DISCLAIMER: I don't think anyone still believes I am going to try and claim this is mine at this point, but here we are... It's not mine! There is only one GRRM, and he is a "right G" as my mate would say.

Much love xoxo

EDIT: sorry for the wait on this chapter! Laptop broke! I do post updates on my profile, explaining when chapters will be out and if not, why not, so keep an eye out!

The assassin was looking well, the Lord Commander if the Kingsguard thought as he watched her running laps around the yard with the other contestants. She was keeping to the middle of the group, in keeping with her game plan, though even across the yard Gendry could see that she was coping well- a vast improvement on that ill fated run on the first day.

In the two weeks she had been here, and those three weeks on the road, Cat had begun to finally look healthier. Her eyes were still shadowed, but not disturbingly sunken in as they had been, and her cheekbones no longer threatened to slice through skin. He imagined her ribs and collarbones were the same, though of course, he had not seen them. Her skin was still snow white, and he doubted it would change, thanks to her northern heritage, but it seemed brighter, somehow, less dull and more alive.

She was doing better in training, too. She still often hurled her guts up, when they trained in private, body shaking and straining, but it was less frequent than before, and not so violent. He would simply stand and watch, lips pursed and silent. He didn't really need to say anything, and neither did she; she may be healthier than she had been, but her body was still a wreck. He didn't doubt that had Aegon not pulled her from the mines when he did, the girl would have been tossed in one of those mass graves within the fortnight.

Yet here she was, keeping pace with men much larger, fitter and stronger than her, not having uttered one word of complaint. Though he had not yet allowed her to spar, he saw the way her eyes were drawn to the weapons rack, the way something seemed to pass over them as she did. He did not know how she did it, if he were being honest. He had doubted Aegon's decision for some time, not believing it were possible for someone in her condition to even make it to the first task. Yet there she was, crossing the finish line. She did not even collapse, or slow to a walk immediately, but forced herself to jog, hands atop her head to open her lungs. She did look a tad green though, he thought, as he strode over to her.

"Don't tell me," she said, spitting a glob of phlegm to the side. Gendry grimaced, and as she turned away to grab a tin cup of water from the side, he could have sworn she rolled her eyes. "There's room for improvement. Believe me, I know."

"Not at all," he said, concealing a smile. She raised a brow at him as she chugged the water down. A bead trickled down her chin and she wiped it away with the back of her wrist. "I was thinking that you look much better than you did two weeks ago. Good enough to give sparring a go."

The effect was immediate.

He could tell that he only saw what she wanted him to see, but it was there- the glint in those eyes, the glint that turned stormy grey into flashing silver, more lightening than thunder. "Oh?" she asked, smiling wickedly. "Finally dredged up enough courage to face me, Lord Commander?"

He narrowed his eye at her, and turned away, jerking his fingers for her to follow him to the weapons rack. She did so without hesitation, falling into step beside him with renewed vigour. He wasn't sure if it made him want to smile or frown. Smile, that such a small thing made her so happy, brought a life to her eyes that was so rarely there, or frown, that the prospect of violence and killing made her so happy. So Gendry said nothing about it as they stopped at the rack.

"Choose a sword," he said gruffly.

She raised a brow at him. "Just a sword?"

He narrowed his eyes at her again, and said, "you don't know how to fight dual blade?" When she inclined her head, he laughed at her. "Don't be ridiculous. You jest, surely? The last person to fight dual blade in the Seven Kingdoms was Arthur Dayne, the-"

"The Sword of the Morning, I know," she said boredly, picking her nails. "Yet he's been dead these past two decades, and we're still here." She smiled at his frown. "Oh I forgot- he was one of your deceased brethren, was he not? Such a pity." The way she said it was not at all pitying, and he wondered yet again just what connections she had once had here.

"Just one blade," he said, grabbing a sword and shoving it into her hands. "Even if your claim is true, the last thing you need is to show everyone just how capable you are. You might as well pin the target on your back yourself."

But the assassin was not listening. Or rather, she had heard every word he said in that strange, uncanny way of hers, by which she seemed ultra-aware of everything around her, but he could see by her face that her focus was elsewhere entirely. She held the sword, simple and unadorned as it was, almost reverently, as if it were so much more than just metal. As if it were the best gift she had ever received. Yet... her eyes seemed far away, as if she were thinking of another time, and another blade.

"Do you want to fight or not?" he groused, stepping away from the rack to give them space to work with. "Or would you rather join the other ladies for a dancing lesson instead?" He hoped the jab would get a rise out of her, because anything other than this raw human emotion that was so unlike what he knew and expected of her, was better.

She turned her gaze to his, and he was startled to find her eyes a flashing silver- lightening, instead of the roiling thunder with which he was so accustomed to seeing in her eyes. "I think you'll find that my dancing is quite advanced," she purred, striding towards him with feline stealth. "I just hope you'll be able to keep up."

He barked a laugh. "Me? It is you who can scarce run a mile. Perhaps we should stop this now, lest you collapse from exertion." Anger, amusement, anything but this strange side of her that he didn't understand, didn't at all want to understand- because assassins were not meant to be like this, especially faceless ones.

She smiled a true cat's smile, and tossed the sword from hand to hand, testing it's weight. "But a maid is so very fond of dancing," she said, eyes flashing. "Oblige me." And with no more warning, she lunged for him.

