"Father—"
After Sansa and the others had each called to Eddard, Jon Snow finally spoke softly as well, calling out after them. He was also the last to take his seat.
As a member of House Stark, he too had been specially invited to the dinner.
And Lady Catelyn, for once, had not driven him away. Though her face still showed displeasure, she merely remained silent this time, without the sharpness she had displayed in the past.
That alone made Jon feel deeply relieved; in truth, he was happy too.
Nodding slightly toward Jon, Eddard said nothing more to him.
Eddard never brought his work into the family. At this moment, he had shut out everything from the outside world, devoting his limited time wholly to this family dinner.
Throughout the meal, bursts of laughter and joy rose now and then among the children.
Eddard occasionally exchanged tender glances with his wife.
Even Jon, for once, joined in the conversation at the table with a few words.
Lady Catelyn did not respond to him, but Arya made sure he was not left out.
As they talked, lively Arya suddenly recalled the tall, handsome man she had seen earlier that day in the throne room during the ceremony—and also the thing she cared most about, the upcoming tourney.
"Father, will Kal Stone be taking part in the tourney too?" Arya asked excitedly.
"I've heard so many people telling stories about him! Even Syrio Forel has mentioned him to us—he praised Kal as an incredibly strong warrior."
"I wonder which of them would be stronger if they fought! We asked Syrio Forel, but he wouldn't tell us."
Eddard, who had been speaking quietly with his wife, was slightly taken aback by Arya's sudden question.
It reminded him of the scene when that lad Kal had sent Syrio Forel to them.
At the time, Syrio Forel had been training the children in the practice yard originally reserved for the Kingsguard.
The former First Sword of Braavos was responsible for instructing Robert Arryn, Bran, and the others in their martial skills.
Naturally, Eddard was pleased to see it.
But what he hadn't expected was that Arya would suddenly brandish a sharp rapier and shout that she wanted to join them.
He had seen that weapon before—it was the work of Winterfell's blacksmith, for it bore the mark of the swordsmith Mikken.
No one knew just how furious he had been when he saw that thing.
So when Jon heard Arya suddenly blurt out those words and then saw his father's startled expression, he too seemed to realize something and lowered his head.
He had been present when that incident happened.
He knew well Lord Stark's anger at the time; strictly speaking, it had been a very serious matter.
Jon certainly could not let Mikken take the blame for him.
If Lord Kal had not pleaded on his behalf back then, he would likely have faced a severe punishment.
Though Lord Kal had also interceded for Arya, successfully allowing her to join that game originally meant only for the boys—just as she had back at Winterfell.
Arya was mischievous; she would secretly abandon the handiwork proper to a girl and sneak to the training yard, using her archery to tease Bran, whose strength had yet to grow.
But clearly, today's occasion was not one suitable for scolding children.
Though Eddard Stark was somewhat disapproving of Arya's fondness for swordplay, in his good mood tonight he was still willing to answer his children's questions.
However, Lady Catelyn clearly could not bear it.
Her eyes widened as she immediately scolded Arya for her rudeness and lack of decorum.
"Arya, you must not be discourteous to Lord Kal. He is the Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, and also one of the King's close ministers—you should show him proper respect."
"And stop bringing up all your fighting and killing! Septa Mordane has already spoken to you about this many times!"
Chastised, Arya shrank back and stuck out her tongue timidly.
Yet that still did not stop her from casting her curious gaze toward her father.
She wasn't afraid of Kal Stone, because she thought of him as a friend—at least, Kal supported her.
And seeing that his wife had spoken thus, naturally Eddard Stark could only go along and soothe her temper.
"Your mother is right, Arya. And that goes for Sansa, Bran, and even Jon as well—Kal's status now is not what it once was. You must all show him the respect he deserves."
While admonishing Arya, Eddard deftly shifted some of the scolding to include her as well.
"Yes, Father," the children answered obediently.
Among them, Sansa glared fiercely at her younger sister.
