Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/998556.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Game_of_Thrones_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Tywin_Lannister/Arya_Stark
  Character:
      Arya_Stark, Tywin_Lannister, Cersei_Lannister, Tyrion_Lannister
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Age_Difference, Marriage_of
      Convenience, Dubious_Consent, Politics, Warrior_queens
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-10-10 Updated: 2014-04-01 Chapters: 4/? Words: 10508
****** The Lion's Share ******
by startwithsparks
Summary
     Canon-divergent AU in which Tywin Lannister and Arya Stark are
     married in Harrenhal before the Battle of Blackwater. When she joins
     him later in King's Landing, Tywin's children, among others, are
     vocal about disapproval, but Arya is quick to prove that not only
     does she belong next to the most powerful man in Westeros, but she
     will more than earn her right to remain there.
Notes
     Since there's been some discussion in comments about Arya's age in
     this story, I wanted to take a moment to address it. In the book,
     Game of Thrones, Daenerys is 13 when she's married to Khal Drogo. For
     the TV series, the character had to be aged up to 17 because of legal
     standards & practices in the UK, which meant that, to preserve
     continuity, other characters had to be aged up 2-4 years as well. In
     this series, Arya is the same age that Daenerys was in the beginning
     of the books. I hope this clears up any questions or concerns you
     might have and thank you so much for reading!
***** Prologue *****
Chapter Summary
     The night before riding south for King's Landing, Tywin and Arya are
     secretly married. Though neither party particularly want to, the
     marriage must be consummated before he leaves for battle.
Night had fallen, casting the godswood in eerie, unsettling shadows. It was the
one compromise Tywin had permitted his new bride, to marry in sight of the old
gods instead of in the crumbling, broken-down sept. Her wedding dress was a
black and gold scrap, found among what few possessions Lady Whent had left
behind when she fled Harrenhal. The gems that had once adorned the bodice had
long since been torn away, most likely sold or sitting in some man's purse, but
she was not a bride particularly suited to the glitter of jewels, and he could
find no fault in her for that. Instead, she stood silent in her ill-fitting
gown, unadorned but for its slashed sleeves and tattered train, solemnly
repeating her vows. She was no more moved by the ceremony than he was, though a
look of acceptance lingered in her steel gaze.
There were no septons to preside over the nuptials, only a disgraced maester
who had been stripped of his chain, but like the bridal clothes, it was all
Harrenhal afforded them. There were no rings to exchange, nor a feast to mark
the occasion with raucous merriment, only the haunted, bleeding eyes of the
heart tree and a hollow understanding between them. What they lacked in
ceremony, they made up for in witnesses - knights in crimson armor, men-at-arms
and freeriders, captured hostages, and the last dregs of Lady Whent's staff all
came out to see Lord Tywin wed to the unmasked she-wolf; all but the
blacksmith, who stood swinging his hammer at a breastplate through the night.
It was all the spectacle he permitted, and even this he did out of necessity
alone. One cold glance from Tywin told them all that the revelry would go no
further than this. If they wished to drink and carry on among themselves,
singing their bawdy songs and speculating on the nature of the consummation,
they would do so, but well out of range of his hearing and without his
acknowledgement. There would be no parade of lewd jeering following them to the
bridal chamber, nor any other such common display. Instead, the moment their
vows were spoken and the maester laid the tattered strip of white linen across
their clasped hands, Tywin dismissed the crowd and led his new bride away to
his chambers.
She was no more affected by him now than she had been when she served as his
cup-bearer. It wasn't that she was possessed of some noble stoicism or had ice
in her veins as was so often said of Northerners, but that whatever fear she
may have felt she had already learned to hide behind a mask of defiance. Not
only did he respect the skill itself, but he had even grown to admire the
moments when her fear turned into fierceness and she forgot to hold her tongue.
It was that more than anything that had drove him to offer his protection in
the first place, a strength uncommon among so many he had dealings with, and
she would need it in order to survive his children.
Her gaze followed him as he crossed the room, his footsteps sounding heavy on
the flags. He made swift work of the clasps down the front of his overcoat and
draped it across the end of the bed, then sat and tugged his boots off. The
only sign of hesitance came when he lifted his gaze to meet her and reached out
his hand to her. She wavered then, but only for a breath before she answered,
her skirts dragging along behind her. It was a small blessing that this event
bore so little resemblance to his first marriage. He remembered his first wife
laughing, eager, the laces of her dress already hanging loose by the time they
made it to the bridal chamber. But the Stark girl stood uneasy in front of him,
poised between his knees, and waited until he raised his hands to undo the
laces down the sides of her dress.
The fabric, already hanging shapelessly off her narrow shoulders, slipped free
of her limbs with little effort and puddled at her feet. Beneath the wool
overdress she wore a linen shift, the piece which trailed hopelessly behind
her. She took it upon herself to untie the laces around her forearms and drag
the fabric off over her head, leaving her only a thin chemise. She stepped back
as he stood, her gaze fixed so firmly that she didn't even avert her eyes when
he unlaced his pants and pushed them down to step out of them. An awareness
hovered between them, the knowledge that they had no choice but to seal their
union before he rode South, or the protection he offered her would be as flimsy
as fabric that clung to her body. She had her misgivings, as well someone in
her position should, and he certainly had a few of his own as well. It took an
incredibly will to stand in the face of such a decision and choose to save
themselves over an uncertain road.
He tipped her chin up softly, one finger curled under her jaw, just to see the
firelight catch in her eyes. Not even the flames warmed them, an ice so bitter
that it matched his own. That was another thing that had captivated him, that
there was something more resolute in her gaze than the watery blue that seemed
so prevalent among her mother's family. In her there was a ghost of the girl
who'd ripped the Seven Kingdoms apart, hiding there behind her gaze and in the
arch of her cheekbones. He wondered, in the moment it took to guide her towards
the bed, whether this girl had it in her to leave such a trail of destruction
behind her as well.
It was with that thought lingering in the back of his mind that he drew her
forward, his shoulders pressed against the back of the bed and her knees pinned
on either side of his hips. Her resolution flagged again as he slid under her
chemise, but she merely canted her hips towards his hand and drew her shoulders
back, determined to get through this with as much dignity intact as she could.
