He had been in Winterfell for less than 24 hours and he already wanted to kill himself. Never had he seen such an ugly castle and he'd spent time in the ruins of Harrenhal. It was nothing but dirt and straw and mud and snow. Even his brother seemed less than thrilled about their current predicament. "Northern whores not up to your standard?" he drawled, watching as his brother approached him, wearing several layers of thick furs to combat the Northern climate.

"A bit horse faced," admitted Tyrion. "And they all smell of wine and haphazard hygiene."

"That's never stopped you before," said Jaime, leaning forward on his elbows against the balcony. He was overlooking the training grounds to see what old Ned Stark had produced in the North and he was less than impressed.

"I didn't say it stopped me," his brother replied with a smile, following his gaze into the muddy training yard. "What are we looking at?"

They weren't looking at much. A handful of young men were practicing striking dummy targets with wooden swords while another group practiced archery. The only remotely interesting bit was the handful of Stark children he'd spotted, seemingly sparring with each other. Most notably was what appeared to be a Stark girl, her gender only apparent from her garments, with dark hair that barely reached her shoulders.

But it wasn't her gender that had caught his attention, but rather her skill with the dual blades she currently wielded. They were wooden, admittedly, and likely only weighed a few pounds each, but she used them with speed and purpose that far outmatched her opponent. It only took a few moments and a hard elbow to the temple before Robb Stark was down in the mud, looking annoyed by his position but not particularly surprised.

The girl only had a moment to gloat before Robb hooked his foot behind her ankle and pulled, sending her toppling face first into the mud beside him. "Found yourself some Starks?" asked Tyrion, his eyes finally landing on what had caught his brother's attention as the girl seemed to be attempting to strangle her brother in the mud. Tyrion watched as the bastard finally managed to pull her off her brother, her limbs still swinging wildly as she tried to break free, but she was laughing all the while.

That was until all of the Stark children froze and turned horrified expressions to their mother, who had caught them out of the castle. Catelyn Stark was a very loud, very angry woman, and even from their spot on the balcony they could pick up words like 'king', 'shame', 'respect', and even 'Lannister'.

Robb was the first to leave, nearly sprinting away from his mother when she tried to grab him by the ear, and the rest were quick to scatter afterwards. The Lannister brothers only had to wait a few seconds before they heard loud, heavy footsteps traipsing up the stairs and a muddy Stark girl appeared before them. Tyrion instantly recognized her as the elder of Lord Stark's daughters, but Jaime had paid much less attention to the Stark family tree. "My lady," Tyrion greeted with a bow when the girl seemed too surprised by the sight of them to do the same.

"Lord Tyrion," she replied, Arya, if he remembered correctly. "Ser Jaime," she added, her eyes darting to his brother for a brief moment before she fell into an awkward curtsy, throwing a glob of mud off her skirts that hit the ground with a 'splat'. "I hope you are finding Winterfell to your liking."

"Not particularly," said Jaime before Tyrion had the chance to answer.

Grey eyes met green as she cut her gaze to his and Jaime couldn't help but notice how similar she looked to Ned in his youth. The same eyes, the same hair, the same dour expression as she looked him over. She had inherited little of her mother's beauty and he doubted that a bath would make the girl any more attractive. "That is unfortunate," she told him. "A blessing, then, that you will be returning to your home so soon. If you'll excuse me."

"Of course, my lady," said Tyrion, throwing in another bow to make up for his brother's rudeness as the Stark girl brushed past them and continued on to her chambers.

"I see what you mean about horse faced," muttered Jaime, doing little to hide his commentary from the girl who was not too far removed to hear it.

Arya's jaw tightened as she stood outside the door to her chambers, an overwhelming desire to whack Jaime Lannister across the head with one of her practice swords bubbling up in her belly. But her mother would box her ears for sure if she accosted one of their Lannister guests while the king was in Winterfell. Instead she pulled off one of her boots, slick and heavy with mud, before flicking it backwards, watching as the mud flew off her shoe and back towards the Lannister men, splattering beautifully across the older's clean, white cloak. "Oh, apologies, my lords," she called, channeling her best Sansa impersonation as Jaime turned his irritated gaze her way. "I had already forgotten you were there."

With that, she kicked off her other boot and gave the pair a much more confident curtsy before disappearing into her chambers.

"How you managed to cut all of this on your own …" her mother trailed off, holding a fistful of her hair and looking at a loss for what to do with it.

Truthfully, she hadn't cut it on her own. It had been Jon who'd helped her hack off the waist length locks her mother had never allowed her to shorten, but she'd never tell them that. Her mother disliked Jon Snow quite enough without attributing her eldest daughter's rather masculine appearance to him, as well.

