Chapter Text
~*~ Last Time ~*~
“Have you ever swung a sword with your left hand?” She asked, toying with his differently calloused fingers.
“I mean, mayhap once or twice when I was a boy, but not seriously. Why do you ask?” He responded, sounding slightly confused at the change in topic.
“You should practice. You could learn to fight with two swords, too.”
“I’ve always said those that feel the need to carry two swords are cunts.” He teased, reaching over to brush a thick strand of hair from her face. She thumped him again, harder. “My left hand carries a shield in battle, remember? I’m a knight, not an Essosi water dancer.”
“What if something happens to your right? Think you’ll survive a battle with naught but a shield in your weak hand?”
“Why would something happen to my right hand?”
“Who could say? Anything can happen to anyone.”
“Alright,” He allowed. “Even if I learned to wield a sword with my left hand, why would I care to wield two at once?”
“Because it’s fun?” She asked incredulously. “Because it’s useful? Because there are few in the world who can do so or who would be able to challenge you if you were one of them.”
“Few in the world can challenge me now.” He boasted. “I was knighted by Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning, himself. I'm the youngest knight ever raised to the Kings Guard, if you remember?”
Her lips curled, amused. “Mayhap I just want to be able to strike you without having to pull my blows?”
“You think you can strike me?” He challenged.
“Shall we find out?” She provoked, leaping nimbly to her feet, unashamed of her nudity, blocked as they were by the surrounding walls.
He wasn’t as nimble, but he rose to his own feet easily enough. He reached out and gripped her hair to pull her into a final kiss. “We shall.”
~*~
“We should return to the Tower of the Hand, first. It wouldn’t do to be out of sight for so long.” Jaime stated once they were dressed, placing a hand low on her back to push her towards the door.
“Sure.” She agreed, silently hoping he meant somewhere other than the only place in the tower she was aware of that was suitable to practice.
It wasn’t so. She remained silent as he led her into the open-air space she’d spent so many hours within during her youth, and she couldn’t help but pause once the door closed behind them.
It had been her favorite room, once. It was the place she first began to truly appreciate the warmth of the South. Of course, as a Stark of Winterfell, snow and ice would always have a place embedded within her; but she’d loved this room- with its exposed red brick, huge arches open to the air with no way to close them off because it wasn’t needed here. Not like it would have been in the North. Even in summer, such a room would have been an impractical and frivolous waste of materials and space.
The South, on the other hand, was oft warmer during their winter days than a Northern summer day, and so they did not have the same issues. She had liked the way the greenery hung from the ceiling and from the decoratively carved stone pillars that featured prominently within the space. She’d liked the wide-open floor that allowed her to practice with her Dancing Master, without having to worry about running into walls or having strangers mock the silly little Lady that wanted to be a knight.
She looked to the spot Syrio had stood when she finally gave into his orders and fled, where she left him meet the stranger on his own, desperate to find her father or one of their men. She hadn’t realized until too late that the blood bath had already been taking place before they found her- hadn’t realized until she saw the first of the Stark guards cut down and left in a heap upon a growing pool of blood on the landing below her as she moved to flee.
She found those terrible moments replaying themselves in her mind, as if they had only just happened and wasn’t already years past. Her gaze was absent and unfocused in her remembrance until she heard his shoe scuff against the floor and it broke her attention.
Her eyes darted away from the spot and met green. She was unsure what to say immediately. It was stupid to be so torn up over the events so long past, over things she couldn’t change. She knew better logically, but this was one area she found herself unable to simply push down and ignore. Her father’s death, their households slaughter, the stupid stable boy… Syrio- the first adult who had truly taken her desires to learn to swing a blade seriously, who had taught her not only the technical aspects of swordplay, but how to feel it, how to make the blade an extension of her own arm.
She’d still had so much to learn when he was taken, and she wondered for a moment what it might have been like if he’d fled with her, if they’d escaped the keep together. There had been an opportunity, when the guards were dazed on the floor, but he had still stood firm, determined to defend her until the end.
“Arya?” She heard, the voice sounding concerned.
