The Master of Arms and The Lord of Storm's End

The sun was high in the midday sky, yet it was half hidden by heavy clouds that left a crisp chill in the air. Inside the rebuilt castle walls of Winterfell, the new Master of Arms was busy giving out hard lessons to the ones that had ventured north to swear fealty to House Stark.

"Remember the goal!" Arya Stark shouted as she easily side-stepped a wild downward slice from a broadsword that was meant to cleave deep into her left shoulder and torso. "Stay light of feet and restrict your opponent's target! Side facing is key! Now come at me again, Roland!"

The fair-haired youth in well-worn boiled leather, came at her with a new determination as the other new recruits looked on from their silent vantage points standing on either side of the spar. Next, Roland's larger sword cut a side slash toward Arya's hip that she easily parried with two ringing clangs of Needle's thinner blade.

"If the blow is deflected, immediately follow up with another attack! The trick is to never aim for the same place twice!" Arya loudly instructed as she dropped to one knee, spinning in the dirt with Needle as she did so. The blade thwacked off the hard leather covering the other's broader leg; it was a slice that would have no doubt cut clear through breeches, flesh, and bone if she had been serious. Luckily for Roland, this was just training.

And it seemed that Roland was heeding her words as he immediately followed up with a downward slice to the top of her head.

"Save your arm strength when you can!" Arya shouted, deftly swaying her body to the right to avoid the blow entirely. "Make your body an extension of your sword! Use it wisely!"

Two hands on his hilt now, Roland grit his teeth and swung with all his might in a follow-up slash from the side again. Arya, still lowered to the ground, easily rolled out the way, coating the side of her own leathers with a layer of mud. As she came out of her roll, she hopped back up on two solid feet and instantly lunged forward for the kill.

"My lady," a voice called from behind, just as Arya's sword whispered through the air to come and rest a hairsbreadth away from Roland's bobbing throat.

"My lady, your sister would like a word," Ser Brienne of Tarth and current Winterfell Captain of the Castle Guard stated as Arya fluidly twirled her weapon in her grasp and slid her sword back into its sheath.

"Podrick," Arya called to the Winterfell knight that was no longer a squire. "I'll leave the rest of the lesson to you if you don't mind."

Podrick, who had been leaning against the castle wall and silently observing, pushed off from his perch while drawing his sword. "I will whip them into shape until your return, my lady."

"See that you do," Arya said with a nod and then she and Brienne were off.

Heading toward the main part of the keep, Arya brushed the dirt from her clothes. She did so mainly in an effort to keep her dear sister from complaining when she saw her more than anything else. Sansa did not mind that she had requested the mantle of Master of Arms and gladly acquiesced to her request. However, her sister did so with a sharp reminder that, no matter her title, Arya will always be a lady representing House Stark. Luckily for Arya, Sansa's definition of a lady in respect to Arya has changed over the years. Her sister no longer expected Arya to wear finery and curtsy. However, Sansa told her she does expect Arya to at least act like a lord their father would be proud of, and Arya could find no fault in that.

"You have a bit of twig," Brienne told her as they walked side by side. "There. No. Other side."

"Thanks," Arya replied as she plucked the stick out of her long windblown hair. "So," she casually asked as their footsteps lead them inside the Castle. "What does Sansa need of me now? Is there another thief that needs to be dealt with?" Thinking of the disgraced squire she had maimed not but a fortnight ago, Arya frowned. "I had hoped that last lesson would stay in the minds of the others."

"No," Brienne replied, her mind too going to the image of the teenage boy whose right hand Arya had cleanly severed from his body. Shaking that image away, she said, "Lady Sansa's had a raven. I have no idea the contents, but she did say she wishes to speak of them with you."

"I see," Arya frowned. Dark wings bring dark words. She went over the possibilities of who the message could be from and its contents as they continued their trek to the library in silence.

Could it be Jon from his new home far north of the wall with Tormund and Ghost? Has there been an accident or altercation during his self-proclaimed exile after ending the mad Dragon Queen and the love of his life? Or could something have happened to Bran in King's landing? Could someone have tried to assassinate their new King of the 7 Kingdoms, the 3-eyed raven, and Leader of the Council of Men? With her family's tragic history, the news of a raven always sets her on edge. For a damaged Arya, even having found herself living in peaceful times at last, a part of her can't help but wait for the other shoe to drop.

Before Arya rounded the threshold to the library, Brienne took up a guard post by the door. Arya continued inside, setting eyes on the fair-skinned, red haired woman who so reminded Arya of a hardened version of their mother now. "You were looking for me?"

"Yes," Sansa replied, looking up from a piece of parchment unfurled in her fingers. "Apparently, I've been invited to a wedding."

"A wedding?" Arya echoed with relief as she took up a seat. Kicking the side of a booted foot to rest on her knee, she slid back in her chair and prodded, "Go on then. Has Bran and The Council finally decided on a queen?"

