Disclaimer: I don't own ASoIaF/GoT. Thanks to everybody enjoying this story!

I hadn't originally planned on showing the arrest of Tyrion, but one of my best reviewers/readers on AO3 requested it, so I hope it lives up to hopes! Obviously, I had to hop back a few days for it from the attack on Lannisport, so the arrest is set BEFORE Admiral Starstark's pov, the rest of the chapter is set after.

Credit for the Davos storyline goes to KingofWinter's The White Wolf Rises series. It's really great, I highly recommend it for anybody who enjoys powerful North stories.

Read, enjoy and review!

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The Fallen Star

The Water Gardens: 28thJuly, 299 AC

Arya:

Arya nearly bounced in dark glee as she made her way to the rooms where the Imp and his party were, along with the Viper and his guards.

She didn't like the Viper, or the Sand woman. They had stolen Larra from her, an unforgiveable sin. But she hated the Lannisters, whom the Martells were helping to take down, and she loved her sister, who, for some reason, loved the Viper and Sand. So she resisted the temptation to send Nymeria after either, much as it pained her.

Nymeria was bringing up the back of the group, her dark yellow eyes glinting with excitement. Arya was excited too. Granted, going after the Half-Man and his men, who hadn't even been in King's Landing when her family was ripped apart, was not as satisfying as going after the Kingslayer who'd been the one to lead the attack and use Larra as a hostage to force Athair and Uncail to lay down their swords. Or, even better, going after the Lioness Whore who had ordered the attack in the first place.

But the Kingslayer seemed to care for his siblings, in a very twisted and ungodly way when it came to the Lioness Whore, so Arya contented herself with the knowledge that he would no doubt be pained by the news of his brother's arrest on the orders of his sister/lover. Besides, the Imp was still a lion, and if Arya had it her way, the whole family would be extinct within the next year. The children would be stripped of the name, the adult women married to loyal families. This was not the first time the Starks had set themselves the task of eradicating another House, and they had it down to an artform by now.

"Alright," the Viper stopped them at the end of the hall, just out of sight and hearing range of the Imp's guards. "Avoid casualties if possible for the moment. If you can't, too bad for the lions." He winked at them, smirking and twirling his spear before going serious again. "This shouldn't be too difficult, the Imp only has a dozen men to guard him against our twenty, we're in our territory and I expect that they're all drunk at the moment. But stay on guard, just in case. You can never be sure in a fight. Arya, do not kill him, and don't let Nymeria do so either."

Arya glared at him grumpily. "You are not in charge of me," she grumbled. "You might be Larra's husband, but she is my head of House and only she can tell me what to do."

"That may be so," he replied briskly. "I am in charge of this arrest, however. And I will leave you behind if I do not think you can act properly. I will not allow anybody to be endangered because you are unable to control your temper."

She clenched her jaw, but gave a curt nod. "I won't kill him," she promised resentfully, Nymeria lashing her tail back and forth agitatedly at her side.

"Good," her goodbrother nodded crisply before gesturing at the group to follow him. "Let's go, then."

They followed him down the corridor to where a pair of guards were slumped boredly on either side of the entrance to the Imp's rooms. They straightened at the sight of the armed contingent striding up to them.

"Drop your weapons and open these doors!" Prince Oberyn barked them, any trace of Larra's teasing husband hidden behind a mask of unyielding authority.

"Why should we?" one of the redcloaks demanded.

"Because you were given an order by a Prince of Dorne," the Viper replied sharply, triggering an argument. But Arya barely heard the words being exchanged. Her eyes were fixed on the crimson-coloured cloaks of the Imp's guards.

She felt her hands clench at the sight of the cloak. Whenever she closed her eyes, she saw it: Uncail Arthur yelling at her and Robb to run, fending off their attackers with an inferior sword due to giving them their families' ancestral weapons, knowing the runes carved into Ice and Dawn would help them defend themselves better. She could still see Master Syrio's body lying on the steps as they fled, the First Sword having fallen shielding Vayon's daughter Jeyne. She could hear Lady Arielle screaming, see Martyn Snow jump between them and a pair of redcloaks, only to stagger and fall to his knees a moment later, clutching at the hole in his chest.

