Finding her way out of the maze of tunnels beneath the dragon skulls was no easier than it had been when she was a child, and when Arya finally emerged from the mouth of a foul-smelling sewer after hours of running, crawling and splashing underground, she was exhausted, covered in filth and on the verge of tears.
She immediately dove into the Blackwater Rush; the bodily secretions of half King Joffrey's court coming off her clothes and hair in foul-smelling clouds of brown and green; and it was only when she clambered onto the bank again; smelling considerably better than she had ten minutes previously; that she considered what she should do next, the Red Keep twinkling like some obscene eyesore in the distance.
Sansa would be with Littlefinger, Littlefinger would be with Lysa Arryn, and Lysa Arryn would be at the Eyrie. Arya didn't have the dimmest notion of how to get to the Eyrie beyond its being someplace in the East, but that didn't much concern her. The solution to the problem was exactly the same as that of her admittedly brief attempt to escape to Riverrun – how hard could it possibly be to find a great hulking castle?
But as she began to walk towards the shadow of the Kingswood that loomed menacing and wraithlike in the distance, she began to doubt herself, and her thoughts ran away with her.
She had nothing resembling a plan. She had not had the time to think of one. After her interview with Cersei, she had only lingered in her own chambers long enough to change into a doublet and breeches before running down to the dragon skulls as though the entire Lannister army were already at her heels. She didn't have a horse, or a map, or even a morsel of bread. She had acted entirely on impulse.
None of that scares me, she growled to herself, brushing her doubts aside, I couldn't have gotten a stupid horse out of the castle grounds without being seen, and even if I did, it would have been stolen. The Kingswood is probably crawling with poachers looking to have some fun before a new king is crowned. All I need to do is find one party of idiots, and I can have my pick of horses and maps and bread.
She walked parallel to the Kingsroad in the dark; far enough away from it to dive into the bushes if someone approached; but close enough to it to steal a horse if the opportunity presented itself. The dimness of the moon made her feel more peaceful than sad, and the dark blue cold of the night seemed to find her clothes inexplicably compelling, but she didn't even shiver. She loved the cold. It reminded her of home.
The Kingsroad snaked like a river of ice in the moonlight, and she remembered everything that she had seen and felt on that road; the torture and the rape and the blood and the screaming; the fear from day to day and moment to moment that she would be next. She had died on that road. It had taken her name, her dignity and even her gender from her. It was the road that had led her to Tywin.
I'd give anything never to have met him, she thought, the memory of him so powerful that it caught her up in a storm of brilliant ice blue eyes and white hair, and that face: a face that could topple empires with a single glance.
'You resemble her,' he had said, smiling weakly at her, 'you resemble her.'
Tywin never smiled. And she had never asked him why.
She was ripped suddenly from the memory like an arrow from flesh by the sound of a rider approaching at speed…from behind her; and she froze in panic, not believing that she hadn't heard him; that they'd found her already; that they cared enough about her to watch her that closely.
She tried to move. She couldn't.
This was an extremely stupid idea, she considered detachedly as her mind screamed frantically at her limbs to move, you would never have done this if you weren't exhausted and emotional; if you were thinking clearly. If you are with your trouble when fighting happens, more trouble for you.
But trouble is also the perfect time for training.
As she drew her sword and spun elegantly round into her water dancer's stance, she heard the rider dismount. He showed no interest in fighting her, however, and she barely had time to notice that he was tall and wore a hood before he barrelled straight into her and sent both of them crashing to the ground. Arya kneed him hard in the balls, noted the resulting grunt of pain with pleasure, and tried to push him off her. But even when she succeeded in shoving him away and clambering on top of him, her dagger glowing at his throat and her knees pinning him to the ground, he would not let go of her; his fingers clutching hard at the front of her doublet.
Arya stared. She could not see his face – it was concealed by his hood – but his throat was very white against the steel of her dagger; white… and oddly beautiful. She knew that throat. She'd felt the shape of it on her lips a hundred times. And she'd considered slitting it on twice as many occasions.
She ripped the rider's hood off and scowled as Jaime gave her his most irritating grin, his hair standing comically on end.
'Going somewhere, Stark?' he enquired pleasantly.
'What are you doing here?' she shouted, attempting to stand up and move into a less compromising position, 'go away!'
'Please,' Jaime smiled suggestively, his hand stroking her hip and lower back, 'there's no hurry at all.'
Arya smacked his hand away and stood up immediately, furious that she'd actually been aroused by that.
'Have you been following me?' she demanded angrily.
'Of course not,' Jaime responded, gracefully getting to his feet and dusting off his breeches, 'that would imply that I care whether you live or die.'
