She hadn't changed. Twenty-two, and tall and dark and beautiful as Valyrian steel. She wore magnificent armour, the shoulders and breastplate emblazoned with the snarling direwolf of House Stark. Her hair was as he remembered it, luxuriantly brown, with a kind of warmth about it despite its bearing none of the vivid Tully auburn that smoldered, like a forest fire, in the hair of her siblings. But something had transformed the expression in her eyes, making them seem larger and brighter still. Jaime recognised it from his own: sadness.
He could see that she was doing her utmost not to look at him, though he could not tell if this was the result of hatred or love. He did not dare to assume either.
It was a surprise to see his brother at Arya's side. They had always gotten on well, but were far from being fast friends. Tyrion looked as he always did; intelligence sparkling in his mismatched eyes as he took in every detail of their surroundings without fear. He had lived for too long to believe that people saw anything much of a threat in him, or perceived anything beyond his height.
More fool them, Jaime thought affectionately.
From the dais that had been set up in the ancient, freezing throne room of Dragonstone, Daenerys Targaryen surveyed the two envoys from King's Landing with as much interest as the knight of the Queensguard at her side. Jaime saw her take in Arya's armour with – was it admiration? – and her violet eyes fix suddenly on Tyrion, drawing his gaze.
She sees him, Jaime thought.
'You are welcome to Dragonstone, my lord, my lady,' Daenerys said, 'and I thank you for your willingness to offer terms of peace.'
Both bowed.
'I was saddened to hear of your father's death, Lady Arya,' the Targaryen Queen continued, 'he was an honourable man.'
'You are most kind, Khaleesi,' Arya responded formally.
Jaime smiled. Clever little minx, to use the Dothraki mode of address.
Daenerys took Arya's response for a gesture of respect.
'When I take back the Iron Throne,' she declared, 'I will see to it that those responsible are punished.'
Tyrion and Arya looked at each other, then, and the warmth went out of Daenerys' voice as her eyes fell on the black leather sack clutched in Arya's hand.
'What is that?' she asked quietly.
Jaime's heart began to beat very quickly. The look on Daenerys' face told him that a confrontation was not only possible, but imminent, putting him into a dilemma that could have no pleasant resolution for him. If the contents of that sack were not to Daenerys' liking, and he would have to choose between his wife and his Queen, he would choose his wife, the gods take the consequences.
Seven hells. And just when I thought I'd found a way to go home. Arya. Arya.
'We bring you a gift, Your Grace,' Tyrion said, clearly sensing the Queen's discomfort, but seeing no other way to proceed, 'a token of Tywin Lannister's goodwill.'
Goodwill?
Tyrion nodded slowly to Arya, who undid the laces of the leather sack and upended it. With a sickening splat, the head of Robert Baratheon rolled onto the carpet.