Her breath caught sharp in her chest as he brushed his fingers along the inside
of her thigh, going slowly as much for her sake as for his own. He watched her
intently, her lip caught between her teeth, and carefully pressed forward. Her
body tensed, eyes squeezed shut, but instead of pulling away from his touch,
she pressed her body towards him.
Tywin urged her closer, his hands around her waist long enough to slide her
into place. She had overcome the initial discomfort, but it came roaring back,
sharp enough to cause another gasp to rake through her lungs. She reached to
grasp hold of something and he caught her hands in both of his, carefully
lacing their fingers together. She squeezed, nails digging into the back of his
hands, knees digging into his ribs, but just as she had before, she started to
answer each of his movements in turn, until the faint whimpers slowly turned
into heavy groans. He'd found a crack in her foundation, perhaps
unintentionally, but there was no way she could hold fast to her composure like
this, and in that realization she let go of whatever self-control she'd wrapped
herself in before. There was no sense of control at all in her movements, or in
how readily her responses slipped from her lips. There was something in that
which he responded to as well; there was no pretense, no inhibition, in her
reactions.
He let her cling to him, finding it impossible to deny her such a simple thing.
Her hair fell in her face and her body flushed a deep, warm pink, while every
stutter and shift of her body on top of his brought him a step closer to
relinquishing his own control as well. His was not so easy to dismiss, not any
more, but it seemed to matter very little to her when, or how, he would follow
her into abandonment. When he did, she seemed so lost in her own efforts that
she barely noticed the way he gripped tight to her hands and thrust his hips up
towards her. Only a faint whine of protest for the shock of movement gave any
sign that she acknowledged it at all. He untangled his fingers from hers and
nudged her hand between her own legs. From there she knew well what to do,
finishing on top of him with a breathy moan.
After her body had calmed down, she slumped forward against his chest,
squirming enough that he slipped from inside her. He stroked her hair as he
waited for her breathing to return to normal, then deepen, and finally fall
into a steady rhythm. He made no attempt to move any more than it took to tug a
blanket over them, and wind his arms around her narrow waist.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     Now that the city is safe from siege, Tywin calls his household,
     including his young bride, back to King's Landing.
Arya felt sick. She couldn't tell if it was the litter lurching uncomfortably
around her or the sight of King's Landing looming increasingly closer that
caused the knot in her stomach to twist and churn angrily. The journey from
Harrenhal had taken almost a week, with the Lannister household in tow. For the
better part of it, Arya had her own horse and rode with the attendants and
grooms halfway down the column, but just after midday on the final day, with
the walls of King's Landing slicing across the horizon, one of Tywin's guards
rode down the line to escort her to a covered litter. She didn't ask why they
insisted she rode the rest of the way hidden from view, nor had anyone thought
to impress it upon her, the danger of being seen riding with Lannister men was
clear enough already.
She'd left the city praying to find home, and the journey back had only proved
to her how unreliable these southern gods really were. It was Winterfell she
had prayed for, but Winterfell had fallen, and her brothers with it. They were
just children, they didn't deserve what had been done to them, but it had
happened nonetheless. She had tried to keep her mind from wandering, but every
night since the rider arrived with news blacker than she had ever heard, she
hadn't been able to close her eyes without seeing Theon standing over Bran and
Rickon, that sharp smile of his sliced across his face. She thought she heard
the howls of wolves in the distance as well, shrill and mournful, but that had
only been a dream as well. She could no more bring them back than she could
bring her father back, and there was nothing she could do now but press onward
and hope to survive.
Tywin promised his protection, it was the only promise he had made her, even if
it meant protecting her from his own children. Even then, when she still had
something to go home to, she had known that it was her only real chance. She
became Lady Lannister that night, and as the sun dawned the next day, her
husband rode away to defend the capital from Stannis Baratheon's fleet. With
that threat now dashed on the rocks of Blackwater, he called his household to
the city, and Arya found herself dreading the return to the Red Keep. Every
place was filled with ghosts now - her father, Syrio, Jory, even Septa Mordane
and her father's guardsmen. While she couldn't forget that it had been
Lannister men who'd killed them, she knew where to place the blame - with
Cersei and Joffrey - and she could only hope that Tywin proved to be a better
man.
They stopped at the gates to the city, long enough for the city watch to speak
briefly with the head of the household guards. The litter then lurched forward
again, hooves clicking steadily on the stone as they advanced. The knot that
started to form in her gut earlier twisted violently, working its way deeper
and tighter into a nervous ball of tension. She wrapped her furs tighter around
her shoulders, though she hardly needed them in the southern heat, the chill of
foreboding washed over her. Arya tucked her legs up under her and curled
further against the cushion; she didn't so much as dare to peel the curtain
back for fear that someone might see her. It would do no one any good for
rumors of another captive Stark girl to start swarming through the city.
It seemed like it took ages for them to reach the Keep, winding through narrow
streets, slowed by the press of smallfolk. But eventually the column split,
some heading towards the Tower of the Hand, others towards the stables, the
kitchens, a hundred different places, like scurrying little ants in an ant-
hill, all with their own tasks to perform for their queen. The litter finally
came to a stop as well, under the shadow of the towering keep, and a moment
later the guard that had brought her there opened the door for her again.
Anxiously, she took his hand and let him help her down, the fur still tight
around her shoulders. It was warmer yet in the city than it had been on the
road, but she felt she still needed it to hide her from the pressing, curious
gazes that followed her as the guard shuffled her onward.
He said nothing as he drew her through the lower corridors, back through
twisting passages and archways, towards the courtyard at the back of the keep.
In the windows were perched golden Lannister lions, casting the room in an
orange glow. Waiting for them at the base of the stairs stood a young woman
with blonde hair tumbling in tight curls down her back.
She had all the features of a Lannister - the wheat-colored hair and deep,
lively blue-green eyes - and at her waist she had a small lion's head brooch
pinning her gown closed. She couldn't have been much older than Sansa, fifteen
at the most, but she smiled in a way that Arya couldn't ever remember her
sister smiling, at least not since they left home. The guard gave the young
woman a nod, and another to Arya, then turned on his heel to make his way back
to the outside. There were more important matters to attend to than the new
Lannister bride.
"Lord Tywin is in a small council meeting," the girl said, taking a few steps
forward, her hands still clasped in front of her. "I'm Calla."