But Arya ignored her, which only made Sansa so angry that she couldn't help tapping her spoon against her plate—pretending she had simply lost her grip.
Eddard paid it no mind; instead, he began explaining on Arya's behalf.
"As for your question, Arya, it's not that Syrio Forel didn't want to answer you—it's just that a battlefield and a tourney are still somewhat different."
"Then who's stronger between them?" Arya, now completely absorbed, pressed on relentlessly. "Lord Kal can fight so many people at once! I heard that in the past, only a Kingsguard knight called the Sword of the Morning could do that!"
At Arya's words, Eddard Stark seemed to think of something; his expression suddenly grew grim.
Especially as he looked upon Arya's face, filled to the brim with curiosity and eagerness to learn.
Arya bore the typical Stark features—long face, grey eyes, and brown hair.
She was a lively, spirited girl who loved fighting and adventure.
Looking at that face, Eddard felt flashes of blades and swords before his eyes, the clash of steel and the echo of shrill screams ringing faintly in his ears.
Unconsciously, Eddard Stark turned his gaze toward Jon, who since the start of the banquet had been doing his best to restrain himself—speaking only a few words occasionally, spending most of the time quietly listening.
The rich aroma of the food on the table seemed, in that instant, to carry with it a faint trace of blood and roses.
"But Syrio Forel moves even faster and lighter than a cat—" Arya hadn't noticed the change in her father's expression, stubbornly insisting on determining who was superior between the two.
Yet just as the words left her mouth, Eddard suddenly changed completely. "Enough!" he barked sharply.
The warm, cheerful table instantly fell silent, everyone turning toward him involuntarily.
Only then did Eddard realize what he had just done.
His hand holding the utensils trembled slightly.
Facing the bewildered looks of his children and wife, he had no choice but to set down his utensils, bow his head, and use the hand pinching the bridge of his nose to hide his discomfort.
"Forgive me, Arya. You've been spending too much time playing with the boys lately. I'll have Septa Mordane make sure you return to your lessons."
Eddard's apology carried no sincerity, and even his explanation sounded like a cover.
Thus, it did nothing to restore the suddenly chilled atmosphere at the table.
It was only then that Catelyn, realizing her husband seemed a bit unwell, after a brief moment of surprise, reacted at last.
"All right, children, your father is very tired. He's been busy since before dawn and hasn't had a moment's rest, so he didn't mean it. Forgive him, will you?"
Catelyn hurried to ease the strange tension that had filled the room. Then she turned to her husband, a trace of worry unconsciously rising in her eyes.
"Ned, if you're feeling tired, let's end the dinner here. As for Arya, I'll have Septa Mordane keep a closer watch on her."
Yet with Catelyn's words, the once cheerful Arya, after her father's sudden outburst—
In an instant, she went from stunned, to incredulous, to furious once more when she heard that he meant to strip away what she loved and send her into that damned septa's hell.
She couldn't hold it in any longer.
Tears welled in her eyes, and finally they spilled down her cheeks.
"I won't! You promised me! I hate you!"
With a shout, Arya threw down her spoon, shoved aside Sansa—who had been sitting beside her gloating—and ran out of the room with her head lowered.
But when she reached the doorway, she stopped again.
Turning back, she shouted at her father once more.
"I won't give up! You'll never make me go to that damned septa! I hate her!"
"And I hate sewing needles! I only like the gift Jon gave me—only that's the real Needle!"
Tears filled her eyes, streaking her cheeks, yet Arya only wiped them away roughly with her sleeve, regaining that familiar stubborn fierceness.
Having declared her vow, she turned and continued to run.
"Arya!"
Jon, who had been quietly immersed in the rare warmth of the family dinner, was completely caught off guard by the sudden scene.
Seeing Arya flee, he panicked instinctively, jumping to his feet to chase after her.
Fortunately, he remembered this was still a family banquet.
Just before stepping out, he quickly called back to his father, "I'll look after Arya and make sure she returns to her room. Don't worry."
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