Her speed shocked him, for no one in her physical condition should be able to move that fast- hells, no one in any physical condition should be able to move so fast- and he barely managed to raise his own bull's head sword to block her blow before the blade gutted him. She must have seen his shock on his face, for she grinned wickedly and spun away- and then before he could so much as think, she was back, blade whipping through the air toward him impossibly fast.

This time he had to lurch backwards to miss it, unable to bring his own weapon up to deflect it- yet even so, she was on him before he could even steady himself, and there was nothing human in her face. That was what you wanted, wasn't it? said the voice in his head as he grunted, blocking her thrust. Something that wasn't quite human? The problem was that now he wasn't so sure.

And so the commander began to press back, attacking as well as deflecting, pressing her backwards. He was shocked when she let him, though as he grew bolder against her, he supposed that his blows were wearing on her, with his size and strength. Yet even so, she caught every thrust of his blade with her own, twisting it away or stepping in to meet it. She ducked and danced and span in such a wicked tenacity that he began to wonder just how it was that she had been caught- because he had never seen someone so agile, so intent, so instinctive. It was as if she knew what he was going to do even before he did, and delighted in it, as if he sang his intentions to her on a song that only she could hear. Gendry had known many great fighters, and yet none of them compared to this tiny stick of a girl in front of him. He remembered their fight some weeks prior, and how she had barely even needed to touch his blade to avoid it's bite.

He growled and swiped viciously at her legs, but she simply hopped up into the air, knees drawn to her chin as his blade swept uselessly beneath her. He snarled and carved higher on the backswing as she landed, but she bent over backwards as if her spine were made of tack, braid whipping around her.

"Will you not fight me?" he demanded, frustrated with the chase she was leading him on. "Maybe you are all talk." He knew it wasn't true, for no one of average skill could even dream of moving in the way she did, as if she were steel herself. "Show me what you are capable of!"

"Oh believe me, Commander," she purred, turning away his blow. "You do not want to know what I am capable of."

And the Commander realised with no small amount of shock, that she had not been fighting back at all, but merely testing him out, finding his weaknesses and learning them, committing them to memory as one might a grocery list. And as she threw herself at him- really threw herself at him- the commander knew for certain that the Crown Prince had not been mistaken is his chosen champion, because at the end of this tournament, the only one left standing would be the fearsome assassin currently battering him with the sword she had held for all of two minutes.

Gods, if this was her out of practice then he wasn't sure he ever wanted to see what she could do while trained.

He met her blow for blow, barely keeping up as she rained assault after assault down on him. It was with no misplaced arrogance or self importance that the commander considered himself one of the best fighters in the keep. After all, he had not risen from unacknowledged bastard of the usurper to Lord Commander of the Kingsguard for nothing. He had fought fearsome foes more times than he could count, and walked away as victor. Yet as he faced off against this young woman barely out of her girlhood, he struggled to just to defend himself against her blows, blows that came in such quick succession that he simply could not reconcile this deadly warrior with the filthy, emaciated slave they had drug up from the mines just some weeks ago.

Yet he began to notice her flagging as time went on, her blows no less precise or well placed than before, but there was less bite to them, as exhaustion seeped into her bones. He wasn't surprised; not with the ruined state of her body. Frankly, he was surprised she had lasted as long as she had. And as her attack began to subside, he took his chance, using his strength to drive her backwards, step by step. He towered over her, black hair drinking the light of the sun, his sword a storm of strength and force that battered her on all sides.

A storm that she seemed to weather. Somehow, despite everything, she kept up, meeting him blow for blow even as her strength and stamina began to fail her. And then, when he thought he had her, something shifted.

He could feel it in the air around them as they duelled, could see it in her face, her eyes. But even then, there was nothing he could do as she she caught his backswing with her blade and somehow twisted it to the side. As she did, she charged.

Looking back, Gendry was not quite sure how she did it, but she did. Seeing the gap between them, a gap too large for her reach but not for his, Gendry charged at her. And as he did, she threw herself not at him, but into him. Her boot landed on his thigh, and at first he thought she was trying to force his legs out from beneath him, but then she planted her other foot upon his chest, and Gendry realised that she had used him as a sort of human step, as she kicked herself off of him, using his chest as a launchpad, and threw herself backwards, spinning head over heels in a graceful arch through the air. As she did, she scooped her blade under his and twisted the Bull out of his grasp. Yet even as she landed she was twisting around.

And just like that, the fight was over. With his sword discarded some feet away, and the point of her own nameless sword just under his chin, the fight was over. They stood there panting, neither of them, nor any of their spectators, saying a word. A salty sea breeze whipped through the yard, and her dark tresses, having come free of her braid moments prior, drifted about her face, upon which a small smile played about her lips, and the commander realised one thing.

That fighting to the Cat was like air to other mortal men. And she had been deprived of it for far too long.

Later that night, the Cat would look back on the duel and reflect that she had no idea how she had done it. A year since she had held a sword. Far more than that since she had sparred with anyone. And the moment she held that sword... it was like her life force, dormant for each moment she had spent in chains, was returned to her tenfold.

And at the end, as the yard stood in silence to watch her, sword tipping up the commander's chin, it was like that same life force fell on her, heavy exhaustion pulling he down, as if she were trying to swim with rocks tied to her ankles.

She allowed the point of the sword to drop to the packed earth floor as she panted. A bead of sweat dripped down her cheek and came to rest at her jaw. Strands of hair stuck to her damp skin. No one spoke. No one moved.

And then the commander bowed his head at her. "It seems the prince's faith in you was not misplaced," he said.