Arya chewed her lower lip, reluctantly sliding the fur from her shoulders. It
seemed ridiculous to cling to it now that she couldn't use it for something to
hide behind. "Are you a Lannister too?" she asked.
Calla smiled, "Of Lannisport," she nodded. "A distant cousin of little
consequence," she offered casually; most likely the words had been uttered in
her presence so often that she thought it better to say them herself, "but Lord
Tywin thought it would make you more comfortable here if you had someone closer
to your own age to attend you. He doesn't trust the ladies in the queen
regent's service," she said, with a small, sly smile that reminded her of the
Imp.
Cleverness was a Lannister trait the same way heartiness was for Starks, and
while Arya didn't know the history of the Lannisters of Lannisport as well as
she knew that of the main house, their words came to her easily.
"Wisdom Breeds Wealth," she murmured, and the girl smiled at her, bright as the
morning sun peering over the horizon.
"So it does," she nodded. "I've had water brought up for a bath and fresh
clothes," she held out her hand towards Arya, "You must be exhausted after your
trip, not to mention everything else you've had to endure in the past few
months."
Reluctantly, she handed over the fur and ran a hand through short, messy hair.
She hadn't really been able to bathe since leaving Harrenhal. There were always
a half dozen guards and ladies standing around watching her whenever they
stopped to make camp. Arya didn't mind being naked in front of other people, or
being around other naked people, that had never bothered her; what unnerved her
was the way they watched her, like she was nothing more than a parcel that
needed delivered - a thing. She didn't think that the virtue of being Lady
Lannister afforded her any luxuries, but the only people who'd ever looked at
her like that had been Rorge and Biter, and she didn't like the feeling. So she
clung to her dirty clothes and lingered near the horses and their grooms,
finding more solace with them than she could anywhere else.
Calla folded the fur over her arm and led Arya up the long, winding staircase.
It seemed a lifetime since she'd last walked these winding steps, and yet it
was almost completely the same. The falcons of House Arryn were gone, replaced
with the roaring lion of Lannister, blue and silver exchanged for crimson and
gold, but otherwise it seemed that things were much the same as they had been
the last time this tower served as her home. But for all it looked the same, it
didn't hold the same wonder it once had; she didn't feel as small within these
walls as she had before. Whether that was a blessing or not, she couldn't say
yet.
The girl led her up through the bedchamber, still bursting with trunks and
boxes yet to be unpacked, into a small room off the wardrobe. There was a large
wooden tub, draped in gauzy white fabric, and a small table with perfumed oils,
soap, and salt the color of new rose petals. The smell, faintly heady, clung to
the back of her throat and reminded her of the pools at Winterfell, with their
water so hot it was nearly unbearable, and the salt so thick that it formed a
snowy cloak over the stones. None of this had been here when her father was
Hand, but he didn't have the same taste for luxury as the Lannisters did, and
she wouldn't have known what to do with it even if it had been imposed on them.
All she'd known was the barren simplicity of the North, and now it intertwined
with the warmth and indulgence of the capital, like the tendrils of steam and
the faint scent of roses twisting through the air around the tub.
Arya drew in a slow breath and looked over her shoulder at Calla, "Thank you,"
she offered, only because she had no idea what else to say.
She smiled back, folding her hands neatly in front of her. "It's what I'm here
for," she said with a soft nod. "I'll leave you to your privacy. Call if you
need anything."
Calla closed the door behind her, leaving Arya alone in the small antechamber.
She didn't mind the solitude, however - it was a nice change from being
surrounded by the constant buzz of activity. She quickly peeled off her clothes
- too-tight shoes that had once fit her, smallclothes that had all seen better
days - and stepped carefully into the tub. The water seemed to suck at her
limbs, drawing her deeper, until she was nestled inside with her knobby knees
drawn up to her chest and the water already cloudy around her arms. She wrapped
her arms around her legs and settled her chin on her knees, all too aware of
how easy it would be for her to fall asleep here. There had been too many
fitful nights, some with only a moment or two of rest, since the last time she
was in this tower, but she knew the moment she closed her eyes, everything
she'd been trying to keep at bay would come rushing back to her. She reached
for the soap instead and dropped her knees against the side of the tub.
Arya scrubbed until her skin tingled, until she'd washed away every speck of
dirt from under her nails and the soles of her feet, and along with it the
memories of Flea Bottom and Harrenhal. By the time she was finished, her flesh
was ruddy pink from the heat and the sting of soap with its faint grit of
Dornish clay. She worked the soap through her hair, fingers dragging through
knots and tangles under the water, scrubbing at her scalp with her nails until
she was satisfied that she couldn't possibly get any cleaner. It was only then
that she wrung the water from her hair and stepped out of the tub, dripping
water on the flags while she reached for something to dry herself with.
She tried to clean up after herself as much as she could, putting the stoppers
back in the little jars of oil and sweeping the salt back into its little
crystal dish. She wiped the water from the table, and neatly hung her rags
where they could dry, before turning her attention to the stack of clothes
waiting for her. The stockings and smallclothes were a little loose on her
under-fed frame, but she would grow into them. A dark shirt with lightly
billowed sleeves hung to her hips, a slash down the front cutting to the center
of her chest bone. Instead of skirts, she found pants, simple dark pants that
fell midway between her knees and ankles. She tied the laces snug around her
calves, then pulled on the soft brown boots that had been left as well.
Finally, a narrow bodice in red with delicate gold embroidery that laced up the
front was all that remained. It curved under her chest and stopped at her
waist, the back coming to a tapered point near the base of her spine. It all
fit her well, better than the scraps of clothes they'd found in Harrenhal, and
though she still felt comfortable in them, she also looked more presentable
than she ever had in borrowed boys' clothes. These were made for a woman's
shape, but even still, the knowledge that she wouldn't be forced to play a part
she hated settled easy on her shoulders.
By the time she stepped back into the bedchamber, the faint draft of the other
room had been extinguished, replaced by a warm crackling fire and the smell of
spiced wine. Calla was waiting for her at the table near the window, her hands
clasped around a small box. She smiled when she saw Arya, her skirts swishing
around her legs as she rose.
"Crimson suits you," she said, nodding to the bodice.