She took a deep breath and tried to smile, tried to brush him off, but she didn’t think it worked because he continued to gaze at her with a furrowed brow. “This is, uhm, where I used to have my dancing lessons, with Syrio. This is where we were when the Lannister soldiers came for me that day.” She told him tightly, breaking her silence.
“Shite, I’m sorry, I should have thought- come on, we can leave, we can go somewhere else. You don’t have to be here.” He told her, moving closer and grasping her elbow.
“No, it’s… It’s okay. Really.”
“It’s not-“
“It is. Fear cuts deeper than the sword. It would be stupid to avoid this room simply because of an event that took place within it several years ago. It’s not even fear, it’s just a memory. It’s just a room, and all men must die.”
Jaime looked like he was debating what he wanted to say in response before he finally spoke. “You are allowed to feel, you know. I know you’ve got this whole stoic, ‘faceless man’ thing going on, but you’re still human. You’re allowed to grieve, you’re allowed to hurt, allowed to be angry in the face of injustices. Six men attacking one who was carrying naught but a practice sword while he stood defending a little girl, was an injustice.”
He paused before continuing. “Did you know that I was… involved in your father’s apprehension?”
“Yes.” She confirmed softly. “It was widely spoken of that a Lannister solider put a spear through the back of his leg whilst he was engaged in single combat with you. I saw his limp when he ascended the Sept of Baelor.”
Jaime nodded, looking pained. “You were there?” He asked. She nodded but didn’t respond verbally, not wanting to relive it again so soon after she’d shared it with his father, and so he continued. “It was dishonorable and he was reprimanded, after. I regret the way things progressed in that. I was… Angry, that my brother had been taken captive. Your father claimed it was his order, but I already knew it had been at your mother’s command. It made following the order to kill his guard and apprehend him easy, when Joffrey gave it. Regardless, he deserved an honorable fight and to receive fair justice, and that’s not what he got.”
“Honorable fights and fair justice don’t really seem to be the Lannister way.” She murmured bitterly, eyes dropping back to that spot in the center of the floor.
Jaime’s frowned depend. “No.” He acknowledged. “My father always valued outcome and expediency over honor. He’s pressed that in his commanders and men, as much as he has in his family. If it won him the battle, as quickly and with as little cost and loss as was possible, he didn’t necessarily care about the methods used. I’m sure you’ve heard of the Rains of Castamere?”
“I’ve heard the song, but don’t know the true history.”
“My Grandfather, Tytos Lannister, was a weak lord and a growing joke to the surrounding houses- or so my father would say. Two of our vassal houses, House Reyne and House Tarbeck, pulled together and rebelled against my Grandfathers rule. They felt they could do a better job. My father was a young man then, and he led our army against the rebellion with the intent to make an example of those who would dare go against the Lannister family… And he did. After they used siege weapons to bring Tarbeck hall down on the heads of those sheltering within- my father didn’t want to wait out their starvation, you see- those who survived of House Tarbeck fled and took refuge with House Reyne, nearby.”
“House Reyne gained their wealth in gold and silver mines, with a small holding above ground. When the mines dried up, they were carved out to form an entire castle of stone beneath the surface. Bedchambers, galleries, halls- even an entire grand ballroom. Nine-tenths of the castle was beneath the ground. The rebellion closed the towers on the surface and took refuge within the former mines, believing they could wait out a siege and that my father, in the impatience of youth, would grow bored and retreat. I’m sure you can imagine how likely that would be.”
“No, instead, father had miners within his own troop bring down the entrances until they were naught but a pile of rubble, not allowing them to resurface even if they tried. Then, he had the pond’s stream that was on the grounds dammed and redirected so that it would flood the mines. Everyone within drowned and their bodies still remain locked in the watery grave of their own keep to this day. Those nearby or who have passed through say Castamere is haunted now, and that you can still hear the screams of the victims if you wander too close.”
He shook his head and shot her a sardonic grin. “And so you see? Expedient result with minimal loss. He still considers it one of his greatest strategic successes… Others tend to have more varied feelings on the events. Hells, most minstrels have some version of it in their repertoire. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard it sung in taverns, pubs, and around campfires clear across the seven kingdoms.”
