Sometimes, in his rare moments of grief or uncertainty, Tywin Lannister would walk down to the dragon skulls beneath the Red Keep. They reminded him that he had done the right thing by slaughtering one family to protect his own. The gods could send him to the deepest of the seven hells if they so desired, and he would go gladly. But he would know that he had done the right thing.

Tyrion had come to see him at the break of day, surmising, correctly, that the hour would prevent him from citing an engagement or an appointment as an excuse not to see his son. His son. A whoremongering, spiteful little creature who had killed his own mother to come into the world. Sometimes when Lord Tywin looked at him, he imagined he had Joanna's eyes.

He does not have her eyes and he does not have mine. He is not mine. He is not ours. He is a lesson from the gods, nothing more.

'I want what is mine by right,' Tyrion had said, once the traditional unpleasantries and failed attempts at casual conversation were over, 'I want Casterly Rock.'

Tywin recalled little of the discussion that followed save remarking, in some heat, that he would die screaming before he let that happen.

He had worked all night, and his head ached as he descended the stairs into the bowels of the earth. Something would have to be done about Jaime. It was the only way. A suitable gift to the Faith should be enough to secure absolution from his vows, but the choice of a prospective bride would be more infinitely more complicated. She would have to be a highborn girl worthy of the Lannister name, young enough to be fertile, headstrong enough to teach his son humility, but docile enough to hold her tongue and to do as she was told.

It briefly occurred to him that his eldest son might not approve of this arrangement, but he swiftly brushed the thought aside.

His approval is not important.

Voices began to echo off the walls as Tywin approached the skulls, and, hoping to overhear some useful intrigue, he instinctively hugged the wall and crept forward until he could see the dragon skulls looming out of the darkness and the conspirators chattering beneath them.

How disappointing. There were no conspirators at all, just the youngest of the Stark girls, dressed in a brown leather tunic and breeches, and Joffrey's youngest, Steffon. The girl was waving a torch about like a weapon, the flames casting mighty shadows onto the walls while Steffon watched intently, clearly enthralled. In a booming voice, she was telling the boy the tale of Harren the Black, stalking about dramatically, her hands slicing the air, jumping, crouching, making the child laugh in delight and shiver in fear. Tywin's mouth hardened. He did not approve of treating children like fools. But the maesters said the boy was an excruciatingly slow learner, and it was widely believed that he might be simple. Perhaps this was a last resort, though the very idea surprised him. Lady Arya's impatience with children was very well known. Perhaps she felt sorry for him. More likely she felt sorry for her sister.

'Harrenhal was meant to be Harren the Black's legacy,' the Stark girl declared, holding the torch above her like a beacon, 'Have I taught you what legacy is, Steffon?'

'No,' the boy responded eagerly.

'It's what you pass down to your children, and your children's children. It's what remains of you when you're gone.'

'But what about Harren the Black?'

'I'll say no more till you tell me what legacy means,'

'It's what remains of you when you're gone.'

'Excellent!'

She mussed up his hair. He didn't seem to mind.

'Now tell me about Harren the Black!' the boy demanded.

'Harren the Black thought Harrenhal would be his legacy,' Lady Arya continued in a menacing whisper, 'the greatest fortress ever built. The tallest towers, the strongest walls. Those towers were three times as tall as the Red Keep and the walls five times as thick…what's the matter?'

The boy was shaking his head.

'You don't believe me?'

The shaking continued.

'Ask your maester,' the girl insisted, 'Ask anyone! Wait till I tell you about the great hall! It had thirty-five hearths; thirty-five, can you imagine?'

'Thirty-five?'

She was winning him back. Perhaps it was the promise of all that warmth. What a fool. Tywin shuddered to think of the sort of man he would make.

'Now tell me, Steffon,' the Stark girl continued, 'with such high towers, such thick walls and a great hall with thirty-five hearths, do you think anyone would be stupid enough to attack Harrenhal?'