She'd barely noticed that it was done in Lannister colors, though somehow it
didn't seem to make much of a difference to her. Arya tugged absently at the
front of the shirt and shrugged. "It fits well."
Calla nodded and beckoned her over, pulling out the chair so she could sit.
"Lord Tywin just returned," she said, brushing her fingers through Arya's short
hair. "Or I assume so, for all the racket his guards were making in the small
hall. They're not subtle, those ones."
Arya snorted, "And they're not very graceful either."
She heard Calla bite back a laugh of her own, "So I've heard."
She twist the sides of Arya's hair back and lifted the lid on the box. It held
a small collection of hairpins and combs in all shapes, some with brightly
colored stones, others carved from bone or wood. Calla took a narrow pin topped
with a smooth, round crystal, and slipped it into Arya's hair to hold the twist
in place. She did the same on the other side, letting a few strands loose to
frame the girl's long face.
"There," she said softly, clasping the box closed again and folding her hands
around it. "Would you like me to come with you, or..."
Arya shook her head, "I know my way," she said.
She knew that wasn't the answer to the question Calla had asked, not really,
but she didn't have to say that she would rather be alone for it to be
understood. Frankly, she had to wonder if the girl didn't have something she'd
rather be doing than fussing over her. While she appreciated the thought,
whatever comfort she might have garnered from having someone her own age - or
Sansa's age, at least - near her, was replaced with a distinct discomfort at
having someone tend to her in such a way. Part of her felt like she'd rather
just have her sister with her, the way things used to be. But things weren't
the way they used to be, and they would never be that way again. She wished
that knowledge made her feel something - sad or angry - but she didn't feel
much of anything.
She offered Calla an uncomfortable smile and tucked the loose strands of hair
behind her ears, then quietly excused herself from the room, leaving the door
open behind her. Her boots murmured softly on the steps as she made her way
down to the hall below. The clang of armor and sounds of Lannister men had died
down enough that she wasn't the least bit hesitant in striding past the guards
and through the heavy doors into the small hall. One of the tables had been set
with food and drink - jugs of wine, plates of bread, cheese, fruit, and hunks
of meat - and at the head of the table, Tywin sat with his unwavering gaze
focused on a bit of parchment in front of him. The sound of her footsteps
caused him to glance up, and he gave her a brief once-over before folding the
parchment and setting it aside.
"I take it you found everything in order?" he said, pushing out from his chair
and rising.
Arya shrugged and trailed her fingers down the edge of the table as she moved.
While the memories of her father had been effectively banished from the other
rooms, there wasn't much that could be done here. There were Lannister lions in
the windows instead of the falcon of Arryn, but everything else remained the
same. The reprieve was that her father had loathed this lofty room, and spent
as little time in it as possible.
"I like it," she offered, glancing down at her clothes.
He nodded, "I thought you might. But there's one thing that's missing."
"There is?" she furrowed her brows, wondering what she'd managed to overlook.
Instead of turning his attention towards some detail out of place, Tywin
reached into the pocket of his overcoat and withdrew a small gold ring, with a
garnet so dark it was nearly black. She'd almost forgotten that there were
supposed to be rings, and stared at it for a moment before she finally,
uncertainly, offered him her hand. The ring slipped easily around her finger
snug enough that it wouldn't slide off. She held it up to see it glint in the
flickering torch-light, but instead of seeing a shimmer of red, it seemed to
suck in the light and grow even darker. A small smile worked its way onto her
face, even though she had never been fond of jewels things like that, it was
simple enough that it suited her.
Tywin sat back down again and reached for a bundle of thick fabric on the table
next to him. "I believe this is yours as well," he said, sliding it across to
her.
She knew what it was before she even touched the fabric, and her hands had
never felt more eager for anything in her life. It was the only thing she had
that tied her to home and when it was taken from her she felt as though she'd
lost part of herself with it. She quickly unwrapped it, taking Needle in her
hands and cradling it the way one might a baby.
"My Needle..." she breathed.
Tywin hummed, his gaze sharp as it lingered on her. "One of my men returned it
the morning we left, presumably because he knew if I ever caught him with it I
would leave him in the black cells to rot."
That made her grin. "I can keep it, then?"
"You must," he answered, leaning towards her, his arm resting on the table,
"Visenya Targaryen certainly kept a sword at her side, didn't she?"
Arya bit her lip and nodded, attempting to hold back the smile that tried to
fight its way onto her face. It was no Dark Sister, but Needle meant everything
to her now. She leaned down and pressed a swift kiss to Tywin's cheek, her hand
resting on his shoulder for a moment longer, and pulled back in time to catch
the surprised expression vanish from his face. She unwrapped the belt from
around the sword's sheath and fastened it around her hips, where it hung
securely against the side of her leg. The leather had been bleached enough by
the sun that it seemed to compliment the gold thread in her clothes, as though
it was meant to rest there.
"You'll need a new one," Tywin said, as Arya sat down on his right, "but
there's no reason you shouldn't have that one until then. It may be better for
you to have your own protection." He paused and quirked an eyebrow subtly. "You
do know how to use it, don't you?"
She shrugged, "Well enough."
"Good," he pushed himself up from the table again, a moment after Arya too
heard the clatter of guards and footsteps beyond the doors to the hall. Tywin
rest his fingers on the edge of the table, poised like elegant daggers at the
ready. "You may need it."
The doors swung open, battering on their hinges before swooping back in on
themselves. The guards at either door stepped forward, stopping the doors from
closing as Tyrion hurried along a few long paces behind her. The queen regent's
face was set in stern, cold determination, as she strode towards the table, the
only sound the soft swish of her skirts. The expression on her face was so
severe, so unyielding, that Arya wondered if she'd already heard whispers of
what her father summoned her to say. By the time the doors to the small hall
closed behind Tyrion, Cersei was already at the foot of the table, a demand
dancing on the tip of her tongue until she saw the girl sitting at her father's
side.
A sneer passed across her face and Cersei's gaze narrowed, "What is she doing
here?"
Tywin canted his head subtly, just enough to cast his pale gaze on his
daughter. "I was under the impression that she was meant to be here," he said.
"Which begs the question, why did I find her in Harrenhal?"