She smiled at him, and used the edge of her sword to flip his up off the ground. She offered it to him hilt first. He took it and sheathed it at his side. "A tip, Lord Commander," she said, flipping her own sword in hand. He raised a brow. "Never assume anything."

His brows creased. "How do you mean?"

"You assumed that I would flag from exhaustion," she explained, stepping towards him. "You assumed that I was fighting with my sword hand."

His brows shot upwards in shock as he whipped around to face her from where he had turned to grab a drink, sloshing water over the side of his tin cup as he did. "You were fighting with the wrong hand?"

"Not at all," she said. "It is a flaw to have a strong hand and a weak hand. So I trained myself to be able to use both. But you assumed I was right handed; had you considered the possibility that I could fight with my left hand- my natural hand- I could never have pulled that maneouvre on you."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "How am I to know if you're telling me the truth? What if your right hand is your true hand, but you want me to believe otherwise so that I will make mistakes in the future?"

The Cat grinned at him and hing up her sword, casting it one last rueful glance. "You're learning," she said, before downing a cup of water, aware of the way the yard had gone still to watch their duel. It seemed that the commander's efforts to keep her unnoticed had gone to waste. And though she knew it was for the best, she couldn't find it in her to care.

To the Cat's great joy, Gendry was busy after lunch, and left instructions that she be allowed to walk the gardens as long as a veritable army of guards escorted her. Not for the first time, she wondered if it was arrogance that he believed it took a surplus of twelve guards to the job in his absence, or simply a mark of his capability. She wondered if he was aware that she could likely take out all twelve of them if they were not armed with loaded crossbows. As they wandered the gardens and courtyards of the Red Keep rather aimlessly, the Cat couldn't help but feel rather ridiculous. Gendry was a fool if he believed she would do anything that might forfeit her freedom, and besides- giving her so many guards only made her stand out all the more. Indeed, anyone they crossed paths with watched them pass with wide eyes and hushed whispers. She couldn't help but smile at the small stroke to her ego, though, that the commander was so concerned by the threat she posed.

The fool. If he knew what she were truly capable, if he understood the true magnitude of her gifts, he would be wiser to lock her away in the black cells and throw away the key. Or better yet, have that foul headsman cut off her head. She wondered if he would do it with her father's sword. She supposed that by rights it was her sword, really, though if the rumours were true that there was a Stark in the North, Ice would really belong to them.

Not that it mattered, of course. She doubted she would ever get to touch that beautiful blade again. Wasn't even sure she wanted to, knowing what it had done. The thought soured her mood, but if anyone noticed they were smart enough not to bring it up.

At least, until they turned into the yard.

"Lady Cat!" cried a voice to her left, and the Cat turned to see Margaery striding towards her, her seemingly ever present escort of ladies hot on her heels. She supposed that it was just another sort of prison, really. A different sort of guard. "It is so good to see that the Lord Commander let you out for a few hours!" The Cat blinked and forced herself not to balk as the lady of Highgarden kissed her cheek with soft lips, and linked arms with her.

"I believe a successful training session may have softened him," the Cat said sarcastically- though he had seemed... off somehow. Disturbed, or unsettled perhaps. He probably didn't like my red face after that run, stupid bull that he is. She smiled at her own stupid joke, and then shook her head.

Margaery stopped so abruptly that the Cat almost startled. Almost. "Could you teach me?" the lady of Highgarden asked, clutching the Cat's hand.

The Cat blinked. "Teach you?" Teach you what? How to soften the hearts of men? The Cat imagined that Margaery was already well versed in the subject- and besides, the Cat knew rather less about softening them than stopping them.

"To fight," Margaery said. "Or at least, to defend myself."

The Cat hesitated. Gendry would not be happy about it if he found out, not at all. He would probably lock her up as she had just contemplated, clap her in irons and leave her to rot, if he suspected anything. "It is something that requires a lot of practise," she said haltingly. "And I do not think-"

"What's this?" said a lilting, husky voice, the sort of voice that belonged between bed sheets. The Cat turned to face the dornish princess, who was smiling, dark eyes sparking with mischief. "Our perfect lady of Highgarden wishes to fight?"

"Not fight," Margaery amended. "But my brothers always said that it wasn't a woman's place to fight- but it always seemed to me that it is women who get hurt the most in this world, so it doesn't really make sense that we should rely on the very beings who hurt us to protect us!" The words were true, perhaps even sincere, but the Cat had no doubt that there was something more to the abrupt request. She scanned the yard, but there was no one, no one but them and their escorts, a few servants.

Arianne cocked her head. "In Dorne, my cousins taught me a little," she admitted. "Though it was never really my forte. I found other pursuits to be more... pleasurable." Margaery laughed, and even the Cat forced out a quiet smile, though privately she wondered if the two privileged ladies understood that for most people, learning to defend oneself was not a matter of pleasure, but survival. Arianne grinned at her. "Come on, dear lady Cat. It wouldn't hurt to show us some moves, would it?"

Oh, Gendry would most definitely lock her up and make sure she never saw the sun again if he heard her hesitation. But... she was startled to find that she wanted to teach them.

"Alright," she conceded. "But just a few simple moves. The Commander will decorate the gates with my head if he knew."

Aegon slumped in his chair and contemplated whether the letter opener discarded on the table before him was sharp enough to put him out of his misery, as the voices of his grandfather's small council droned on and on about road tax and enquiries about enclosure in the lowlands. It had been near three hours since he had sat down, and he had yet to hear anything of interest. Sometimes he wished that Viserys had been less of a royal cunt- that way, he would still be heir, and it would be him forced to sit in on these boring discussions, while Aegon could be off doing something far more entertaining.