'Go away!' Arya shouted, both at him and at the preposterously hurtful effect that that previous remark had had on her, 'go!'
'Nothing would make me happier, Stark,' he chuckled, 'but at present I'm far too curious to do so.'
'I don't care if you're curious!'
Jaime folded his arms and tut-tutted at her as though she were a petulant child.
'One Stark has already disappeared from the capital tonight,' he said, 'don't you find two accusations of murder in the same family on the same night rather excessive?'
'I've got more important things to worry about than seeming excessive!'
'I'm sure you do.'
He was regarding her with something like admiration, and his eyes were godswood green.
'How did you do it?' he asked softly.
How does he know?
'Do what?' she asked in response, with an innocence that a child could have seen through.
He stepped towards her. She didn't want him to step towards her. That would make her want him to step closer; and he would; and if he did that, she would forget about her family, and his family, and only want him; like some reckless little whore with no loyalty; with no respect for her ghosts.
He knew what she was thinking. She could see it. And he was stepping closer to her anyway.
She didn't step back.
'Come now, Stark,' he purred, 'won't you even give me a hint? As one kingslayer to another?'
She almost smiled at him, as she would smile at the other side of her own mind; but she pouted instead, in annoyance and exasperation, because the only thoughts in her head at present were of such a shockingly impure nature that her septa would probably die of a heart attack if she confessed them.
She pushed them away from her by thinking of Sansa.
'Sansa's gone off with Littlefinger,' she blurted.
The amusement disappeared from Jaime's face immediately.
'Where?' he demanded.
'I don't know.'
Jaime looked overcome with confusion, both at her words and at her appearance.
'And what…what are you…may I ask what you are doing?'
The condescension in his tone made her angry.
'If Cersei finds out where she's gone, she'll go after her and kill her!' she snapped.
'And if you find her?' Jaime snapped back, staring at her like she was mad.
Arya shrugged.
'I'll think of something.'
'You'll think of something. I see. Remind me how you plan on getting her away from Littlefinger?'
'I don't know.'
The disbelief on Jaime's face was indescribable, and he was incredibly pale; the moonlight turning his hair to molten Targaryen silver.
'And once Littlefinger has graciously consented to release her,' he remarked, 'Baelish being the soul of courtesy where daughters of Catelyn Stark are concerned, how exactly do you plan on stopping Cersei from killing her then?'
'I don't know!' Arya shouted, ready to scream in frustration.
It was alright if she called herself stupid, but hearing it from him was unbearable. She hated it when he was right.
Jaime was laughing uproariously at her.
'Well, I shouldn't have come at all!' he declared with enthusiasm, 'this is a brilliant plan! How long did it take you to come up with it? Five minutes? Two?'
'Don't you talk to me like I'm stupid!' Arya exclaimed, the words sounding childish in her mouth.
'I can talk to reckless idiots any way I like!' he shouted, clearly agreeing with that assessment, 'it's one of the benefits of being the Lord of bloody Casterly Rock!'
She shoved him.
'Oh, and I suppose you've never been reckless in your entire life, Ser 'Lord of Casterly Rock'!'
The way he looked at her as she spoke the words tore her heart out, and made the anger die in her throat. It resembled despair, but was worse, somehow; as though he were seeing something that he could have prevented, but hadn't done a thing to stop.
'Of course I've been reckless,' he murmured, so softly that she could hardly hear him, 'of course I have.'
He's so much older than me, Arya realised, he's lived for so much longer than me. He knows the world, and he knows me, and there are things in the world that he's seen and done that he doesn't want me to see or do. He doesn't want me to make his mistakes.
Too late, she thought, thinking of Joffrey.
She didn't think of Joffrey as a mistake, though. She wondered if he felt the same way about Aerys.
And looking at him now, she couldn't believe that she had never given the difference in age between them the slightest consideration beyond the occasional snide remark at dancing lessons. It seemed incredible to her that she hadn't thought about it before – because it was extremely important.
He was five and twenty when I was born, she realised, five and twenty. He'd already killed a King. He'd already seen battle. And he'd already seen things. Horrible things. He had horrible things in his head when I didn't even know what a head was.
Shit. Perhaps he does know more than me after all.
'Do you even know where you're going?' Jaime asked her, his eyes unbearably soft.
Don't look at me like that, please don't look at me like that –
'I'll think of something the minute you go away!' she shot back, her heart sinking into her boots at how utterly immature and unconvincing she sounded.
But Jaime was chuckling at her again and not looking remotely put-out.
'Have you packed food?' he asked matter-of-factly.
'No,' she replied grudgingly.
'Have you got a horse?'
'No.'
He grinned.