"I saw the queen wearing plaits," her younger sister supplied, appearing in Arya's line of vision with loose plaits of her own and in a dress Arya remembered taking her sister weeks to make. "Perhaps small ones, connected in the back," she suggested, tugging on chunks of her sister's hair to give her mother an idea.

Arya fought back the urge to smack her hands away but made a mental note to exact revenge for this later. Sansa was always more bold when their mother was present, and gave her older sister a smug look as her mother set to braiding her hair.

Though the reason for the feast may not have been her favorite, Arya would never turn down a reason to eat. Or a reason to drink, and tonight, more than any other, she knew she would be able to get away with drinking more than the usual cup of wine she was permitted for dinner. In fact, she was on her third when Robb leaned over to her. "What d'you reckon they're talking about?" he asked her, jutting his chin up to where her mother appeared to be in deep conversation with the queen.

Arya'd never seen a woman quite like Cersei Lannister before. Beautiful women, of course, but none who looked so golden and pristine. She couldn't imagine what life was like in King's Landing, or what a woman like her may have to say. "Suitors for Sansa," she supposed, her mouth still full of the roast as she spoke. She stole a glance toward her sister, who'd chosen to sit a few feet down, next to her friend Jeyne, and who was casting glances up toward the yellow haired prince.

"Sansa can't have suitors until you do," he reminded her.

"Looks like it'll be you marrying the little princeling," Theon said with the smile that never seemed to leave his face.

She returned the smile as she scooped her spoon into her peas and lifted it, pulling it back and flicking them at him. "Not bloody likely," she grunted, looking over Theon's head toward where Prince Joffrey sat at the high table. He didn't have any noticeable physical deformities, but marriage had been the one thing she'd always dreaded growing up. At fifteen, with her flower "blossoming", as her mother would say, years ago, she was certainly of marrying age, but her father had not pressed for it. She had met no suitors and she couldn't imagine her father would marry her off to some Lannister prince who would take her from the North.

But as she watched them, the queen's eyes landed on her and she watched her with muted interest for a moment before leaning over to say something else to her mother, who smiled before meeting Arya's eyes, as well. Her stomach plummeted into her shoes and she quickly stood, hoping if they couldn't see her, they'd forget she existed and couldn't make any plans for her future.

She could hear Robb calling after her but ignored him, desperate for the cold air to clear her head and ease the knot in her stomach. The great hall was so cluttered, she had to duck and dive between dozens of Northmen, even passing by the King himself sitting out amongst the people, a Northern woman with massive breasts sitting atop his lap. She glanced over her shoulder as she walked to see him bury his face in the woman's chest. She shifted her eyes to the high table, wondering if the queen could see this occur, when she smacked right into someone.

She opened her mouth, an apology forming on her tongue, but it dissolved away when she realized who it was. Her eyes trailed up the length of his intricate, golden armor to find the equally golden man. "Pardon," she muttered, barely loud enough for him to hear it as she moved to go around him. Jaime followed her movements to block her path. "Excuse me," she said more firmly.

"Am I keeping you from another mud puddle?" he wondered, watching as her jaw clenched and overly thick eyebrows knitted together.

"Have you something important to discuss with a horse faced Northern girl?" People had been calling her Arya Horseface for years and it had stopped bothering her long ago. Sansa was the beautiful one, she always had been. "Or has everyone else at the feast already grown weary of you and you're so desperate for companionship you've resorted to blocking my escape?"

"A bit mouthy, aren't you," observed Jaime. The comparisons between Ned and his daughter seemed to stop at appearance. He'd known Lord Eddard Stark for over a decade and had probably shared fewer words with him than he had in the past thirty seconds with his daughter. He was almost grateful that not all Starks were so monosyllabic.

"Ah," said Arya, her eyebrows rising and falling. "The latter, then."

"I do hope you'll be less unpleasant on the King's Road," he said. "A month is a very long time for … this." He gestured vaguely at her, watching as confusion spread across her features. "Ah, haven't they told you?" he asked, a smile forming as he stepped aside to finally let her pass. "You're to come to King's Landing."

A/N: Please don't take this story as any hate against the Arya of the books or as some sort of desire to replace Sansa. I love both of them dearly dearly dearly, but I'd always found the notion that Arya wouldn't survive Sansa's circumstances and vice versa quite interesting. Arya's path in this story will of course differ greatly from Sansa's arc in the books, but I wanted to explore what Arya's life might have been like if she'd been unable to pass for a little boy on the day of Ned's beheading.

Okay, okay, and I also totally wanted to be able to give her proper romances. Let me live.