She didn't bother answering the question, or the accusation that lingered
between his words. Instead, a look of satisfaction - victory, even - glimmered
in her eyes. Cersei raised a hand and motioned, "Guards!"
The guards didn't even flinch. But Arya stood, slowly rising from her chair
with the faint grate of wood on stone. She rest one hand on the hilt of her
sword and the other on the table near Tywin. Neither one said a word, which
only seemed to infuriate Cersei further.
She whipped around and stared down the guards, "What are you fools waiting for?
Take her somewhere she can't slip out of again!"
"I don't believe you can give that order anymore," Tyrion interjected, a smile
playing at the corners of his mouth as he hoisted himself up into a seat near
Arya. His gaze fell on her hand and the ring shining darkly on her finger.
"Should I offer you two congratulations or sympathy?"
"Your discretion will be enough," Tywin answered dryly.
Cersei's cheeks paled, only to bloom again into a violent, angry red. She took
a slow step towards them, then another, "What?" Her gaze pierced straight
through Arya and bore fiercely into her father's chest, unable to even look him
in the eyes.
Tywin breathed a long suffering sigh and motioned for Cersei to sit. While she
didn't move, the token gesture was enough for Tywin to be absolved of any rules
of hospitality. He took his seat, hands folded neatly across his lap. Arya
remained standing, however, her gaze as unwavering on Cersei as the woman's was
on her. This was no different to her than the plays for dominance among the
dogs she'd grown up with. Cersei could stare her down as long she wanted, but
Arya was unmovable. She hadn't been afraid to challenge Cersei when she was
queen, and she wasn't afraid to challenge her now - especially not when she was
so sure she'd win. The tension between them strained tighter by the moment, and
since someone had to be the first to speak, Tyrion was more than happy to fill
the silence. It seemed that his sister's uninhibited anger only made him more
pleased with the situation.
"It seems, dear sister..." he said, reaching for a glass and the wine, "that
our father has found himself a new wife."
"I know what our father has found, you imbecile," Cersei spat. "What I can't
seem to understand is what provoked him to marry some filthy little wolf
bitch."
"That's Lady Wolf Bitch," Arya said, which was probably not the most mature
thing to say, but Cersei had always been able to drag forth the rawness in her.
Cersei's attention snapped towards her, the hatred gleaming openly in her gaze.
"Traitorous little-"
"No," she interrupted. "My father was the traitor, remember? You made that
clear to everyone. But my father was also a man of honor." She leaned forward,
the muscles in her arms and shoulders straining, hungry to pounce, "I won't
make the same mistake."
Next to her, Tywin lowered his head, shielding what dared to be a smile, and
reached over to cover her hand with his own. "That's enough," he murmured,
though some strange note of fondness seemed to lace the nuances of his voice.
"Cersei, sit."
For a moment, Arya was uncertain if Cersei would comply, but the longer Tywin
glared at her, the more her resolve weakened until she finally, with all her
unwillingness still intact, she moved to sit in the chair nearest to her. Tywin
pat Arya's hand gently, then pulled his own hand back to fold in his lap again.
She hooked her foot around the leg of her chair and pulled it forward again,
dropping down to sit as well. Suspicious as she was of the queen regent,
however, she still didn't take her eyes off Cersei for a moment.
"It can still be annulled," Cersei said, her resolve unbroken, but the anger in
her voice tempered somewhat.
Tywin shook his head, "It won't."
"Surely you don't intend to play this farce out?"
"I wouldn't," he said, "if it were a farce, but I'm quite serious about this.
You seem to be doing everything in your power to lose the North, and someone
has to make sure that you and your son don't undo centuries of political gain
on a the whim of an impudent boy."
"Joffrey is the king!" Cersei asserted.
"And I am the king's Hand, and your father."
"Do you have any idea what Ned Stark said about us? About your family."
The comment was meant to sting, but Tywin barely blinked at it. "I know," he
replied, "the entire kingdom knows, and had known, from what I've heard. But
don't think for a moment that I'm going to punish myself for your trespasses or
allow you and your brother to destroy what I've worked so hard to maintain. If
either of you had learned to use the discretion you were taught to have, then
none of us would be in this mess in the first place. You've left me no other
choice than to clean up after the two of you, as I've been doing your entire
lives."
Cersei fumed, but said nothing. Tyrion, however, glanced between his sister and
father, and grinned as he took a swift gulp of wine.
"Well, I for one think it's wonderful!" he said, the cheerfulness in his voice
slicing through the tension without destroying it on either side. "But I do
hope you don't expect me to call you 'mother', Lady Star-ah, Lady Lannister."
Arya stared at him for a moment, playfulness glittering in his mismatched eyes,
then grinned back at him. "Arya is fine," she said.
Tyrion thumped his glass on the table and shifted forward in his seat. "Arya,
then! I feel obligated to offer you a wedding gift. Do you like books?"
"Of course," she smiled, casting a glance over to Tywin who had momentarily
stopped glaring poisonously at Cersei and was looking fondly at her instead.
"Excellent," Tyrion wriggled down from his seat and shoved the chair back in.
"Why don't you come with me, and we'll see if any of my books suit your tastes.
I think my sister and father need to yell at each other more and it would be
best to leave them to that without an audience, don't you think?"
She shrugged, "I'm entertained."
Cersei scoffed and Tyrion chuckled, "As am I," he said conspiratorially, "but
you know my father..."
True enough. She didn't think Tywin particularly wanted either of them there
while he tried to cut through all the complexities of this arrangement with his
daughter. She glanced over again and Tywin nodded softly, holding out his hand
for her as she stood. She gave his hand a subtle squeeze as she stood and
crossed around the back of his chair to join Tyrion on the other side.
"Have dinner with your sister," he said. "Tyrion knows where her rooms are,
he'll show you."
She smiled and nodded, turning back just as Tyrion offered her his arm.
"I have a wonderful volume of letters composed by Queen Nymeria's generals," he
said, ignoring the way Cersei glared at them as they left. "But I don't suppose
that would be anything you'd be interested in..."
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Summary
     While Tywin is trying to calm Cersei's newly-ignited rage, Arya and
     Sansa finally get to see each other again.
