Ser Loras Tyrell, began to explain the rules. Arya listened carefully, drinking in every word. Three distances: first, a short range, less than forty yards; then seventy; finally, a hundred. Each archer had three arrows per distance. A bullseye earned eight points, the inner circle four, and the outer only two. The highest score would win.
The games began. Arya's eyes narrowed as she scanned the line of competitors. There were a hundred of them at the start, but by the first round half would move on; by the second distance, only six would remain to battle for the final prize.
Ser Balon Swann, tall and proud, his black-and-white surcoat gleaming. Prince Jalabhar Xho, the Summer Islander with silk and feathers, bow held as if it were a limb of his own body. Ser Rolland Storm, his face sharp and scarred, Lucas Blackwood holding a weirwood bow, Anguy of the Marches, a commonborn archer with deadly aim. Ser Robar Royce, steady and serious.
And then… there was one that no one recognized. The archer had hidden their face beneath a helm and a shadowed cowl. Arya's curiosity flared like wildfire. Mystery knights were common in the jousts, their faces masked and their identities secret. But in archery? She had never heard of such a thing. Her eyes followed the figure with a sharp, calculating interest. Who are you? she thought. And why hide?
The crowd had grown thick now, voices rising and falling like waves, as if the city itself had pressed close to see who would claim the prize. Arya perched on the edge of her seat, leaning forward so far she thought she might tumble over.
Renly Baratheon loomed just behind her chair, all smiles and swagger, as if the whole tourney existed only for his amusement. "I'll wager a hundred dragons it's Arthur," he declared, loud enough for the ladies nearby to titter into their sleeves.
Arya nearly choked on a laugh. "That's stupid," she said, keeping her voice low but not caring if he heard the bite in it. "Why would Arthur hide like that?"
Renly's grin only sharpened. "You Starks lack imagination."
Loras didn't so much as glance at him. His eyes stayed fixed on the archer's lithe shape down in the lists. "Too small a frame by far. Manderly is broader at the shoulder and stands taller besides."
"They're far from here. Distance plays tricks on the eye," Renly said, as if he alone could see clearly. "You shall see. Mystery and spectacle, those are Arthur's favored games."
"Then he wouldn't be standing over there," Arya snapped, pointing down the field.
The far end of the grounds bustled with squires and smiths and half-armored knights. Sunlight flashed off steel and brass. Amidst them strode Arthur Manderly, helm tucked beneath one arm. He wore half his armor already, brigandine strapped tight, his hair pulled back, a squire fastening his vambraces. Even at a distance, Arthur's gait was unmistakable, long, confident strides, purposeful, without any hint of secrecy.
Arya jabbed a triumphant finger at him. "See? Not him."
Renly stared, blinked once, then barked a laugh. "Seven hells. So it isn't. I suppose my gold isn't safe after all."
Loras permitted himself the faintest smile. "I did say so."
Margaery pressed a hand to her lips, giggling. "Some wagers are doomed from the start, my lord."
Renly leaned down toward Arya with a conspirator's grin. "Still, it would've made a finer story if it were Arthur."
Arya smirked back. "Only because you like foolish tales."
That earned a loud, delighted laugh from Renly who replied, "Oh, you'd get along splendidly with my brother Stannis. He shares your fondness for fools."
The people around them laughed, though Arya didn't understand the joke. She only shrugged.
Beside her, Margaery leaned close, her voice soft as petals. "It must be a woman, Arya."
A spark flared in Arya's chest at that, warm, bright, hungry. A woman. A girl. Someone small and quick and clever, standing against lords and knights and kings as if they were nothing. The men around them chuckled at Margaery's guess, not cruelly, but dismissive all the same.
Arya didn't care. Let them laugh.
She wanted it to be a girl.
She wanted a girl to win. To show them. To show everyone.
And perhaps Father would see it too. And next time there was a tourney, she wouldn't be sitting in a box, hands folded like a proper lady. She'd be down there, bow in hand, and no one would dare call her horseface again.
