The Red Keep smelled different from Winterfell, hot stone and horse and the faint sourness of too many people packed too tightly together. Arya felt it the moment she had stepped into its yard, like the whole castle pressed in on her, trying to make her smaller, quieter, more like Sansa.
"I don't see why I can't go," Arya muttered, arms crossed tight. "I'm not even asking to shoot, though I should be allowed, it's only watching."
Eddard Stark stood in the doorway of the solar, weary in that way he'd been since they came south. Dark circles under his eyes, hair mussed as if he'd been running a hand through it all morning.
"The archery grounds will be crowded," Her father said. "Too many men, too much commotion."
She huffed, "I won't get in the way, I'm quick and small. No one will even notice me."
Septa Mordane stepped forward with her lips pinched thin, like she was swallowing a lemon. "A young lady does not wander through tourney grounds unattended. Nor does she pester her lord father with such unseemly demands." Her eyes narrowed. "And young ladies certainly do not compete with weapons."
"I said I wasn't going to compete," Arya snapped. "And Queen Visenya fought with weapons. She was a lady too."
Septa Mordane gasped as if Arya had slapped her. "Young lady!"
Sansa spoke, voice sweet and soft. "I don't see why you must go at all. The morning competitions are so dull," she lifted her chin, eyes going dreamy. "The jousts are what matter. The heroes. The gallant men. Joffrey."
"Joffrey! A hero?!" Arya nearly gagged. "He's a liar and a coward. Joffrey won't be able to shoot a bird with a bow even if it was tied in front of him."
"Arya!" Septa Mordane sputtered.
Sansa's face flamed pink. "You shouldn't say such things! He is the prince!"
Father rubbed his forehead, and for a moment Arya thought he might actually laugh. But when he looked up, he was Lord Stark again, the quiet snowstorm in his eyes. "Enough. Both of you."
She scowled at her boots. "I just want to see the archers. If I can't shoot myself, it's only fair to watch. That's all."
Arya straightened, heart pounding. This was it. He'd say no, and she'd be stuck staring at tapestries or listening to Sansa and Jeyne moon over Joffrey.
Her father sighed, long and heavy and said, "You may go to the archery grounds, but," Ned continued, "you will go with Jory. And you will stay with him. No wandering, no slipping off, and no arguments."
Arya nearly bounced on her heels. "Yes, Father!"
"Very well," he said at last. "I'll send Jory to take you. And I'll join you at the melee once the council's business is finished."
Arya lit up like someone had set a torch inside her chest.
"Truly?" she breathed.
Her father nodded, and Arya threw herself at him before Septa Mordane could yank her back. She wrapped her arms around his middle and squeezed hard as she dared. He smelled of leather, cold steel and home.
"Oh thank you thank you Father," she said, muffled against his doublet. Then she leaned back, eyes bright and asked with a grin, "Can I compete too?"
Her father laughed at that, a real laugh, not the little huff he gave when he was hiding a smile. "Compete?" he echoed, one brow lifting. "Do you want me to send you back to your sewing?"
"Noooo!" Arya shrieked, making her voice as dramatic as possible.
Even Sansa giggled behind her hand. Septa Mordane pressed her lips tight, but a smile tugged at the corners anyway before she managed to smother it with a sigh.
Ned ruffled Arya's hair, "The tourney is for grown men," he said gently. "And watching it is privilege enough. You will mind Jory."
"I will," she promised, and meant it.
Septa Mordane folded her hands. "You must be presentable, child. You cannot go to the grounds looking like a stableboy."
Arya glanced down at herself, dusty boots, tunic wrinkled from practicing sword-cuts with sticks, the faint stain where she'd spilled breakfast porridge on her sleeve. "I look fine."
"You look like you rolled out of a hayloft," Sansa said, nose wrinkling.
"I did not!" Arya protested, though she had fed the horses before breaking her fast. "And besides no one there will care what I'm wearing."
Lord Stark cleared his throat, reminding them both he still stood between them. "Arya, listen to your septa."
The septa fussed over her like a mother hen, tugging at sleeves and smoothing creases with sharp, fussy fingers. Arya scowled the whole time, but Septa Mordane only clucked her tongue.
"You may not behave as a proper lady," she said, pulling the last ribbon tight, "but you shall dress as one."
Arya looked at the mirror to see her reflection. She wore blue silk, soft as river water, with tiny silver direwolves racing along the hem. It was pretty enough, she supposed, but she felt trapped in it, like a mouse in a snare.
When Jory saw her, his face split into the widest grin she'd ever seen on him. He tried to hide it behind a cough, but Arya had already punched him in the arm.
"Sorry, my lady!" he laughed, rubbing the spot. "Truly, you look… ah… fierce."
Arya said. "I look stupid."
Jory only shook his head, still smiling as he helped her mount.
They rode through the city with Alyn and half a dozen gold cloaks escorting them. King's Landing smelled of dust and salt and too many people, but Arya hardly noticed today, she was too busy imagining bowstrings snapping taut and arrows cutting the air clean.