Arya had never imagined that she would be in a position where she would be glad
for Tyrion's presence next to her. But he was good company, chatting with her
about the history of the Red Keep and the notable lords and ladies who had
lived there before, all the way up the winding steps of the Red Keep, while she
struggled to keep hold of the small mountain of books he'd gifted her with. In
addition to the letters of Queen Nymeria's generals, he had given her a couple
volumes on military strategy from Aegon the Conqueror's time, and an
impeccably-illustrated book of rather racy stories about Visenya Targaryen.
Most of them were pure speculation and rumor, he said, but there was an art to
crafting the perfect thread of infamy that every lady ought to acquaint herself
with. The last was a thin sliver of a book, bound in cracked black leather,
about the sordid history of Harrenhal, allegedly compiled by Lady Lothston
herself, complete with the details of her deadliest poisons. That was the book
that Arya was most eager to read; though stories of her childhood heroines
called to her, something about the sudden turn her life had taken made her
hungry for the secrets it held.
She had always thought that being a lady meant rules and rigid lines, being
tethered to some lord, little better than any other piece of property. In the
ballads that her sister had so often swooned over, it was hardly ever a prince
that won his lady's love, but the rogue, the bard, the mysterious stranger who
promised to free her from that life. Little by little she was starting to
understand that being a lady didn't necessarily mean being lady-like. She held
in her arms so many stories of ruthless women who refused to be defined by the
roles they were thrust into, and as much as she now wanted freedom and
happiness for her own sister, she wanted to be able to seize that power for
herself and remind everyone that the Starks also knew how to repay debts. She
didn't fool herself into thinking that Tyrion had unwittingly placed that
knowledge at her fingertips; it seemed clear to her that they had, in many
respects, a common enemy, and friendships had been forged on much less.
When the finally reached the landing in front of Sansa's chambers, Tyrion
tipped his head back and glanced at the guard standing outside the door - who,
in turn, paid a skeptical, scathing glance towards Arya before rapping so hard
on the door that the metal latch shivered in its place. There was a soft
scurrying of footsteps from within, then the door dragged open. A woman with
dark hair and darker eyes stood with one hand on her hip, scowling until she
looked down and saw Tyrion grinning devilishly up at her. She let out a soft
sigh, which revealed entirely too much to Arya, then looked to her. It seemed
that gazes had a way of lingering on her a bit longer than she was comfortable
with, and Arya tried to make herself seem taller, at least, as she stood under
the scrutiny. The woman finally smiled at her and ushered them both inside,
reaching out for the stack of books Arya had been holding protectively in her
arms.
"Let me take those," she offered, "I can bring them to the Hand's Tower while I
see Lord Tyrion back to his chambers."
Arya had been about to protest before she caught the faint smirk on Tyrion's
crooked lips and bit her tongue. The offer was no doubt genuine, but it seemed
that the woman had other motives as well. Far be it from her to keep them from
it. She watched the woman tuck the stack of books between her arm and the neat
curve of her waist, then led Arya through the small entryway towards a larger
room just beyond.
Her heart raced, and Arya found herself far more nervous than she had expected
to be. Seeing Sansa, even the little glimpse of her from around the corner, set
her nerves on edge again and she felt suddenly tongue-tied and uneasy. Sensing
her apprehension, Tyrion reached out and rest a hand just above her elbow,
catching her attention. He winked at her, the expression equal parts hilarious
and unfortunate with a chunk missing from his nose, then reached to offer the
other woman his elbow as well as he was able. At least, she thought, she
wouldn't have an audience for this.
From where she stood, she saw Sansa tug a shawl tighter around her shoulders
and then turn away from the table to glance towards the doorway.
"Shae?" she asked, still unable to see Arya around the corner. "Who was it?"
Arya chewed her lip and rest her hand on Needle just to brace herself, then
stepped forward. "It was me."
For a moment she wasn't sure if Sansa even recognized her, but then the older
girl rose slowly, soft fabric the color of lilacs falling from her shoulders,
and nearly stumbled over her skirts in an attempt to rush over to her sister.
Arya barely had time to steel herself for the embrace before the air was
knocked from her lungs by her sister's enthusiastic hug.
"I thought you were dead," she heaved against Arya's hair, still half a head
taller than her.
"That was the point," Arya answered, her words muffled by her sister's
shoulder. "And I will be if you don't let go of me so I can breathe."
Reluctantly, Sansa pulled away, her bright eyes glistening with the threat of
tears, even though her cheeks were still red and streaked with the tracks of
those she'd already cried for her brothers. Her hands gripped tight to Arya's
shoulders, as though she were still unsure if it was really her sister was
really standing there in front of her. "But-" she began, "if you were free, the
why did you come back? Did they catch you? Are you a-" her voice dropped to a
hushed whisper, "a prisoner as well?"
They were all good questions, but unfortunately Arya didn't have good answers
for any of them. Instead, she pried one of Sansa's hands off her shoulders and
dragged her sister back towards the table. "I'm supposed to be having dinner
with you," she said, "I suppose that means we have time to talk about it."
She was being intentionally elusive, but Sansa didn't seem to care about
anything other than having her sister with her again. For a girl who had
professed to hate her utterly the last time they saw each other, Sansa seemed
to have forgotten in an instant all the ills Arya had caused her. They would
come back, she was certain of it, and they may come back sooner than expected
depending on how tactful Arya could be. She tucked a few loose strands of hair
back into the now not-so-neat twists at the side of her head, and reached
anxiously towards the flagon of wine at the center of the table. She wasn't
overly fond of wine, but it was something to do with her hands, a way to stall
for just a moment longer.
"I tried to go North," she said, "but the Mountain's men caught us and brought
us to Harrenhal. Even then," Arya shook her head, remembering Jaqen and his
last words to her, "I could have gone far away, and been safe, but I would have
never seen my family again. Neither that nor going North and risking being
killed by the Mountain's men or bandits or anyone who might have thought they
could benefit from it seemed like the best idea. So I chose to come back, and
live, for a while longer anyway. No, I'm not a hostage," she was quick to add,
"I'm..." not a lady, never a lady, but she had to be something. Arya didn't
have the words to explain everything the way she wanted to, so she merely held
up her hand, the ring flashing for a moment in the candlelight before the glint
disappeared into it's endless black depths.
