DISCLAIMER: Not mine :)

Hiyeee my darlings, here's chapter 6! Enjoy!

As their company made their way through the Gate of the Gods into the city, trumpeters signalled their arrival in a chorus of long and short blasts that made the Cat clench her teeth. She wasn't used to making a grand entrance. Usually she slipped in, unnoticed through she shadows. It had always made her job far easier to be invisible. Unnoticed. She supposed that in a way, such an entrance was a form of anonymity. After all, if all the people saw of their Crown Prince was his grand entrances, feasts and rehearsed speeches, how could they hate him for who he was? Rather, it meant that for the few who didn't fall for the intricately woven glamours of splendid fancy, they would hate him for what he was, what he stood for. It made it much harder for them to do that, when there were no personal feelings involved. After all, what was propaganda if not another form of armour for the manipulative to hide behind?

Black flags with the red three headed dragon of the royal sigil flapped in the wind above the city, hung from walls and windows. The cobblestone streets were cleared of the crowds and animals and street wares that usually dominated them. The Cat wondered how much planning had gone behind this particular fiasco. Cleaned, unchained and dressed in borrowed clothing, the Cat was seated in front of Gendry, frowning as the odour of the city assaulted her nose.

Beneath the smell of spices and horses lay a foundation of human and animal filth, rotting things and spoiled milk. Brine washed in from the salty waters of the Blackwater Rush. From the sides of Cobblers Square (at least, she thought it was Cobbler's Square- in those days after her father's arrest, she had spent much of her time roaming the city, searching for an escape) the crowd paused to watch, from bearded peddlers to servant girls carrying baskets of linens to patrons and customers and visitors, as the flag-bearers trotted proudly ahead, and Aegon Targaryen, sixth of his name, waved regally from his place at the head of the column. He wore a golden crown in his silver hair, and even she had to concede, despite her lack of appreciation for the pretentious nature of their entrance, that he did look rather princely.

Young women flocked to them, waving. Aegon winked and grinned. He even slid off one of his rings and threw it into the crowd, causing a mass hysteria that had Gendry growling in her ear and pointing at two of the City Watch, lining the streets in their shining golden cloaks, to wrest it back under control. The Cat couldn't help but be impressed by what she saw of the city- even if it made her resent it. The city seemed... healthier. Happier. Certainly more prosperous than she remembered it being in her youth, than it had been even a year ago, on that ill fated mission that had ended so very badly. It just... wasn't fair. Didn't seem right that her enemies had brought about something good, something that Robert Baratheon, her father's closest friend, never had. Under his rule, the city had starved and festered, like a rancid boil long over due to burst. She was sure that in her history lessons, with Maester Luwin, she had been taught that Aerys had allowed his people to suffer during his first reign. What had changed?

She saw faces turn towards her, and scowled back at them. She knew exactly how she looked, seated in front of the commander atop his stallion, dressed, hair brushed, face washed, like she was some prize treasure, to be flaunted by the prince, something to show off, as he did that crown atop his waves of silver hair. She wanted to throw her boot at him, and knock it off his head. That would give the crowd something to go mad for.

Her side stung. "What?" she hissed at the Lord Commander as he pinched her. Hard. Far harder than necessary.

"Stop scowling at the back of the prince's head," he said through his teeth, smiling at the crowd as he jabbed her ribs.

"Why?" she asked. "Do you want me to smile and simper like some little princess for the people to fawn over?"

"Just- be quiet, and act normally." His breath was hot on her neck, though her back pressed against his chest, his shoulders inches above her own. She wanted to slam her head back and break his nose for seating her here like some doll, but she'd only hurt her head on his rock hard chest. He seemed to realise it, too, when her scowl deepened, and he smirked.

"I should jump from this horse and run," she snapped. "I could vanish into this damned crowd in an instant." She could as well. She could be quick... but quicker than the archers, riding behind them? Perhaps if she was quick enough they wouldn't even have time to nock their bows and loose, and by the time they did she would be gone. Could even change her face, if she really needed to...

