Third Person POV
299 AC, Kingsroad – Afternoon
The Kingsroad snaked through the Riverlands, its dusty stones shimmering under a late autumn sun. King Robert Baratheon's retinue—a sprawling mass of Stark bannermen, Lannister knights, and royal sycophants—had halted to rest, tents sprouting like mushrooms across the grassy hills. A month had passed since Dominic Augustus, Daenerys Targaryen, and Missandei ventured to Winterfell, their clandestine tour of Westeros' great cities—King's Landing, Oldtown, Lannisport, Highgarden—mapping a realm teetering on the edge of chaos. Now, Robert, with Lord Eddard Stark as his new Hand, trudged south, old wounds and fresh tensions trailing them like shadows.
By a burbling stream, Arya Stark, her wiry frame clad in a dirt-streaked tunic, sparred with a boy wielding a stick. Her movements were lethal, honed by the 40% assimilation of Talia al-Ghul's assassin skills, her wooden "sword" a blur of precision. The boy, Micah, a butcher's son with freckles and a nervous grin, struggled to match her, his stick clacking weakly against hers.
Prince Joffrey Baratheon sauntered over along with Sansa Stark, golden curls glinting, a sneer twisting his lips. "Your sister, huh?" he said to Sansa, his voice laced with mockery. He turned to Micah, who froze mid-swing. "What's your name, boy?"
"Micah, m'lord," the boy stammered, clutching his stick.
Sansa, eager to curry favor, spoke up. "He's a butcher's boy, Your Grace."
Arya's grey eyes flashed, stepping between them. "He's my friend," she snapped, her voice a low growl.
Joffrey's sneer deepened. "A butcher's boy who dreams of knighthood, eh?" He unsheathed Lion's Tooth, its steel glinting cruelly. "Come, fight me. Let's see what kind of knight you are."
Micah's eyes widened, his stick trembling. "These are just sticks, m'lord."
"I'm your prince," Joffrey spat, stepping closer, "and I say pick up your sword."
"It's not a sword, my prince," Micah said, voice quaking. "It's a stick."
Joffrey's smile turned vicious. "And you're no knight, just a butcher's boy." He raised Lion's Tooth, its tip hovering near Micah's cheek. "You're hitting my lady's sister, you know that?"
Arya's grip tightened, her knuckles white. "Stop it."
Sansa stood, hands twisting nervously. "Arya, stay out of this."
Joffrey's blade grazed Micah's cheek, drawing a thin bead of blood. "I won't hurt you... much," he taunted, his voice dripping with malice.
Arya's patience shattered. With a swift crack, she struck her stick against the back of Joffrey's knee, buckling him. Micah, seeing the blade fall away from his face, bolted into the trees, his footsteps fading. Joffrey staggered up, face crimson with rage, and swung Lion's Tooth at Arya, his curses venomous. "You filthy wolf-bitch! I'll carve you open!"
Arya, Talia al-Ghul's instincts surging, parried with her stick, her movements fluid and deadly. "You're a coward, picking on a boy with a stick!" she shouted, dodging a wild slash.
Sansa screamed, "Arya, stop! You're ruining everything!"
Arya ignored her, her focus razor-sharp. With a flick of her wrist, she disarmed Joffrey, sending Lion's Tooth spinning into the grass. She struck his knees again, harder, dropping him to the dirt with a yelp. Standing over him, she glared as he whimpered, his arrogance crumbling.
"Please, don't!" Joffrey pleaded, eyes wide with fear, hands raised defensively.
Arya snatched his sword and hurled it into the stream, its splash echoing like a slap. "You're no prince," she spat, turning on her heel and storming toward her father's tent, her stick still clutched tightly.
Hours later, Lannister soldiers in crimson cloaks marched into Eddard Stark's tent, their hands hovering over sword hilts. "The king demands your daughter, Lord Stark," their captain barked. "Arya Stark must answer for her crimes." And they were making their way towards Arya.
Ned rose, his face a mask of northern ice, the greatsword Ice gleaming at his side. "Any man who touches my daughter forfeits his life," he growled, his voice low and lethal. His Stark men—Jory Cassel, Harwin, and others—drew their blades, the rasp of steel filling the tent like a warning.
The Lannisters faltered, their numbers dwarfed by the Stark resolve. The captain's jaw tightened. "The king—"
"Tell the king I'll bring my daughter myself," Ned cut in, his tone unyielding.
The Lannisters retreated, boots thudding on the dirt. Ned turned to Arya, who stood defiant, her grey eyes blazing. "What happened, Arya?"
Arya recounted the clash—Joffrey's cruelty to Micah, her intervention, his attack on her, and her disarming him. Ned sighed, the wolf's blood in his daughter a familiar spark, now a dangerous flame. "You've caused a storm, Arya," he said sternly. "Do not speak unless spoken to before the king. Understand?"
Arya nodded, biting her lip, and followed Ned to Robert's tent, Stark men trailing like a grim shadow.
Robert's tent was a garish sprawl of crimson and gold, its air thick with tension and the faint reek of wine. The king slouched in a high-backed chair, his tangled beard framing a face weary from drink and duty. Cersei Lannister stood beside him, her emerald eyes cold, coddling Joffrey, whose wrist was wrapped in a cloth, his face pale but spiteful. Sansa lingered nearby, hands clasped, eyes downcast, her cheeks streaked with dried tears. Jaime Lannister leaned against a tent pole, his golden armor glinting, a smirk playing on his lips. Ser Barristan Selmy and other kingsguard stood silent, their white cloaks a stark contrast to the brewing storm.
