Actions

Work Header

in the midst of triumph

Summary:

Arya wasn’t stupid, but sometimes she did stupid things. Hiding the fact that she was injured seemed to make the top of that list as far as her family was concerned.

Notes:

English is not my first language. Not beta-read. All mistakes are mine.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Arya wasn't prone to self-doubt. She never had been, at least not when it came to the skills she had spent a lifetime honing. Her abilities as a fighter, as an assassin, more than made her one of the best not only in the House of Black and White, but in the northern army as well. Therefore when it came to concern over her abilities and her place in the North, she had no worries.

When the Targaryen Queen’s army arrived things became a bit more… interesting. Now she had a new level of fighter to aspire to. It was no longer just the Old Gods, Syrio Forel or Jaqen holding the (admittedly damn high) bar she worked to meet, she now had to deal with matching up to the Dothraki, the Unsullied, Wildlings and Jaime fucking Lannister, who might had lost a hand but was still a very capable fighter. That few.

Even then Arya never doubted her abilities because, come on, who could compete with all that without witchcraft or decades of experience of their own? Oh, that's right, Ara could. Frankly the only person in their army she would openly admit to fearing was Brienne of Tarth and her ruthless efficiency that so clearly ruled them all.

Arya had always enjoyed doing what she felt was right, though she could admit that there had been times in the past when she had been misled – both by people she believed to be honest and good, and by her need to rush headlong into fighting the good fight. Her need to be involved and to help. Arya hadn't realised how much she had learn to love training and fighting (most of the time) when she first begged her father for fighting lessons, but ending up working along the most fearless fighters in Westeros against the Night King? It was a battle she had never dreamed of being a part of and she was more than up for the challenge.

That being discovered, she maybe, occasionally, became a little more injured now than she had before returning to Winterfell, but not by much, so she honestly hadn't thought anything of it. At least not until this moment as she paused in her escape from the Maester, only a few feet from where the tired old man rushed to aid people. Her Lady Mother, before she had betrayed and slaughtered by the Frey, had always told her her nosiness would get her in trouble one day. It still didn't stop her from stopping and listening in the moment she heard her name cross his lips.

"I swear by the Old Gods that girl used to spend more time recovering in her chamber than actually attending her lessons. I’m certain she’ll show up any time now, ridden with scratches and sores," the old man sighed, causing Arya to frown. Yeah, she had spent a lot of time under his care, that was generally why she always tried to sneak out against medical advice, but usually it was for something stupid: a sprained wrist, a cracked pinkie, a measly two story fall from her bedchamber window as she tried to run from the septa. Nothing to really worry about. Especially not after everything she had gone through in Bravos.

"I wonder why they’d even let her fight. She should’ve been with her Lady sister, in the Crypts." Another man responded, an unsullied fighter, Arya noticed through the opened door, and the Maester snorted before indelicately moving on to tell him about her adventures as a child.

Arya pushed away from the wall he was holding up and walked passed the room without either of them noticing.

She didn't waste time worrying about what she had overheard; there was no point really as it was just servants gossip at its finest. Still it was enough to get her to start being slightly more careful, at least when training, and the nod of approval she received from Brienne when they finished her training session the next day without any muscle strain was kind of a win-win.

---

The second time she overheard someone commenting on her rate of injury she was, once again, in the Maester’s chambers. This time, however, it was being said to her directly. She had a concussion (only a mild one, thank you, and she had fought entire battles with those plenty of times before) and was basically using it as an excuse to watch Jon, who had also gotten hurt fighting some bandits, not really paying attention to the old man’s words. At least until she heard the words 'bed rest' and 'can't keep going like this,' and 'not a soldier.'

Of course she was going to notice to that, because what the fuck did this quack know about being a soldier? All Arya ever worked towards was being the best she could be and just because she wasn’t old and graying nor was a boy she was being discounted by a man who looked like he couldn't last one minute in a fight? Horse shit.

"My sister is more than capable of handling a little fight," Jon stepped forward suddenly and frowned up at the tall doctor. "If there are no further medically relevant tasks you need to perform, then I will take her with be back to her chambers." Arya closed her mouth, halting what would no doubt have been an affronted, childish retort beginning with the words 'listen here, you dimwit' and ending with another reprimand for not playing nice with old man. Fortunately, Jon's extremely bland stare was intimidating enough and the Maester promptly agreed that whatever Jon wanted Jon would get and left them alone.