Arya considered the story with a cocked head. “I’m surprised I haven’t heard the full tale if it’s so well known.”
“Well known in taverns, pubs, and around campfires.” He repeated pointedly. “And rarely spoken of near his presence. I’m not surprised you haven’t heard of it. It’s not exactly a story for a child, and I very much doubt it’s as common in Essos, however much they apparently enjoy acting out news of our lives.”
“How do you feel about it? Do you think it was a sound strategy?” She asked, curious.
His head dipped shallowly. “Aye. An avoided battle is our men’s lives saved, and an avoided battle where victory is found regardless, can’t be anything other than a sound strategy. As I said, not an honorable one, but a sound one all the same.”
She hummed thoughtfully and found her eyes drifting back to that same spot on the floor that had captured her attention upon entering the room. “I killed him, you know.” Arya confessed suddenly. “And I suppose the way I did it couldn’t be considered very honorable either, if we’re looking at judgements.” She offered, apology for the previously slight against his family unspoken but heard all the same.
“What? You killed who?”
“Meryn Trant. They say he was the one to deliver the killing blow to Syrio, after I had gone. He was the first one on my list.”
“How could you have-“ He paused, eyes widening as it registered. “He disappeared while escorting Lord Tyrell to Braavos to meet with the Iron Bank. They waited for him for three days, but finally had to set off without him.”
“Yes.”
“How-?”
Arya stepped forward, pushing through the spot that was haunting her memories as though it didn’t matter, and made her way to the balcony area overlooking the courtyard below. Jaime followed and stood beside her, gazing out rather than at her and making it easier for her to share. “Jaqen had just given me my first name to gift to the Many-Faced God. It was my first real trial, beyond the servitude of all new hopeful acolytes and my studies.”
“I was on the docks, selling fresh shellfish to the dockworkers and merchants and everyone else who occupied the space- including the man whose name I had been given. He had become part of my daily routine and always purchased fresh oysters with vanilla from me when I passed him. While I was making my way to him that morn, ready to carry out my task, I saw a rowboat coming in to dock, with a ship baring a Lannister sail moored further out. I saw him come ashore and recognized him.”
“I abandoned my duty and followed him for a long time. When night was falling, he took a couple of the other guards to a popular brothel. He wasn’t… pleased with what was on offer. I watched him ask for younger and younger girls, until a wide eyed, rosy cheeked maiden, that couldn’t have been more than ten, was brought out. He had a taste for young girls, you see.”
“He ordered the madam to have “a fresh one” ready for him the next night and refused to use the hourglass to keep his time. I stole a face from the House, that of a young girl whose father brought her in to be given the gift just days prior. She was suffering, you see, and always in pain. She was ill of health, and he’d spent all of his coin trying to cure her before he finally turned to the Many-Faced God for help… She was so young, so frail, her eyes were pleading for the hurt to stop. She couldn’t even sit upright… She was the first person I gave the gift of Mercy to in the way of the Faceless Men, by feeding her the poisoned water of the well, in the chamber of the gods. I borrowed her face and returned to the brothel the next night.”
“I was put into a line of three girls for him to choose from. Trant had a wooden switch as thick as his finger and struck the other two across their backs first. They both cried and flinched from the pain, but I didn’t when he got to me. He hit me again and kept hitting me until the switch broke across my flesh. He wanted to see how far he could push me before I screamed or begged for mercy. He wanted to see what it would take to break me. He said he had his work cut out for him and dismissed the others.”
“Once we were alone, he struck me in the stomach so I lost my breath. I revealed my true face to him as I stood back up. I wanted him to know who I was before I took his life. I took his eyes first. I was careful not to stab deep enough to kill him, of course, just deep enough to blind him and cause him pain. I had to shove cloth in his mouth to muffle his screams before I could continue. I was worried someone would grow concerned enough to come looking, though he had caused plenty of screams himself the night before. I couldn't tell you how many times I stabbed him before I finally opened his throat. I did so slowly, I made sure he paid for Syrio, and for the pain he’d dealt others, before I allowed him to pass on. I dumped his body in the channel for the crabs to feast upon after. It seemed a fitting end for one such as him.” She paused then, registering exactly how carried away she had gotten with the memory, how much she was sharing with him without censoring herself, and she worried that it might be too much, that she might be too much, too bloodthirsty for even his lose morals and judgements to accept.