As Ned and Arya entered, Joffrey pointed, his voice shrill. "She and that butcher's boy ambushed me! They beat me senseless! She deserves the whip!"
Cersei's voice was sharp as a blade. "The girl's wild, Lord Stark. A few floggings will teach her place."
Ned's eyes narrowed, his voice steady. "What's the meaning of this, Your Grace?"
Robert groaned, rubbing his temples. "I don't want to deal with this shit, Ned, but my whelp and my wife keep nagging with their shrill voice. They say your girl and some butcher's boy jumped Joffrey and beat him bloody."
Arya's fists clenched, her Talia al-Ghul fire flaring. "That's a lie!" she burst out, ignoring Ned's sharp glance. "Joffrey was cutting Micah's face with his sword! I hit him to stop him, and he swung at me, so I disarmed him and threw his sword in the river!"
Joffrey leaped up, face twisted. "You liar! You and that filthy boy ambushed me while I walked with Sansa! You're a savage, a disgrace!"
"Liar!" Arya shouted, stepping forward, her voice ringing. "You're a coward who picks on boys with sticks! Micah had nothing but a stick, and you had a real blade! You're no prince, you're a bully hiding behind your crown!"
Joffrey sputtered, his voice rising to a shriek. "You threw my sword in the river! You humiliated me! I'm the crown prince, and you'll pay for this!"
"You humiliated yourself!" Arya shot back, undaunted. "Crying like a babe when I knocked you down! Begging me to stop! You're pathetic!"
"Silence!" Robert roared, slamming his fist on the chair, the sound like thunder. The tent fell quiet, save for Joffrey's heavy breathing and Arya's defiant glare. "Boy says one thing, girl says another. I'm sick of this squabbling."
Cersei's eyes glinted, seizing the moment. "Sansa was there. She'll speak the truth."
All eyes turned to Sansa, who shrank under the weight of their stares. Her voice trembled, barely audible. "I… I don't know what happened. It was so fast, I can't remember."
Arya's jaw dropped, betrayal cutting deep. "Liar! Tell the truth!"
Sansa's cheeks flushed, tears welling. "I didn't see! It happened too quickly!"
"You're lying!" Arya yelled, lunging toward her sister, only for Ned to pull her back, his grip firm. "You're protecting him!"
Cersei's lips curled. "See, Lord Stark? Your daughter's feral, attacking her own sister, the crown prince. She lacks all decorum."
Arya whirled on Cersei, her voice fierce. "If you want proof, let me fight Joffrey! I'll disarm him again, right here, and you'll see I'm telling the truth!"
Joffrey paled, his bravado faltering. "She's mad! She can't challenge me! I'm the prince!"
"Scared, Joffrey?" Arya taunted, her grey eyes blazing. "Afraid a girl will beat you again? You couldn't even hold your sword!"
"You little beast!" Joffrey screeched, stepping forward, only for Jaime to place a hand on his shoulder.
Cersei's voice was icy. "This is outrageous. The girl's a danger, Robert. She must be punished."
Arya glared at Cersei. "Punish your son for cutting a boy's face! He's the one who started it!"
"Enough!" Robert bellowed, his face red. "I can't tell who's lying, and I don't care! Ned, your girl's got spirit, but she needs to be disciplined. I'll do the same for my son."
Cersei's voice rose, sharp as a dagger. "Is this justice? The crown prince struck by a wildling girl, and she walks free?"
Robert spun, his eyes blazing. "Crown prince? Disarmed by a girl half his size? Hiding behind your skirts? Have you no shame, boy?" He turned to Ned, exasperation plain. "Take your daughter, Ned. Everyone, get out!"
Cersei's face twisted, her voice venomous. "This is no punishment for assaulting royalty!"
Robert stormed toward the tent flap, his voice a growl. "He's no royalty if he can't hold a sword against a child. Enough, woman!" He shoved past, his boots shaking the ground.
Ned guided Arya out, his grip firm but gentle, Stark men trailing. Cersei's glare burned into their backs, Joffrey's whimpers echoing, Sansa's silent tears falling. The Kingsroad stretched ahead, a path of dust and discord, the game of thrones growing ever more tangled.
Aftermath
In their tent, Ned sat Arya down, his grey eyes heavy with concern. "You've stirred a hornet's nest, girl. The Lannisters won't forget this."
Arya's chin jutted out, unrepentant. "Joffrey deserved it. He was hurting Micah."
Ned sighed, the wolf's blood in his daughter a spark he both admired and feared. "You were right to protect your friend, but shaming a prince has consequences. You must learn to temper that fire. The South is not the North."
Arya's voice softened, guilt flickering. "I'm sorry, Father. But I couldn't let him hurt Micah."
Ned placed a hand on her shoulder, his voice gentle. "I know. But caution now, Arya. The Lannisters are vipers."
Outside, the camp buzzed with gossip—Stark honor clashing with Lannister pride, a girl besting a prince. Micah has been sheltered by Stark guards so the Lannisters could do anything to him. Sansa, in her tent, wept, torn between sisterly loyalty and dreams of a golden prince. Joffrey, nursing his bruised ego, plotted petty vengeance, while Cersei's mind spun darker webs.
The Kingsroad rolled on, a ribbon of fate binding North and South, honor and treachery. Arya's defiance had drawn blood, and the realm would feel its ripples, as Uruk's shadow loomed ever closer across the sea.