The competitors took their shots in turn at the hundred-yard mark. Ser Rolland and Ser Robar fared poorly, scoring merely ten points combined. Lucas Blackwood's arrows found the inner circles twice, scoring twelve. Prince Jalabhar scored fourteen with his third arrow grazing the bullseye. Ser Balon Swann followed with one perfect bullseye and two inner circle shots, tallying sixteen points. Anguy, the commonborn archer from the Marches, drew his bow with a practiced ease, striking two bullseyes and one arrow just shy of a bullseye.
Arya's pulse thrummed in her ears as the mystery archer stepped forward. Two arrows pierced the bullseye with a sharp, confident twang; the third struck the inner circle, just shy of perfection. Exactly the same as Anguy. The judges murmured among themselves, then a single-shot decider was called to determine the victor.
Anguy laughed as he nocked his arrow, loud and brash. "I'm gonna unmask you after this," he called over his shoulder. "That's what the victor does, don't he?" He shot another bullseye confident in his victory.
Arya's breath caught. She hardly noticed that the stands were now nearly full, that King Robert and Queen Cersei had arrived, that the hush of the crowd had fallen over the grounds like a heavy cloak. Her father, Lord Eddard Stark, had appeared at the edge of the lists, his cloak of brown and gray catching the sun. The crowd rose as one, bowing and murmuring in reverent whispers.
King Robert leaned forward, laughing, his great hands resting on the rail. "What do we have here, then?" he bellowed, his voice carrying over the dust and sun. "Go on, go on! Show me what these lads can do!"
Arya leaned forward, her elbows pressed to the railing, eyes wide and unblinking. The archer stood still, bow in hand, the white wood gleaming in the morning sun like it had been carved from moonlight. Arya's fingers itched to touch it, to hold it, to feel the strength behind that pull.
The arrow flew. Faster than she had thought possible, straighter than the sunbeam cutting across the field. It struck, she gasped as she saw it, dead center, driving through Anguy's arrow and splitting it almost perfectly in two. The crowd erupted. Gasps, cheers, and whistles collided across the grounds. Anguy himself stared in disbelief, his jaw slack, hand frozen halfway to his bow.
King Robert threw back his head and laughed, a deep, shaking roar that made the ground tremble beneath Arya's feet. "Ha! By the Seven, that display would impress Foss the Archer himself! Come forward, and show yourself bowman! Your King commands it!"
The archer hesitated, head tilted slightly as if weighing a thousand thoughts at once. Arya could see the tension in the stance, the way the archer's shoulders were taut, the way their fingers brushed against the bow.
She followed the archer's gaze, noting it flick toward Arthur. He stood near the lists in armor, tall, calm, and smiling, waiting along with the others to see the victor. The archer's eyes lingered there, like Arya's did when she wanted Robb, Jon or Arthur to help save her from trouble.
Arya's heart quickened. Who could it be?
The King's patience thinned, "Get on with it, damn you, or I'll have that mask torn from your head myself!"
The archer's head lifted slowly, the slightest tilt, revealing a strand of hair escaping beneath the helm. Arya leaned closer, squinting. Could it really be…?
The crowd erupted in astonishment, then laughter and cheers. King Robert's deep roar cut over everything. "Ha! By the Seven, It's a girl archer! And a bloody good one at that!" He slapped the railing with both hands, laughing so hard he nearly toppled forward.
Arya blinked, stunned, seeing the girl's green hair, tied neatly in a braid, gleamed in the sunlight. Her brown eyes were steady and sharp, her face calm but with a fierceness that made Arya's pulse quicken. She looked… familiar.
Margaery leaned close to Arya, whispering with a quiet triumph, "See? I told you she would be a girl."
"Why's she staring at Manderly?" Loras muttered, brow furrowed.