"You're a soldier, a’right," Arya thought she heard Jon saying to her, as he helped her up from the bed. It was possible she had more than a mild concussion. "Try to not use your own body as a shield the next time, little sister, if only to save me from the worry."

"To be fair," Arya swung her legs over the side of the bed and pretended real hard that the movement wasn't too fast too soon. A strong, warm grip on her shoulder prevented her from toppling forward, "You were the one who didn’t see the thief coming."

Jon got her back to her bedchamber safe and sound and Arya would never really remember everything that was said that day, but she did remember the words 'not a soldier' and 'capable of handling a little fight.' She didn't quite understand why it evoked feelings of bitterness and fondness but she figured she was better off just forgetting about it all together.

---

Jon, Tormund and a few other man were off to fight a few raiders coming from the South and Arya was holed up in Winterfell due to a torn muscle in her shoulder. Another week and she'd be good as new, but it was a week where she was restricted from doing anything heavier than paperwork with Sansa. She'd finished her part the first day, mostly because Sansa hadn’t given her much to do because she didn’t have enough patience to deal with cowards passing as Lords.

Basically what that meant was that she wasn't allowed to train or help with the fight against the South, so she made do with walking silently behind every soldier who looked like they were doing something marginally interesting. This was acceptable until they went somewhere she had no interest in being.

The lurking meant Arya was privy to gossip; most of it was harmless and inane and boring. She perked up a bit when a fairly young unsullied soldier sidled up to the one she had been following and asked about the 'latest' on the Starks. The older soldier sighed. Arya expected him to rattle off some line about things that were need to know only but it quickly became clear that that wasn't how the new aide operated.

"They haven't been up to much," he shrugged, almost coming across as put upon despite the fact that he had yet to deal with any Arya’s siblings or Arya herself personally. "Snow is actually talking instead of grunting for once and Lady Sansa is occupied with her northern Lords, which means that the she-wolf is the only issue."

That got Arya's attention right along with the gossip-y soldier.

"Arya Stark, isn’t it? She's out on injury. Isn't that pretty much the only time she behaves?"

"Yeah, when she's not trying to bust out of the Maester’s chambers," the older soldier snorted and shook his head, "which is kind of the problem."

"Busting out?"

"No, needing the Maester in the first place," the boy waved his helmet around as he walked. "The girl’s always been in trouble all the time, if the stories are true, but now that she's fighting in a real war and if she gets hurt, Snow gets pissed. That’s why our Queen is worried..."

"What? The Queen thinks she’s not good enough of a fighter?" The younger soldier at least seemed to think that was ridiculous despite the other's careless shrug that did nothing for Arya's peace of mind.

"Maybe, or maybe they just don't like footing all the expanses. The rest of the soldiers spend less than half the amount of time in the infirmary than she does, even if a lot of it's just minor injuries. It's been noticed."

Arya couldn't actually deny that this was true. She just hadn't realize others were paying such close attention. It had never been an issue before. At least not that she knew of.

She split off from them and cut through a secret side door most people in the castle didn't know existed, emerging outside the wing to her bedchambers the next minute.

Apparently, she had some things to think about.

---

When Bran made the comment, weeks later, that maybe they should just hire a personal Maester for her as she carefully wrapped a pressure bandage on the arrow graze in her thigh, Aya realized she had a problem. Bran had actually sounded serious (which meant he was concerned), and a serious Bran meant that the most out-of-it person in the North (which, is Arya was being honest, still creeped her out a little) had noticed that Arya tended to get banged around a lot.

She couldn't risk being tossed off the army because she kept getting nicked and bruised.

She couldn't risk being dismissed back to the frail, defenseless Princess status because they were concerned that she wasn't matching up to par in the field. For injuries acquired in the line of duty, saving everyone’s arses, for crying out loud. She'd always imagined that if she was going to get the boot it would be because she was too slow, too weak, too old, or dead. That’s why she had trained so hard to become the fighter she was. She wasn't going to let a couple minor scratches and scrapes get her cut from the army. Not now, that she had finally found her way home. Not a chance.

She laughed and told Bran she was all for a personal Maester, so long as he wasn’t old and boring like Maester Luwin.

Bran stared at her, unimpressed.

Arya could live with it. What was a little pain after all?

