A/N: Taking a short break from the modern settings for a Roman Gladiator AU. I decided to write this as I was going through the arena questline in Oblivion and I'm rather pleased with how it turned out. That being said, I did do research into the culture of the Roman Arena, but it was not extensive. If we have any history buffs out there reading this and you see any mistakes, please let me know. I want this to be as accurate as it can be. Anyway, thank you to Killthebeast for reviewing "Past and Present", and again, a reminder to everyone that I do take requests, whether that be for a completely new idea or a continuation of one of the already written chapters.

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to George R. R. Martin. And Tolkien for the Eowyn quote. Just too good not to use.

Rating: M for violence, some vaguely suggestive content, and occasional language.

The soles of her feet ached as she walked across the dirty cobblestones. The day had seemed particularly long and she was eager to find a place to curl up and rest her battered body. The pile of straw behind the palace stables was still tamped down from her last two nights spent there and she sank onto it once more. As comfortable as this spot had become, it wouldn't be safe to stay any longer than she already had.

The young woman who hunkered in the shadows, gnawing on a stolen heel of bread, had once been Arya Stark, but since the murders of her parents at the hands of Lannister loyalists, she was only a filthy beggar, starving most nights as she shivered beneath the cold expanse of stars.

The only thing she had to remind her of her past life was the sword her half-brother Jon had given her, a slender blade that she had fondly named Needle. Though it was a weapon more fit for the eight-year-old girl she had been than the fifteen-year-old woman she had become, she refused to part with it, and it had saved her life on more than one occasion.

When she awoke the next morning, her stomach grumbled unhappily, but having been fed the night before, was not enough to keep her from rising and facing another day. Wearily, her calloused feet carried her through the streets, and it wasn't until she was safely in a dark alley that she raised her dirty face from the ground.

As she had hoped, there was a pigeon pecking at the discarded scraps from a nearby food stall and she crept toward it, snapping its neck when she was close enough to reach out and grab it. Happy that she would go another night without having to beg, her guard fell, and it wasn't until she saw the pair of feet before her that she realized she had been followed.

"Give me the bird," the man growled, gripping her arm painfully and trying to force it from her grasp.

She glared at him defiantly. "No. It's mine. I killed it."

"Give it or you'll go back to whatever hole you've been hiding in with an empty stomach and a beating."

As he reached for it again, she drew her hand to her hip, and Needle found its way across his throat before he could speak another threat. When she looked back to the pigeon, its feathers were stained crimson and she threw it aside in disgust and frustration. The bastard had ruined a good meal.

"You're awfully handy with that sword." She whirled around in alarm just as a man emerged from the shadows behind her, an amused smirk on his handsome features. When their eyes met, his expression shifted. "I know you."

She eyed him warily. He didn't look like one of the many beggars she had crossed paths with, with his colored hair and tailored clothing. She assumed he must have been one of the brothel regulars then. The first time she had spent the night with a man, she had been sure that she would die of hunger. Each time after, she spent the rest of the evening crying, too disgusted with herself to buy food with the coins that she had earned. It was only when she awoke with an unbearable pain in her belly that she forced herself to forget where she had gotten it and spent it on as much food as it would buy.

"I've worked some nights at the King's Chambers," she murmured quietly, moving her gaze to the polished toes of his boots.

"No, that's not it. You're Arya Stark."

She could feel her heart stop at the mention of her name. It had been years since she had heard it, and even longer since she had considered it her own. If he knew who she was, then her days were numbered. She could still remember the day that Robb and Catelyn had been killed. The Stark name still bore the weight of the crime her father had been accused of. It was a dangerous name to have.

"You were going to eat that bird weren't you?" She nodded silently, and his voice softened. "Are you truly that hungry?" As if in reply, her stomach gurgled in protest at the hours that had passed since she had last eaten and the man before her stepped forward.

"Tell me, girl, would you like to have enough food to satisfy your hunger for the rest of your life, however long or short it may be? Would you like to return honor to the Stark name? Would you like to see your sister again?"

At the mention of Sansa, her gaze returned to his, and though she didn't answer, he could see the faint glimmer of hope in her eyes and he smiled, extending a hand.

"Then come with me."

The man's name was Jaqen H'ghar. He was young, but rich, and had been looking for a fighter to sponsor that could bring his name to the limelight of the gladiatorial ring. Arya Stark would be this fighter.