"Yes," he said, "you'd vanish with three arrows buried in your spine." He was right, too, and she knew it. Because even if she outsmarted the archers riding right behind them, she had not failed to notice the crossbowmen hiding on the rooftops, weapons trained right on her for the instant she moved. She wondered if Gendry realised how vulnerable it made him. If she tricked the crossbowmen into thinking she was moving, and then ducked, their arrows would strike him right through the heart. Perhaps he did know that, and was willing to risk it. She didn't doubt that having her seated in front of him was as strategic as it was a demonstration.

They made their way through the dressmaker's district, and the Cat wrinkled her nose in distaste. Each window displayed dresses and tunics, which stood proudly behind lines of sparkling jewellery and broad-rimmed hats clumped together like bouquets of flowers. Such finery after the mines made her nauseous.

"What, you aren't looking forward to wearing decent clothes?" Gendry teased from behind her, noticing her expression.

She frowned. "Why should I care about clothes when I have this competition to win?" she asked. "Besides, the Street of Steel is far more interesting."

He huffed a laugh. "As if we'd take an assassin through a street lined with weaponry," he said coldly. She wanted to elbow him in the gut, but knew there was a chance the crossbowmen might take it for an attack.

"Why are we even taking this route to the keep?" she snapped. "It would be far quicker to take the main thoroughfare."

"Why do you think?" he asked her, poking her ribs. If he did that one more time, she would rip-

"So that everyone in the city will see my face," she replied. "That way, if I escape, rumours will follow me wherever I go, and leave an easy trail for you to follow." When he nodded, she snorted. " A rather pointless precaution, seeing as I can change my face as easily as you might change your clothes. Easier, even."

He frowned down at her as they passed the end of the district. "I don't pretend to understand how your dark magic works," he said tersely. "Perhaps you can only wear a face for a few hours at a time. Or it only works if you have some kind of potion. Either way, there is no such thing as a pointless precaution."

She flashed him a sharp toothed grin. "Oh, but Lord Commander- when you have lived the life I have, you will learn that is not the case. Besides," she added, changing the direction of the conversation, "who exactly do they think I am?"

He shrugged. "I imagine they suspect you're to be the prince's champion, but other than that, I don't know. I suppose the prince will come up with a lie soon enough." He tugged her back by the arm, pulling her more firmly against his chest. She scowled. "At least try to look happy to be here," he hissed. "You're sat there like a prisoner."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I am a prisoner," she said. "Just because you've taken the chains off doesn't make it not so."

"Indeed," he answered. "Just you keep that in mind once we get to the keep."

His words were a brutal reminder of what she must not forget; that once she was inside those walls, there would be no leaving them. Not easily, anyway. She doubted she would be able to find her way to the secret tunnels beneath the castle that had saved her life once before, not if guards followed her everywhere she went. Perhaps she would be able to trick them, though. Lure them in with her, claiming it was a short cut, and leave their bodies in the dark.

Sooner than she would have liked, the great winding steps up the keep loomed ahead of them, and beyond them the great bronze gates and immense barbican. The midday sun beat down on the red walls and set them glowing like blood. As they ascended the steps, quicker than she had expected, the gates opened to let them pass, like a gaping maw leading to the belly of the beast.

As they rode under the great outer wall, and then the inner and into the yard, the Cat felt sweat bead on her palms. She berated herself. It would not do to let them see how nervous she was. It would not do at all. Not when every face was an enemy, a snake in the grass. Even the smiling stable hand that took their horse belonged to someone, of that she had no doubt. Everyone here belonged to someone. Her father's arrest had proved that. His death had proved it again. How different her life might have been, if Littlefinger had not betrayed him, if Janos Slynt had not been so treacherous. She tried to imagine what it would have been like, if her father had ruled as regent, or held the throne secure for Stannis. Perhaps Robb would never have gone to war, and Sansa would have married that Tyrell prat she had been so fond of, and the Reach and the Riverlands would have allied with the North against the Lannisters, and the Targaryen's would never have found an ally to win them the throne.

Her lips curled into a silent snarl. There was no point speculating on what might have been. There was no going back, no changing what had happened. The Lannisters had betrayed the Baratheons and staged a coup to put the Targaryens back on the throne that sparked a war with the murder of her father. And here she was, a slave to that arrogant prince's whims, selling her sword to buy her freedom. She could die in this competition. If she lost, she would jump out of a window before they carted her back to Castamere, and who would ever mourn her? She had no one left. She was no one. And no one would pass from this world as if she had never been.