Like teasing a certain assassin, said the small voice in his head. Go away, he told it grumpily. After all, Tywin Lannister had ordered him not to go after her, and as Tywin Lannister's word was law, there was nothing he could do. He snorted.

The room went silent, and he looked up. The small council was watching him- half of them with disdain at his disinterest, half of them with expectation- as if he might have something useful to say.

"You have something to add, prince?" the hand of the king said. The king himself was absent- as he always was. Probably off rubbing one out to a candle, or something, Aegon thought nastily.

"Not at all," he drawled, reaching for his wine. He swirled it twice and then took a long drink.

"Then perhaps you should not be here," his grandmother-in-law snipped. Cersei Lannister had once been a beautiful woman, he had been told. Word of her golden tresses and emerald eyes had made it across the Narrow Sea; even the whores in Lys and Volantis had dressed like her, and as far as Aegon knew, men had payed good coin for them. He wondered what they would think of the woman before him, her wine stained upper lip and slightly sagging flesh, her rich gowns fashioned for someone a decade younger or more, stretching tight across her waist. Even her once enviable golden hair had started to lose it's lustre. Everyone saw it- everyone, it seemed, except her.

He dragged his eyes to the woman lazily, and regarded her. "Why are you here, again?" he asked. He knew he shouldn't provoke her, yet he just couldn't help it.

Her eyes flashed maliciously. "I am the queen," she snapped.

Aegon took another pull of wine. "What was it your father once said?" he mused, swirling his goblet. "Oh; yes. Anyone who must say they are king, is no true king. Such a clever Hand, don't you agree? A shame it didn't pass to you... your Grace." The words were an insult, the address a slap in the face. Aegon knew he was doing nothing to win Tywin in his favour, yet it was just to obvious to not say it. He looked at the fuming lady of Casterly Rock again, and suddenly felt a spike of pity for her. Pathetic. That was all she was. Sold, time and time again- first promised to his father (a shudder worked it's way down his spine at that particular thought), then auctioned off to the Usurper, traded to his grandfather like a prize cow. Her eldest son killed, her other two sent far and away. He should feel bad for her.

"One word, and my queensguard will rip out that foul tongue of yours and make you eat it," she hissed.

He arched a brow. "Is that a threat against the heir to the throne?" he asked.

"Enough." Tywin Lannister's voice was hard enough to break stones, the sort of voice who's commands were used to being obeyed. Aegon didn't like the man; didn't trust him as far as he could throw him- yet even he understood that there were certain things even he could not say to his grandfather's Hand. The man's green eyes were glacial as they regarded Aegon. "Everyone else- out."

Aegon watched as the small council quickly and efficiently packed up and left. Apparently he was not the only one who understood that there was a line with Tywin Lannister. "I assume this is about the tournament?" He almost said my champion, but Cersei was still at the table, and Aegon did not want to give her reason to suspect that Cat was not what she was pretending to be.

"No," Tywin said shortly. "This is about the fact you are nearing your six and twentieth nameday, and have yet to take a wife."

Aegon froze, and the wine he had been swirling lazily sloshed over the brim of the goblet as he jerked to a stop, soaking the edge of his sleeve. "What?"

Tywin pursed his lips. "It is time, prince, that you did your duty to your family and the crown you will one day inherit, and forged a marriage alliance." He stood up and walked to the window, gazing out across the city. "Your father was five years younger than you are now when he married your mother, and your grandfather was even younger."

"Well, that was easy," Aegon said, masking his discomfort with arrogance. "He was marrying his sister. I don't imagine it took much negotiating or planning." He had indeed known that his grandfather had been but a teenager when he wed Rhaella, who had been even younger, yet it made him queasy to think about.

"Do not labour under the illusion," the Hand said, turning around sharply, "that arrogance and ignorance will get you out of this. You have a duty to-"

Aegon snarled. "I know very well my duty, my Lord," he snapped. "Do not make the mistake of believing that there is anything I would not do for my kingdom and my family. But unless you can propose a viable match, then the lecture you no doubt have planned will be a waste of time." And it was true- Aegon had already done terrible things to ensure that his grandfather took the throne, that he would himself on day sit it. He just was not certain who he wanted sitting beside him.

Tywin smiled a cold, cold smile. Cersei was leaning back in her chair, smugness radiating from her. "I am glad to see that you are in agreement that we should not waste time, prince," he said, taking his seat at the far end of the table once more. "As it is, I already have a list of suitable suggestions."

Aegon raised his eyes to the ceiling and begged whatever gods were up there to get him out of this conversation. When no lightening seemed poise to strike the Lord of Lannister dead, he sighed, resigning himself. "Do I not already have a betrothed?" he asked wearily.

Tywin frowned at him. "If you mean the Stark girl, then I will tell you now that though she is on my list still, do not expect your previous betrothal to come to anything." He straightened in his chair.

"Fine," Aegon grit out. "Who else is on your little list?" He was fed up with the discussion already; the sooner it was over, the better.

Lannister's eyes turned icy again at Aegon's tone. "What of Arianne Martell?" he asked. "She is here visiting. It seems a good time to raise the matter."

"She is my cousin!" Aegon protested, shuddering. "Besides, Dorne is already too powerful as it is. The last thing we need is to give them even more."