The girl's gaze did not wander to the king, or the nobles, or the cheering crowd. It was fixed on Arthur, who stood frozen, eyes wide, a mixture of fear, astonishment and disbelief on his face.
The King's laughter boomed. "We have our winner!" Robert declared, "State your name, girl!"
The girl straightened, shoulders back, bow still in hand, her voice calm but firm. "Wylla Manderly, your grace."
Recognition hit Arya finally, Wylla?Arthur's cousin. The one who had given her the bow. She had heard so much of Wylla. Her heart thumped with excitement and envy, a mixture that left her breathless.
"She's… she's amazing," Arya whispered to herself.
King Robert laughed again, "By the Seven, this is a fine sight! Come on, Arthur, bring the girl here. I want a proper look at her." His voice boomed across the yard, carrying over the shouts.
Wylla's lips were pressed into a thin line, her eyes flicking to Arthur for guidance, who quickly shrugged off his shock and disbelief, and went up to Wylla. Arthur walked with quick, certain strides beside her, his hand hovered near her elbow, as though to steady her or make sure she didn't make her escape, Arya thought with a smile.
Arya's breath caught when she realized just how small Wylla looked beside the tall, broad-shouldered Arthur. And yet she moved with a quiet grace, the braid of green hair bouncing lightly with each step, but there was something in the way she carried herself, calm, unflinching, and proud. The crowd erupted around her, cheering and clapping, their voices a wave that threatened to sweep her off her feet.
King Robert leaned forward, eyes crinkling with mirth. "Step closer, girl! Let your King see what you've done. By the Seven, I've never seen an arrow split another arrow before!"
Wylla bowed low to the King. "Your Grace," she said, voice steady and clear, "thank you for your kind words."
"Bring her to the feast tonight!" King Robert laughed, and roared. "We shall honor our little Jonquil properly!" Then he waved them off, already calling for more wine.
Arya felt a little shiver run through her at the king's words, Jonquil of the North. It felt like she was inside one of old Nan's tales. Wylla stood there bearing it all, green hair glinting in the sun, chin lifted though her hands still trembled. Arthur's shoulders eased at last, though his eyes never left his cousin, as if fearing she'd vanish the moment he blinked.
Wylla bowed stiffly. Arthur bowed more deeply. The two turned to go.
Before Arya could even draw breath, Lady Margaery leaned in, her eyes bright with some secret delight. "Let us go meet our new Jonquil," she said. "What do you say?"
Arya's heart jolted. She hadn't expected that. Her first glance shot toward her father. She didn't dare leave the high box without his word, fearing she'll have to suffer Septa Mordane's lectures again.
Margaery walked straight to Lord Eddard with the confidence of a queen.
"My lord Stark," she said, her smile soft and bright as summerwine, "may I borrow your lovely daughter for a moment? We wish to fetch our new heroine. It shan't take long."
Renly only smirked, as if this were all a harmless jest. Loras didn't even trouble himself to comment, simply folded his arms and watched with mild amusement.
Lord Eddard blinked, clearly taken aback. Sansa's face lit up like dawn; she sat up straighter, smoothing her skirts, already prepared to stand.
"Aye… you may, my lady," Her father said, though he looked uncertain.
"The gold cloaks shall escort them," Renly added smoothly, "so you needn't worry, my lord."
Sansa rose half an inch, smiling her perfect, courtly smile.
Margaery turned her head, still smiling, and said, "Let's go then, Arya."
Sansa froze her eyes went wide with confusion, Father's brows drawn, even the ladies around them whispering behind gloved fingers. Arya felt heat bloom in her cheeks, startled and uncertain and… pleased. Very pleased.
Margaery slipped her hand around Arya's arm gently.
"Come," she murmured and Arya, who so rarely was chosen for anything at all, rose and went with her.
Arya felt her stomach twist as they went up to them. The cheering of the crowd had faded into a tense hum, the air between Arthur and Wylla crackling with a weight she had never seen before. Arthur's hands were clenched at his sides, jaw tight, and his blue-green eyes flamed with something fierce and worried.