That wasn't even touching on the horrors committed by the Lannister soldiers in the Riverlands. The destroyed villages, the hollow-eyed women, grieving for lost husbands and male kin, many of them with child after being brutally raped by the Westerlander soldiers. Arya could still recall as vividly as if it had only just occurred how she and her brother had been pinned near the Trident by some of the Mountain's group. Robb had been unconscious, blood forming a crimson halo around his head as the Tickler advanced on Arya while she tried to get to her brother or one of the swords. If they had not been found by their wolves, then she and Robb-

Arya forced the thoughts and memories away, determined not to think of any of it again. It hadn't happened. She and Robb were alive, and back with Larra. Once the Lannisters were dealt with, they would go home and everything would be right again.

Whilst she had been lost in thought, Prince Oberyn had gotten fed up arguing with the guards. He lunged at them, Ser Arron Qorgyle moving with him, and their weapons clashed loudly. Arya wanted to cut the redcloaks down herself, but she had to content herself with watching them. It did not take long. Prince Oberyn dealt with one while Qorgyle took down the other. Within only a few clashes, one of the men was unconscious with a crown of scarlet spreading around his dark blonde hair, and the other was struggling to stem the blood flowing from his arm, which now ended in a stump. The others were running into the rooms, weapons raised.

Arya smirked when Nymeria snarled and snapped at the pair as they passed, making the conscious one yelp in fear and cower pathetically.

Then she shoved away those thoughts to focus. The Imp, looking panicked, was trying to hide behind his sellswords and squire, who were reaching for their weapons, despite the hints to their drunkenness in their eyes and stances.

"What is the meaning of this, Prince Oberyn?" the Imp demanded, mismatched eyes panicked. "We are under guest right!"

The Viper smirked and shrugged. "Actually, you no longer are," he corrected the Lannister dwarf. "You partook of guest right whilst we were at Sunspear, however this is the Water Gardens, and you are no longer under that protection. As for what this is, the Queen Regent ordered your arrest. It seems Lord Tywin has fallen deathly ill. Now, shall you come quietly?"

The Imp gave a panicked look to his guards. The main one, the sellsword always at his side, huffed and withdrew his sword, as did the rest of them and the ever-nervous squire of his.

The next thing Arya knew, they were locked in battle, furniture and jugs of wine becoming collateral damage. Her vision tunnelled. All she could see was the redcloaks around the shoulders of the guards. The same cloaks as the ones worn by those who killed her family and household. She slashed and dodged in the style taught to her by Master Syrio, mixed with some moves she'd learned from Uncail Arthur.

Suddenly, she realized that she was holding Needle to the Imp's throat, and Nymeria had the lion's leg between her teeth. The Half-Man was frozen in place, looking panicked. Around her, the guards had all been taken care of by the Dornishmen. She held her sword to the Imp's neck, entranced by the sight of a line of blood appearing. In her mind's eye, she could see her family's heads on spikes. She had been spared seeing the executions, but Larra had not, and Arya knew she had nightmares of it still. And they had all seen the heads, skin waxy and eyes staring blankly, placed on spikes above the walls of the Red Keep as a warning not to betray Joffrey Baratheon.

The nephew of the man whose throat she was holding Needle, the sword commissioned for her by her Uncle Arthur, against.

It had been a joint nameday gift, that final nameday before the world had fallen apart. Her uncle had gotten her the sword, whilst her parents had arranged for the First Sword of Braavos to come and tutor her in swordplay. She had been so excited, so proud.

"A future Sword of Morning, mayhaps?" Uncail Arthur had winked at her. "You or Robb. We shall have to wait and see how you do in your lessons, alright?"

Uncail would never again adjust her grip on her sword, or decide between her and Robb to be his successor, all because of the lions. She pressed deeper at the Imp's throat, darkly satisfied by his fearful whimper.

"Arya!" Prince Oberyn called. "Enough! You have him, enough!"