Jaime couldn’t look away from her, entirely enthralled in the story she was weaving. He felt like he was being given a peak into a forbidden tome at the casual mention of her faceless abilities. They were a faith built upon shrouds and secrets, after all, and not much was commonly known about their practices. He wanted to know more, he felt a burning curiosity for what else she might be able to do, what else she might allow him a glimpse of, hells, what it meant to ‘wear another’s face,’ but he felt it better not to press just then. Beyond that, though, he once again found himself blown away by the tiny but lethal woman standing before him. She was magnificent, breath taking, awe inspiring… He could scarcely believe she existed.
He wanted to step closer, wanted to cage that raw passion in his arms and claim the woman as his own. He wanted to devour her entirely.
A sudden crash of noise from the street below startled them enough to draw their attention back to the present and break the moment. Jaime looked down at the cause and then back across at her. “You’re magnificent, you know- everything you are, and everything you’ve done- don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.” He settled on instead of following his other impulses.
“It couldn’t have happened to a more deserving man, anyway.” Jaime added, lighter, having to stop his hand from reaching up to brush back that stubborn strand of hair that refused to stay tucked into her braid. “What happened to the man on the docks? The one whose name you were given?”
Her eyes dropped back to the street below as she remembered what had followed her making the selfish choice to take the name she wanted rather than the name she had been given. Those first hours of helpless, all-consuming terror at the loss of her sight, at being blind and helpless in a still foreign city where she didn't even speak the native language, at believing that it might truly be her fate until death take her. She remembered the first days spent feeling her hunger grow alongside that helpless despair and not knowing how to even begin to move forward. The first week was the hardest. After that, the sharp hunger pains subsided into a dull and continuous ache, and eventually tapered off completely as she continued to go without any form of sustenance.
She truly thought it was how she would spend the remainder of her days and so she eventually began forcing herself to adapt. She stood from the spot she had taken refuge for the first time in days and began learning her immediate surrounds by touch and sound alone. She learned how to navigate, learned how to beg for coin and food to survive one day at a time. So much of her had wanted to give up, it was only her sheer stubbornness that kept her going during those dark days.
She thought that was it, and she couldn’t bring herself to believe otherwise until the Waif had shown up, weeks later, to mock and strike at her from the shadows. While those lessons hadn’t been pleasant either, it at least reassured her that she wasn’t exiled or totally forgotten. It gave her hope back, and with it her determination to push through what ended up being just another challenge in her life.
“I was punished for taking a life that wasn’t mine to take. Jaqen took away my sight as a lesson, and I lived as a blind beggar on the streets for a time.”
“What-?!”
“Every hurt is a lesson.” She repeated the words spoken to Cersei that morn. “And through that lesson, I learned to fight without my sight, to use my other senses to navigate the world around me. It was an invaluable lesson, if not an enjoyable one. I hold no regret for it.” He didn’t seem to know what to say, and she was tired of talking, so she turned away to move over where practice blades were still placed along a stretch of wall.
She grabbed two, one notably larger than the other, and moved back to the center of the room. She tossed him the larger one and watched as he caught it easily with his right hand. She raised a pointed brow at him and he rolled his eyes as he passed it to over to his left.
The hold immediately looked awkward, his wrist bent and elbow cocked out sightly, as if he were a novice and not a seasoned knight. Or as if he were trying to brace a shield rather than wield a weapon. She watched the arch of his shoulder as they squared up. He twisted his wrist around to try and loosen it before raising his wooden blade. "I thought we were going to practice two handed sparing?" He asked pointedly.
