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A/N: This was redone from blackrider11's 'A Dangerous Game'. Check out their work!

A Very Dangerous Game

The girl intrigued him. At least, that would be what he told himself later. He never would have guessed that the scrawny girl he made his cupbearer on a whim would have provided him with such amusement. Those dark winter eyes revealed her intellect as she spoke her mind, and it was refreshing. It had been so long since he had been able to maintain an intelligent conversation with someone.

From the moment she had spoken he knew she was not so lowborn as she claimed. He called her out on this lie, reminding her that a commoner would have said "m'lord" rather than "my lord". Her response was so quick and clever that anyone else would have been fooled. And he surprised even himself when he forgave her for it.

At first, he had only meant to prevent the girl from being raped by his soldiers. Despite the rumors, even he was not that cruel. Most lords payed no mind to their cupbearers but she was sharp, and it instantly caught his attention. When she was first brought to him he had seen the way she examined the walls of the room, as if trying to memorize its entirety. When he grew bored during council meetings- which was often- he would watch her reactions out of the corner of his eye. He began to see the subtle changes in her facial expressions, like the small smirk that appeared when one of his advisors said something particularly stupid.

After one such meeting, he kept her behind to ask what she'd found so funny. Although he could tell she wanted to speak her mind, it was another task to get her to lower her guard when any other lord would not have tolerated it. Her witty response amused him, and soon he found himself engaging with her more and more. It became a game.

The girl began to grow bolder too, toeing the line. And yet he couldn't find it within himself to seriously reprimand her. Finally, one evening after a spirited exchange between the two, his thoughts turned to her identity. Early on she had admitted she was a Northerner, but he did wonder which house could possibly raise such a wild, fierce girl. However, as soon as he asked himself the question he knew the answer. The dark hair, her fiery grey eyes, her extensive historical knowledge, and unrelenting spirit all lead to one conclusion.

This was a dangerous game they were playing. A very dangerous game indeed.

Tywin Lannister was not one for sentiment, but he couldn't help thinking that if the girl had been anyone else, he could have taken her in. Their interactions left him with a nostalgic feeling and he had indulged. She was smart, frighteningly so, and would have made a fine advisor to anyone she deemed worthy. Maybe this sentiment of his was because the girl reminded him of his wife. For a brief moment he fantasied that the girl was their child. She was the perfect blend of his cunning, and her spirit and wit. Joanna would have loved the girl.

He suddenly took a long drink to try and break his train of thought. There were no ifs or maybes in this world. Only the cold, hard truth. His wife was dead, and he was off to kill the girl's brother. Soon he'd spill her family's blood, and she'd hate him forever.

Brought back to reality Tywin realized he'd either have to kill or break the girl. He didn't particularly want to do either, but doing nothing wasn't an option. If he let her go, she'd eventually kill his family. Her eyes told him as much. It was nothing personal, and he even respected her for it. For both the direwolf and the lion, packs and prides were important. If a Lannister was captured or killed, maintaining the strength of the family name would require that he take action. Even considering his embarrassment of a second son, if someone had killed him he would not hesitate to deliver devastating justice upon them. Family was everything. He imagined the girl and he were alike in this way.

Tywin stared into the fire, contemplating his options. He would have to kill her after all. She was smart, and had been in the Lannister camp too long, which made her dangerous. And he couldn't quite bring himself to break her- not that she ever would. If he let her live now she'd bide her time, but he'd never be able to tame her wild spirit.

He walked to the window and looked out onto the moonlit fields. He'd kill her when he got back from King's Landing. It would give her a chance, one chance to run. The voice of reason was screaming at him that he shouldn't. But his heart- the small part he held for his wife- told him just this once, for the sake of her memory. He signed heavily, feeling the true weight of his years for the first time since his wife had passed. He wished he had a little more time to pretend he was a simple old man who had found life again in a young girl. But the moon was already setting, and the harsh reality would rise with the sun.

If only fate had not put them on two different sides.

Tywin Lannister could be called a family man. He had been forced to watch his father drive the Lannister name into the ground, and it had fallen to him to save it. He had learned to be smarter, more disciplined, and harder working than any other lord in the Seven Kingdoms in order to pull their name out of the mud. Through a few calculated moves of brutality, he became Hand of the King at only twenty years old, and the King had respected that. When the same King betrayed him, he returned the favor; all because his family named called for it. He had lived and slaved away his entire life to raise the esteem of his family. And now, he had to fight to preserve it against the incompetent fools he had the misfortune to call his children. What hadn't he sacrificed for the legacy of his family?