---

When Arya jumped out of the top of a tower during a perfectly timed roll as it plunged towards the ground, Jon effortlessly snagged her out of the air, while riding a fucking dragon.

(She was never going to forgive him for riding a dragon first.)

"Going my way?" Arya quipped to distract herself from the fact that being tackled in a free fall by a massive beast with iron-like scales hurt like a motherfucker. She could already feel the bruises forming across her shoulders and her right thigh was cramping in protest from the hit.

"Not in a million years," Jon voice responded sharply, but he curled his arms around Arya a little more, pressing her tighter to the dragons hard scales. "You alright?"

"I'm fine," Arya tried very hard not to snarl because she knew Jon was just worried about her. It had been a close call; if Arya hadn't timed her jump perfectly she would have been dust by now. Heh. "Just drop me off and go help the rest of the men, I'll see what I can do from this side."

"Stay still, I'll get you there," Jon said, true to his word as he was already slowing to land near the main road to where the enemy’s men were camped.

"Don't land, just drop me and go," Arya bit out, watching as a few of the army came running out to meet them.

"You sure?" Jon sounded uncertain.

"I'm not made of glass, Jon!" Jon didn't argue after that, because it would be quicker if he could do a flyby and he needed to get back to his men. He flew closer to the ground than Arya expected and slowed to the point that it was almost a joke for Arya to tuck and roll as she hit the ground and popped back up to her feet. She'd been forced to leave her some of the newer weapons behind when she was called to join Jon’s men what felt like hours ago and her hand clenched absently around the missing weight.

"M’ Lady! M’ Lady, are you all right?" the soldier to reach her first on the ground demanded and Arya pulled herself straight and squared her aching shoulders.

"’Not a lady and I'm fine. Take me to wherever the Hound is stationed," she demanded and gestured impatiently as the soldiers looked uncertain, eyeing her quickly for signs of injury. When they apparently couldn't see anything obvious, he nodded dumbly and started to move.

 

Arya couldn't help grinning. She had spotted Sandor

He was standing right at the top of the hill, living up to his image with his bloodied armor and the Targaryen Queen’s men flocked around him. Arya couldn't quite make out his face, but she very easily spotted the frown on his face.

"Do you need medical?" Sandor's growl-y, authoritative voice came through clearly, even with all the noise around them and Arya didn't hesitate to shake her head, ignoring the tight pull of muscles across her back and the throbbing in her thigh. It was just bruising.

"No, I'm fine."

"That's debatable, little she-wolf. What happened with the tower?"

"It fell but Jon caught me before it hit the ground." Off in the distance there was a large explosion; the resulting concussive force was enough to blow heated air past them and Arya turned to watch the massive, burning, company that their enemies had somehow acquired crash into the water. Her sharp eyes could just make out Jon and Daenerys dancing about in the sky as they circled above the currently drowning men. Arya grinned. It was a good day.

An hour later, Jon joined Arya and the rest of the men where they were sat on the small hill, watching the beginning of the sunset turn the clouds in the sky deep hues of pink and orange. They stood swiftly to meet him, Arya included, though it was some effort to make the movement smooth with her protesting leg. She managed. Jon looked them all over carefully.

"Injuries?" he asked mildly.

"None to report, m’ Lord," one of Daenerys’ men practically beamed and Arya was hard pressed not to roll his eyes. Jon looked to Arya then, gaze narrowing.

"Any minor injuries?" Jon decided to be more specific and Arya shook her head in a burst of irritation, because seriously, it wasn't like she got injured every fight..

"We're all fine," she insisted, and pushed the pang of guilt at lying to him (to them all) down deep. The look of satisfaction that crossed Jon's face made it easier.

"Glad to hear it. Gather everything, it's time to go home."

Sandor's shoulder brushed her's as they turned to head to their horses and Arya pretended it didn't jar muscles that were slowly locking up with a deep ache now that the action was over and adrenalin was gone. Arya had had injuries like this plenty of times before. A few days and she would be better than fine and, if she was needed on a battle before then it wasn't like her body wasn't going to work; it would just be sore. Even if she reported to medical they would say the same thing. She was sure of it.

Besides, it wasn't like she got any medical attention during her training in the House of Black and White and she still made it. It was fine.

Arya was just fine.