Tywin inclined his head. "I admit that I am of the same opinion on the matter, but it seemed prudent to make sure we all understand why she would not be suitable."

Aegon sighed. "Should my grandfather not be present for this conversation?" he asked. "And-" He was interrupted as the door opened. A soft breeze sighed across his neck, and Aegon pursed his lips. He knew exactly who had just appeared- how convenient. How very convenient.

Kinvara dipped into a curtsy, her ruby red eyes smouldering as she gazed at him, in a way that had the hairs on the nape of his neck bristling. "My Prince," she said, greeting him, her red skirts sweeping the floor. Aegon did not miss the sneer Cersei shot the priestess- no doubt jealous of the woman's beauty. "Lord Hand. My Queen." She stood at the brazier burning by the window, despite the high sun outside, and the fire cast dancing, writhing shadows across her form. "I hope I am not interrupting you?"

"I think you know exactly what you're interrupting," Aegon growled. "So why don't you get on and share your opinions?"

She inclined her head at him with small smile on her crimson painted lips. "The Lord did bless me with the foresight of your discussion," she said, voice lilting and deep. "I must say that I agree; the dornish girl is not right. I do not see our Lord in her."

"What about one of the Tyrell girls?" Cersei said, before Aegon could point out that it was very convenient that the high priestess did not see her precious lord in anyone who was not useful to her. He turned his stare to the queen. "Margaery Tyrell is here, too. A grasping bitch, just like her grandmother, but pretty enough, and wealthy besides." Of course Cersei would place beauty first. He was surprised she did not suggest the ugliest woman she knew of for him.

"Margaery was wed to the Usurper's brother," Aegon countered. "She opposed us before."

"And then her family came to our aid against Stannis at the Blackwater," Tywin argued, tone sharp enough to make Aegon look. "Seeing as she was to marry your uncle, I hardly think we can rescind her pardon now, simply because she does not appeal to you."

"It is not that she doesn't appeal to me," he ground out through clenched teeth. "Margaery is a beautiful girl, and clever with it. But I do not trust her or her family's intentions- not when they have changed allegiance so many times." He did not need to add that the Tyrell's were not the only family that had switched allegiance, but he could see that no one in the room had missed the subtle jab, though none said a word.

"What of Myrcella?" Kinvara asked, cocking her head.

"No!" Cersei snapped, glaring at the priestess. "She is just a girl. I will not have her brought into this, and sold as I was." Aegon relaxed slightly in his chair at her vehement denial of the proposition. He had met Myrcella twice, and though the girl was sweet and pretty and kind, the thought of marrying a Lannister- and a Lannister twice over at that- made him feel nauseous.

"Myrcella would not be suitable," Tywin agreed, and crossed his arms. His eyes bore into Aegon. "That leaves the Stark girls- both of whom, I should add, remain unaccounted for."

"Have your spymaster send out his little birds," Aegon suggested. "Someone must know where Sansa Stark is. She could not have escaped the city all on her own. Find who helped her, and we find the girl." He recalled the girl from the years she had spent as a hostage. Already a beauty when she had arrived, her tragedy had only served to make her even more desirable, somehow. She had been quiet, and soft, and easily manipulated. She had also been timid and afraid. If she was alive, he wondered if she had grown more confident, more capable.

"Do you not think I already have?" Tywin snapped, and then sighed. "Your betrothal, though- to the younger girl. There is news on that front."

Aegon blinked in surprise. "She has contacted us?" he asked dubiously.

"Don't be a fool," the Hand said. "But there is a rumour that it is her in the North- gathering a band of traitors around her, to depose the Bolton bastard from Winterfell. It seems our... decoy, escaped, though she has yet to surface. It is her disappearance that has people talking, believing her to be the real Arya Stark."

"I don't see why it matters," Aegon said, brows creased. "We know the truth, after all." If anything, this was good news- it meant that the rumours about an insurgent Stark were likely false.

Tywin leaned on one hand. "Hmm," he hummed, disapprovingly. "Indeed. But that is not what I speak of." Aegon frowned. "Do you remember Brienne of Tarth?"

Aegon arched a brow. "Of course," he said. "Brienne the beauty, they call her. Doesn't your son have some friendship with the brute?" He remembered all of the rumours- of what had occurred after Catelyn Stark had released him, the deal he had made to return her daughters for his freedom. It had all been a mess, and as far as Aegon knew, it had never been resolved, up until the Red Wedding, anyway.

"My brother does not concern you," Cersei snapped. Aegon sneered at her.

"I think anything to do with my kingsguard is of my concern," he said, lip curling.

"He is not your kingsguard," she seethed.

"He is not yours either," he replied coldly.

"Be quiet, the both of you," Tywin snapped. "I have had enough of this foolishness between the two of you. I have better things to do than listen to you bicker like children." He stood up. "As such, this meeting is adjourned. You will resolve this petty competitiveness between you before we next sit at this table." He strode out of the door, and Cersei sent Aegon one last contemptuous look before sweeping out after her father.

Aegon sighed, and took a pull of wine. His head was spinning.

He jumped when Kinvara spoke; he had forgotten she was there. "You are keen on the younger Stark girl, are you not, my Prince?" She trailed a hand over the back of his chair, and she shuddered at the proximity. "I see the way you speak up for her more."

He pursed his lips and stood up abruptly. "It is none of your business, priestess," he said coldly. "Don't you have some fire to go sing to?" And with that, he strode out of the room.