She could live with that. She could quite happily die, if it meant something good came of her death. But with her name no more than a forgotten whisper on the tongues of the dead and destroyed, half a thousand leagues away, her death would mean nothing. Just as she did. And that, she could not live with. Would not live with. She would win this gods damned tournament. She would win it, she would serve her sentence, and she would be free to do whatever she needed. She may have wasted a year in the mines, but after this competition, after those four years as the kings champion- she had her whole life ahead of her.

She would not waste it.

Gendry pulled her close, tucking her into his side and keeping a firm grip on her elbow as the Crown Prince approached.

"Not what you were expecting?" Aegon asked, pulling off his leather riding gloves.

"I've been here before," she said, unthinking. It hit her before he blinked in surprise, and she cursed herself. Idiot, idiot!

"You've been here before?" he asked, frowning. "When?"

She winked at him. Gendry squeezed her arm in warning. "Let a girl keep some secrets, prince," she said, adding teasing to her tone, though her heart jumped in her chest. A foolish, foolish blunder. As if things weren't risky enough!

Aegon laughed, throwing back his head. "I suspect you already have plenty of secrets, my lady," he teased back. "What's one more? I think mystery is part of your charm."

The Cat cocked her head. A feline grin spread across her face. "Oh? You think I have charm?"

He grinned back at her. She could feel how tense the commander had become beside her. "Oh, indeed, Lady Cat," he said. He looked her up and down. "We'll get some fat on you, give you a good grooming, and I imagine other people will start to notice that particular charm of yours, too." She scowled at him for discussing her as if she were one of his hounds, but his eyes turned to Gendry. "Take her to her rooms. Have some of my sister's servants attend to her. They'll know what to do. I must needs speak to my grandfather. I'll speak with you tonight." He turned back to the Cat. "The competition begins first thing in the morning. Be ready." And with that, he bowed, and turned on his heel.

The Cat watched him go with a tight frown. "Are all of his parting lines so dramatic?" she asked.

Gendry did not deign to answer, but began pulling her towards the keep. "Come on," he said. "Your chambers are near the library." She noted with amusement they had chosen the opposite side of the castle for her to the armoury.

"And here I was expecting a tour of the dungeons," she said, ignoring the way he dragged her.

"That can easily be arranged," he growled, and tugged her through the great carved doors.

Despite what Gendry had said, the Cat hadn't truly believed he wouldn't turn around and lead her to the Black Cells. She half expected for him to lead her right up to the door, and then stop and laugh in her face and tell her it was a joke- had all been a joke. That he would drag her outside and lop her head off with that great sword at his hip. But when they stopped outside of a pair of heavy, carved wooden doors, with iron decorative hangings, he instead put a hand on the huge gilded doorknob, his hand large enough it looked a normal size between his fingers, and pushed.

When she did not immediately step through, he sighed and put a hand on her back, pushing her in. "There are ten guards in this corridor," he warned her, as if she had not noticed them, "and twelve in the yard beneath your window. I don't need to warn you that any attempt at escape would be most unwise." When she rolled her eyes at him, he scrubbed at his jaw wearily. "I'll send for servants to attend you," he said, and closed the door behind her, leaving her alone- well, as alone as anyone could be with twenty two guards surrounding them, just past the walls.

She turned around and surveyed the space, surprised to find it pleasant- or as pleasant as any prison could be, at any rate. It was just the one room, though large and spacious- certainly more luxurious than the dungeons. A huge four poster bed with dark grey hangings was placed on a small dais. She rolled her eyes. No one needed a bed with steps. A huge, ornately carved hearth dominated the wall opposite the bed, large oak bookshelves-both completely empty-on either side. She stalked straight for the window, on the far wall opposite the door. A pretty yard sprawled some stories below, a ridiculous unicorn shaped fountain in the middle. Water spouted out of it's gold gilded horn. She rolled her eyes again. Just as Gendry had promised, guards dressed in red and black lined the yard. Each one carried a sword, knife and crossbow, and though they had been alert when their Commander passed by, she knew a crossbow wasn't a light weight to carry for hours on end.