"No," Sansa replied, laying the scroll down to rest atop the stack of parchments detailing Winterfell's resource management before her. "Myself and any honored guests are cordially invited to witness Lord Bronn of Highgarden taking the hand of Lady Constance Emmanuel of Dorne. The joyous occasion will be held in two moons time, on the eve of the solstice in spring."

"And you want me to accompany you?"

"I would."

"Brienne will man the castle with Podrick while we're away?"

"That was my plan."

"Can I assume that I'll be there to solely protect you and not to make nice with the other lords and ladies?"

"You can."

"Alright," Arya agreed with a thoughtful nod. "I'll go."

"Good," Sansa said with a smile. "I'll have an outfit made for you alongside my own. Yours will not be a dress, I assure you."

Arya shrugged, bending forward to fill an empty cup with the water from a nearby jug. "I'll leave it to you then."

"But I don't even like him. I mean, the last council meeting we had, he called me a twat," Lord Gendry Baratheon complained to his trusted advisor Ser Davos of Seaworth as they stood staring out the large window of Gendry's scholar. Even though the news he had just received was bad at least the scenery wasn't; he sighed as he took in the grand sight of the sun shining over steep cliffs and the frothing sea below.

Arms crossed, Davos stemmed the need to roll his eyes. "You don't have to like a man to attend his wedding. I promise you this. More than half the attendees will feel the same way you do but—"

"But," Gendry finished, wholly resigned, "they'll go because they're honor and duty bound."

"Too right you are," Davos replied solemnly back with a nod.

"Fine. I'll go," Gendry reluctantly agreed. "But I'm telling you this. I refuse any ideas of traveling with any small armies tagging along behind me. If we go, it should be with just a small group. Besides, no one else needs to sit through this torture but those who actually need to."

"Consideration for his people is a great trait in a lord," Davos replied with a bit of humor. "But I agree. Myself and two of our best guards should be more than enough if we keep a low profile on the road."

"That I can do," Gendry replied. A silence fell on them as Gendry's thoughts took over him; the lull was broken by the sudden tap of his fingers on the stone sill. "So … all the heads of houses will definitely show up then?"

Davos narrowed eyes at the others failed nonchalant tone, but replied certain all the same, "Would bet a few ships on it."

Then, with a sigh of his own, Davos pat the man's shoulder and added, "And with that, lad, be forewarned. Many will use these nuptials to try to bend your ear about a fine lady in their blood line that would be oh so perfect just for you."

"For me?" Gendry echoed, already terribly uneasy about the idea. "But I'm not-"

"With these types of things, its best to keep your answers as vague as possible. Too outright a refusal could make the asker lose face and remember … keeping this hard fought peace is the most important thing right now."

Gendry nodded in resignation. "I know. I promise I'll try not to say anything to start any wars."

"Good, lad," Davos replied, before frowning "Speaking of marriage proposals… You know…"

"Oh, not this again," Gendry groused, turning around and heading back to his desk where his practice pen and parchment lay. "I'd rather go back to my lessons than hear you talk about how a lord needs a lady to make an heir."

"But an heir you will need," Davos argued back, he too tired of having to broach the subject that always seems to set the other off. "And to do that, you will need a lady."

"Don't need a lady," Gendry all but growled.

"Yara Greyjoy seems to think so," Davos pointedly reminded. "And her and that smitten distant cousin of hers will no doubt track you down at the wedding."

"I smiled at her. I smiled at her once," Gendry groaned which just made Davos chuckle.

"Sometimes a smile is all it takes to grab the heart of a fair maiden"

"Maiden is not the word I would use to describe Fara Greyjoy," Gendry groused back. His mind brought up the girl's mischievous brown eyes and up-swept curly red hair. He pushed it aside as soon as it came.

"Maybe not, but one can argue that the girl isn't too hard on the eyes," Davos countered.

"A pretty face is one thing, but her attitude towards everyone and everything is just-" Gendry shook his head.

Davos shrugged. "Marriage has been known to temper a person."

"I would never try to change my wife," Gendry ground out. "If I truly loved her, even if she was a loud mouthed tomboy hell-bent on killing me slowly from the inside out, I still wouldn't force her to change a bloody thing." With a shake of his head, Gendry cut off his thoughts. "Look, can we just… Can we just get back to my writing this godsdamn return message to the bastard who apparently likes calling me a twat?"

Davos gave in to the request as he went to take his seat on the other side of the writing table. However, he did so with many questions nipping at his insides. For one, he could understand a man wanting to be selective in his wife, especially a bastard newly made a lord, but this… Davos was almost certain there was a story there, but he wouldn't push. Maybe in time, Gendry will finally tell him all about this mysterious girl who obviously shattered his kind heart to pieces.