"You need know what you're doing with your left before you try to use both, obviously." Arya responded even as she made the first move, launching a moderately quick attack. He brought the blade up to guard, but it was clumsy and off balanced. His foot work was as solid as ever, but he was leading with the wrong side and it was throwing off his balance further.
They disengaged easily a few minutes or so later. Jaime shook out his left arm that was feeling the strain of unfamiliar movements and weight. “So?” He asked pointedly, knowing she would have something to say. They hadn’t landed any blows on the other, but Arya hadn’t been attempting to. She’d wanted to see first, get a feel for how he would do, how he would respond and reach.
“Your balance is off when you swing because you haven’t exchanged your stance- your legs are still bracing for your right arm instead of your left.” She told him. He looked down at his feet like it hadn’t occurred to him. He’d mastered his footwork as a boy, after all, it wasn’t something he typically needed to think about anymore. It was muscle memory. He changed his stance as suggested and frowned at the off feeling it brought.
They engaged again and, while it definitely still felt awkward, he found he had a bit more control over his arm and his ability to shift and change direction. She saw his improvement and pressed him harder, forcing him to match her speed.
He swung an arching swing, overpowering the move without meaning to. She ducked underneath it and brought her own wooden edge to smack against the meat of his outer thigh. He cursed and squared up to see her grinning at him without shame. “Strike to me?” She teased, twirling her own blade boastingly.
He snarled at her playfully and took the offensive, pressing her aggressively until her back was becoming close to a corner. She saw the trap he was laying for her and attempted to drop and roll past him to reverse their direction. He didn’t allow the move, using his boot to interrupt her motion and send her sprawling on the floor, his blade following to strike her in nearly the same spot she had gotten him.
She grinned back up at him, feeling exhilarated at the challenge he presented. Even with the clumsiness of using his left hand, it was still easy to see why he was one of the most revered knights in recent history. He moved with a formidable grace, confident in his body in a way few men truly were.
She used her legs to sweep around and flip herself back to her feet, squaring with him once again. “If I’m using my “weak hand,” shouldn’t you be using yours?” He challenged.
“What makes you think I have a weak hand?” she challenged, tossing the wood to her right easily anyway. Now that he was watching for it, he saw her own stance shift with the move, different muscles tensing and flexing as she attacked.
She met him just as fiercely as she had before, dancing around his more contained movements. She scored more strikes on him, but she knew from their previous spars that if he were using his dominant hand that wouldn’t likely be the case. Her own right arm had strengthened since her spar with the Hound, the two-handed sword play strengthening her muscles and the practice smoothing the rougher edges she’d had before.
By the time they came to a stop for a final time, they were both feeling the exertion and the ache of new bruises spread generously across their bodies. She wouldn’t have to worry about the maids spotting the new bruises from their fierce exchange amongst all of her other ones she already bore, at least, she mussed to herself. Not that it mattered, but the concern it brought was tedious and unnecessary and she really didn't care to become part of the gossip amongst the maid staff.
Jaime took the practice blades back over to the stand she had retrieved them from, and she took a moment to stretch her sore muscles. She was sat on the floor stretching forward when he rejoined her, moving to kneel behind her. She relaxed her stretch when she felt his warm hands slide under the tunic and start to kneed her muscles instead.
She hissed at the initial soreness and then groaned when his fingers dug in and started working her back loose in truth. He continued for several long minutes and she was putty in his hands by the time he swept them down one final time and come to wrap around her waist instead. “Mmm, thank you.” She said as she leaned further back into his hold. “I was thinking it would be nice to have the heated pools of Winterfell to soak in, but your hands worked almost as well.”
“Only almost?” He teased, nipping at her neck.
“Return the favor?” She offered back.
“Next time, I’m okay now.”
“Anytime.” She agreed, beginning to feel famished now that her body had returned to its baselined state. “I asked to have supper brought to my rooms tonight. Your father said he wasn’t attending dinner in the hall so I didn’t have to either. Do you want to join me?”
“I would love to, but I think attending you alone in your private bedchamber might be pushing things a little too far.”
“I suppose. Do you have rooms in the tower?” She asked, it only then occurring to her. Shouldn’t the room she was in have been his to use first?