She hadn't needed Gendry to tell her how many guards were posted outside her door and window, She had marked the face of each, as they passed, though she knew there must be some kind of a rotation. She had noted which ones watched them most avidly, which ones seemed only to be there because they had to be. She had counted the windows they passed - twelve - the stairwells - one - the exits from her level - two - and the only way into her chamber - one. She had paid attention to the face of the maid they passed, and had counted how many right turns - eight - and how many left turns - ten - they had taken from the outside yard. That meant if she were to take the same route out, it would be eight left turns and ten right. There had been four sets of stairs, each with a uniform fourteen steps. There had been sixteen alcoves, but of which only seven were any good for hiding in.

The Cat turned away from the window and examined the room more closely. She opened and closed the doors of her armoire, dresser and vanity. She noticed with wry amusement that the hangers had been taken out of the armoire and replaced with cloth loops that were too small to strangle anyone with, but after a quick investigation, she saw that the pole from which they hung could be taken out. She tested it in her hands and frowned. Too flimsy. She went straight to the fire place, but there was nothing there, not a fire poker, shovel or even an ash brush. She checked the bed, tested the drapes, but they were too heavy. She poked a hand behind the pretty carved headboard, but found only cobwebs that clung to her fingers, along with a disgruntled spider. She went back to the pole from the armoire and sighed. If anyone asked what happened to it she would just have to lie and say that someone must have confiscated it.

She made quick work of snapping it in two. It was too flimsy to hit anyone over the head with, but the broken ends were sharp enough to do serious injury. She bound them together with several of the strips of cloth, at intervals, to make it sturdier. When she was finished, she held the makeshift weapon up and sighed. Well, it was no Valyrian knife, but with those jagged ends, she could do some damage. She tested the end with her finger and winced as a splinter pricked her skin. Yes, it would certainly hurt if she jabbed it into a guard's neck. Disable him long enough to grab his weapons and run.

The Cat considered hiding it behind the headboard or under the mattress, but that was too obvious a place. She looked at the fireplace. It was summer, and she doubted that she would be allowed a fire anyway. She crawled into the empty hearth and slipped a hand up the chimney. Soot floated down onto her cheek. She prodded and patted until she found a ledge about half a foot up. She stashed the weapon there and stood up with a grunt. She surveyed the room again. It was almost empty, really. There was no parchment or ink in the desk, no ornaments on the mantelpiece, no books in the bookcases. The dining table had no cloth or cutlery or candles. She slumped on the small, bare sofa in front of the fire and stared at the grate. What was she supposed to do whenever she wasn't training?

She wondered what that would be like. Where, how, who would oversee it. Would she be shackled the entire time, lest she attack someone? Would she even be allowed to touch any of the weapons? She thought about how Gendry had hovered at her side so constantly all the way from the mines, and doubted it. Her fists curled in frustration. How was she supposed to win this tournament if they insisted on just locking her up in her rooms? She considered trying some stretches, some exercises, but she was just so tired. Her entire body felt heavy with exhaustion. Curling up on the sofa, the Cat's eyes grew heavier and heavier, and before she knew it, she was asleep.

She awoke suddenly at a sharp rapping at the door. A quick glance at the window told her she had slept for no longer than an hour. She couldn't keep the irritation from her voice as she called whoever it was in, standing up and straightening her clothes so they wouldn't know she had been napping.

A maid came in, followed by two more carrying a huge copper bathing tub, and then four more hauling kettles of steaming water. She stood silently as they set the tub in front of the fire and filled it, and waited for them to leave. They didn't. She scowled and informed them that she could bathe herself, but they ignored her. Three of them filtered out the door, leaving the remaining maids shuffling anxiously on their feet. She wondered just what it was that Gendry had told them about her.

In the end she conceded, if only because the steaming water was far too tempting to resist and risk it getting cold. She allowed them to take her clothes and boots, let them soap her hair, rinse it, rub in sweet smelling oils until it was shining. She grit her teeth as they washed her back, gently using a soft cloth to wipe away the dirt of the past three weeks. She didn't even complain as they scrubbed everywhere else with stiff brushes and an odd soap that rubbed away her skin until it was soft and smooth. They even went so far as to scrape away the callouses on her feet. She told them not to when they tried to do the same to her hands. She even chuckled to herself when they set to filing her nails, a difficult job considering they hadn't been allowed to bring scissors to trim the jagged ends back first, which she thought was ironic considering that they had used much larger scissors to trim the ends of hair off only moments prior, so that the new, tidy ends brushed the bottom of her ribs instead of her hips. She looked for them afterwards, and saw one of the maids slip out of the doors and hand them to the guards without speaking. Typical. Gendry must have warned them she was dangerous.

