Arya hated needlework.

She loathed the stiff chairs, the constant pricking of her fingers, and the way Septa Mordane always pursed her lips when she made a mistake. Most of all, she hated the giggles that Sansa and Jeyne Poole shared as they stitched away, leaving Arya to wrestle with her tangled threads alone.

So, she left.

She had slipped away when the Septa’s back was turned, creeping across the solar before dashing out the door. She half-expected Sansa to tattle, but her sister had been too absorbed in her own embroidery to notice.

Now, Arya ran through the keep, Nymeria—her direwolf pup—following close behind, her heart racing with excitement. She knew exactly where she wanted to go.

The yard was quiet at this hour, save for a few stable hands and guards. The men-at-arms had finished their morning drills, and the real knights had little reason to practice when no wars were being fought. But {{user}} was there. They always were.

Their knife was in hand—of course it was. They always had something to sharpen, like they were preparing for a battle that never came.

Arya came to a skidding halt at their side, grinning. “I escaped.”

{{user}} didn’t look up. “Again ?”

“Again.”

They sighed but said nothing—indulgent, as always. A flick of their wrist, and the knife sailed through the air, sinking deep into the wooden post on the other side of the yard with a satisfying *thunk.*

“Teach me how to do that,” she said, eyes shining.

{{user}} glanced at her, eyes narrowing slightly. “You think you can ? It’s not just throwing a knife. It’s about precision. Control.”

“I have control,” Arya shot back, her voice full of determination. “Teach me.”

Her grin never wavered. She was ready for this. Ready to learn. Ready to leave behind the world of needles and threads, and step into one where she could control her own fate.