Arya trembled, keeping her sword held against the Imp's neck. "They killed them," she mumbled. "They killed everybody, and they tortured Larra."

"I know," he replied soothingly, coming closer to her and resting a hand carefully on her shoulder. "And they will pay, all of them, in blood for what they have done. But not yet, Arya. We have him. Let Ser Daeron take custody of him now."

She stared at him for several long moments. He didn't try to rush her, waiting patiently. At last, dully, she stepped away and dropped her arm, Needle scraping against the ground. "Nymeria, release him," she ordered her companion flatly.

The direwolf growled in disappointment, then unclenched her teeth. The Imp's foot had been badly mangled. She doubted that he would ever be able to walk unaided again.

"Everyone, out," the prince ordered, gaze still locked on Arya. She realized that she was trembling. Nymeria nudged her, but Arya couldn't bring herself to pat the wolf's snout as she wanted, keeping her own eyes fixed on the now-unconscious dwarf as he and his men were escorted away.

Eventually, she was alone with her sister's husband and her familiar. He knelt beside her, but didn't try to touch her, thankfully. Or maybe not. After all, if he were to touch her, she'd have an excuse to hit him, and she wanted to hit something. She wanted to be angry again, instead of this awful desire to weep an ocean's worth of tears. Anger was so much easier to deal with then hurt was.

"Arya," Prince Oberyn murmured gently, still not reaching for her. "Do you want one of your siblings?"

She shook her head frowning at she noticed that she was now clutching tightly at Nymeria's fur. "They're all dead," she said. Her voice came out small and hurt, confused. As if she were a child, not a maiden flowered with a dozen kills to her name.

"Not everybody," Prince Oberyn reminded her softly. "Larra and Robb still live. Your Uncle Benjen, his wife and children, your Dayne relations. They all live still."

"But Athair and Máthair, Uncail Arthur and Bran and Alayne," she hiccupped. "They are gone."

"I know. I know Arya."

A sob escaped her, despite her best efforts to hold it back, and before she knew it she was crying into his tunic while he rubbed her back and muttered promises of revenge against those who'd ripped her family apart to her.

It made her feel like a child again, but as when she was a little girl, the tears made her feel lighter when they finally stemmed and she pulled away.

Oberyn didn't comment, simply handing her a handkerchief with the Martell and Uller symbols on it, as well as a border of red snakes. It reminded her of Larra's stitching. Probably her sister had made it for him. The Viper wasn't so bad, Arya supposed grudgingly.

She didn't like him still, but for Larra's sake she supposed she could make the effort to get along with him and Ellaria. But only for Larra. Not because she actually liked them or anything.

Oldtown: August 15th, 299 AC

Gerold "The Darkstar" Dayne:

Gerold kept his head down as he eavesdropped on the latest news in the inn.

"Supposedly, Casterly Rock itself was burned to the ground!" one man insisted to his friends. "I tell you, the Seven have abandoned Westeros. What's next? The Eyrie being destroyed."

"Do not be ridiculous," one of his drinking companions scoffed. "I can believe the part about Lannisport. How many times have the IronBorn sacked that city? But Casterly Rock? No, I do not believe it. That is mere nonsense, of that I am certain."

The first man looked indignant at not being believed. He quickly began defending himself, insisting that he had a cousin who was a merchant working in Lannisport who'd written to him of the attack. His companions continued to dismiss the claims of Casterly Rock's destruction as exaggerations, but Gerold knew better.

He felt as if his heart was at the bottom of his stomach. The temptation to throw up was strong. Gerold knew his history, as every Winterlander, high or lowborn, did. The destruction of the Lannisters' ancestral home, the lack of anybody save guards being killed in the raid on Lannisport all pointed to one thing. The Sea-wolves had been unleashed and were wrecking vengeance on the Westerlands.

No doubt the land-based part of the army was also on the move, hidden from the Lannisters' spies by the magic of the crannogmen.

The Winterlands were out for blood. Nobody got away with going after the Starks. What had he been thinking, agreeing to Theon's idiotic plan?