They wrapped her in a soft robe after she climbed out, and she forced herself to sit still as they detangled her hair and plucked her eyebrows. Honestly, it was a waste of time, and her irritation rose with each passing minute, but she forced herself to endure the endless prodding and poking. She had no doubt that the maids reported to someone. Had Aegon not told Gendry to send his sister's own maids? She was certain that after they were done with her, they would scurry straight after him. Let them tell him she had behaved. Let them tell him she had complied without complaint. What did she care, if he wanted her to have soft skin and shaped nails and shiny hair? If it sold him a false picture of her, lowered his guard, she would do it.

But she didn't have to be happy about it.

It was only when the maids unwound a knotted string and began to measure her chest that she protested. "What in sev-" she corrected herself. "What do you think you're doing?" she snapped.

The maid smiled at her sweetly. "You're to have new clothes, my lady. The tailor needs to know your measurements."

When she reached for her chest a second time, the Cat batted her hands away. "What clothes?"

The maid's brows creased slightly. "I don't know exactly," she said. The Cat narrowed her eyes and the girl hastened to explain, "dresses, my lady. Beautiful dresses, and clothes to train in, of course."

The Cat pursed her lips. "Fine," she conceded. "But you tell the tailor that I won't be needing any dresses." The maid gave her a placating look, that said I won't, but nodded, and resumed her work. The Cat sighed. At least she didn't have to wear them. A small smirk played at her lips at the thought of how much he must be spending on them, only for them to sit crumpled in a heap at the bottom of the armoire, thanks to her... adaptations.

When the maids finally left, the Cat walked over to the bed and let herself drop down onto the mattress bonelessly. Gods, but it was even softer than the one at the compound. She ran her fingers over the silk, momentarily surprised when it didn't catch in jagged nails and torn skin. She rolled onto her back, legs still hanging over the edge of the mattress, and lifted her hand above her face, studying it, the clean, shaped nails, the smooth, glowing skin. A stranger's hand. The last of the evening light flowed through her window, warm and golden, bathing her newly polished skin. They felt wrong, somehow. Too soft. All of her felt too soft now. She patted her hair and frowned. No knots, no tangles, no dirt or grease or soot. She remembered how she used to stroke her sister's hair, as a small child, when they shared a bed, letting the silkiness of it soothe her to sleep.

She sighed and dropped her hand, letting it fall onto her belly. That made her frown too. Too skinny. She needed to pack on some muscle. One year, she had spent, slowly wasting away from exhaustion and malnutrition. What a sorry state for a Faceless Assassin to be in! She remembered how strong she used to be, how fit and fast. She had woken early, taken a walk, collected information. Taken a hearty breakfast. Trained and sparred. Completed her missions and chores. Trained again after dinner. Her body had been strong and sleek and sure. A sword had been an extension of her arm, her knives found their targets as easily as her eyes. Easier. Then, she could have won this tournament with her hands tied behind her back. But now, her body ravaged and weak... now she wasn't so sure.

Oh, the prince could have her washed and polished and dressed like a doll, but there was no hiding the way her eyes were sunken in, how sharp her cheekbones sliced through her skin. How pronounced her collarbones and jaw were. The painful jutting of her ribs and hips through too thin skin. At least the long hours day in day out with the pickax hadn't left her completely useless, but still... there were three and twenty other champions. Each one was bound to be fit and strong, picked from the best of the best, selected solely to win. They would be bigger than her, stronger, faster. But she could be quick, she told herself. And smart. If she could just use her wits, maybe... maybe she could win this. Win this tournament, serve her years as the kings champion, and then... freedom.

But if she lost this competition... she vowed that she would not return to Castamere alive.

The Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms stared at his grandfather unblinkingly, waiting for him to speak. The king's personal audience chamber, just off of the royal apartments in Maegor's Holdfast, was a surprisingly pleasant room, with a long oak table in the middle and twin hearths at either end of the room. When they had first arrived after the coup against the Usurper, huge rearing stags of carved stone had braced each hearth. Aerys had had them ripped out straight away, along with the great hunting tapestries that Robert had so favoured, the gold and black flags burned to ash. He had ordered the entire keep scourged of anything tainted by Baratheon filth. At the time, Aegon, only six and ten, had thought it wise, and fair- after all, the Usurper had wiped away all traces that the Targaryens had ever been there when he stole the throne. Why shouldn't they wipe away him in turn? He had voiced his thoughts to Jaime Lannister, who had sniggered and said everyone had to wipe up shit at some time in their life. But looking back, at the way his grandfather had been near feverish until the process was complete, he couldn't help but wonder if it was simply a case of paranoia.

His grandfather drummed his fingers on the red oak table distractedly. His purple eyes were snagged in the flames that illuminated Aegon, having come to a stop at the other end of the table. He had been displeased upon entering to see Tywin Lannister seated to Aerys' right, lips pressed into a thin line as he watched the heir to the iron throne, swirling a golden goblet of wine. Perhaps he was being ungrateful- after all, his family could never have returned to Westeros without the might of the Lannister's- but it seemed to him that it was a difficult thing to trust a man who had betrayed his allies three times over. In Aegon's mind, the Hand of the King was a snake. Oh, a clever, useful snake, yes- but Aegon had been pricked by those venomous fangs before. He was not keen for it to happen again.

It had been a clever move on Tywin's part, of course. Aegon had to give him that. But when the now reinstated hand had written to his grandfather in exile, some nine years ago, claiming that he had deliberately steered Robert Baratheon away from Dragonstone in those last weeks of the Rebellion, so that the Targaryen dynasty may escape and strengthen in foreign lands, in order to make their grand return- a feat that would not have been possible had they stayed for the slaughter- well, Aegon couldn't help but take it with a pinch of salt.

It seemed to him that Tywin always managed to stay just on the right side of wrong- close enough to jump ship, should the tide turn against him. After all, it wasn't as though he hadn't profited. It must have been a humiliation when, after the death of Jon Arryn, Robert had chosen not him, but faithful old Eddard Stark to be his new Hand. Stark, who had sat up if his frosty castle in the North, while Tywin had all but funded each of Robert's unadvised whims. And when Ned Stark had stumbled upon a secret never meant for his ears- well. Tywin couldn't have him discrediting the not so shiny Lannister name, could he?

He had been very deft, though, Aegon had to admit. His grandfather had been wholly delighted when that secret missive had come for them in the dead of night, delivered in the hand of one of the Spider's little birds, standing in the dark of their doorstep in their apartments in Magister Illyrio's manse in Pentos. To find that after all this time in exile, they still had a strong ally in Westeros, keeping the throne secure while they grew strong again, far from the reach of the Usurper and his dogs- the news had near cured Aerys of his insanity. For a while, anyway.

Then the haggling had come. It had all been done so... quickly. At the time, Aegon, only five and ten years of age, had thought it all both terribly exciting and rather boring. He had yearned for great battles, the chance to avenge his father, and instead he had watched from the shadows as his family, Illyro Mopatis, and the Imp, Tyrion Lannister, had all sat around a table throughout the night, debating this detail and this number. Indeed, the debating had drawn out for several nights, and those nights turned into weeks, but at the end of it, everyone had been happy. Or at least, his grandfather had been happy, the Imp rather too pleased with himself, and the rest of them disgruntled.

He supposed that was how negotiations worked, though, and if at the end, no one was truly happy- that meant they had come to a fair conclusion. The conclusion in particular had been Tywin's reinstatement as Hand of the king, Cersei's hand of marriage in Aerys', and lots of Lannister gold to fund their war. Of course, his young aunt's Dothraki screamers had been a useful bargaining tool, as had her three infant dragons. After all, whoever stood in the army facing three dragons was as a great a fool as ever there was, and Tywin Lannister, snake that he was, was not that fool.

And so, here he sat at his grandfather's right hand, frowning. Aegon smirked to himself at the thought of how Tywin must have looked when he discovered Aegon's plan regarding his choice of champion.

