Chapter Text
Her mother had shown her and Sansa her soul mark for the first time when Arya was still very young. The longsword ran from her mother's underarm to her hip over her left side. On the hilt lay an ornate prayer wheel.
"Oh, Mother, it's beautiful. So majestic." Sansa cooed with a light, airy tone and glassy eyes. Arya tilted her head, squinting at the art on her mother's side. It seems strangely familiar.
"Oh," Arya spouted, figuring it out, "It's ice."
Her mother smiled at her. Pulling her sleeve back over her arm now that they had gotten a good look. "Yes, it is. That's why I almost married your uncle Brandon. My parents assumed he would be getting the sword due to his being the eldest. I was lucky he was so kind. As soon as I mentioned my mark, he called off our betrothal so that I could marry your father."
"So you and father are soul mates?" Arya questioned. "For each other, I mean?"
"Of course they are." Sansa snapped at her. Arya stuck her tongue out in return.
"Yes, we are. However, this is not common." She gave Sansa a loving cautionary glance. "We are the lucky ones. Not many people get to meet their soulmate. And some who do, don't even get to be with them."
Arya wrinkled her nose at that. "Why? That seems stupid."
"Well, some people are already married when they meet. Or Betrothed. Or their families are from different classes." Her mother said, stroking Arya's coarse hair.
"If people are soulmates, they should be allowed to be together. Right?" Arya said, looking at her mother, who just offered her a slight shrug and a sad smile. "Even if one of them is poor."
Sansa rolled her eyes, ignoring Arya. "How old were you when your mark arrived, Mother?"
Catelyn looked back at her older daughter. "I had just passed my 13th name day. But your father didn't receive his till he was drawing close to his sixteenth nameday."
"Oh," Sansa bounced excitedly. "How old do you think I'll be when I get mine?"
"It's hard to say. No one knows why the marks appear at the time they do, and the oldest I've heard of people being born with them is past their 28th name day."
"Oh, I hope I get mine soon it's so romantic." Sansa sighed, making Arya gag. It was in that moment that she decided she didn't care about soul mates, and she hoped she would never have a mark. Soon after, they all hurried off to the evening feast, and Arya didn't truly think of soul mates and their marks again for another few years. That was until the day Robb got his.
Arya had escaped from her septa's clutches and was watching Theon and Robb fighting in the courtyard. She knew her mother would be horrified if she saw the bout because they weren't wearing any armour, but they were using live steel. Theon got a lucky swing in, and Robb only had moments to jump away. The tip of the blade sliced down the front of Robb's top, leaving a huge gash in his shirt. Theon was hoisting up his arm to swing again when something stopped him.
"What the hell is that?" he bellowed, pointing at Robb's chest.
"I don't know." Robb breathed out. Gently, he rubbed his thumb against his chest to see if it would disappear or smudge. When it didn't, he looked up, shocked. "I guess I've been marked."
Arya hopped up from her seat and scurried over to see what the drawing was. It was a flower. Theon's loud laughter echoed in the practice yard as he mocked Robb for his 'pansy' mark. But it wasn't a pansy. If Arya had to guess, with her limited knowledge of flowers, she would say it was a rose. The petals were a deep, rich red, but they were decorated with snowflakes and frost, making the ends taper out to white.
Over the next couple of days, Sansa spouted 'how lucky' Robb was. She followed him here and there, talking about how romantic the mark is. Robb finally had to tell her he would sic Grey Wind on her if she didn't leave him alone. Despite what he said to Sansa, Jon and Theon about not caring that he got a mark, Arya knew he was quite fond of it. He looked down at it if he thought no one else was watching and lay his hand over it protectively during conversations.
Everyone agreed they couldn't wait for Sansa to receive her mark. If for no other reason than she would stop musing aloud as to what it would be. Arya and Sansa had a rocky relationship since they were young, but it got a hundred times worse as soon as Arya got her mark first. Arya wasn't the first person to see it. She had refused to get out of bed, and her mother had come up to her room to force her. Ripping her nightclothes off above her head, she heard her mother mutter. "Oh, my."
"What is it?" Her mother shook her head. Unable to speak, she placed a hand over her mouth in shock. Her eyes wide, she pointed at Arya's shoulder. Looking down at her right shoulder, Arya blanked her whole shoulder was taken up by a wolf's face.
"Oh," She repeated her mother's word in a state of shock. Finding her voice, she stuttered out, "It... It's Nymeria."
"Darling," Her mother pointed again, "look."
Turning her head, she saw that her left shoulder was taken up by a bull's head. Her mother said something about removing the arms from one of her dresses so she could be presented to her father and left, but Arya never looked away from the bull. It was large, dark, and strong, with eyes that looked like a stormy blue sea. Arya looked across the curved, sharp horns. Right beside them, she had a scar that she couldn't quite remember getting.
The scar spider-webbed out from the root of the horns. She couldn't explain why, but she felt guilty for having the scar, almost like she was tainting her mark by having the injury. Tainting her connection to 'him'. She took in a deep, shaky breath and shook her head. Why was she even thinking about this? She didn't care about soul mates or marks; that's what Sansa, Jeyne, and other silly girls talked about.
But she had a mate, she thought, looking back down at it. Drawing her fingers over the flat surface of the tattoo, she felt the curve of a smile on her lips. No one could change it.
Suddenly, her bedroom door that had been so gently closed by her mother burst open. Sansa stood there with a crazed look in her eyes. Her glare raked over Arya, making her feel uncomfortable in her state of undress.
"It's not fair," she yelled, stomping her foot like a petulant child. "I'm older." Marching over to her, Sansa gripped Arya's shoulders and started rubbing hard as if to wear the art away.
"Ow, Sansa. Stop!" Arya yelled, shoving her sister away.
"You shouldn't have one." Sansa snarled, "What poor man should have to be mated to Arya Underfoot, Arya Horseface. You don't deserve one! You..."
Sansa's yelling got cut short as Arya's fist connected with her cheek. Sansa stumbled back for a moment, staring at her with a look of shock that turned to hate. Screaming out, she leaped back, grabbing Arya by her hair and pulling hard. Arya, in turn, planted her knee into Sansa's abdomen.
Losing their footing, both fell hard onto the wooden floor. After tussling for a moment, Arya found herself on top of the struggle. She was giving her sister another punch to the ribs when their septa ran into the room, grabbing Arya by the underarms and pulling her from atop her sister.
Throwing Arya a shirt, the septa sighed over Sansa's swelling cheek before rushing her back to her own room, leaving Arya alone.
Pulling on her shirt, Arya slid into a seated position against her bed where it met the wall. Pulling her knees to her chest, she could feel tears sliding down her cheeks, but she just contributed it to the pain that still throbbed against her skull. She sat there for who knows how long when her mother hurried back in with a sleeveless dress. Seeing Arya on the floor, her face dropped.
"Oh dear, what's wrong?" Dropping to the ground, her mother wrapped her arms around her and pulled Arya into her lap.
Arya didn't look at her mother, choosing instead to look straight ahead. Her voice was stoic and cold. "I don't want the mark."
"Oh, Arya, why would you say that? This is a wonderful thing."
"No, it's not." She felt another teardrop down her cheek as she turned to meet her mother's gaze. "It's a curse. Something that gives you false hope and then leaves you broken when it doesn't work out. You said yourself, father and you finding each other was a fluke, not fate."
"Arya, please," her mother begged, gently rubbing her daughter's arms.
Arya turned away from her mother again. Staring blankly at the wall, she repeated." It's a curse."