The Towers, the Fishers of the Stoney Shore, the Flints of Breakstone Hill and the Boltons of the Dreadfort, the predecessor of his own family home, had all been rendered extinct by the Starks after trying to destroy them, and they were merely the most powerful examples. When the Starks decided somebody was their enemy, nothing stopped them. The War Across the Water had lasted over a millennia because the North had refused to give up their claim on the Three Sisters after so many of their own had died for the cause. And almost everybody was devoted to their liege lords. The North would fight to last breath to avenge the crimes against House Stark.

Gerold knew the fate that Larra would no doubt bestow on the Lannisters and the Greyjoys. First, the males old enough to go to war would all be either executed or else gelded and exiled. The women, meanwhile, would be either married to loyal vassals or else put in motherhouses. Any children would be made wards of Stark bannermen, or at Winterfell itself after it was rebuilt. They would be strictly watched, with reminders given to them many times of the mercy the Starks had shown in sparing them, until the children were as devoted to the Direwolves as their own men were. The girls would be married to cadet branches of the family, and the boys would likely be directed towards joining the Watch, or the Citadel, or some sort of career that prevented them from wedding and continuing their lines. They would all be stripped of their surname to ensure none could resurrect the Lannister name.

It had happened many, many times before. The Starks had made an art out of destroying their enemies, and they never failed.

The Lannisters and Greyjoys were dead men walking, they simply didn't realize it yet.

Gerold was a sensible man, despite his fit of greed-induced stupidity when he'd helped the IronBorn attack Winterfell. He knew that Larra was undoubtedly out for his blood. He had not killed any of his kin himself, but he had helped in the Sack of Winterfell. He was a kinslayer by aiding his cousins' murderers. At the time, Theon's plan had seemed like a great one, but he couldn't recall his reasoning anymore. Had he been drunk, or had his mind failed him?

Either way, it no longer mattered. What mattered was figuring out how to escape Larra's wrath. He would need to leave the Seven Kingdoms, none were safe for him now that the Winterlanders were on a rampage.

It would have to be the Free Cities, but not Braavos. Braavos was closesly linked to the Starks and the Winterlands, a result of King Donnel XV sending men to protect the fleeing slaves who had founded the city, and giving the loan that had started the Iron Bank. Ever since, they had remained close. Many a Stark had married into the Braavosi elite. The latest union had been Willam Stark's youngest sister Alysanne, who had married the Sealord of the time. Not to mention the Company of the Rose was based out of there, and they also maintained close ties with the North. If Gerold went to Braavos, he would be in as much danger as if he were in the Sisters themselves. The place was filled with Winterlanders who'd left their kingdom to earn a living or some other such reason, and many Braavosi highborn visited the North, and usually Winterfell, at least once in their lives. He'd never escape unrecognized.

No, Braavos was definitely not an option, but that made things difficult. He didn't have enough coin to gain passage to any of the other cities. He had to figure something out, some way to flee Westeros without being found by Stark supporters.

Perhaps if he went to the lions, offered up his information on the Winterlands' military in exchange for protection from them...He considered it a moment before scoffing at the idiocy of the idea.

It was a stupid idea. The lions would never be able to defeat the Winterlander army, and should he be discovered giving up the secret knowledge of their people's ways, they would not be kind enough to just execute him. They'd send him to the Wolf's Den first.

He shuddered, thinking of Lord Frost's dark eyes. They had always made him think of bottomless tunnels, going straight down to the Otherworld.

Gerold tried to drink some more of his ale, then huffed to himself in frustration as he realized that his tankard was empty, shoving away from the counter of the bar. He rose and tugged on his cloak, stalking out of the bar with a sullen expression on his face. Lost in thoughts of how to get out of reach of his vengeful cousin and her loyal vassals, he failed to spot the group that stood from their own table, hidden in the shadows of the corner, and began following him.

Matthos Seaworth:

Matthos Seaworth walked with the rest of his group at a distance behind their target. Aided by the Warg Warriors, it had not been difficult for them to narrow down the Kinslayer's location after receiving the letter from Larra ordering he be tracked down.