"You can't do this, Wylla," Arthur said, voice sharp. "Your mother, gods, she must be worried sick! How incompetent I have become that I didn't notice. How did we not see her coming? Why did we not receive any word from home?"
His words poured like a storm, a torrent Arya could hardly follow, but she felt the urgency, the fear, the anger. She had never seen Arthur so red in the face, so tense, as if he might snap in two under the weight of his anger.
Wylla's shoulders were slumped, her green hair glimmered like new spring leaves, but her eyes were brimming with tears, and Arya felt her heart twist.
Ser Wendel stammered beside him, flustered and red-faced. "They must have sent ravens, nephew… it… it must be on its way," he mumbled, wringing his hands, voice thick with embarrassment.
Arthur whirled on Wylla, eyes flashing. "Explain yourself!"
"Stop it, Arthur!" Arya shouted, voice cutting through the tension. "Can't you see you're making her cry?"
Arthur froze mid-step. "Arya?" His eyes widened, surprise flashing before the anger returned in full force. Then he noticed Margaery beside her. "Lady Margaery… please. Give us some privacy. It is a family matter," he said, voice low and hard.
Arya's fists tightened. "You're bullying her!" she shouted, stepping closer.
Wylla blinked, stunned, her lips parting slightly. Arthur's anger flared, blue-green eyes glinting, and Arya felt the heat of it wash over her. She was about to speak again when Margaery stepped forward, voice smooth and soft.
"Forgive us, Ser Arthur," she said, bowing her head slightly, "we only wished to congratulate Lady Wylla on her brilliant victory. It is not every day one sees a warrior maiden."
The words seemed to land with a soft weight. Wylla's shoulders relaxed a fraction, and a small, shy smile tugged at her lips. Pride, hidden behind the tension, shone in her brown eyes. Even Wendel straightened, pride lifting his bulk slightly, a hint of a smile breaking his nervousness.
Arthur remained tense, but the edge of his fury softened, though only slightly. Arya watched him, heart still thumping, realizing just how fiercely protective he was of his blood.
Margaery crouched slightly and pressed a green handkerchief to Wylla's cheek, dabbing the tears away with gentle care. "You are extraordinary, my lady," she said softly, her voice carrying genuine admiration.
"Truly, you were brilliant!!!" Arya said excitedly. "I've never seen anyone shoot like that."
Arya noticed Wylla's lips quiver with a mixture of relief and pride. The girl's hands curled around her bow, no longer trembling as badly. "Thank you, my ladies," she said, voice low but steady.
Wylla's eyes darted back to Arthur, who was still scowling. "I'm sorry, Arthur," she said, voice soft, "I didn't mean to cause trouble."
Arthur's hands clenched into fists, his eyes flashing with both fear and anger. "How did you even get on a ship? Whose ship was it? I'll have his head!"
"Then I'd have a headless cousin!" Wylla's laugh rang out, bright and sudden, "Your future wife would then blame me."
Arya burst into laughter, and Margaery beside her let out a small, melodic laugh as well. The sound lightened the mood around them, even Arthur's rigid form seemed almost human, caught between fury and relief.
Arya muttered, still laughing, "HEADLESS ARTHUR!"
Wylla added with another laugh, "It suits him well."
"You're jesting! She's jesting!" Arthur snapped, though the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying the faintest crack in his anger.
"Calm down, nephew," Wendel said, his voice low, carrying both calm and reassurance. "At least she's safe."
Arthur exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, eyes still sharp upon Wylla as if to make sure she truly was unharmed. "Barely," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "You snuck onto my ship, how?"