“No, I have an apartment in the White Sword Tower with the other Kings Guard.”
“Oh.”
“You should go eat your supper though, it’s getting late.” He told her, squeezing her gently, finding himself reluctant to part despite his words.
They finally rose and slowly moved towards the door; his hand lingering low on her back once more, as though he wasn’t ready to stop touching her. When they got there but before she could reach for the handle, he twisted her around and pressed her back against the wood, leaning down to claim her lips a final time before they parted in truth.
“Pleasant dream, Arya.” He breathed against her lips.
“Pleasant dreams, Jaime.”
~*~
The next morn passed easily enough. She bore the handmaiden’s presence and assistance with strained politeness and sent her away as quickly as she could. Breakfast passed without incident, Tywin distracted with the men on either side of him and he paid her no mind.
Lunch, however, things took a turn. She’d been expecting it of course, dreading it nearly to the point of slipping back into the shadows and fleeing. She’d been hoping it would wait, with the more pressing matters to be dealt with, but it seemed it wouldn’t be the case.
She had been standing to depart at the end of the meal when he called out to her. “Lady Arya, a moment, if you would. There’s someone I would like to introduce you to.” She looked over the table at him to find that he had stood as well, his brother Kevin, and another much younger man standing with him.
The new man was clearly also a Lannister, with shoulder length blond hair and murky green eyes. His jaw was rounded, as was his chin and nose. He was smaller than both men, with a slender build and muscles that were sleek, rather than bulky. He appeared more pretty than masculine. He held himself like a Lannister though, shoulders back and bearing naturally proud. He was dressed as a Lannister as well, wearing a golden jerkin heavily decorated with a red abstract lion pattern crossing the chest. A slender sheath hung from a red belt decorated with golden lion heads, and his boots looked new and unscuffed.
She waited as the room cleared before moving around the table to join them. In her apprehension, she wasn’t as observant to the rest of the room as she normally would be, or she would have noticed Jaime scowling at his father before he stormed away and Cersei’s smirk as she strode from the room herself moments later.
“My Lords.” She greeted once she reached them.
“Lady Arya, allow me to introduce you to my nephew, Lancel Lannister, eldest son to my brother, Kevin. Lancel, Lady Arya Stark.”
Lancel smiled tightly at her and reached for her hand for the traditional kiss upon the back of it. She allowed it, forcing herself to smile politely and give the shallowest curtsey. Neither of them spoke.
“Because my son insists on persisting in his stubbornness to remain in the Kings Guard, Kevin and I have been discussing a potential match between the two of you, instead.” Tywin continued bluntly. “It was time you met. Go, take a walk in the gardens. Talk to each other.” He ordered and made a waiving gesture with his hand for them to leave.
She looked at him incredulously. Was he seriously going to- who was she kidding; his face was stern and unyielding, his brow lifted just slightly up. She could tell he wouldn’t allow her to argue with him in this, and that trying would only reflect poorly on her. Her eyes returned to her potential husband to find him looking at his father with widened eyes as well. Tywin cleared his throat pointedly and she watched him flinch and turn back to her. “My Lady.” He said as he held out an arm in offering. She felt an ache for how tightly her jaw was clenched as she reached her hand out to accept.
They turned to exit the hall stiffly, steps out of sync and pulling against each other. Once they were out of sight Arya released her hold on his arm and folded her hands in front of her instead. He seemed relieved as well and took half a step further away from her as they walked, clasping his own hands behind himself.
It was a short walk to the gardens, and it was one made in silence. Arya knew she should say something, should use the opportunity to see what kind of a man he was, but she found herself at a loss for words. She considered playing the game of faces, putting on a persona and pretending she were someone else, reacting as they would react. She was sure there were plenty of Ladies who would be thrilled with such a match- would it not be easier to place herself in their mindset?
