the world keeps turning (it's us that just stands still)

2

The men are training.

Arya wants to be with them, but can't, both because she hasn't ever quite managed to shake her mother's warnings about what was and wasn't proper, and also because none of the men down there would ever dare strike the sister of their lord, even when playing pretend.  It wouldn't be a real fight, and if it wasn't a real fight, it wouldn't be worth it.  Fighting against men who let her win would make her too sure, too slow.  It would take the fun out of it.

"They look good, don't they?"  Daenerys.  The dragon queen.  Her brother calls her Dany.  Her brother also happens to be half in love with her.  "Proper soldiers."

"Yes, your grace."  Arya inclines her head, but her eyes don't stray from the courtyard.  Her brother likes to oversee the training (likes the teaching. It seems like the men who are best at ruling are the ones who seem to hate the position most), but he is busy with other matters today, and Gendry is handling it.  He calls out orders loud enough for Arya to hear them, and when someone does something he doesn't like, he knocks them down into the dirt.  But he always helps them back up.  She feels like that's an important distinction, but isn't really sure why.  "They're good men.  Strong men."

"And you?"  There's a smile on her lips.  The queen is always smiling at Arya.  Arya can't tell if it's a nice smile or one that just means the queen finds her amusing.  "Are you good at fighting?"

"Yes."  Too confident.  Much too confident of a tone too use while speaking to a queen.  "I could knock some of them down into the dirt."

"They're bigger than you."

"Slower."  Gendry looks up from the field, squints into the sun until he finds her and then raises a hand.  Arya watches him for another moment and then turns away from him to give her full attention to the queen.  "Heavier.  Stronger.  Doesn't make them better."

"Who taught you to fight?"

"Myself, at first.  Then a dancing master that my father found."  Thinking about Syrio hurts, and thinking about her father hurts more, so Arya pushes past it.  "Some Bravosi men, the hound for a time.  Brienne's helping, but mostly I train by myself."

"Would you like to train?"

"With who?"

"Anyone.  Your brother, one of my unsullied.  Those men down there."

"I wouldn't think it proper, your grace."  She wasn't arguing exactly, but she wasn't agreeing.  "A woman who fights."

"I expect some of them might say that about Brienne.  And I expect many more of them would say that about a woman who intends to rule.  But here we are."  It definitely is a smile this time, and Arya finds herself returning it, finds herself thinking that if this woman asked her to, she would bend the knee and hand over her sword to her service.  "Ruling.  Fighting."

"Would you let me fight?"  She had heard her brother talking.  He and Gendry and Tormund and Greyworm would huddle around their little tables and move the pawns around.  They would be on the move soon.  They would have to be, unless the fight would come to them.  "For you?  In your army?"

"No."  Arya isn't surprised.  "I don't think you'd be much good at that kind of killing."

Arya likes the way she talks about it. Killing.  When men talk about war, they use other words- fighting, justice, revenge.  It's not any of that.  It's only killing, only death.

"I could be good at other things."

"It probably wouldn't be honorable, the things that you would be good for."