He hadn't wanted to put her in the dungeons. She'd forced his hand. He'd hoped a night or two would've been enough to convince her to reconsider his offer. The guards had explicit orders to release her should she change her mind or to come get him should she ask to see him. But three weeks had passed and he had not been summoned. The girl was as bloody stubborn as his brother, to her own detriment.

"How long do you intend to leave her rotting in the dungeons?" asked Baelish, and it was not the first time he had asked. Robert barely spared him a glance, wanting nothing less than to have this particular conversation with this particular man. "If you would let me speak with her, I could convince her to accept your offer."

"I do not share the same overestimation of your influence on the girl," replied Robert, almost wishing he hadn't. Engaging in a conversation about her showed his hand. His willingness to discuss her captivity revealed that he cared, to a man who already knew more than he liked about his interest in the girl. He'd traded a damn title for her maidenhead and had imprisoned her in his dungeons to force her to stay near him. He felt a sudden overwhelming urge to snap Littlefinger's neck. With him dead, only Robert himself would know the truth of his feelings.

But alas …

"I know her mind," argued Petyr. "I know her motivations. She will rot in that cell if you leave her to."

"Then she'll rot."

Petyr sighed, biting his tongue both literally and figuratively as he looked over his king. He was not fool enough to misunderstand the boy's feelings for her. Petyr suspected he knew how Robert felt better than the man himself did. He didn't want her to rot. It was unwise to tempt Robert Baratheon's fury, but he knew he must. His status was tied to her own, as much as he hated to admit it. He was an extension of Rivka, as far of Robert seemed concerned. His fall out of favor with the king had been synced with hers and Robert's contempt for him was likely to grow for as long as she disobeyed him. "That's not what you want."

"Careful, Lord Baelish," Robert drawled, "there is space yet in that cell for you."

Seeming to realize he was getting nowhere with such a belligerent man, Littlefinger gave a curt bow before excusing himself. Weaselly as the little cunt was, he wasn't wrong, thought Robert. There were a great many things he wanted from that girl, but a new corpse in his dungeon was not one of them.

It had taken five months to put that weight on and less than three weeks for it to fall back off. It was difficult to eat, though she was regularly fed, when everything smelled of shit and rotting corpses. Anything she managed to get down would come back up an hour later, and that only left her with a new puddle of vomit in her cell for the rest of her sentence. Part of her wanted to end it. Hells, all of her wanted to end it. To be taken up to her own chambers in the castle, to be bathed by servants and dressed all in myrish lace. But all that really offered was a quicker death than starvation in the dungeons.

Her job was a dangerous one. Her life was a dangerous one. All that kept her safe was her anonymity. Petyr had taken credit for her secrets. The target had always been on his back, but he was a lord. He had a castle and power and more gold than any man should ever need. He could keep himself well protected. How short lived her new title would be when the lords and ladies of Westeros put a face to the rat listening in their chimney.

Heavy footsteps brought her attention back to her current situation. Likely only a change of guard, she thought. Three weeks had been more than enough to snuff the optimism out of her. The footsteps had meant hope in the beginning. Hope that perhaps Robert had changed his mind, that Shae would magically break into the castle to free her, that Petyr would find a way to get her out. Now all the footsteps meant was someone new had come to watch her suffer.

Her eyes struggled to take in the man's features in the dark as he stopped in front of her cell. To mock her, perhaps, as some of the guards were fond of doing. But a second set of footsteps revealed a different man, this one much easier to recognize. "S-," she started, before breaking into a fit of coughs. It hadn't done her well to go so long without speaking. "Ser Jaime," she tried again, shifting her attention back to the first man. "Lord Tywin," she ventured.

"It's good to see your time in a cell has not dulled your wits," said the man, taking a torch from his son to sit between them. Rivka wondered distantly if he'd come to kill her. Petyr had warned her about sowing a seed of distrust between the two most powerful men in Westeros. Perhaps Robert had told him of her insinuations about him. "There are things we must discuss."

