good dirt | arya stark

prologue

Three children were running around, all with light brown hair. They seemed to be all proportional in height, the boy the oldest, and the two girls that were running around as fast as they could keep up were just as energized as he was. Clearly, their father didn't think that it was appropriate. Maybe it was because the youngest was more crawling than on her feet.

The plump man cleared his throat, eyes darting to his mother fleetingly before he continued to attempt to call to his children. "Loras, Margaery! Play fairly!"

The old woman sat and rolled her eyes, watching the children play as well, seeing the youngest daughter fall over and into the dirt of the gardens again and again, taking even more green with her on her pretty dress. "She'll be fine, Mace." Mace looked away in a manner that could have been called ashamed. "Let children play. They won't be children forever."

"But-"

The old woman held up her hand, interrupting her son as she did so often. Her son may have held the title, but it was obvious that he was just the mouthpiece. She was the true head of household. "She doesn't need to know. If she doesn't know, she will overcome it. We will not treat her any differently."

As if on cue, the youngest waddled over, walking past her father who had his arms opened in a welcoming manner. His arms dropped lowly as she instead went to her grandmother, ignoring the shrieks of her older siblings. "Aegon the Conqueror." She said, her voice hoarse as she uttered the few words. She never really said much, and when she did, it was about a book.

"You want me to tell you the story of Aegon the Conqueror?" Olenna asked, pursing her lips afterwords. "You'll have to say it all, like Loras and Margaery."

The young child furrowed her brows and cleared her throat, which felt raw and dry even though she had servants bringing her water almost around the clock. She let her eyes focus on the hanging gardens before she looked at Olenna, who was emotionlessly staring back at her granddaughter, awaiting. "Would you-" she coughed. "I would like to hear... about the Conqueror."

"Alright," Olenna responded, secretly proud, and congratulating the girl inside of her head. She would have much rather showed the girl who has pot she was, but she knew that if she encouraged that the progression would not carry on for much longer. "Even though you've heard this so much that you could probably recite this yourself-" she cut herself off at the panicked look in the little girl's eyes. "Oh hush. I won't make you talk, fragile little thing. Sit down and listen."

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   The years had not been much kinder to the girl. She was still stumbling around, bed ridden, and her sister and brother still had to come to her to speak. The visits became less and less due to Loras and his ambition to becoming a knight, and Margaery and her desire to be a queen of something. A queen of anything, really. She was eight years old now, Margaery was twelve, and Loras was already seventeen. He hardly had time for the bedridden girl anymore, only for his swords and jousting and doing anything but sitting by her bed.

  The only person who came to visit her regularly was a boy around her age, who was a noble of House Oakheart, who was in the Reach. He was to squire for her brother when he became a knight, which he thought was going to be any day. She had been getting visited by him almost daily before she finally could muster up the courage and strength to ask his name, to which he simply replied; "Kiran Oakheart, your newest and best companion."

    When she didn't have him with her, she sat staring at the same garden everyday, waiting for the door to open and for someone she liked to walk in, to try and cheer her up with a story of some sorts. In reality, she knew that it would be a servant who was bringing her food or coming to place her over her chamber pot or bathe her because she couldn't do it herself. Whenever she tried, she always ended up injuring herself even more, so she stopped trying. Instead, she tried to strengthen her mind, forgetting about her legs. She read stories by herself, learning how to form words in private, where she wasn't being pressured to do so by her grandmother or father. She was a smart girl, but sadly, she could hardly use words to show it.