As he marched through the keep, silently fuming, Aegon did not bother to plaster a pleasant expression on his face. Nobody seemed interested in stopping him and risking his ire. All of that talk of marriage and conspiracy and pretenders- a throbbing had began in his temple and he cursed Tywin Lannister, cursed the queen, cursed the bloody damning Starks, for it. Ned Stark had been dead these ten years past, his son and wife near as long. How could they still be causing trouble?

He sighed and walked out into the upper yard, desiring to pace off his frustrations in the gardens, the sun melting them away. A small smirk ghosted across his lips as he thought of the last time he had spent any time in them. That particular maid had been a rather diverting companion. Perhaps visiting her again would be a better remedy for his mood.

He was stopped by the clacking of wooden swords, and turned his head. What he saw made his blood run cold, because there, in the middle of the yard, was the lady of Highgarden, sprawled in the dirt and heaving deep breaths down the point of a sword pinned to her chest. And at the other end of the sword, grasping it's hilt in strong yet decidedly soft hands, was his champion. Aegon felt his lips part slightly as he took in the sight- the slope of her wrist and dip of her waist, the curve of her hips and long, sleek thighs. She stared down the length of her blade, and he was shocked to see a smile on her lips.

Why do the guards not move? he thought, striding towards them, opening his mouth to shout for someone, anyone, to stop her- and halted in his tracks a moment later when the assassin leaned down, grasped the Tyrell girl's hand, and hauled her to her feet. And the Tyrell girl was laughing. Laughing, as she brushed the dust from her clothes. Aegon shook his head- what in seven hells was going on? Where was Gendry, or Selmy? And who had been foolish enough to put a weapon in the assassin's hand, and see fit to stand by as whatever this was unfolded in the middle of the yard? This could not go on!

He watched as Cat explained something to the lady of Highgarden, gesturing with the sword- which he now saw was wooden- at the other girl's if- as if she was teaching her something. He shook his head in disbelief, and marched towards them, just as he saw the princess of Dorne chime in on the lesson (lesson indeed!), stepping to take her turn.

Cat's eyes landed on him as he approached, and the other two ladies turned. Maragery dipped into a curtsy. "Your Grace," she said. Arianne only deigned to bob her head as he kissed her knuckles. Unsurprising. It was no secret that the Martell's held a healthy degree of contempt for the Iron Throne.

"Lady Cat," he said tersely, taking her hand when she did not offer it. She kept her face carefully blank, though he knew she was not keen as he raised it and pressed his lips to her knuckles. Her hand smelled like sweat and steel, presumably from practice earlier that day, and- absurdly-snow. It was a surprisingly good smell, he thought privately.

"Your Grace," she said reluctantly, trying to pull her hand away. He refused to let go, holding fast- surprised by how small and delicate her hand felt in his, despite what he knew they had done.

"Might I have a word?" The words were not so much a request as an order, and he firmly lead her away before she could disagree, tightening his grip on her hand as she tried to squirm free. When they were out of hearing distance, he demanded, "Where is Gendry?"

"How should I know?" she snapped. She tried again to yank her hand free, but when he raised his brow at her she stopped, pursing her lips. Clever girl. She knew that causing a scene here was more trouble than it was worth. He smiled inwardly, smug at the victory of her submission. "He's probably off polishing that stupid sword of his."

Aegon frowned; he had commissioned that sword as a gift. "What do you think you are doing?" he growled at her lowly, jerking his chin at the two women.

Her lip twitched in irritation, as if she were hiding a snarl. "They wanted me to teach them to defend themselves," she explained. "And how could I refuse?"

He snorted. "You could have just...said... no?"

Cat shook her head at him in derision. "You really have no idea, do you?" she mused. When he waited expectantly for her to elaborate, she added, "Anyway, why does it matter? It was a wooden practice sword made for children. What did you think I was going to do with it?"

He laughed at her and she scowled. "Lovely girl, I have no doubt whatsoever regarding the chaos you could cause with a wooden sparring sword." He blinked in surprise at the flicker of something- something that looked like grief- that passed her face. She yanked her hand again, and this time he let go, surprised at the rare show of emotion.

"Do not call me that," she said, and her tone was like ice. True ice, the kind that could kill. She closed her eyes for a moment, and then that mask was back in place, there in the blink of an eye, so fast that Aegon wasn't even sure he had seen it at all. It was unsettling to watch. "If you don't want me to teach them, fine. But you get to tell them, because they won't listen to me."

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. First the Lannisters and now this. "I will speak to Gendry about it," he conceded. "But if he says no, there is nothing I can or will do to change his mind."

Cat raised a brow at him. "Aren't you the prince here?"

He clamped his teeth together as his mouth threatened to pop open. Had she forgotten to whom she spoke? "I trust Gendry," he said quietly. "He is a good man."

Cat snorted and shook her head again, in that strange way she had of making him feel half a child. "All men are good men in the eyes of those who love them," she said. "All men are good men until the call to prove it comes." And her tone... bitter, as it always was, but there was something else there, too, something that made him pause.

"Who hurt you?" he asked, not quite meaning to.

She was silent for long enough that he thought she would not answer, but when she spoke, her eyes were so far away that he wondered if she saw him at all. "Many people."

He was saved from answering when the princess of Dorne stopped beside them. "Are you going to join us, your Grace?" she asked, tilting her head so that the sun caught in her raven locks.

He cleared his throat and stepped back from Cat. "I am afraid not," he said politely. "Actually, I am afraid that I cannot allow this to continue, as I was just explaining to lady Cat." He gestured to the assassin, whose face was perfectly blank again. Really, it was disturbing how easily she could do that.

