is at his wit's end and overreacts. Or does he? There's also the fact that Bran got himself recently, so Ned is less willing to tolerate Arya's bouts of wilderness.
Because he's the Lord of Winterfell and his word is law in his household, the protests from Robb and Catelyn are not enough to change his mind because he can totally be stubborn when he decides to be. I'll leave that for the readers to decide whether his concerns are valid or not.
It turns out that Arya is less stubborn than her father, who still loves his daughter in the end, and decides that he has used the stick enough, and now is the time for the carrot. The common drudgery has a way of breaking the most stubborn of people, and while Arya is wild, she is definitely pampered and spoiled as a daughter of a Highlord and eventually buckles.
Jon's plans are finally revealed to his companions. They are probably not the objectively best plans, but they are definitely shaped by his experiences in the last life/death. The animosity built over thousands of years between the North and the Watch against the wildlings is not easily discarded. Why doesn't Jon try to convince the Watch and his father to let the wildlings pass the wall?
Well, he knows the wildlings, the Northmen, and the Night's Watch and is convinced they don't mix very well. The North was broken and battered in his own timeline, the Night's Watch was heavily depleted, and the wildlings were defeated and scattered to the winds. Even then, they barely managed to work together (and not all of them by a longshot! ) against a common enemy.
Does that mean Jon broke the Others with heavily depleted and barely united forces under his command?
Yes.
Is this the best possible plan ever to deal with that particular issue? Quite possibly not, but it's the one Jon has settled on.
And next, we will finally see the long-awaited arrival of the royal party.
Also, I claim unreliable narrator here(and in every other chapter, really), don't take things said at face value; it's just the words/thoughts/speech of the characters.
I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord, where a chapter is posted two weeks in advance.
Comments, questions, and suggestions greatly motivate me, so don't be shy if you have any
His punishment might or might not be too much, but it comes from a place of concern and anger (not a great combination). Tl; Dr Ned is at his wit's end and overreacts. Or does he? There's also the fact that Bran got himself recently, so Ned is less willing to tolerate Arya's bouts of wilderness.
Because he's the Lord of Winterfell and his word is law in his household, the protests from Robb and Catelyn are not enough to change his mind because he can totally be stubborn when he decides to be. I'll leave that for the readers to decide whether his concerns are valid or not.
It turns out that Arya is less stubborn than her father, who still loves his daughter in the end, and decides that he has used the stick enough, and now is the time for the carrot. The common drudgery has a way of breaking the most stubborn of people, and while Arya is wild, she is definitely pampered and spoiled as a daughter of a Highlord and eventually buckles.
Jon's plans are finally revealed to his companions. They are probably not the objectively best plans, but they are definitely shaped by his experiences in the last life/death. The animosity built over thousands of years between the North and the Watch against the wildlings is not easily discarded. Why doesn't Jon try to convince the Watch and his father to let the wildlings pass the wall?
Well, he knows the wildlings, the Northmen, and the Night's Watch and is convinced they don't mix very well. The North was broken and battered in his own timeline, the Night's Watch was heavily depleted, and the wildlings were defeated and scattered to the winds. Even then, they barely managed to work together (and not all of them by a longshot! ) against a common enemy.
Does that mean Jon broke the Others with heavily depleted and barely united forces under his command?
Yes.
Is this the best possible plan ever to deal with that particular issue? Quite possibly not, but it's the one Jon has settled on.
And next, we will finally see the long-awaited arrival of the royal party.
Also, I claim unreliable narrator here(and in every other chapter, really), don't take things said at face value; it's just the words/thoughts/speech of the characters.
I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord, where a chapter is posted two weeks in advance.
Comments, questions, and suggestions greatly motivate me, so don't be shy if you have any