'No!' Steffon squeaked, hiding his face in his hands.

'Exactly!' she continued, 'Harrenhal was built to withstand an attack from the land. A million men could have marched on those walls and a million men would have been repelled!'

'Really?'

'Yes!

'A million men?'

'One million men.'

'I want to visit this Harrenhal, Aunt Arya.'

'I will speak to your mother.'

Tywin smiled. The girl must have known as well as he did that the boy would have forgotten about Harrenhal by this time tomorrow.

The Stark girl crouched before her nephew, dropped the torch, and put her palms flat on the floor.

'But I think Harren had a problem, Steffon.'

'Really?'

'Yes. What's the problem with building a castle that can only withstand an attack from the land?'

The Baratheon boy was shaking his head again. Seven hells. What a dolt.

The Stark girl seized the torch, leapt to her feet and waved the torch about her.

'It means that when dragons attack you from the air, you're royally fucked!'

She began to run between the skulls, roaring unconvincingly but enthusiastically in her high voice, whirling the torch about her like a banner, shadows of dragons and distortions of shadows of dragons dancing on the walls.

She is going to terrify the boy instead of educating him, Tywin thought.

But to Tywin's astonishment, his dunce of a great-grandson stood up and followed her instead. They darted into the skulls and between the skulls, the Stark girl occasionally leaping into the air and sailing, like an acrobat, through one of Balerion's eye sockets, making her nephew screech in alarm before charging after her once more. Eventually, he grew tired of running and simply tried to jump on top of her, sending both of them tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs and hysterical laughter. Once the gales had ceased, and they lay on their backs looking up at the skulls once more, the Stark girl pointed to each one in turn.

'Rhaenys rode Meraxes,' the Stark girl said, 'Visenya rode Vhaegar. Aegon rode Balerion the Dread.'

'I know, Aunt Arya,' the boy replied.

She seemed surprised.

'You do?'

Steffon shrugged.

'Everyone knows that.'

The Stark girl shifted, and decided to question him again.

'Meraxes?' she asked.

'Rhaenys,' the child responded.

And so it continued.

'Vhaegar?'

'Visenya.'

'Balerion?'

'Ummmm –'

'Come on, stupid, you can't have forgotten already! Who the Conqueror?'

'Aegon the Conqueror?'

'Good!'

'Can I have my sweet now?'

'We're not finished yet.'

The Stark girl began to count names on her long, slender fingers.

'Aegon, Rhaenys, Visenya. They attacked from the air, on their dragons. They burned Harrenhal. They changed the rules. That's what legacy means, Steffon. That's why everyone still knows their names three hundred years after they're dead. Aegon. Rhaenys. Visenya.'

'Does that mean legacy's important, Aunt Arya?'

The Stark girl sighed in exhaustion.

'Yes, sweet child. Yes, it does.'

'Now can I have my sweet?'

She dug into the pockets of her breeches and passed him one.

'Tell me the story of Visenya, Aunt Arya,' he insisted, his mouth full.

Revolting.

But the Stark girl didn't seem to mind.

'Visenya Targaryen was a great warrior,' she began, 'she had a Valyrian steel sword that she called Dark Sister –'

As Lord Tywin slipped away and began to climb the stairs again, his mind came alive with one thought only.

She is the one.

This would make things much easier. The girl was a sister soul, an entity who thought exactly as he did.

He winced as Steffon Baratheon gave another squeal.

Well. Perhaps not exactly as he did.

She was a child of one of the oldest houses in Westeros, and at her age, she was almost certainly fertile. She was intelligent and articulate, but utterly lacking in elegance. No matter. He'd simply lock her up with a septa for a week.

Jaime would be furious, but he would do as he was told. The girl's father would never consent, but that could easily be overcome. It should only take a few glasses of wine to convince that fool Robert that the idea was not Tywin's, but his, and a command from the King, once given, could not be overruled.

Tywin almost smiled.

His headache was gone.