"She has arrived, I take it?" the Hand of the King asked. His voice was hard, edged with the clash of shields and scream of arrows. This was a man just as comfortable in battle as he was seated at the small council.

Aegon bowed his head, half mocking, and took the seat at the far end of the table opposite his grandfather. Tywin frowned at the impertinence. "She has. She shouldn't pose any threat while she's here." Picking the Dark heart- or Cat, as she had said- had been a gamble. A bet against his grandfather's Hand, the man who had sentenced her to a life in Castamere in the first place. He was about to see if it was worth it.

"Then you think like every fool she's ever murdered," Tywin said calmly, though his voice was laced with irritation. Aegon looked at Aerys, who was still drumming at the table distractedly. "She owe's allegiance to none but herself. Don't think she won't balk at putting a knife through your heart if she thinks she has anything to gain by it."

Aegon leaned back in his chair. "Is that a threat, lord Hand?" he asked mildly.

Tywin did not acknowledge the implied accusation, which told Aegon plenty. "I am only thinking to the safety of the Crown Prince," the man said stonily. "You might take everything as a joke, but this realm has seen enough war in recent decades. Do not add to it with your own murder."

Aegon sneered at him. As if the man wasn't already planning for that possibility- because his death meant that any son of Aerys' that Cersei might bare, would be the new Crown Prince- a half Lannister. Unless Dany were to remarry of course, but with her so far away in Essos, raising her dragons, it would be no hard thing for Tywin to maneuvre his own grandchild onto the throne. Aegon sighed internally. It was always such a damned mess.

"The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard has seen to it that she is under constant watch," Aegon explained. "There is a veritable army at her door and window. She will be escorted to and from any training or trials with an arrow trained on her back. She knows her freedom is at stake. She won't risk it."

"And you know that for a fact, I suppose?" Tywin retorted. "Do not pretend to know the mind of a Faceless Assassin. They are the most feared assassins in the world for a reason."

"Yes," Aegon nodded. "And that is why she will win this competition. If we're talking of the facts, you might as well cancel this whole tournament, because she will emerge as victor." He cocked his head and smiled at the man.

He did not smile back. "You say that because you're afraid of losing good coin."

Aegon steeled his nerve, remembering the words he had been brooding over all the way from Castamere. "I guarantee she'll be able to fulfil her duties; we don't even need to train her. I've told you already; it's foolish to have this competition at all."

"How can a mortal man guarantee anything, my Prince?" The voice the words belonged to was soft and smooth, accent a swirling, lilting song. It made the hair at the base of his neck stand up. "Only the Lord of Light truly knows the future."

Aegon pinched the bridge of his nose, as Kinvara drifted across the room, red robes swirling around her. The ruby collar at her throat gleamed in the light of the fire as she stood at his grandfather's left, her pale, white hand resting on the back of his chair. He bristled at the sight of it.

"And I suppose you think you know who will win, but so conveniently won't say, thus ending this ridiculous fiasco," Aegon said through clenched teeth. His temple throbbed.

Kinvara smiled at him, her lips painted a blood red that matched her eyes, eyes which bore into his. "I only know what the Lord of Light gifts to me," she answered, her voice deep and melodic. It was the sort of voice that could entrance a man and hold him in her thrall.

It was a struggle not to roll his eyes at the vague reply- the sort of reply she always gave. "I don't suppose you could ask him for the answer, could you?" Aegon said tightly. "It would make things ever so much easier."

She simply smiled at him, a cat's smile, a cat with a mouse in it's paws. it was unsettling to see, especially when another girl had given him such a similar smile only hours before, similar, but different too, in so many ways. "It doesn't work that way, Prince. The Lord of Light will give me what he wishes, and when he wishes. Only then."

He tilted his head at her. "How convenient," was all he said. Gods, but he was tired.

His grandfather's eyes snapped up. The fire glinted in them in a way that made ice rush through Aegon's gut. "Do not dare to disrespect our Lord," the king said, the first time he had spoken since Aegon arrived. "I am the ruler of this realm. To question him is to question me. You will not question me."

Aegon, realising how very close he toed the line between impertinence and rebellion, mumbled an apology.

