Arya watched Tommen speak, and found it almost impossible to listen to him. The world was new. Candles and torches gleamed incandescently, like stars, and her whole being seemed suddenly off-centre, as though some important part of her had dropped away, leaving only the thrilling possibilities of who she was, now. Her heart was still racing as euphorically as it had in that moment when she had slit Walder Frey's throat; in the three moments of mutilation that it had taken to remove his head, and she was shaking, wildly, with the thought, it's done, it's done, I did it, we did it. And when she glanced at Jaime, who was speaking as civilly to Tommen as though they were discussing the weather, it was obvious from his trembling hands and flushed cheeks that he too was experiencing this strange sensation, but had experienced it enough times to know how to deal with it.

This must be the battle fury that everyone talks about, she thought, watching Jaime, and as she sat admiring, with an openness that surprised her, the sheer power of presence that seemed to exude from each line of his body, the sharp wit that shone always in his wildfire eyes, the white, fragile skin at this throat and the sound of his voice that always pulled her back from the past, Arya realised that she was almost uncontrollably aroused and that it would take considerable self-control to keep it to herself until Tommen was out of the room.

Think about something else, she thought, fidgeting, watching Tommen and Jaime's lips moving, not hearing a word that either of them said, and so she thought back, and, because it seemed a good place to start, wondered why this had never happened to her before. She had seen battle – once – and had once killed a considerable number of hill tribesmen when the only possible outcome had seemed death – but she had never felt this way after. Ever.

I had other things to worry about, she thought, after the Blackwater, I was thrown into the black cells, a dampener on enthusiasm if ever there was one. Then in the Vale, after Nymeria saved us, I had Aunt Lysa's knights to worry about.

Nobody on either of those occasions wanted me dead because I was me. I didn't want them dead because they were them. It was nothing personal. This is personal.

That didn't seem to make much sense, and she wondered for a moment if this was a distinction that Jaqen had instilled in her without her realising; she had been very young, after all…

Jaime and Tommen were speaking rather heatedly now.

How interesting.

'The next time your lady wife decides to commit mass murder, Uncle,' Tommen severely declared, 'please ensure that it takes place under your own roof rather than mine.'

'That's all very well, Your Grace,' Jaime replied, 'but if you yourself do not recognise the service Lady Lannister has done the realm in ridding it of those traitorous rat-faced shits –'

'Lady Lannister can rid the realm of traitorous rat-faced shits just as well elsewhere,' Tommen interrupted, 'Westeros has had quite enough of massacres at weddings. I mean my union with the Lady Margaery to herald a new era in which weddings are restored to the sacred –'

'Basic military strategy requires people to use their initiative when confronted with so many vulnerable enemies,' Jaime interjected, again, 'Walder Frey demonstrated that at the Twins, my wife here; only Arya had the decency to do it before the wedding and not to trumpet her success from the rooftops.'

Tommen laughed.

'Your naivety is extraordinary, Uncle. Can you really think that no one in this castle has guessed the truth by now?'

'You yourself, Your Grace, only know the truth because of Varys' little birds,' Jaime said, 'how else did you know what we were up to tonight?'

'Yes, Your Grace,' Arya piped up, 'which little bird did inform you of my and Lord Jaime's plans? The one behind the hole in the bookshelf or the one who lives under the balcony?'

As Tommen choked on his wine, Arya watched Jaime's eyes flicker to hers and give her a secret smile. She smiled back.

Tommen recovered, and dabbed delicately at the corners of his mouth with his fingertips.

'No, indeed, I had no idea Lord Varys was being so unsubtle in his work. I shall have to devise some fitting punishment.'

'Quite,' Jaime agreed, the candlelight golden in his hair, his gaze searing.

'Are you going to execute me?' Arya loudly asked, pressing her legs together, knowing he wasn't, wanting him to go away.

'Us,' Jaime insisted, 'I helped you, after all. Are you going to execute us?'

Tommen looked surprised, as though no question in the world could have a more obvious answer, and he cocked an eyebrow at them.

'If I were, I would have done it by now,' Tommen said, 'but consider yourselves warned, my lady, my lord. You may be two of the most powerful nobles in my realm, and it is out of deference to your rank, and to our consanguinity, that I speak to you alone this evening…but if you wish to spill blood, you will do it outside the walls of my home, unless sanctioned by me. I mean the casual whipping out of swords to decrease, not increase, after the rule of my brother, the late King Joffrey.'

A pretty little speech, Arya thought as Tommen rose to his feet. Jaime rose as well, and Arya moved to follow.

'No, no, Lady Lannister, please do not trouble yourself,' Tommen insisted, not unkindly, 'you seem to have a cold starting. Shall I send you my maester?'

Arya bowed her head, 'No, thank you, Your Grace.'

Jaime, visibly trying to stifle his laughter, showed the king to the door.

Jaime closed the door, turned, and found Arya standing before him, and suddenly all desire to make a witty remark failed him. Relief seemed to hang suspended in the air between them, relief and the thrill of what they had done; the deaths they had avenged, the misery. Stark appeared drunk, vengeance pouring into her veins like hot wine. She was beautiful, and red, and terrible, and alive, and her eyes were turning dark grey, as they always did. The room was spinning kaleidoscopically, her lips were hungrily ensnaring his, he was seizing the back of her neck, she was moaning against him as his tongue invaded her mouth and her trembling hands were tearing at his clothes.