Arianne narrowed her eyes at him. "And if I wish to spar?" she demanded.

"Then speak to the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard," he said tersely, "or even myself. But it is unacceptable for lady Cat to spar with you, princess."

"Well, I do not see the Lord Commander," the princess purred. She looked him up and down and grinned in a way that he couldn't help but draw himself up to his full height to look down at her. The princess was short for a woman of her age, yet he noticed that she still stood some inches above his champion. "So I suppose it shall have to be you. Come spar with me, prince- unless, that is, you are afraid?" She cocked her head. "Are you? Afraid?" Of scheming women? Oh, most definitely. But of the assassin standing silently beside the princess- he knew he should be more afraid of her than he was, yet... there was something about her.

He frowned. "I don't believe it is considered proper for a man to spar with a lady," he said.

Arianne laughed, and turned away, tossing her glossy hair over her shoulder. She looked back at him over her shoulder, from beneath thick lashes. "Then it is a good thing that neither of us are concerned with being proper, my prince," she purred, before striding back to the Tyrell girl. Her hips rolled under her skirts, and Aegon had to shake himself to stop staring.

"Quite the woman, isn't she?" Cat asked drily from beside him. He looked down at her. She was watching him with no small amount of amusement. "Aren't you going to go after her?"

His lips pulled down in a frown again. "I do not wish to fight her," he said. He didn't want to hurt her, after all. The last thing he needed was to upset the prince of Dorne.

Cat crossed her arms and regarded him. "Would you rather fight me?" she asked.

Aegon paused. He was an able warrior, and it was not with misplaced arrogance that he knew he had little to fear from most opponents. He had been trained to kill since birth, all those years in exile. But this tiny assassin... she was no ordinary opponent. Not at all. "Perhaps in private," he said smoothly. "In your chambers, tonight."

Normally, such bold words would elicit at least a pointed cough- but there was no reaction on Cat's face as she said, "you don't want to keep her waiting." He grinned at her, and strode past her, to where the princess was tossing the wooden sword from hand to hand, testing it's weight. He bowed at her, and pushed the assassin's eyes from his mind as he focused on the princess grinning wickedly before him.

The Cat set her jaw tight as she leaned against the wall, watching the prince attempt to spar with the princess. The sun beat down on the yard, hot and unyielding, glaring off the sand and stone ground, burning her eyes. Gods, but she hated this city, this unbearable heat. Even the breeze blowing in off the coast was hot, and sweat slid down her spine, shirt clinging to her chest.

She tried to focus on the uncomfortable prickling of her skin, the itchiness that she had come to reconcile with heat, on Aegon wincing as Arianne darted forward and slapped his wrist with her wooden sword. Anything, but those two words that Aegon had unwittingly said. Lovely girl. Her eyes stung, and she scowled. It was ridiculous for her to allow herself to let it bother her- she was a faceless assassin of Braavos, such things should not come over her like squalls. She winced as she remembered one of those first lessons that the Kindly Man had given her; rule your face. Rule your thoughts. Scowls and smiled should not come over you like sudden squalls. A smile should be a servant, and come only when called. Learn to rule your face.

She was ripped from her reverie when a large hand grabbed her arm hard enough to hurt. Disgust and fury surged through her as she realised she had not been paying attention to her surroundings, that she had allowed her own thoughts to distract her, weaken her. Fool of a girl! The words were not her own, and the vivid memory ripped a snarl from her, as she was dragged around roughly to face the Lord Commander.

"What in seven hells is going on?" he demanded, shaking her slightly.

She looked down at his hand slowly, and then back up, and his scowl faltered at whatever he beheld in her gaze. "I advise you take your hand off of me," she said with lethal calm. "Else I might do something you will regret."

"Making threats are we?" he asked with a growl. "Do you forget where you are? Do you forget what you are?"

Her temper spiked near breaking point. "No- and I would warn you not to either," she said lowly. "I may be a faceless assassin, Commander, but even I have a limit. Do not push me right now." Sometimes it was all too much- that pressure in her skull, the memories she pushed deep, deep down, all of it. "You have seen what happens when I snap," she said quietly, and watched him wince at the reminder of that day at the mines, the day she had snapped.

He hesitated and then let go of her. She said nothing, and he restated his question. "What is going on?"

The Cat closed her eyes for a beat and took a breath, allowing it to seep through her, calming her, grounding her. Pushed that call to explode deep down. "The princess and Margaery wanted to learn self defence," she said, and his eyes snapped back to hers at her change in mood. "The prince offered to help." Not quite the truth, but she knew how to recognise the breaking point in others as well as herself, and the Lord Commander was pissed. No point making it worse, she thought.

"Did he not tell them that if they wished to spar that they should come to me?" he asked, looking back over at the yard.

She shrugged. "The princess wanted to spar with him," she said simply. At least, the princess had wanted to spar with her- but if Gendry didn't know that, she certainly wasn't going to be the one to tell him.

He scowled down at her, and practically shoved her away from him as he stalked over to the prince and princess. Margaery, it seemed, had seen him coming, and was smart enough to know when to make a hasty exit, for there was no sign of her and her gaggle of cousins as Aegon followed Gendry a small distance away. They exchanged words, Gendry's face like thunder, and then he was storming back over to her. She stepped back when he tried to grab her arm again.

"I will take you back to your chambers," he said shortly, jerking her chin at the guards to come over.