"We have more important things to discuss than this competition," Tywin said after a moment. The king went back to staring at the fire, fingers drumming. "There is a rumour that there is a Stark, hiding in the North somewhere."

Aegon dipped his head. "So I've heard." Tywin frowned at being interrupted. "Do we know which one it is?"

Tywin pursed his lips. "No, the rumours are woefully incomplete." Oh, how it must irk him to admit he didn't know something!

"And do we know if they are anything more than just that- rumours?" Aegon asked, tone dripping with boredom. "It wouldn't be the first time, after all." There were always rumours of some rebel or other popping up. He supposed it was a sign that some people hoped it was true. It was never a good sign.

"For the time being, we must treat them like they are," Tywin said evenly. "We will deal with the matter privately, but denounce it publicly. As for which one it could be, there are limited options."

Aegon nodded. The Stark family were a house that had suffered more losses than any other of the great families of Westeros combined. "Well it can't be poor, old, dead Ned, nor his lovely wife," he said, ticking them off on his fingers. "The eldest wolf- Robb was it?- not him, either. There's that bastard at the Wall, but he's no bother, and the two younger boys were murdered by the Greyjoy brat." He mulled it over in his mind. "How many girls were there again?"

"Two," Tywin said. "The elder girl was a hostage here for some years. We had planned to betroth her to you, when Viserys was instead promised to the Tyrell girl."

"Yes, I remember her," Aegon said. "Sansa. The elder one. A beautiful girl, if a bit weepy, though I guess that's only to be expected considering her circumstances." He frowned. "What happened to the other one?"

"She escaped the Keep somehow, after Ned Stark was arrested," Tywin Lannister said. "Arya Stark."

Aegon snorted. "Ah yes, I remember now. Your daughter had quite the grudge against the girl if I remember." Something about a fight between that ill-gotten bastard of hers and the girl. Something to do with a wolf and a sword, if he remembered correctly from Cersei's tirades.

"Yes." Tywin's mouth twitched. "Despite Cersei's efforts, the girl was never found. She was presumed dead, but seeing as she is the only one unaccounted for, it seems that she is the most likely."

Aegon rolled the name around his mind. Suddenly it clicked. "But was she not married some years ago, to the bastard of Bolton?"

Tywin inclined his head. The king's fingers paused drumming for a moment, and Aegon half expected him to speak, but he remained silent and his fingers resumed their dull pattern. "No, the girl was an imposter we planted there, but only we know that. I suppose it's possible that one of the younger boys escaped the slaughter at Winterfell, but one was a cripple and the other an infant."

Aegon frowned. "Whatever did happen to Sansa Stark?" he asked. His eyes caught in Kinvara's copper hair. Sansa had had auburn hair too, though in a much more lovely, and much less violent, shade.

Tywin pursed his lips. "She was spirited away after your uncle was murdered at his wedding," he said. "No one has heard from her since either, though it seems likely she died in the uprising."

"But we don't know for certain?" Aegon confirmed. He remembered her disappearance, after Viserys was poisoned at his wedding feast, only hours after swearing his vows to Margaery Tyrell.

"No," Tywin said heavily.

Aegon stood up, sighing deeply. "So it could be Sansa, one of the boys, most likely the younger, or Arya?" He rubbed his temples. "I'll speak to the Spider on the morrow. Tell him to have his little birds keep an ear out."

Kinvara glided over to him and lay a hand on his arm. He tensed. "The Lord of Light will guide us," she said smoothly. "Have faith, my Prince."

Aegon stepped out of her grip. "I'll have faith, my lady, when my grandfather's throne is secure." He sketched a low bow at Aerys, who did not look away from the flames, and made to leave.

"One more thing, boy." Aegon stiffened at his grandfather's voice. He turned. "You are to keep your distance from the assassin. You have enough whores as it is. I will not have you sully this line with a witch."

Aegon held his tongue, even as temper flared in his chest. "As you say, your Grace." He bowed again, and left. He needed to sleep. He needed a drink. He strode to his chambers, his father's old rooms, with anger brightening his eyes.

Oof! That was a heavy one! I know I crammed a lot of context and politics into this one, I apologise for the headache! See you next time!

Over and Out xoxo