Rivka could only stare at him, willing her brain to move faster. She looked to Jaime for any hints, but the boy gave nothing away, staring back at her with a look she couldn't quite place. "I …" she trailed off, shifting her attention back to Tywin. "I can only imagine what we could possibly have to discuss, my lord."

"The king," said Tywin, getting to the point quickly, "has sat the throne for nearly a year and has not taken a wife."

"Daeron Targaryen spent-"

A raised hand from Tywin cut her history lesson short. "My son believes you to be clever. Is he wrong?" Her anxiety made way for annoyance as she stared at the man, deciding his question had not needed a response. "He also believes you to be the reason our king delays any betrothal."

The annoyance had grown to anger as she shifted her gaze to Jaime. So much for friends keeping secrets, she thought. She could only wonder how much he'd told his father. "Perhaps you're at the wrong cell," she said, trying to force a smile but finding it hurt too much to do so.

"I don't expect the peasants of Flea Bottom particularly care who their queen shall be, even those of your knowledge and skill set," said Tywin, looking her over appraisingly. "And Lannisters pay their debts."

"I hear that," she replied, clicking her tongue thoughtfully as he waited for an answer from her. Clearly Jaime hadn't told him as much as she'd feared if he was only there in the hopes she'd exert some level of influence over Robert. "What is it worth to you," she asked, "to see your grandchildren sit the Iron Throne?"

"A ship to Essos," answered Tywin, watching as the girl's eyes moved back to his son. She was wise enough to know Jaime had a hand in supplying what may motivate her to comply. "A home and enough gold for you and your mother to live out your days in luxury."

She could imagine a life there, living on the sea in her mansion, never lifting a finger for the rest of her days. She could start over in Braavos, maybe Pentos, be someone completely new. Nibbling on the corner of a very sore lip, Rivka nodded. "I suppose someone ought to tell him I've changed my mind," she said, watching as Tywin stood, nodding to his son before leaving. He was done with her now that she'd agreed and it was unwise for a man of his station to be caught visiting prisoners down in the dungeons.

"I'll take you to him," said Jaime, pulling the key from his hip and making quick work of unlocking her cell. He'd expected her to be rejoiced, to throw herself at him in gratitude, to praise whichever god she believed in for releasing her, but she stayed in her spot, looking him over. "What?"

"You're a clever boy, Jaime," she said, leaving him to contemplate why that didn't sound at all like a compliment. "I don't like clever boys."

"I apologize if I've interfered with your plans to die alone in a cell," he retorted, feeling vaguely offended at the response to him saving her life. She didn't even have the decency to look sheepish. "You get everything you want," he insisted.

"So do you," said Rivka. "You get a sister who will never leave the capital and you get me very far away from anyone who might care that you're fucking her." Jaime felt his hand flex towards his sword. There was a very simple solution to the problem this girl presented, one that did not require involving his father and promises of a seaside home in Essos. But Robert Baratheon was a very large man and Jaime feared the man cared about her, in his own terrible way. He might be upset if he stabbed the girl and the last thing he needed was that lunatic neanderthal trying to bash his head in with a warhammer. "I don't like my hand being forced. I don't like being manipulated."

Rivka watched him closely, trying to gauge his reaction. She wondered if he would apologize and thought it the most likely option. The smile that spread across his face came as a surprise. "Then I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place."

She thought her legs might give out as she climbed stair after stair and walked corridor after corridor. She'd lost the concept of time but it felt like it took hours to climb from the dungeons to whichever floor she was being put. Her head felt light and the world was spinning, but she made it. The sudden light of the sun after going so long without it was enough to make her nearly vomit again and she was quick to drop to her knees, doubled over, as a handmaiden fretted over her. "I'm fine," she insisted, rolling painfully from her knees to her ass as she took in the room around her.

The first thing she noticed were the windows, large arched frames overlooking the city below, with white curtains blowing with the gentle breeze. She'd never been so high up before but she quickly tried to put it from her mind as the thought alone was enough to make her stomach churn again. "We've drawn you a bath, m'lady," one of the servant girls said, and Rivka felt a sudden tug at her arms as two of them struggled to get her to her feet.