It took Sansa a moment to realize exactly what she was looking at, a gasp
slicing through the air between them when she finally did. She grasped Arya's
hand and tugged it closer, into the candlelight, a look of bewilderment
striking across her face. "But, who?" she asked.
Arya pulled a face and eased her hand out of Sansa's grip, sliding her
shoulders up in a deep shrug. "Tywin."
Sansa blinked, then shook her head like she was trying to rattle the
information into place. "Lannister?" she asked, incredulous.
"You're handling it moderately better than Cersei..."
Sansa pressed her hands over her mouth, "Oh gods," she breathed. "You did.
You're not making this up."
She shook her head, "Why would I make it up?" she asked. "He was there in
Harrenhal, him and all his men. For a while I don't think he knew who I was -
or if he did, he was willing to let me keep lying about it. I really do think
that I could have left and he wouldn't have cared one way or another about it,
which as strange as it sounds is one of the reasons I said yes. He was the only
one who wasn't after me."
Though she dropped her hands from in front of her mouth, Sansa still looked
utterly stunned, but there was a vague expression of understanding that had
started to slide into place. "Only you," Sansa shook her head, "would marry
someone because he didn't want you."
Arya couldn't help herself, she snorted, then quickly covered her face with her
hand, trying to stifle laughter behind it, which only made Sansa burst into
giggles. It felt good to laugh again - to honestly laugh - and with her sister
as well. She never thought she'd missed that sound, but for once it wasn't
Sansa laughing to mock her, as it had so often been before. As the sound of
their laughter died down, Sansa reached across the table and wrapped her hand
gently around her sister's hand again, as a soft look of curiosity passed
across her features.
Sansa dropped her voice to a soft whisper and leaned in towards Arya, "What did
Cersei do when she found out?"
"She looked like she might burst into flames," Arya grinned. "It was sort of
funny, really - not that Tywin thought so, but most of the time he has the
sense of humor of a boulder. But," she shrugged, "they're discussing it."
Her sister furrowed her brows delicately, "Can it be annulled?"
"No," Arya shook her head, "he made certain of that. There's nothing she can do
about it now, but I'm sure she'll find some way to make it more difficult than
it needs to be. She acts like it's some sort of an ungodly crime, that he may
as well have married a wildling, but I think the part that really galls her is
that she had control over it, and Cersei has always seemed like the kind of
woman who needs to control everything," she shrugged, "but that doesn't mean
she gets to control me."
Sansa frowned, "She's the queen."
"Queen regent," Arya corrected. "And soon Joffrey will be married to some other
unfortunate girl and then she will be the queen. I'm just glad I came back to
find out that girl wasn't you."
She watched Sansa blush softly and ducked her head, russet-colored curls
sliding into place to frame her face. Arya knew as soon as she mentioned
Joffrey that the conversation might become terse, but she knew no other way of
expressing that she thought her sister had always deserved better than some
spoiled prince. So much of her annoyance since they set out from Winterfell
came from watching her sister, blind to what a monster Joffrey was, act like
the sun shone solely for him. Now that she was free from him - though perhaps
not free from the Lannisters entirely - she should be glad for it, rather than
looking like her entire world had been crushed under her. That had already
happened, when their father was killed in front of them both, and no pain and
anger should ever eclipse that event. But Sansa still acted like she had lost
something and it was everything Arya could do to bite her tongue and keep from
telling her how ridiculous she was for it. Those few short words were all she
afforded herself for the moment, and she would be more than happy to leave it
at that.
When her sister looked back up at her, there was a look of understanding strung
between them, perhaps not an apology offered or accepted on either side, but a
moment of shared knowledge that no more needed to be said. Sansa leaned forward
and pushed a platter of soft cheese, bread, and mushrooms towards her sister.
Arya glanced at it briefly, her hand wavering, then reached forward for a chunk
of honey-soaked bread.
"You know," Arya offered, tearing a corner of the bread off, "I think you and
Cersei have a lot in common. Maybe you'll be lucky enough to get out of here
before it consumes you the way it did her."
Sansa shook her head, "But what about you?"
"I can take care of myself," she replied, "the trick is to stay alive, right? I
have a better chance of that with Tywin than I've ever had with anyone else."
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Summary
     The battle of wills continues when Cersei poses and ultimatum and
     Arya must rise to the challenge of being the new Lady Lannister.
The walk back to the Tower of the Hand was almost startlingly familiar for her,
winding halls and stairways lit only by flickering torches ensconced along the
walls. As much as she had tried to purge the memories of Syrio and her father
from her mind, they flooded back to her on that walk, with Needle on her hip
and her shoes scuffing softly on the stone. She was no longer a little girl
chasing cats through the halls, she didn't even know if she could find that
kind of freedom and happiness in her anymore, and it was futile to try to grasp
for it where it couldn't be found.
Arya leaned heavy on the door to the bedchamber, trying to make as little noise
as possible as she slipped inside. On the way South, days had started to melt
slowly into one another, and it became hard to tell where one began and the
other ended, or remember how many times she'd slept. Even now, she found it
difficult to believe that so much had happened in one day. Surely it had to be
two, maybe three days? Everything felt unsteady, unreal, and she hadn't
realized just how tired she was until she slipped inside. The room was lit only
by the soft flicker of the fire burning strong in the fireplace and a faint
sliver of moon hanging low in the sky beyond the huge arched windows. She found
Tywin sitting up in bed, his attention focused on a stack of parchment laid
across his lap. He glanced up when he heard the door shut behind her and
started carefully arranging the paper back in order.
"Don't mind me," Arya said, reaching to undo her belt and lay Needle on the
table.
He gave her a brief nod and settled back again. "How did you find your sister?"
he asked.
Arya shrugged, and started working on laces and buckles to get out of her
clothes. "As well as she can be, given all that's happened." It wasn't hard to
see the sort of strain Sansa was under, with the constant scrutiny and abuse
she'd suffered under Joffrey's hand. Sansa had told her everything over dinner,
through distraught tears, not a cross word omitted. It did little to quiet her
rage, but what difference did a candle make to a bonfire. "Before we left
Harrenhal, I had thought to ask you to send her back to our mother," she said,
pulling off her boots, "but she wouldn't be any safer there."
Tywin looked up, his brows raised slightly, "Why's that?"