Wylla spoke softly. "I exchanged places with a maid who was joining your household," she said. "I convinced her to leave with a small jewel… and then… I dyed my hair green so no one would know it was me. I spoke in a Tyroshi accent, learned it from hearing the merchants at the harbor, it seemed the easiest one. When we reached the city, I stayed with the servants and worked with them. No one paid me mind, they thought I was new, a stranger. You were always busy."
"Quite the adventure, my lady." Margaery muttered softly.
"Please forgive me, Arty," Wylla said, her voice small, almost a whisper, "Please… I'll never go anywhere again. I swear it."
Arthur's jaw was tight, his brows drawn together, fists clenched at his sides. He looked ready to snap, "Wylla…" His voice was rough, almost strangled. "Do you understand what you've done? A ship, a city… you could have been killed. Do you know what might have happened?!"
Wylla swallowed hard, her lips pressed tight, but she nodded, lifting her chin slightly. "I… I know. But I had to see, Arty. I couldn't stay. I had to know what it was like before I was shipped away."
Arya's cheeks burned, partly from the flush of excitement, partly from the anger she felt on Wylla's behalf. She had never seen anyone so bold, sneaking onto a ship, outsmarting servants, moving through a city like a shadow, and yet now she had the strange, bubbling urge to defend her.
"If you don't forgive her, Arthur," Arya said, stamping her small foot, "I'm gonna tell everyone what you and Jon did!"
Arthur's eyes snapped toward her, amused and startled.
Margaery leaned forward, curiosity shining in her eyes. "Ooo… Do tell? What did Ser Arthur do?"
Arya puffed out her chest, eager to tell, feeling the words spill out. "Oh, one day Theon was going to the tailor to get my mother's clothes. Arthur convinced Jon to help him switch–"
Before she could finish, Arthur's hand shot out faster than she had expected, clamping over her mouth. "Bup bup bup," he said, his eyes wide with mock outrage. "Shut your trap, Arya, you traitor!"
The tension cracked. Margaery laughed, a bright, tinkling sound, while even Wylla's lips twitched at the corners. Arya's eyes peeked out from under Arthur's hand, and she gave him a pointed glare, though the corners of her mouth threatened to lift in a laugh.
Arthur's face softened, "You will rue the day you tell a soul anything, little wolf," he muttered mockingly.
"I'll tell anyway," Arya whispered, her eyes darting toward Wylla, who gave her a faint, shy smile of thanks.
Margaery leaned closer to Arya, her smile warm, conspiratorial. "Now, Ser Arthur, please do forgive our Jonquil. Lady Arya and I shall take her along with us and learn her tricks," she said, a playful glint in her eyes. "And perhaps your tales, too."
Arthur blinked, a faint pink creeping into his cheeks. "You… well, very well," he muttered. "I forgive you, Wylla, even though Aunt Leona will have my head for this, and Wynafryd will have a fit over your hair."
Wylla hugged Arthur tightly, clinging to him as though afraid he might vanish. "Oh, thank you, Arthur," she whispered, her voice muffled against his tunic.
Arthur stiffened for a moment, then leaned into the hug reluctantly, the corners of his mouth twitching as though he were trying not to smile. Arthur ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "I'm very proud of you, Wylla. By the gods, you've proved it. But you're going to worry me to death someday."
Wylla smiled faintly, her grip loosening but not letting go completely. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you angry. I just… I wanted to try."
Arya tugged gently at Wylla's arm, a grin tugging at her lips. "Come on now, let's go," she said, voice low and urgent. "You're gonna show me how you did it. I want to learn that move!"
Wylla hesitated for a heartbeat, glancing back at Arthur. "You'll get me into trouble again," she whispered.
"Nonsense," Arya said, "There'll be no trouble. You teach me and then I'll show you my dance moves."
Margaery, walking beside them, laughed softly, "I never imagined you would be taking dancing lessons, Arya."
Arya flushed crimson, glaring at her. "Not that kind of dancing," she muttered, trying to hide her grin.
Wylla giggled, the sound bright as a bell, and Arya felt her own laughter rise in response.