My first chaptered fic for ASOIAF! I hope you enjoy! :)

The wooden stick crashed down on her elbow, and it was all Arya could do to grit her teeth to stop herself from crying out. That hit would definitely leave a gigantic bruise, but Arya persevered anyway, swinging her stick forward to strike it against her opponent's. The clashing sound that followed was like music to her ears, and Arya could not help but smile despite the pain. They parried for a few more minutes before the young girl got a good hit in, and her opponent fell to the grass covered ground.

With a chuckle, she swung her pretend sword in a victory movement.

Panting, she lay down her sword, and dropped to the ground. "I told you I could beat you," she said, triumph causing a wide smile to appear on her face. He was so much bigger than her, and she had still won, so she decided she may as well take pride in that fact.

"That you did," the boy said, raising himself from the ground and smiling back at her. "I must admit I've never been challenged by a little lady before."

Tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear, Arya corrected him, "I am no lady," she said adamantly.

The black-haired boy raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging at his lips. "I salute your skill, My Lady," he teased before lying back down in the grass, closing his eyes and enjoying the hot afternoon sun.

Arya groaned. What a stupid boy. She wasn't a Lady no more that this boy was a Lord. Lords and Ladies lived in castles, and Arya had never set foot in a castle in her entire life. She had to admit though, that despite his stupidity, this boy would be quite a useful sparring partner. It was so hard to find someone who was a challenge who would also duel with a girl. People were silly creatures. "We'll do this again," she announced.

The boy opened one eye and looked at her quizzically. "Was that an invitation?"

"It's the only invitation you're going to get," Arya replied, sinking to the ground and closing her eyes.

"I guess I'd better accept then."

"I'll beat you every time, you know," Arya warned.

"I'm quaking in my boots, My Lady."

Arya frowned. They were going to have to do something about that nickname. It would drive her demented if he kept calling her that.

Moments later, she begrudgingly rose from the soft grass of the riverbank. She needed to get home before her parents sent her brothers out to look for her. Dusting herself off, she glanced over at the boy. He was handsome, she thought. His hair was thick but messy, and his eyes were the most extraordinary blue colour. Sansa would have liked the look of him. She figured he was around about the same age as Jon and Robb, her older brothers. "I'm going home," she said finally, as she began to walk away.

"Goodbye," the boy called, sitting up. "Hey, wait! I don't know your name."

The girl turned back. "It's Arya. And yours?"

"I-," he swallowed thickly. "My name is Gendry," he said. The tone of his voice made it sound like he was unsure of his own name.

Arya thought he was a very strange, very stupid boy indeed.

"Arya, there you are!" She heard Bran shout, as she turned the corner towards home. Her younger brother came rushing towards her. Startled, Arya paused and gave him a curious look. Bran didn't always look so eager to see her. In fact, a lot of the time they ended up arguing over who was the better archer, or who was the best at swordplay whenever they did spend any time at all together. "Come quick," he urged.

"What's wrong?"

"It's the king!" Bran said excitedly.

"What about the king?"

"He's here! In our house!"

Utterly confused, Arya could only splutter out one word questions. "What? Why?"

"Robb saved Prince Tommen's life today down by the lake. He was going to drown and Robb saved him!" Bran's complete delight at the tale warmed Arya's heart. He really idolised his big brothers, as Arya did herself.

"Come on!" he said, as he tugged her hand.

Arya hardly had time to contemplate what a bizarre sight it was to see the 'King of the Seven Kingdoms' sitting at her dining room table, surrounded by her family members and his guards, before his blue eyes were trained on her.

"Seven Hells," he muttered quietly to himself.

Arya cocked an eyebrow. She knew her clothes were dirty and her hair was unkempt, but even a king should be able to control such rudeness in another person's home. It wasn't like she had been expecting the 'King of the Seven Kingdoms' to ever grace her house with his presence, least not tonight. All she had wanted was to sneak through the window and change her clothes before her mother saw the state of her and scolded her silly. The king had kicked that plan sorely in the ass. Now she was bound to be lectured the moment he left, from her mother but most of all from Sansa.

She sniffed quietly, thoroughly unimpressed with inconsiderate royals.

The king drained his wine in one gulp and Sansa rushed forward to refill his goblet, careful not to spill a drop.

"Your name is?" he asked, his eyes never leaving Arya's face.