"She can't go back to Winterfell," Arya said, "there's nothing left. I don't
even know where my mother is anymore, but wherever it is, she'd be no less
surrounded by people who just want to use her as a pawn in this war. At least I
got to choose, but Sansa..." she trailed off and draped her belt over the back
of a chair. "There was a Frey boy, a squire, at Harrenhal who said that Robb
and my mother made an agreement with Lord Frey for Robb to marry one of his
daughters and me to one of his son, this squire, whoever he was. And I thought,
if I killed him, then I wouldn't have to marry him. That might have been the
easier decision."
"Don't worry about Lord Frey," Tywin replied, turning his attention back to his
papers with a thoughtful expression. "He's an old man, and easily appeased. So
long as your brother keeps his end of the deal, the Freys will be happy with
what they get or they'll get nothing."
It wasn't as simple as that, she knew, but Tywin made it sound so easy. The
Freys were supposed to be loyal to the Tullys, but she was beginning to
understand that everyone had a price and the Lannisters were always willing to
pay it.
"What if he tries to offer them Sansa, though?" she asked. "She'd be as much of
a hostage there as she is here and twice as miserable. There isn't any place
that's safe for her."
"There might be," he said, "and I see no reason not to see to your sister's
well-being, now that I have you."
Arya snorted and tossed her pants over the chair with her belt. She didn't
believe that Tywin had only taken her as a hostage. Political leverage, maybe,
but not a hostage. He wouldn't have had to marry her if that was all he wanted.
But if that's what he had to tell himself to justify it, she wasn't going to
question his methods.
"But you must know," Tywin continued, "There are no promises that can be made
that would hope to save your brother from what's been started."
What's been started, she thought. It was a clever way to phrase things, neither
taking blame nor placing it. She couldn't imagine he was trying to be kind, or
spare her feelings. But it was hard to say when this started. Surely the
rumblings were there before Joffrey had her father executed. Robb was just
trying to do the right thing, the way their father had always taught them. And
maybe it was the right thing, but that didn't mean that it was worth the
consequences. She knew that Robb wouldn't find any honor in backing down when
they had been so utterly wronged, and if what they had already lost hadn't
convinced him that this would only end in more tragedy, nothing would.
"I know," she said, sliding into bed next to him, "but he thinks he made the
right decision and he'll see it through to whatever end it brings."
"Does that bother you?"
"I saw my father killed," she replied. "Nothing will ever compare to that. And
though he's my brother, and I would love to see him storm the city and kill
everyone in it, what do you think the chance of that is?"
"None," Tywin replied.
"Right," she said softly, perhaps even a little sadly, but she tried her best
to keep that from taking over her voice. "Why bother hoping, when there's
nothing to hope for. All I can do now is make sure my sister is alright; she's
all the family I have left now."
He stared at her for a long moment, as if trying to figure out how such
pragmatism could come from such a little girl, but where her brothers had
always listened to their father's lessons, Arya understood them. The North was
a world of harsh lessons, which a strong man had to face whether he wanted to
or not. Her own desires held no sway over the reality of that life, and they
held even less here in King's Landing. Time and again those who promised to
protect her had been ripped away until she was forced to accept that the only
person she could trust for her own safety was herself. She wanted to trust
Tywin, she wanted to believe it when he told her that no harm would come to
her, but she had been taught that such hope was feeble and the gods did what
the gods wanted to do regardless of the will of man. In the past that might
have made her feel helpless, but even that was an emotion she couldn't find
within herself anymore.
"You know the only way this war will end is with your brother's death," Tywin
said finally.
"I know," she said.
With a faint sigh, Tywin reached over and rest his hand on top of hers,
squeezing gently. "We are cursed with the burden of family," he said simply,
and Arya understood what he meant more plainly than anything.
She shifted and pressed herself against his side, her cheek against his arm for
a moment while he put his documents in order and laid them aside. Tywin wrapped
his arm around her shoulders and pulled her in close. Touch was still something
she wasn't entirely comfortable with, but the sense that he was no more
familiar with it himself helped as she pressed herself against the sturdy line
of his side.
"Should I even bother to ask how your talk with Cersei went?" she asked.
"As well as could be expected," he said dryly. "She insists on making a
spectacle of everything, which is a trait I fear she inherited from my father,
and hardly a redeeming one at that."
"I'm almost afraid to ask," Arya muttered.
"She would see us properly married, in the sept, rather than - as she put it -
a dilapidated heathen ruin."
Arya's brows furrowed, "Did you tell her-"
"She knows how seriously Northerners take their old gods," he said, "but it
hardly matters to her. No, I said nothing of the sort, only that it was not a
choice that rest solely in my hands and that she would accept whatever decision
was made."
She rest her head back against his shoulder, allowing her eyes to fall closed
for a moment. She wasn't exactly eager to bend to Cersei's demands, no matter
what they were, but there was a glimmer of opportunity and Arya wasn't sure if
it was enough to make her willing or not. She and Tywin had one important thing
in common, not only the simplicity in their logic but the simplicity in their
tastes. And regardless of what people might have thought of how coarse and
unrefined she was, the politics of court were not lost on her. Cersei wanted to
back her father into a corner, show him the shame in what he'd done by forcing
him to recognize that he wouldn't put it all on display for the whole kingdom
to see. It made Arya look like a pawn and, perhaps worse, like a secret. She
knew that she would never be the kind of perfect, poised lady that Cersei or
Sansa was, but that didn't mean that she should be kept in the shadows as
though Tywin had something to be ashamed of.
Arya dragged her lower lip thoughtfully between her teeth, "Okay," she said,
"I'll do it. On one condition."
Tywin seemed genuinely surprised by that. He pulled back enough to look down at
her, brows knit into a tense line. "Which is?"
"If Cersei wants to make a spectacle of it, then let her," she said, carefully
choosing her words. "But all the final decisions are mine, and that includes
the dress. If I have to wear a dress, then I'm going to decide what it looks
like."
He stared at her, his gaze as scrutinizing as her own was unwavering, then
finally gave a terse nod. "Fair enough," he said. "And you won't have to wait
long to start making those decisions. She's insisting on having her personal
dress-maker sent up in the morning."
Arya glanced up at him, "Do you suppose she thinks that wearing a dress is the
worst thing that's happened to me?"
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