He might not have been Lord Lannister’s direct descendent, but with Jaime in the Kings Guard and Tyrion playing traitor with the Dragon Queen, he would be next in line for the Lordship after Tywin. She could pretend to be any one of those girls and force an interest but, well, she found that she didn’t really want to be someone else in this. She didn’t want to start out what might be a relationship with her husband under such blatant falsities and lies, and so still found herself mute, unsure what she did want to say.
“Well…” Lancel tried, but trailed off and didn’t continue as they crossed into the manicured green space.
She felt her jaw loosen enough to talk. “Well, indeed.” She drawled.
He glanced sideways at her and she saw his eyes run down the length of her. She saw the look of confused distaste before he pulled his gaze away and forward. “I’ve never seen a noble Lady who wore trousers before.”
That was how he was going to start? Well… She considered her response. Her initial instinct was to dig into it- if he found her clothes distasteful, she could show him how many other ways she could be distasteful and unsuitable to him, easily enough.
Her mind went to Tywin then, and what his reaction would be if she were to purposefully behave badly while she was acting under his instruction and decided she didn’t care to deal with the lecture that would surely follow. She curbed her tongue and settled on saying “Oh? I suppose I’m not like most Southern Ladies. I never quite managed it, even when I lived in the capital before.”
“Do Ladies in the North wear trousers, then?” He asked, sounding doubtful with a slight curl to his lip.
“Some do.”
“Ahh.” A long pause. “And do you… miss the North?” He continued, tone forced.
“Sometimes, I suppose.”
“Ahh…”
“…Do you miss… Casterly Rock?”
“Sometimes… I, ah, have not been home in many years.”
“You squired for King Robert as a boy, didn’t you? I remember seeing you with him when we first came to Kings Landing.”
“Yes, I did.”
It might have been the most painful fifteen minutes of her life, and that was saying quite a lot. They finally reached the other side of the garden, not having said much more than a couple of comments on the flowers they passed by (she wasn’t the one commenting).
They came to a stop at the edge and he turned to face her, bowing slightly. “Thank you for the pleasure of your company, My Lady.” He said stiffly.
“And yours, My Lord.” She returned with another shallow curtsey. They wasted no time in moving in different directions, her heading quickly towards her room and him somewhere she didn’t really care to know.
She found a Lannister guard waiting outside her door when she made it, only to be informed that Lord Tywin wanted to see her when she returned to the tower. She bit back a sigh and turned to continue up the stairs instead.
He was seated at his desk as expected for the time of day, head bent over a piece of parchment he was writing on. He glanced up at her when she knocked on the door frame. “That was quick. Come. Sit.” He instructed her before continuing to ignore her until he was done with his task as was typical for him. He finally pushed it aside to dry and turned his attention to her.
“Well?”
“Well, what?” She returned.
“What did you think of him?”
“I can’t say there was enough time to think much of him at all.” And there was that pointed brow again but she held her silence.
“Did you find him distasteful?”
“He might have found my clothing distasteful.”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
“Not so much distasteful.” Arya admitted. Distasteful was a strong word to use and he hadn’t quite earned that from her- yet.
“Good. He will be joining us at dinner tonight, it will be family only. Find something about him you like. Endear yourself to him.”
“Is this match certain then?” She dared ask. That didn’t sound very ‘potential’ at all.
“If Jaime will not change his mind, Lancel will become Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the Westerlands one day in the not-so-distant future. A union between the Warden of the Westerlands and a Stark, sister to the Warden of the North, would go far in reunifying the realm against the coming threat. The sooner that unification occurs, and the sooner an heir comes from the union, the better.”
“Will it though, if my family sides with her?”
“A union will also help to reduce the chances of that happening.”
“I’m not so sure it will.”
“Your family values family above all else. It is one of the few things we have in common. They will not want to risk your life to another war.”
“I suppose time will tell.” She said, neither agreeing nor arguing.
“It always does. You are dismissed for now. If Lancel found your trousers distasteful, wear a gown to sup. There is no need to antagonize each other so early on.”
She breathed deeply through her nose to keep her composure from wavering. She pushed herself up from the chair and left the room without another word to him. The urge to flee was stronger than ever and she found herself having to measure her paces to keep her gait steady.
~*~ Tbc ~*~