If I Want To

Arya

Arya didn't care for womanly arts as Septa Mordane called them, she hated sewing with all her heart. Who wanted to be stuck doing something as mundane as sewing when there were adventures to be had outside. Woods to be explored, battles to be fought, babies to be held, cats to be chased, berries to be picked and especially flowers. The flowers that Arya and Mycah tended to pick weren't the prettiest ones, they often ended up muddy and hardly worth the effort, but it was the thought that counted.

And Arya felt so brave wadding through the stagnant water, avoiding the lizard lions that populated it, keeping an eye out for snakes, moving carefully with her breath held until she finally plucked an acceptable amount of flowers and held them secured in her sweaty grasp before scurrying back to dry, safe land. Mycah had sprung up to help her once, when she accidentally stepped into one of the camouflaged quicksand which nearly swallowed her leg. Although she had been scared at the moment, by the time Mycah had pulled her to safety, she had been grinning her toothy grin, declaring what an adventure it was even as her heart raced in her chest.

Mycah was thirteen and she always had the best adventures with him. When Jon was preoccupied with his studying and training, Mycah was always available for a mischievous feat. He didn't mind if she got underfoot or if her face was a little long, or her smile reminiscent of a horse. He didn't neigh at her like Jeyne Poole. Or call her horseface like Sansa. He didn't look at her with pity as he hung on to Sansa's every word like Beth Cassel. To him, she was just Arya. His fierce, daring friend.

He's like Jon, Arya thought. He likes me for me.

When Arya arrived back at Winterfell's doors, she was immediately directed to the tower room for needlework with the septa. Arya had hoped to have time to sneak some flowers to her lady mother before cleaning up and surrendering herself to the required torturous time under Septa Mordane's reproachful gaze as she watched Arya fumble along clumsily with her needle.

"An impossible task to turn you into a lady," the septa had once exclaimed after Arya threw her stitching down in frustration before jumping up and kicking the leg of a chair.

But now with no other choice, Arya slowly dragged her feet as she climbed the steps to the tower. When she apprehensively stepped into the tower room, Arya found that Septa Mordane had stepped out, much to her relief. If the septa had caught sight of her with her muddy dress, Arya would have been on the receiving end of a blistering scolding. Wondering if she still had time to hand the now limp flowers in her hand to Mother and wash up a bit, Arya quickly grabbed the door handle and started to open the door.

"You're not supposed to leave," Sansa's voice immediately broke through the quiet.

Arya barely stifled a groan as she turned towards her nosy sister. Sansa was glowing as usual, her auburn hair brushed and gleaming, her gown tidy and smooth, the stitches in her lap were as beautiful as her blue eyes. Arya scowled. "I'll be back before the septa returns."

But Sansa barely acknowledged her words as her gaze focused on Arya's muddy appearance. "Why are you so muddy? Gods be true, Arya, even the seven gods couldn't keep you clean if they tried."

The two girls stationed close to Sansa burst into giggles and Arya glared at all three of them. She had the best time picking wildflowers with Mycah and chasing around with the common children. And she wasn't going to let any of them ruin it. Who cares if her hair was tangled, her dress and fingernails caked with mud, her knee bleeding, and her face smudged? She had the most splendid time. Sansa was just disgusted because Arya's idea of fun didn't include stupid songs about helpless fair maidens, wearing pretty dresses that you couldn't have fun in, or engaging in silly gossip while eating lemon cakes.

"You never like splendid things," Sansa sniffed as if to prove her point.

"I had a splendid time," Arya disagreed. "Mycah and I picked so many flowers. We handed them out to people as we walked home."

Sansa's only response was to roll her eyes.

"I bet if a knight handed you a flower you would swoon over it," Arya snapped annoyed.

"The knight of flowers would hand me a beautiful red rose when he crowns me his queen of beauty. Not ragged infected flowers picked from mud and half drowned in filthy water." Sansa sighed dreamily. "He will be ever so brave and handsome and gallant."

"Would you like a flower?" Arya made her voice sweet and innocent as she started towards her sister. Sansa jerked away as Arya approached her and held out the wild flowers. "Here, queen of beauty," Arya mocked her haughty sister.

Sansa shrieked. "Get that away from me! I don't want rashes."

They both remembered the time Arya had broken out in bumpy welts, rashes and splotches from head to toe after picking purple flowers that turned out to be poison kisses.

Arya turned away from her sister and walked back to the door, throwing it open and firmly shutting it behind her before hurrying down the steps; escaping to freedom, if only for a short while.