In fact, Tywin Lannister scarified the family name exactly twice.

The first was Joanna. He had turned down a perfectly good marriage to a Northerner to marry his cousin because, by the seven, he loved her. He swore to never love anyone else, or look at anyone else. And he believed all semblance of joy died with her. Until he met the wolf.

His second act of selfishness was Arya Stark. It was a shame. If marriage arrangements had gone slightly differently she might have been a Lannister. He snorted. Might have been, could have been, the sentiments of an old man. He had to stop thinking about her- worrying about her. Soon after his leave, Tywin had received a raven reporting that the girl had vanished. He wasn't surprised, and had suspected- even hoped- that she would take his absence as an opportunity.

Arya Stark. Whether she knew it or not part of him would live on in her just as she had left a mark on him. So much so that he continued to follow whispers of her travels. And while he didn't fully trust his children to keep the Lannister name above water, it didn't bother him as much anymore. Maybe not in name, but perhaps in principle his legacy would live on in one single, brilliant, young girl.

And if the Gods were good he would live to see her one last time. Perhaps she'd kill him, he mused.

Arya did not know what to expect when Tywin Lannister rode into Harrenhal. His reputation preceded him, but she liked to think she was a good judge of character, and took the rumors with a grain of salt. And yet he immediately lived up to his name when with a single, sweeping glance at the prisoners he recognized her for what she was– a girl.

She knew her next move was crucial to her survival. Had she followed in the footsteps of her siblings, the game would have been over before it even started. But the instincts of the North ran deep in Arya's veins; It taught her that winter was coming, and it would be cold, and it would be long, and the only way to survive was patience. She was brave enough to look death in the face, but clever enough to know that now was not the time to be a Stark. She became a common girl with no house, banner, or name. Just a girl. That's how she'd survive, biding her time.

Arya learned that Tywin Lannister may have been as patient as she was. She attended many of his strategy meetings as his personal cupbearer, and amused herself with finding the flaws in his councilmen's idiotic suggestions. There was one particular pig-face that never failed to amuse her. This time he was adamantly refusing Tywin's suggestion to reinforce his flank, when it was clear even to her that it was a weakness Robb would not overlook. The scene almost threatened to break her composure, and only a cough masked her laughter.

She used her status as a servant to her advantage, and actively kept to the background. The only one she couldn't escape was Tywin himself. Her cough drew his eye, and he beckoned her over. As she slowly made her way to the head of the table, her eyes never stopped moving. By the time she arrived she had already identified four potential weapons within reach. If she was discovered, she would rather die fighting than get caught. Wolves were not meant for captivity. Bracing for the worst, his question caught her off guard.

"What, pray tell, did you find so amusing?" Arya quickly glanced around the room where she was met with the council's full attention, and scattered smirks.

"Nothing, my lord." She muttered.

"Look at me, girl." It was an order.

"Don't lie to me. I refuse to ask you again." The warning was crystal clear. She didn't pull any punches, or hide the ridicule from her voice as she verbally condemned his councilmen. Tywin turned to his fellow lords.

"If my cupbearer can rightly point out your incompetence, then perhaps I should give her a seat at this table." He said, glaring around the table.

"Girl, you are dismissed." He threw over his shoulder without breaking eye contact.

Arya bowed and left the room, thankful to escape the scowls that followed her out. She was both proud and scared. Proud for being complimented by the most powerful man in Westeros, and scared that she just made enemies with all the other lords at the table, who wouldn't have taken kindly to their humiliation. But she laughed as soon as the thought materialized. She was a Stark, and the entire room wanted her dead. At least now they had an actual reason.

After two weeks as his cupbearer Arya began to get a better read on him. She knew when he wanted wine, when he wanted water, when she should hold her tongue, and when she could speak her mind.

And just when she thought she knew him, Lord Tywin did something out of character.

"I don't like mutton." He said, as she set down his meal.

"I'll bring something else." She replied quickly.

"Leave it. You hungry?" He asked suddenly.

"No." She did quite know what to make of his question.

"Of course you are. Eat."

"I'll eat in the kitchen later." She replied, now wary of his intentions.

"It's bad manners to refuse a lord's offer. Sit. Eat." It was an order with no room for argument.

He handed her a knife and fork, and then walked to the window to observe the courtyard below. Arya became aware that he had just handed her a weapon. With his back turned it was the perfect opportunity to axe the head of the Lannister family, end the war, and her captivity. Yet as she glanced back at him, she caught his profile and noticed the imperceptible twitch of his lips, and the hint of a smile. It caused her to pause, and the opportunity passed.