---

Arya wasn't stupid. She wasn't going to hide anything that was serious enough to cause her permanent harm or affect her ability to do her part in the field. She was just going to hide the smaller things, things he was supposed to report regardless but that she knew how to take care of on her own terms. Much like she had before she'd made her way back to Winterfell and became Arya Stark once more.

At least she wasn't planning on hiding anything but the most minor cuts and bruises when she started the façade of being a less injury prone soldier.

The thing was she'd never realized the extent of all the casual and not so casual comments she'd been on the receiving end of over the years. From maids and healers to soldiers and even a few overconfident servants, to her own family. Sometimes the comments would come saturated in admiration, sometimes with ruefulness and wishes that Arya would be more careful, sometimes, though it was rare enough that he never paid it any real attention, it was said with mocking and implied glory seeking. Arya hadn't cared; she liked to believe she still didn't care now that she'd started paying attention to it.

After the first active decision to hide her bruises and strained muscles from everyone, she hadn't paid it much notice beyond the fact that Jon seem happy and left it at that.

The second time she hid an injury it was nothing more than a raw scrape on her lower back that had been easily hidden by her armour.

Of course there were plenty of battles and sparring sessions where she really didn't get hurt, but she made a point of teasing the Maester and Jon with complaints of paper cuts and hangnails just to be annoying, things that were sure to get no more attention than an eye roll. If she managed to swipe a variety of healing supplies whenever she did so, nobody seemed the wiser and she was more than happy to start carrying around the bare minimum necessary to hide small bleeds and such tucked away deep in her pockets.

Bruises were easier to hide, and not really something worth concerning healers with anyway. At least she was of that opinion, which is why she just laughed when Brienne of Tarth all but dragged her to the Maester when she had grabbed Arya's arm a little too hard in training. The old man confirmed it and sent Arya on her way with a short prayer that he wouldn’t see her anytime soon. Brienne seemed relieved after that, even as she stared at Arya imploringly until she complacently pressed the ice to her arm. It felt good.

Sadly, two days later, Maester Ludwin did see Arya again as he carefully tied six stitches into her calf while Sansa watched, perched on the stool beside Arya's, still and poised like one would expect from the Lady of Winterfell. If the maester was bothered by her presence at all he didn't show it.

"You don't need to be here for this," Arya pointed out even as she focused her attention on the healer's movements, watching how he flushed the wound, lined up the edges, and sewed the skin together bit by bit.

Sansa's answer, not surprisingly, was a redirect.

"When did you hurt your shin?" For a moment she had no idea what the older girl was talking about, confusion making her frown at Sansa before she remembered the old injury. Leave it to Sansa to notice something so ridiculously small. The healer finished up and then prodded at said shin with his gloved fingers and Arya scowled.

"A few weeks ago?" she eyed the tiny red scar that was all that was left from what had been a damn impressive fight. It hadn't bothered her for over a week now and there was nothing but the faintest yellow hinting at old bruising on her embarrassingly pale legs. "Are you done there? I heard they were cooking kidney pies for tonight’s supper and I want to get there before Jon does."

The maester warned Arya to be more careful and handed her a small bag filled with dressings and ointment before leaving. She rolled down her torn pant leg and tested her weight on her foot before deciding it wasn't too bad. With a raised eyebrow at her sister's watchful eye, she gestured to the door.

"You first," she leered and Sansa had to have been more relieved that she was okay than she initially thought, because even as she narrowed her eyes warningly at him, she stepped ahead and walked fast with her head held up high.

As she watched her sister walk away, she managed to grab a couple of the tiny, pre-prepared suture kits from the Maester’s working table and slipping them into her brown bag.

It was a good move too, because a few weeks later, in the candlelight of her private chamber at the mansion, she got to test the new skill on her thigh. It was a minor wound, only needed three stitches, though it hurt like a son-of-a-bitch without any numbing ointment.

She didn't do a bad job if she did say so herself.

---

Hiding a few bumps and bruises and cuts was no big deal. Head injuries he never concealed, unless it was just a little bump and the pain mostly cleared up after a few minutes. Prolonged headaches and dizziness, yeah, that was reported pretty much once the action was over and things were under control. Head wounds he tended to report directly to Jon, in person, because he tended to worry more if he found out she had gone to see the Maester without telling him.