'Isn't that convenient. I've got both. Let's go.'
And he started to walk away from her as though utterly convinced that she would follow him.
The bloody… cheek of it!
'Hey!' she shouted after his retreating back, 'Hey! Who the fuck do you think you are?'
Jaime continued to walk and did not even condescend to turn around.
'I'm the person who's saving your scrawny Northern arse from being chucked into a black cell by this time tomorrow!' he called, with an enjoyment that enraged her.
'I'm – you're - you are not coming with me!' she exclaimed, striding after him and furious at herself for doing so.
'Stop acting like you have a choice in the matter,' he replied jovially, still not turning around.
'I do have a choice in the matter!' Arya insisted shrilly, catching up to him and tugging on the back of his cloak.
He turned around so abruptly that she jumped.
'Will you shut up for once in your life and listen to me?'
She opened her mouth to insult him in return, but when the fingers of his left hand touched her cheek, her breath erupted out of her throat and did not return to her; calling up her heartbeat from the depths of herself and making her choke on it.
'A young girl travelling alone,' Jaime hissed, 'might as well paint a giant red target on her head for all the outlaws and rapers and renegade knights and the gods only know what else that are both on the Kingsroad and off it; and I'm not going to let you run around unprotected from them, even if you're hell bent on being the greatest, most idiotically stubborn little fool that ever lived.'
She couldn't bear to look at his face, so she looked as his stump instead as it rested on her right shoulder; his eyes a constant threat above her, his lips even more so.
'Jaime,' she whispered, 'you only have one hand.'
You'd be as useful in a fight as nipples on a breastplate was what she meant, and she could tell that he knew it.
'I have no choice,' she heard him murmur.
'We both know it doesn't work like that,' she mumbled back, 'and I'm in no mood for protecting both you and me.'
When he pressed his forehead against hers, she felt ashamed of the sigh that escaped her. She'd missed him. She still missed him. And she hated herself for leaving him, and she hated herself for hating herself. His face was just two inches from hers now. That was as far as she'd have to move to blow her family's memory to the seven hells. Two inches. His breath was hot on her face, and the feeling of it was beautiful.
She wanted him to come with her. She did. But she also wanted him to turn around and walk away and say he wouldn't come with her, because she knew what would happen if he did.
And she realised with shame that her eyes were closed and her lips were open; her breathing was shallow and harsh in her chest; and the guilt struck her once more as she thought about her life, and what her life had made her.
What sort of…creature falls in love with the head of the family that slaughtered hers? Who does that? How could anyone do that?
They weren't dead when it happened.
That makes absolutely no difference.
'Jaime, don't,' she whispered, listening to him breathing and keeping her eyes closed so she wouldn't have to look at him, 'please, don't.'
He didn't move. She could still taste his breath and feel his skin.
He isn't leaving, she realised.
He isn't leaving.
She sighed.
Fuck it.
She straightened up abruptly.
'Nothing changes,' she declared firmly, 'as of this point, you are my brother, or my cousin, or…something. Understand?'
To her surprise, Jaime rolled his eyes and briskly kissed her forehead.
'I'll tell people you're my daughter, if that's what you want.'
That offended her considerably.
'Your daughter?' she repeated shrilly.
'Yes, my daughter,' he grinned, delighted by her anger, 'you're certainly young enough for it.'
She blushed, and said nothing more until they reached the horses, no – the horse – of which he had spoken. Arya put her hands on her hips.
'Where's my horse?' she demanded.
'There's just the one,' Jaime observed with telling wickedness.
'You did this on purpose, didn't you?'
'Not at all. I've left a note telling Cersei I'm going hunting. I couldn't take two horses for that.'
'And you honestly think Cersei will believe that the Lord of Casterly Rock, who is still recovering from having his hand chopped off, went hunting without a single squire or retainer?'
Jaime shrugged.
'Cersei has spent most of her life watching me do stupid things.'
Arya folded her arms.
'Has anyone ever told you that you're the worst plotter in history?'
'Both you and Tyrion. It hasn't stopped me trying.'
Arya glared at him, unconvinced. Not only would one horse take longer, but it was a thoroughly stupid idea.
'I want to ride up front,' she declared.
Jaime glared right back at her and mounted up.
'Not a chance, Stark. Are you getting on before summer's over?'
She glared at him for a few moments, then clambered onto the back of the horse, her hands clasping the back of the saddle rather than his waist.
Jaime seemed to find that extremely funny, and he chuckled to himself as he spurred the horse to a brisk trot.
But before long, his nose was wrinkling and his chuckling was a thing of the past.
'Did you bring a change of clothes, Stark?' he asked, 'you smell awful.'