Arya was defiant and feisty, but she was not stupid, and she never dared to try again. She knew that only Tywin Lannister's favor had saved her from death.

Later, when thinking back on her time with Lord Tywin, she admitted that she may have deliberately passed up the chance, because against all odds, she liked him. Personally, he had been nothing but civil with her, and dare she say kind. He had protected her, and taken her seriously. Jon was the only other person who hadn't mocked her for not wanting to be a lady. She could not even bring herself to blame him for her father's death, and suspected that if he had been in King's Landing at the time her father would still have his head.

Arya's escape found her on a ship to Braavos. She hoped that she never had to meet him on the battlefield, because she had a feeling that she owed him, and while Lannisters are said to always pay their debts, the North always remembers. She hated the sensation of owing anyone, especially someone whose family had inflicted such horrors upon her own. But should they meet again, she just wanted to ask him one question:

"Why did you let me go?"

Because there was no doubt in her mind that in the end he had known.

It had been a decade since Arya had set foot in Westeros, and the passing years had been harsh. Gone was the scrawny, green girl who fancied herself a knight. In her place stood a battle-tested woman who brought the gift of death, and whose reputation was known throughout the free cities. Though she would never reveal her secrets, her unique style was a deadly blend of water dancing and the arts bestowed by the faceless-men.

Two days from King's Landing, the bodies fell around her as she danced. And as she watched the oncoming soldiers she cursed her family luck, because the approaching army was lead by the one person she had never wanted to see, Tywin Lannister.

He was still instantly recognizable, but it was clear the years had not been kind to him. Time, however, had not made him any less deadly. His moves were calculated, precise, and graceful; no more effort than necessary was exerted. Even at his age, he was doing the most damage to the army than any single person.

Despite the odds, Arya and Tywin came face to face on the battlefield. His eyes widened in recognition the moment steel met steel. Soldiers from both sides tried to take each of them by surprise, but they patiently waited while the other disposed of the interlopers as if they had an unspoken agreement. Neither party could get in a proper blow. His experience and mass was an equal match to her speed and youth. But as the duel raged on his movements began to slow. Finally, she caught a slight misstep and leapt at the chance. He was a split second too slow to prevent his disarmament, and she slammed the hilt of her sword into his gut, causing him to fall backwards.

With Tywin Lannister at her mercy, she leveled her sword to his heart, and asked the question that had been burning in the back of her mind all these years.

"Why?"

He looked up and held her gaze, and for a moment it was just the two of them. Suddenly, he lunged at her, quicker and smoother than his aging joints should have allowed, uncharacteristically catching her off guard. He barreled into her side, and she moved to deal a blow- aiming to wound.

Arya struggled to right herself. She knew the feel of steel on flesh, and her sword had not found its mark. But it didn't matter, because there was already a gleaming hilt sticking out of his stomach. She whirled around, frantically looking for the source, and found a Lannister soldier with a dagger in his neck. It was only upon second glance that she realized it was her dagger, and the sheath on her belt was empty. He had protected her from one of his own soldiers. Tywin lost his balance as he tore the dagger from the man's neck, but Arya had already caught him and gently lowered him to the ground.

"Why?" She choked out, but she knew there wasn't enough time left for an answer. That curt laugh she realized she had come to miss was interrupted by blood beginning to spill from his mouth. His coughs splattered blood down her front, but she payed it no mind. He cleared his throat enough to talk.

"Ironic, a Lannister dying for a Stark." She wanted to shake him, but settled for a halfhearted glare.

"I forbid you to die, old man." She demanded.

"You have too much to answer for."

"Girl." He said. Even while dying, his voice commanded attention, and his address instantly took her back to the war room in Harrenhal.

"What do we say to the god of death?" Arya blinked. She did not know how he knew those words, or how he knew she'd find meaning in them. But, after all these years he could still see right through her, and knew what she needed to hear.

"Not today." She whispered. His eyes flickered with amusement, and dare she say approval as he gave a slight nod.

"Go." He muttered.

She did not need to check. He was already gone.

Arya weaved through what was left of his army, cutting through their ranks. She avoided the kill, instead rendering them unconscious. The more dangerous men were crippled. Just for today this is how she would honor his memory, by sparing as many of his banner men and family as she could. This act would be Tywin Lannister's final legacy that the world would never know. After all, Lannisters were not the only ones who payed their debts. The North always remembers, and she was of the North.

Later, she had time to grieve. And though she would never admit it to anyone, Arya Stark might have shed a tear, and that tear may have been for Tywin Lannister.

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