At the tourney grounds, Jory led her to a seat close to the high box. Arya wrinkled her nose. The place felt too important, too stiff. She could see the whole field from here, though, and decided she'd bear it. The boxes were mostly empty still. Servants swept, nobles strolled in twos and threes, banners fluttered lazily as if half-asleep.
A horn sounded. People began to gather, smallfolk in the stands, knights in polished steel, a few lords in bright silks. The archers assembled at the far end of the green. Arya leaned forward, trying to make out sigils.
Jory snorted softly. "Just as I thought. Mostly Marchers here."
Arya turned, frowning. "What?"
Jory pointed at a tall man wearing a black-and-white swan on his surcoat. "Ser Balon Swann, a fine bowman."
Then another, with a yellow field and black nightingales stitched bold across it. "There, Lord Caron."
Arya's gaze snapped to a third man, his surcoat flashing a forked purple lightning on black, speckled with four pointed stars. She recognized that one at least. "House Dondarrion," she said proudly.
"Right you are, little lady," Jory said. "Most of these men are from the Dornish Marches. No better bowmen in the realm."
Arya blinked. "Really? But Theon says the Ironborn are the best archers."
Alyn let out a barking laugh. "The day Ironborn become the best at anything is the day I'll be sitting the Iron Throne."
Jory chuckled, and some of the gold cloaks grinned. Arya laughed too, though she didn't quite understand what made it so funny.
Arya's gaze drifted along the line of archers, past the Marchers and their bright, sharp sigils, until her eyes snagged on a man unlike the rest. His skin was dark as rich earth, his hair bound in beads, his clothes a shimmer of silk and bright feathers that caught the sun like a peacock's tail. He stood tall and proud, his bow carved from some foreign wood she'd never seen before.
Arya leaned forward, squinting. "Who's that? A Summer Islander?"
She'd seen men like him in White Harbor when Arya visited the city with her father. Sailors with bright plumes and carved spears. Arthur said they were fearless sailors and deadly archers. Arthur even built a whole street for them, homes with warm-colored walls and gardens filled with strange trees that smelled sweet as honeycakes. Arya remembered following him through it once, pretending she wasn't staring.
Before Jory could answer, a smooth, pleasant voice cut in.
"That's Prince Jalabhar Xho," said Lord Renly Baratheon, stepping lightly to her side. The king's youngest brother always seemed pleased with himself somehow, but unlike the others in this city, Arya didn't mind him. Not completely. Still, he japed too much, always doing that grin that made her feel he was laughing at something she couldn't see.
"Prince of what, I confess I cannot tell you, my lady," Renly added cheerfully. "But he insists on the title with admirable confidence."
Arya wasn't sure whether he mocked the man or admired him.
Before she could decide, the air filled with soft perfume, floral and too sweet, and Lady Margaery Tyrell drifted toward them like a petal caught on a warm wind. Arya had seen her during the feast. Pretty as a storybook maiden, every curl placed just so, eyes warm as summer wine. Everyone adored her. Even Sansa seemed awed by her.
Arya stiffened. She knew girls like that, girls who smiled as sweet as lemoncakes and whispered cruel things when they thought no one heard. Arya's stomach clenched, waiting, horseface, she could almost hear them, Sansa and Jeyne's old whisper.
Margaery laughed, a sound light as bells. "We might ask him," she said. "I would dearly love to meet him."
Ser Loras Tyrell stood beside her, tall and bright in green and gold, they looked so similar, Arya wondered if they were twins too like the queen and her brother, "Careful, sister. He'll ask you to help reclaim his homeland before dessert."
Renly let out a bark of laughter. "That is all he ever does."
Margaery's smile tilted slyly. "Then perhaps he only needs someone to finally listen."
Loras rolled his eyes skyward at that, but Arya wondered. She watched Jalabhar Xho draw his bow, smooth, graceful, powerful. Like Arthur did but a little slower. She wondered why Arthur didn't take part in the archery for he'd easily win this.
Margaery Tyrell turned her head towards Arya, and she felt her breath catch. The Tyrell maiden's smile was soft, her voice warm and bright when she spoke. "You look very beautiful in blue, my lady. Truly a winter rose."
The words fell gently, without mockery or hidden edge, yet Arya stiffened all the same. No one called her beautiful. Not Sansa, not Jeyne Poole, not anyone. The thought of it felt so strange, so wrong, it clawed at something raw inside her.
"Liar!" she blurted, the word striking out sharp before she could stop herself.
A flutter of gasps rose from the ladies behind Margaery, all silks and petals and perfect curls. Lord Renly's brows shot up, and in the next instant he broke into laughter. Ser Loras followed, shaking his head in disbelief. Even Margaery laughed, clear and musical, as though she had been gifted a jest rather than an insult.
"Oh, how you wound me," she said, smiling still. "Arya.. may I call you Arya?"
Heat rose to Arya's cheeks at once, fierce as a forge. She had not expected to face half the South in a single morning. She managed only a stiff nod, her tongue heavy in her mouth. They would mock her next, surely. Sansa would hear of it, and Septa Mordane would scold her for shameful manners and sharper words.
