Game of Thrones: Fanfic: Play fighting

[m_findlow]

Title: Play fighting
Fandom: Game of Thrones
Characters: Arya, Jon, Ned Stark
Author: m_findlow
Rating: PG
Length: 1,329 words
Content notes: none
Author notes: Written for gehayi's prompt "Game of Thrones, Arya Stark, swords" at fic_promptly
Summary: Arya's first sword fight does not go as intended.
Disclaimer: I don't own them.

The fighting done, Jon found himself alone in the yard, left to put away the swords and bows. It was menial work, bastard's work, but he didn't mind. The others would be off preparing for the great feast that was to come in honour of the King. His own presence there was not to be expected of anyone except perhaps his father, and even then, there was no place at the high table for a bastard son amongst so many high lords and ladies.

He shook his head at the memory of watching Joffrey demand real swords with which to tourney with his brother Robb. The boy was young and full of pride, as much Lannister as he was Baratheon, that much was clear. Given half a chance, he feared the boy would want to challenge Ser Rodrik himself.

Wanting to fight with true swords was for little boys whose only taste of steel was that from tales of Aegon the Conqueror. They would all come to taste real steel soon enough. As would he. He would never inherit, nor hold any Lord's title, but he could prove his honour and worth by joining the Night's Watch. His Uncle Benjen would surely consent.

Arya slipped past him like a shadow, or so she thought, hefting one of the long wooden hafts from the stocks, the weight of it catching her by surprise. They always looked so light the hands of her brothers. Undeterred, she quickly grew accustomed to holding it, preparing to draw it against Jon. She only hoped she could evade Septa Mordane long enough to fit in at least one bout. It wasn't fair that they got to play with swords and bows whilst she was stuck embroidering turtle doves and swifts.

As she lifted the wooden tourney stick upwards, readying to go and belt Jon across the back of his legs with it, he spoke.

'I thought I heard a little mouse skittering around the yard.'

She gripped the sword harder. It was worse than being told her stitches ran no straighter than the Red Fork.

'I'm no mouse,' she said, 'I'm a fierce and terrible lion.'

He turned to her and smiled. 'Not a wolf, then? Or a fish, maybe? I'm surprised you can lift that at all. Do you even know which end to point?'

She grunted, trying not to show how much effort it was taking her, just to hold it aloft.

'Maybe if you trained me,' she said.

'And what good would that do?'

'Ser Rodrik teaches you to fight. Who will you fight against?'

'I'll join the Night's Watch. To keep you safe from grumpkins and barrowights.'

She looked at him in earnest. Would he really leave Winterfell? Why couldn't he stay here with her? He was certainly more fun than her stupid sister Sansa. All she wanted to do was moon over bolts of Myrish lace, and fanciful stories about brave knights and princesses. Arya preferred stories about dragons and monsters that lived beyond the Wall.

'You said princes can only fight with true born sons,' Arya said. 'You didn't say anything about being allowed to fight me.'

Jon laughed. 'I'm not sure bastards are allowed to fight ladies either.'

'I'm no lady,' she replied, giving the sword a wild swipe, which Jon stepped back from easily. 'If I can't fight my brother, who can I fight?' she asked.

Amused by the look of sheer determination on her face, he pulled a second training sword from the stock, standing to face her.

'A few minutes only, sister,' he promised. 'If father should find us here, it will be my head he puts on a pyke.'

'Who'd want your ugly face on a pyke?' she said, teasing him, hoping to rile him.

'It will still be nothing compared to what Septa Mordane will do to you.'

'I'll fight her off as well, then,' Arya replied.

He let her take a few unpracticed swipes at him, parrying them with a gentle clack of wood on wood, as he stepped around the yards in circles, letting Arya follow him.

'Stop going easy on me,' she complained.

'I'm not,' he said, taking another step back. 'I fear the great lioness who would cower me with her mighty blade.'

That time she did growl, though her arms were growing weary of holding the sword upright. She made a desperate lunge at him, determined to strike a blow.

Knowing that their time was short, he looped his own sword, knocking Arya's from her hand, pointing his own at her in victory.

'Well fought, my lady. You do me great honor.'

Annoyed, she ducked under his sword and tackled into him, knocking him to the ground and winding him.

'Oh, now you're in trouble, little mouse.'

Arya grinned, already back up on her feet. 'You'll have to catch me first,' she said, taking off at a run.

Though her strides were far shorter than his, she had speed, and quickly weaved past the blacksmith's, down through the gates and out to the Godswood beyond the walls, hearing Jon's heavy footsteps behind her.

She looked around for some place to hide, finding only the weeping white trees all around, shimmering in the growing twilight as their red tears glittered with the last shards of light.

'Arya!' Jon called out, stepping through the peaceful wood. It was no wonder his father came here often to reflect on his thoughts. The old gods dwelt here, the weight of their presence strong, yet calming.

'Arya!' he called again. 'Come out little mouse!'

He wandered the Godswood a while longer, frustrated that Arya was hiding out, possibly sulking. If he didn't find her soon and have her readied for the feast in the Great Hall, Septa Mordane would have both of them doing needlework.

As he stepped further into the weirwood, he came upon the still pool at its centre, and a lonely figure sat there in contemplation.

'Jon. What are you doing here?' his father asked.

'Searching for a mouse which thinks it's a shadowcat.'

Ned Stark give a tired grin. 'Arya?' he said knowingly.

Arya was perched up in one of the large weirwoods, hidden by its deep red leaves in her russet coloured shift dress. She'd make Jon search the entire Godswood for her, waiting for the moment when she could get her revenge. Just then, she heard footsteps and the rustle of leaves underfoot. The branches of the tree hid most of her from view, but similarly also restricted her own view. It didn't matter, she knew it was Jon and readied herself.

Just as the sound was right beneath her, she jumped, and the pair of them fell to the ground in a heap.

'Ha!' she cried, before realised that the man underneath her was not Jon. It was her father.

'Arya Stark,' her father said wearily, sitting up and watching the look of guilt and horror on her face. He didn't look mad, or disappointed, only mildly amused, and yet she still felt shame.

'You were right, Jon,' he said, 'the mice in this wood have indeed grown large under our watch.'

'I'm no mouse,' she retorted angrily, incensed by Jon's own amused look that her plan to jump him had gone awry. 'I'm a fierce lion.' She even made a sound that was meant to be a roar but sounded more like a wounded kitten. Her look grew fearful as she watched Jon and her father stood over her. 'You won't tell Septa Mordane, will you?'

'Come on, you,' Ned said, brushing off the leaves from his surcoat. 'I think we've had quite enough of lions and Lannisters for today, and there's still a feast to be had, yet.'

Arya sulked the whole way back as Jon reached out and mussed her hair. One day she'd find someone who would teach her to fight. Then she'd never have to put up with being anyone's little mouse ever again.