She held up a hand, not bothering to look at them to know they stopped. "Why?" she asked. "The trial is tomorrow. I need to train."

"I know that," he said tightly. "You have had plenty of training today already. You should rest for tomorrow." He reached for her arm, and this time she let him, hoping that her acquiescence would persuade him of her intentions.

"I don't need to rest," she snapped. "What I need is to train. You think I don't know that my body is a wreck? Why I toss up my guts when we run through the forest? I need every bit of training I can get, and you shouldn't punish me for it!" He pulled her into the foyer and down a hallway, and though the air was pleasantly cool inside the walls of the keep, she frowned.

"I'm not punishing you," he said, and though she could see he was trying to be patient, it was wearing thin. Sensing that she would not win this fight, she scowled, and yanked at her arm. He didn't let go.

"Will you stop dragging me around everywhere we go?" she hissed as they rounded the corner and began to ascend the stairs. "I'm not a child!"

"No," he growled, patience finally breaking, "you are a criminal, and that means I have no intention of giving you the opportunity to run off and kill someone. If it were up to me you would still be in chains."

She would have liked more than anything to wrench her arm out of his grip and show him just how much of a criminal she could be, but was all to aware of the guards watching their every move, armed to the teeth. "Well, it isn't up to you, it's up to your prince," she snarled right back, "and I was only doing what you told me to do!"

He stared at her, eyes wide with irritation. "I never told you to show off to the prince, or fight with the princess." She winced; Aegon must have told him then, the rat. He pushed her into another hallway, steps longer and more forceful with each stride. It was an effort to keep up, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of asking him to slow down.

"Oh no, you just wanted me to Cat Ashfold, the nice, simple girl from Bear Island," she hissed. "You told me to play my part. Do not punish me when I do a good job of it!"

They stopped outside the door to her chambers. He did not let go of her arm. Gods, the man was huge. The top of her head didn't even make it to his shoulders. She could still kill him though. Could still make him beg for forgiveness for judging her so harshly.

"I'm not punishing you," the commander repeated through grit teeth.

She tried to wrench her arm out of his grasp, but he did not let go, and she dare not do anything that might make a guard with an itchy finger put a bolt through her heart. Already she was aware of them watching her, from the stations every few paces down the hall.

"Yes, you are," she spat. "You've been punishing me from the moment you pulled me out of the mines. Is it because you just don't like assassins, or because you're afraid of what I can do?"

He snarled at her, a low, vicious sound that reverberated in his chest. "What you can do is an abomination."

The Cat bared her teeth at him. "I'm only using what the gods gave me," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "And I'll give you some advise, Lord Commander- do not diminish what you crave so badly."

He laughed at her, shaking his head in disbelief, though she had seen the flash in his eyes at her words. "Crave?" he asked in disbelief. "What is it that you have that you think I could possibly want? You have no life outside these walls. You have nothing- and no one."

This time when she pulled her arm back, he let go. The Cat stepped closer to him, tilting her head to watch his face, and damned be the consequences. If a guard deemed it a threat and put an arrow through her skull, she didn't care, because she would not bow down any longer. She had bowed down for too long. The commander might have forgotten who, what, she was, but she hadn't. I am the Cat, and I will not be afraid. That was what she had told herself over and over again, every day for the last year, the first thing she thought when she woke up, the last thing before she closed her eyes at night. With every swing of the pickax, every cry of her fellow slaves, every snap of the whip, I am the Cat, and I will not be afraid. And she would not be afraid of this arrogant man in front of her, glaring down at her with sapphire eyes.

"You envy the fact that the prince picked me," she breathed. "You envy that he thinks I can do a better job than you. You envy that he will not be solely yours to protect anymore if I win- when I win. But most of all, you hate that despite what I am, I am better than you. Despite all of your judgements, all of your black and white definitions of good and evil, in which you are the white cloak and I the dark villain- that I am better disposed to keep him safe from his enemies than you are." She cocked her head, unblinking. "Your beliefs about good and evil will be your downfall, commander. And I will be here to watch as they leave you crumpled on the ground."

Something flashed through his eyes, something like humiliation as she hit the nail on the head. She was surprised as he managed to compose himself, leaning down to say in a low, deep voice that rumbled in his chest, "What should I care for the words of an assassin? You are no one. Nothing. My beliefs may one day see me dead, but at least I have morals. At least I care about right and wrong."

The Cat snarled, and that pressure in her skull, the one that demanded violence, increased to a point where she could feel it roiling beneath her skin, fighting to break out. "That is what you still don't understand," she said. "You are so concerned with doing what is right that you no longer see what is good."

"And you would be an expert on that, assassin?" he asked, standing over her so close that she could feel his temper coming off of him in waves. "I'm surprised you pretend at all, when your soul must be black with rot for the things you've done."

It was as if the world had gone silent, and it was just him and her and that contempt in his eyes as he glared down at her. "I hate you," she breathed, stepping back. He remained where he was, silent. "I hate this place. I hate this gods damned competition. I hate being told what I cannot do. But most of all, I hate you."

"Are you done?" he asked, inclining his head.

She stepped back, shaking her head. "I'm only just beginning," she said, and with that, she opened the door, stepped through, and closed it with a resounding click. She heard him linger a few moments, and then his heavy footsteps as he marched down the hall, leaving her alone with her own troubled thoughts and the pressure in her skull nearly sending her to her knees.

Oh dear, such silly geese they are! Phew- that was a long one (thirty pages of silliness!).

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