She didn't want a bath, she wanted to sleep. For days or weeks or months in that bed she'd spotted in the corner, larger than any she'd ever seen before. But the room was still spinning and she had barely formulated the protest in her head when she realized she was already neck deep in the steaming water.

She didn't even have time to enjoy the sensation before she was being scrubbed at, her arms lifted out of the water as handmaidens attempted to clean the stench of death off of her. She winced but didn't complain, deciding the momentary pain would be worth it to smell how clean the air was from so high up. But the handmaidens abandoned their task halfway through, standing up sharply to give a curtsy to someone behind her before scurrying out of the room.

Rivka need not turn to know who it was. "Your Grace."

"Better view than the dungeons, wouldn't you say?"

She watched as he stepped further into the room, his back to her as he rested his hand against one of the white pillars, surveying the city below. His city, she thought. His kingdom. "Have you come to gloat?" she wondered.

He took a moment to consider his intentions before turning around to face her. "No," he said, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he looked down at her. Her brow furrowed. "I should not have put you in a cell."

"The King does as he bloody well likes," she reminded him, remembering their last conversation quite clearly.

Seemingly tired of looking down at her, he squatted beside the bath, bringing himself as close to eye level with her as he was currently able. "I would treat you …" he struggled to think of the right wording, "more gently," he finally decided. "If you would let me." Rivka stared at him, at a complete loss for words. Was he drunk? She couldn't smell any wine on him over her own formidable stench. Was she hallucinating? "Don't look so fucking surprised," he grunted, looking like he was already regretting his words.

"Have you just come from a tavern?"

"You make it very difficult to be kind to you," he informed her.

"Is kindness a new hobby you've developed in my absence?" she inquired, a smile tugging at her lips. "Have you grown bored of whores and boars?"

She was the most irritating human being he'd ever met in his life, thought Robert, as he reached a hand out, hesitating when she flinched, before peeling a wet curl from her cheek and tucking it behind her ear.

But harming her had not brought him pleasure. Avoiding her had not brought him peace.

"Yes," he confirmed. "A new hobby just for you."

A/N: Surprise! Another chapter so soon. I'm currently home sick from work so I have more time to write than I usually do. Also, I'll admit, I am always inspired to work more when I have reviews from people who are actually enjoying what I'm writing.

Speaking of, special thanks to:

Guest: Your wish is my command with a quick update! Thank you for the review, but you'll have to wait and see about the answer to your question! :P

Marvelmyra: Thanks for the reviews! You're definitely right about LF never being in the Vale in his youth. I honestly don't think too hard when I'm writing author's notes, but I should've known better.

As for your other review, I think you misunderstood my point. Game of Thrones, while, I think, inferior to its source material, does a decent job of showcasing diverse, human female characters with a lot of depth and complexity. The show definitely has intelligent women, but even the most intelligent women are always foiled by their male counterparts. Cersei is always considered much less clever than Tyrion, Sansa is always ten steps behind Littlefinger. The only female character in the show I think is portrayed as being as intelligent as LF, Varys, Tywin, etc, is Olenna, but I still don't think she's given quite the same credit for orchestrating the Purple Wedding as Tywin is for the Red Wedding.

I will admit I try not to think of Margaery or any of my other poor Tyrell children as the show did them so wrong. Yes, Margaery played a perfect game. It's a shame Natalie Dormer asked to be written out of the show and that they gave her such a lame death for the sake of a cool Michael Bay style explosion. I also definitely agree about Willas. While I understand the need to cut certain things to make a ten episode season possible, I will be forever pressed that I never got to see him on screen. The day the show called Loras the heir to Highgarden was the day the music died.

Miss Luny: Haha RobertxLyanna is my second least favorite ship, surpassed only by RhaegarxLyanna. I ship Lyanna exclusively with riding horses around Winterfell with her brothers. I'm definitely guilty of writing 'a new Stark daughter who looks just like Lyanna' fanfiction, but I agree it's a bit overdone and I definitely can't contribute anything new to that narrative that someone else couldn't do better. I'm glad you find the pairing satisfying and appreciate the review, as always! :)