"Arya," she answered and hurriedly followed with a "Your Grace" after seeing the look of horror on her sister's face.

If she were not so annoyed, she would have burst out laughing.

"And what have you been up to?" he said, indicating her inappropriate attire.

Arya raised her chin. "Duelling," she replied, in a voice that dared him to mock her for her unorthodox pursuits.

Laughter rumbled through the King's large body, and drops of wine landed in his beard. Arya could almost hear Sansa's heart palpitations, and she could see Bran trying to contain his laughter out of the corner of her eye.

"She's a feisty little thing, isn't she?" The king exchanged a look with her father. He had a look of curiosity about him, as if he was mulling over something that was troubling him deeply and for the first time in her life Arya thought she saw a hint of fear in her father's eyes. Taking another gulp of wine, the king continued, "My children run around like wild animals. Never know where they are half the time. I see you have the same problem," he said, nodding at Arya herself.

"Yes, Your Grace," her father replied, in a steady voice.

Arya took a seat next to Bran and listened as her parents made polite chatter with the King, as he drank his way through three more glasses of wine at a quick pace, belching occasionally. Scratching the edge of the wooden table, Arya wondered why her mother, who had always brought her children up to be well-spoken, was now spewing out low-born phrases like it was going out of fashion. Surely, if you were in the presence of a king you should do the exact opposite. The young girl came to the conclusion that she would never understand matters of etiquette. Then again, it was not like she would ever have much opportunity to use them anyway.

Draining his goblet, the bearded man stood up. Everyone else followed suit, bowing and curtseying. He thanked Robb once again for saving the young prince's life before thanking her parents for their hospitality.

The King paused at the doorway, addressing her father. "What was your surname again?"

"Snow, Your Grace," her father answered.

"A bastard of the North?" King Robert said as he looked around their modest home. "You've done well for yourself."

With that he was gone into the night. His guardsmen followed closely after.

Arya swore she heard her mother let out a sigh of relief as the door slammed shut.

Arya was reading a book when she heard shuffling feet enter her room. "Bran?" she said when her brother's face came into view, "What do you want?"

"I've never seen mother or father look so terrified," Bran whispered. Arya could see in the candlelight that his expression was a mixture of uncertainty and fear.

Before she could reply, the low echo of voices travelled up from downstairs. Motioning for Bran to stay quiet, she moved out into the hallway to listen. He followed her closely, and they sat knee-to-knee on a step of the staircase, straining to listen to the conversation between their mother and father in the dining room.

"I thought for sure he was going to recognise you," Arya heard her mother say. "I don't like this, my husband. I fear for our family's safety."

Arya and Bran exchanged a look, and the young girl could see that her brother had no more clue of what was going on than she did.

"Hush, it's over now," she heard her father murmur; "I doubt the good king Baratheon will even spare us a second thought. It's been sixteen years since he last saw me and he drinks more now than he did back then."

"We're right under the king's nose here," Catelyn protested.

"And the last place they'll look is in their own backyard. We're safe, Cat."

"But did you see the way he looked at Arya?" Her mother's voice was ripe with emotion, and Arya struggled to think of any reason why.

Why had the king looked at her so strangely?

And why on earth were her parents so terrified of their identities being found out?

But even more importantly, who were her parents? Who was she?

A maelstrom of thoughts collided in her head and Arya could not make head nor tail of any of them.

Just a few hours ago life had been so simple, when she had been sparring with that boy named Gendry.

"What are you two doing?" a voice asked from behind them. Arya felt Bran jolt beside her, and she laid a hand on his knee to keep him from falling down the stairs before whipping her head around to face her sister.

"N-nothing," Bran stammered from beside her.

"Why was father worried about getting recognised by the king?" Arya asked her firmly. She wanted answers and she wanted them now. If Sansa had the answers then she was bloody well going to extract them from her.

Sansa rolled her eyes, a habit she seemed to be perfecting as of late. "Gods, Arya!" she whispered furiously. "You can be so dense! Haven't you ever wondered when we come from? We do not fit in here. We never have. We are not like the other townspeople."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Arya asked.

Sansa just shook her head and walked away, apparently deciding that Arya was a lost cause.

Bran got up and made his way up the rest of the steps before looking back to see if Arya was following.

She did, but not before one last sentence drifted up from her father's mouth to reach her ears. "They won't be children forever and winter is coming."

Winter is coming.

Winter is coming.

Where had she heard that before?