Yet none of the Tyrells looked cruel. None sneered or smirked. Margaery moved lightly to the seat beside her, her ladies settling behind like blossoms bending toward the sun.
Arya hated blushing. Hated feeling small. The Tyrell ladies were all soft smiles and pretty gowns, but Arya felt like a rag doll dropped in the mud beside them. She wished she had her boots and her breeches. She wished she had Needle.
"Tell me, Arya," Margaery said gently, "why do you call me a liar? Can you not see how beautiful you look?"
The words only made the heat burn hotter. Arya clenched her hands in her skirts.
"I'm not beautiful," she said, sharper than she meant. "Everyone knows that. Sansa's the one who's beautiful. Not me. Stop saying that. It's a lie."
Margaery laughed softly, "Oh, how you remind me of myself when I was your age," she said. "Your sister is beautiful, very beautiful. I'll confess I envy her cheekbones." She tapped her own lightly. "But her beauty does not make you any less."
Arya scowled, suspicion prickling behind her ribs. She wanted to believe the softness in the Tyrell girl's eyes, but she couldn't. No one ever said such things unless they wanted something.
"It does," Arya muttered. "Everyone says so. They call me Arya Horseface. And Sansa's the pretty lady."
The words tasted sour. She wished she hadn't said them. Margaery didn't flinch or frown. Instead, she regarded Arya with an oddly gentle curiosity.
"Girls can be cruel," Margaery said. "Some of my cousins used to call me Pigface."
Arya blinked. "Pigface?" It sounded wrong. Silly. False.
But Margaery only smiled wryly, tucking a strand of chestnut hair behind her ear.
"It's true. They mocked my nose. They still whisper of it now and then, when they think I don't hear." Her voice softened, losing its playfulness. "When I was young, they would oink at me as I passed."
Arya stared. She couldn't imagine anyone oinking at a girl like Margaery Tyrell. The very thought seemed like something out of a madman's tale. But Margaery wasn't jesting. Arya could see it in the way her eyes shifted, just a little, as if recalling old hurts.
Arya's eyes narrowed, fists clenched in her lap, hidden beneath the folds of her blue silk dress. How could anyone call her cruel words? She could understand it for herself, her hair was wild, her face lean, her hands always streaked with dirt, but Margaery? Margaery? She was soft and golden, pretty as a summer's morning. And yet… she had been called Pigface. The word made Arya's stomach twist with anger and disbelief.
"Did you tell your mother?" she asked, her voice small but urgent. "I never told my mother about it because she'd never believe me."
Margaery shook her head, a soft, rueful smile tugging at her lips, she said. "At first I used to tell my mother and she would stop them for a while. But then they kept doing it anyway when no one saw it. I would cry myself to sleep at night. I even wanted to fight them, oh yes, I wanted to fight them so badly it ached in my chest."
Arya blinked, startled. That sounded… familiar. She felt a lump in her throat and a kinship she didn't expect.
"Did you hit them?" Arya asked before she could stop herself.
Margaery's laugh rang soft and musical, "Oh, that I didn't," she admitted, tilting her head slightly.
"I told my eldest brother Willas about the teasing, and that I wanted them killed," She paused, as though letting the words settle. "He only smiled and said it would be done if she wanted. But before making that decision he wanted to tell me a story. A story of the faults of those who mocked me. One of them had crooked teeth, another girl was freckled all over, and one girl was… a little fat. Willas said it, not to hurt them," she said, "but to make me understand their words came from hatred of themselves. That they cannot see their own beauty, so they lash out at others. He told me to pity them, not to hate them. And he told me to love myself, and remember that I would be only as beautiful as I believed myself to be."
Arya listened, wide-eyed, she liked the sound of this Willas. He reminded her of Robb, of Jon, of Arthur, brothers and mentors who had taught her to fight, to survive, to think, and, sometimes, to hope.
Margaery said softly, "You must learn to ignore them, pity them and defy them."
"I don't know if I could do that," Arya said honestly, kicking at the hem of her dress. "I really wanna hit them."
Margaery laughed, "And there is nothing wrong with that, Arya. I did what I could, and you do what you must. The world… it can be unkind, And every girl must learn how to defend herself, however she can."
Arya's eyes narrowed as she studied her companion. A lesson, hidden in a laugh and a story. She was not used to being treated like this, no one had ever explained that the world could be faced with cunning as well as strength.
Margaery reached out, light as a feather, and touched Arya's sleeve. "And remember this. You are your own kind of lovely, Arya Stark. Whether you believe it or not." Her smile warmed. "And one day, you will see it too."
Arya didn't answer. She didn't believe Margaery, not truly, but… the words didn't feel like lies either. She blinked, surprised by the tears sliding down her cheeks. She had not realized they had come. She sniffled quickly, brushing at them with the back of her hand.
Margaery reached out again and lightly wiped the stray drops from Arya's face. "Now, Lady Stark," she said with a soft smile, "let us enjoy the tourney."