'Fuck me, Lannister,' Arya growled, and gasped as he felt his cock harden against her stomach, 'yes,' Jaime moaned, 'yes,' and she was pulling his shirt roughly over his head and yanking down his breeches, and their fingers were tangling at the laces of her gown and shift.

Her skin emerged; flushed, brilliant, and her fragile, birdlike nakedness enveloped him, clutched at him. His fingers trailed up and down her spine as her lips seared and bit at his, she is so small and so strong, and through his light-headedness and roaring blood, he could still see her leaning over the man who had destroyed her life, taking it back from him in the only way that she knew how. Beautiful.

She was moving away from him, the heat of her skin, the sound of her voice, then returning and taking his hand, pulling him to bed, lying back, 'your mouth,' Arya moaned, 'now.'

He was hard for her and brimming over with her as he knelt and watched and felt her; the scent of her hair, the line of her neck, the beauty of the words that spoke from her storm grey eyes, the barely perceptible sound of her when she moved, when she cut men down, when she made death dance.

'Now!' Arya demanded, just like her old self, and through the haze of his own arousal, Jaime smiled and softly caressed her thighs, parting them; his fingers trailing over her cunt.

'Seven hells, Stark, are you this wet for me?' he drily asked.

'Hurry up!' Arya insisted.

'No,' Jaime remarked, and took his hand away, and kissed her everywhere but where she wanted: the soft skin beneath her stomach, the sweetness of her calloused inner thighs, her hips, her calves. She was squirming, and struggling, but he held her, firmly, in place.

'I'm waiting, Stark,' he observed.

'You'll be waiting a long time, then,' Arya hissed grumpily.

'Hm,' Jaime mused, briefly kissing her inner thigh, 'I don't think so – gods – '.

She was shivering with desire, and her want was ripping through him like steel.

Just a bit longer.

'Something wrong, Lannister?' Arya quipped, her words barely audible through the mad rise and fall of her breath.

'I'm much older than you, my lady,' Jaime candidly stated, as though he were debating politics, 'if you won't cooperate, then I'm quite capable of torturing you all night without even breaking a sweat.'

'Liar.'

'We'll see.'

Arya groaned.

'For fuck's sake,' she whispered, sounding close to tears, 'just –'

'No.'

'Please.'

Jaime grinned, and kissed her cunt open-mouthed, and she was biting her lip and closing her eyes and moaning sweet, profane incoherencies, and his name, as he licked ravenously at her nub and held her still against his mouth.

He was rock hard. She was delicious. Shivers pulsed down his body like raindrops; he was shaking just as Arya was shaking; as she had been shaking since they had killed Walder Frey, together. He hummed against her, his tongue working at her nub and curling into her, 'Jaime,' she murmured. Her fingers were crooking in his hair and his in her cunt, 'oh, gods,' she groaned; her hips were bucking to meet his mouth, his hand; he could barely see, he was drowning, his own heartbeat was suffocating him, 'Jaime,' and he felt her tense suddenly against his tongue and she was throwing back her head and screaming without caring who heard her.

Arya's entire body shuddered wildly around him as he continued to devour her. She was pulling his hair with both hands, and swearing, and grinding against his mouth. Then her fingers loosened softly in his hair, and the shivering lessened, and he pulled away from her, and let her rest.

Jaime rose to his feet and wiped his mouth, mildly ashamed of the pain in his knees, and he collapsed next to her, watching her as she came down; her eyes closed, her hair wild, her body slowly quieting itself as his lay beside her, taut as a bowstring. When she felt him next to her, she clutched at his hand and kissed it, and murmured something that he could not hear.

Arya let out a long, low breath and chuckled, rolling lazily over to face him, kissing him fiercely. Her hands stroked languidly down his body as her lips coaxed his open, and he gasped sharply as her hand closed around his cock, her thumb ghosting over the tip.

'No,' Jaime hurriedly protested, his heart beating so fast that he feared he would pass out.

'Hm?' Arya drawled, ignoring him, stroking him, kissing his neck.

Jaime took firmly hold of her hand and put it in a less compromising location, 'but I want you now,' Arya complained softly into his skin, and as desire struck him like a fist, his skin burning with her, for her, he whispered, 'I want to be inside you, now.'

He was on his back before he could think, Arya's hand pushing him down as the other guided him inside her, and as he felt her warmth envelop him, he was lost. She rocked into him slowly and moaned, biting on her teeth as though in pain, and when he thrust upwards for the first time, her eyes locked with his, and it was like living a fever dream within his own soul. He watched her dark grey eyes as he felt her fuck him harder, felt himself push deeper into her, felt her looking straight into him just as he looked into her, her hands holding his arms down as she impaled herself on his cock, her mouth tantalising, swollen, just out of reach of his.

'Stark – '

' – yes –'

'You are –'

'You –'

Wordlessness. Ragged breaths. His heart, his blood. Hers.

'love –' Jaime gasped.

'oh, gods –'

'Like this?'

'Yes –'

'Gods, you feel so –'

'Harder –'

'Please –'

Her grey eyes, her soul. His. Her voice. Her skin. The edge. The fall ripping through him; through her. Her body with his, clenching. His moans with hers, gasping. The frenzy. Their skin, their sweat. And in his hand, hers.