If I Want To

Sansa

Sansa carefully chewed and swallowed her food, before daintily wiping at the corners of her mouth. Removing any unsightly residue that might have lingered.

They were gathered around the table with the septa, the lord and lady of Winterfell having opted to take supper in their lord father's solar.

"I do wish another singer will travel to Winterfell," Sansa said. She remembered once, when she was around Bran's age, an old wrinkled man had housed in the castle for six moons. As insignificant as he had appeared, he possessed a voice of gold and his lyrics weaved the most magical tales of brave knights and fair maidens. By the time the wandering singer completed the last note in one of his songs, a stream of tears would soak Sansa's cheeks, pooling at her chin, and dripping onto her gown. Only when quiet hung over the hall in wake of the singer's beautiful renditions, would she spring from her seat, clapping fervently as her eyes shone brightly. "Please, more!" she would beg.

Sansa had cried bitterly the day the singer left, and for a while, Winterfell had seemed a tad greyer, and— despite the hot springs pulsing through its walls —a tad colder.

"A singer might yet come. Don't lose hope, sweet sister," Robb encouraged.

Sansa favored him with a charming smile. "And if a singer doesn't come, will you bring one to me?" She was only japing, but Robb beamed brightly at her, his eyes twinkling with good humor as he went along.

"I will find the most revered singer and tie him up, carry him over my shoulder, then lay him at your feet," he promised.

"I couldn't ask for a more valiant hero," Sansa cooed.

A loud unladylike burp emitted from Arya's side of the table, causing several heads to swivel in her direction.

"Won't you eat your vegetables?" Septa Mordane asked, taking note of the greens piled high on the young girl's plate, and actively choosing not to engage Arya in another battle concerning her unrefined manners.

"I'd rather not. Nymeria would like them better anyway," said Arya, holding her hand out for the wolf to swallow another bite of greens and any other displeasing food that she wasn't fond of.

Jon Snow chuckled and Septa Mordane sent him a disapproving look. She didn't find his presence at the table proper at all.

"Eating along with the trueborns. . . A bastard," Sansa remembered Septa Mordance once exclaiming to Mother. It was a few years ago. Now the septa settled for ignoring Jon's presence as much as possible.

"A shade more ladylike than threatening the table with a not so innocent dangling doll," teased Robb.

Arya once owned a doll that she carried around everywhere, and whenever Mother or Father or any of her older siblings tried to persuade her to take a bite of vegetables, she would swing the doll at them like a morningstar, warding of the offending spoon.

"The doll is not gone forever," Arya quipped. "She's just waiting for the threat of unyielding spoons of vegetables and the such."

"Maybe if you eat your vegetables, it will help you focus better. So you won't get so cross when you mess up on your stitches," Sansa encouraged.

"I hate needlework," Arya snapped, before remembering that the septa was sitting nearby. She clamped her mouth shut and fed more vegetables to Nymeria.

"The scarf that you made wasn't that awful," said Sansa.

A lie that's kindly meant is not a true lie.

"Septa Mordane said it was a disgrace." Arya scowled.

Sansa smiled, her silvery voice flowing like honey to sweeten the tart words that escaped her lips.

"You can't expect to get better at it if you spend more time acting like a little wildling than a lady."

"I'd rather be a wildling than a lady," Arya retorted, but she didn't look like she meant it. Sansa could tell that she was just being stubborn.

She couldn't understand why Arya always insisted on being so stubborn and willful.

Their lady mother said, they were both blood of her blood. And their lord father said, even though they were as different as the sun and moon, the same blood flowed through both their hearts, and therefore they needed each other. But Sansa disagreed. It simply felt as if her and Arya were two strangers inhabiting the same castle rather than sisters.

She let out a sigh, attempting to reach out to her sister once more.

"I could help you. It's not hard at all," Sansa carefully offered, "Beth has already improved tremendously."

But rather than being accepted as a peace offering, her words seemed to serve as the needle that caused Arya to burst, her temper exploding as she slammed down her fork.

"I don't care about Beth's needling. Or Jeyne's giggling. Nor do I care for your stupid helpless maidens. You can marry a stupid prince if you want to, but I'm going to practice playing swords, and I will practice shooting archery too. Jon said I'm good at it. And Robb said Theon could help me. Theon said he would if Father says yes."

"That is enough, Arya!" Septa Mordane exclaimed, her thin lips disappearing in a frown.

Robb placed a hand on Arya's shoulder to calm her down, but she squirmed out from under his reach and stood up. "I'm done eating. May I be excused?" she stiffly asked the septa.

"You ought to attempt to behave like a lady for once and stop being so wild. All you ever do is shame us all." The words rushed out before Sansa could stop them.

She felt something wet smack hard into her face and she shrieked as she leapt up from her chair. The blood orange that Arya had flung at her slid unceremoniously down her face and onto her dress, leaving a sticky trail in its wake.

"You're AWFUL!" Sansa cried into the abrupt silence, overcome with emotion; but Arya had already fled the room, Nymeria at her heels. Sansa dissolved into tears as Septa Mordane hurried over, her mouth hanging open in disbelief.

"My word!" The good septa was simply horrified over Arya's appalling behavior. "Your lord father will hear about this! She will rue the day she brought such wild behavior into this castle wall! What would your lady mother say?"

Robb and Jon hurried over to her to attempt to help, but Sansa sidestepped them. Tears streaming down her face, she escaped the hall, blindly running up to her room. She was glad to find her bedchamber empty of the chambermaids that usually set up her bath after supper.

Temporarily forgetting that she was a lady, Sansa slammed the door as hard as she could, before yanking her dress off angrily.

It was already ruined.

Another sob escaped her. It was just like Arya to ruin anything nice and pretty.