Matthos was Lord Davos Seaworth's third son. He'd been a toddler during the Rebellion, when Admiral Seastark had employed the then-smuggler to help him relieve Storm's End. As it turned out, Davos had already been planning on helping the besieged Baratheon stronghold, but he had accepted the Admiral's offer of a lordship and a keep on a small isle off the coast of Sailor's Cove, sworn to the Seastarks. It had been more than worth it, with the Seaworth boys all growing up as members of the Wolf Pack. Nobody looked down on any of them for their backgrounds, instead honouring Davos for his bravery. That he had allowed Stannis Baratheon to take several of his fingers as punishment for his smuggling impressed them all the more.

"A fine example for you all to look to and mimic, my lads," Lord Stark himself had once said of Davos.

All of the Seaworths who were old enough to go to war were stationed on various ships. Davos himself was captaining The Black Betha, which was heading to help besiege Pyke along with The Lady Marya, captained by Allard. Matthos, meanwhile, had been sent to bring the group assigned to arrest the Darkstar to his location, before taking him to Dorne to be judged by their lady.

The Darkstar didn't notice them until it was too late for him. They stalked him silently until they came to an abandoned area. They exchanged looks, and then silently attacked.

He put up a good fight, and he had been trained by the Sword of Morning himself. But so had they, and there were six of them. Gerold was fighting to defend himself, they were fighting to avenge their families.

None of the Seaworths had been present at Winterfell when it was attacked. Only representatives of the most powerful Houses of the Conclave had been present, debating what to do about the murder of Lord Stark and his household and Lady Larra being held hostage. But Matthos had grown up beside those people, they were Pack. Lady Ashara had been like an aunt, or even a second mother, to he and his brothers. Bran had been so cheerful and bright-eyed with enthusiasm, never allowing his damaged legs to dampen his happiness. And sweet little Alayne, Matthos could easily picture her toddling around Winterfell, ragdoll clutched tightly in one hand and her thumb stuck in her mouth, her grey eyes wide with wonder.

And they had all died, because Gerold was a greedy kinslayer.

The thought of it invigorated him, and Matthos was the honoured to be the one to strike the final blow, knocking Gerold to the ground just after Markus Whitewolf disarmed him.

Gerold groaned into the ground as Cley Cerwyn, eyes dark with bitter anger over his father's muder, placed a foot atop the man's back to hold him down whilst Jorelle Mormont tied him up.

"It wasn't my fault," the Darkstar whimpered as he was roughly yanked to his feet by Daryn Hornwood. "Theon-"

Jorelle broke his nose, her expression twisted in fury and grief. "Shut your fucking mouth, you damn traitor!" she spat in rage. "Lyra was at Winterfell that day, damn you! My sister is dead because of you! Dacey probably would've died too, if she had not been with child and forced to stay at home. My mother lost her arm! You did that! You killed Lyra! You mutilated Máthair! Traitor! Kinslayer!"

Daryn grabbed her and hauled her away before she could do more than bloody his face. "He'll get what's coming to him, Jory," Matthos assured her. He turned his gaze on Gerold, who had a satisfying look of dread in his purple eyes. They had always been different, darker and less caring, than the rest of the Daynes. "Larra will see to it."

Jory relaxed, a bitter smirk spreading across her face. "Yes," she agreed. "She will."

"You made a bad decision, Kinslayer," Jojen Reed declared. "And now, you shall pay for it."

Gerold's shoulders slumped, his head falling forward. Matthos was unfoolled by the apparent submission. They would keep a careful eye on their prisoner, to ensure that he did not escape.

They exchanged quick glances, and nodded to one another. Daryn pulled his head back by the hair, and then Jory, looking bitterly pleased, smashed her fist into the centre of the Darkstar's face, sending him straight into oblivion. Then Matthos took his legs, whilst Cley grabbed his shoulders. The others surrounded them, weapons at the ready for any attacks, and they began making their way back to where their small ship was waiting at the docks.

Soon enough, Lady Ashara and her babes, as well as everybody else slaughtered at the Bloody Conclave, would be avenged. Matthos couldn't wait. He hoped that Larra let them watch.