---

"What's this?" the Maeste asked as he finished wrapping Arya's knee and the girl looked to see him nodding at her foot. "You didn't report that you hurt your foot as well," he frowned and Arya did as well. It was kind of hard to explain that she hadn't mentioned the possibly dislocated toe out of habit.

"I forgot about it," she shrugged smoothly and the old man looked up at her incredulously.

"You forgot about it," he repeated, dryly, and Arya glared, because yeah, she had.

"I guess we could say I was a little distracted by the pain in my knee," she tried one of the famous Stark glares on for size. "It's not a big deal, just pop it back in and I'll be good to go."

The maester ignored her, just like Arya ignored Sandor's concerned gaze from where he hovered on the other side of the medical cot Arya was perched on. The old man called out for aid from a nearby maid and Arya didn't argue, because it was honestly a relief to know she wouldn't have to deal with this injury alone, and simply let herself be wheeled off again. She was too tired to notice the frown in the maester’s followed her until she was out of sight, or the way he reached for Arya's file and began to flip through it more carefully than he usually did.

---

Almost three weeks later Arya realized she had a serious problem. Too bad she was too caught in the moment to do anything about it before it all came tumbling down around her.

---

Jon barging into her chambers unexpectedly, waving what looked like a letter in his fist, was not how Arya had planned to begin her morning. Nor was her brother’s abrupt stop in the middle of the room, his brows furrowed deeply as he stared unabashedly at Arya.

"What in the seven hells, Arya?" he demanded as Arya finished pulling her under-armour into place, covering the deep red and bruised welts on her stomach. She'd had to knock a couple stitches into two of them and was pretty sure the small white bandages she'd placed over her handy work just made the small injuries look worse than they were. At least Jon hadn't seen her ribs.

"For a King, your choice of words is embarrassingly limited at times," Arya decided as she walked towards a chair on the corner. Jon followed her like a shadow.

"Seriously," Jon waved at her torso area dramatically, "when the hell did that happen? Shouldn't you be resting?" Arya raised a sardonic eyebrow at that, because when did a few cuts and bruises actually keep any of them down? Jon glared. "You know what I mean," he waved at Arya's entire torso again and trailed after her as she moved back to her bedside.

"Is there a reason you barged into my chamber without knocking? What is that letter"

"It doesn’t matter. Did this happen yesterday? How did I not know that this happened yesterday? You were barely out of my sight for five minutes," he was talking to himself more than Arya at this point, but he looked up sharply when Arya stood smoothly and very carefully did not groan at the fire that spread across what felt like her entire body, but was mainly sitting around and under her ribs. "Nothing was mentioned during the council…you saw the healers, right?" and whoa, right there, Jon was truly getting worked up by this and Arya needed to put a stop to it now. Her hand ache for her dagger but she couldn’t reach for it without showing she was restless. First step: distraction.

"Who do you think patched me up, Jon? Relax, would you? It's just a couple of bruises. I got some scattered gravel in the gut but my armour stopped most of the damage." She moved to the door, not worried about Jon being left alone in her chambers; it wasn't like she had any truly personal things in there to poke through. "No big." Jon followed her into the hall, eyes still narrowed. "What the hell got you worked up enough to just barge in anyway? Has Sam eaten all your kidney pies again?"

"Please," Jon snorted, finally distracted, his tone was already lighter, effectively placated and distracted and Arya grinned.

She didn't waste time feeling guilty about blatantly lying to Jon. She just didn't have the energy.

---

She would never really understand what made her agree to spar with Sandor later that afternoon. He'd eyed her and promptly announced that she looked like shit before making the offer. Tender loving care at its best. aRYA had laughed and gone off to meet him in the training grounds even though the idea of even a light jog made her feel nauseous. She never said no to sparring though, not unless she was ill or injured, of which she was neither; she just had a few bruises and cuts.

She hadn't been expecting his warm-up roundhouse to connect with her ribs. She could say with absolute certainty he hadn't expected it either, if the look on his face was anything to go by at the time.

Though by then she'd been on the floor and her vision had been kind of blacking out so what did she know?

---

She woke up to a fuzzy world and a cloudy head. There was sharp pain as light attacked her eyes and sound that she figured should be familiar but she didn't know what it was saying. She recognized the tone though, steady and soothing and safe. She may have smiled, she had no idea, but that was pretty much all she knew before she was swallowed back under the heavy veil of rest.