For the first few weeks, he let her be, giving her a large room with a feather bed and a window that looked out over the gardens of his estate. As promised, she had enough food to keep her belly silent and she ate ravenously, as if to make up for all the years she had been forced to steal and whore to keep herself alive.

In that time, she began to gain weight again, her body filling out to accommodate the curves that womanhood had brought her but that her starvation had kept from forming. Lord H'ghar's blacksmith took Needle and designed a new sword that was equally as light and slender, but that would be sturdy and quick enough for the arena. She named it Vengeance. When it was finished, her training began.

"You've seen fights in the arena before, I presume."

Arya nodded, blocking the blow that Jaqen aimed for her chest and countering with a slash to his unguarded shoulder. "As a child. The Emperor would often invite father to watch with him and he would take us with if we wanted to see. Sansa never did, but I went with Robb and Bran." Those were the days before the emperor's assassination, and the accusation of her father's role in the attempted deposition of his eldest son.

"Then you've seen the men that fight. The prisoners aren't trained, but their desperation makes them fearless. The ones who are hired to fight for sport are the well trained brutes. No doubt you've heard of the Clegane brothers. And last but not least, there are those who are trained to bring glory to their sponsors, as you are, my dear. You're the most unpredictable kind, and before you go in, we'll discover what advantages you have over each of your fellow warriors."

"Yes, except there's one small difference between me and the rest of them." She pressed him against the straw dummy behind him, her sword at his throat. "I'm not a man."

His blue eyes twinkled in amusement and he moved the sword from his neck. "Believe me, once I'm finished with you, you won't be Arya Stark or a nameless beggar. You'll be a gladiator."

"Lords and ladies, knights and paramours, allow me to welcome you to...the...arena!" The crowd roared in approval and above them all, Emperor Joffrey Baratheon surveyed his subjects, a cruel smirk twisting at his thin lips. "Today's battle brings you a brand...new...gladiator!"

The rise in volume at the end of each of the announcer's sentences made Arya want to bang her head against a wall, and when she saw her annoyance mirrored in the blatant eyeroll of her sponsor, she allowed herself a small smile. He smiled back.

"The first is a man you know and love. A former member of the royal guard, honorably discharged to fight for your viewing pleasure. Please welcome...Meryn...Trant!" The deafening applause revealed the support behind the entering gladiator as he banged his sword on his shield and let out an equally loud bellow, likely meant to intimidate the opponent he knew was nearby, and only succeeding in annoying her further.

As the announcer began the speech for her own entrance, Jaqen leaned forward, his lips brushing against her ear. "Just remember your training. I'll see you when this is over."

"Fighting under the noble house H'ghar...Arry...Snow!"

The sunlight that greeted her was all but blinding and she squinted up at the crowd. They didn't seem very much enthused by her, but Jaqen had said that was to be expected. New fighters were rarely bet on and as such, there would be more people unhappy with her victory than otherwise. Given time, however, the crowd always learned to favor a fighter who was able to rise through the ranks.

Arya—Arry, had barely regained her—his wits when the announcer spoke again. "Let the battle...begin!"

For a split second, she was just a terrified young woman, out of place in a world that belonged to bloodthirsty men. Then, training and instinct kicked in.

"Meryn Trant. An ass of a man if I've ever seen one. He's cruel, that one. If you let him gain the upper hand, you'll suffer before you go. Always was one to please the emperor."

He charged at his opponent with a yell and thrust his sword toward her, his eyes narrowing beneath his helmet when she easily sidestepped the blow.

"He's big too, so he'll be stronger than you, but slower. Your speed will be your greatest asset. Dodge, tire him out. He'll get angry, lose focus. That will give you your opportunity."

The new young gladiator was quick, and surprisingly graceful, with light armor and a thin blade that found its mark with deadly accuracy. The crowd had quieted as the suspense built and a hush fell over the arena, broken only by the rhythmic clashing of steel from below. Trant quickly grew reckless, swinging his sword in a desperate attempt to hit his opponent. As his weapon swept toward the opposing helmet, Snow dropped to one knee, avoiding the blow and thrusting her sword into the gap of Trant's armor where it sank into his flesh and came out bloody.

A moment later, the bulky gladiator's body fell to the dusty floor of the arena and when the shock had worn off, the crowd broke into a hum of unintelligible chatter, drowned out only by the roar of the announcer. "We have...a...winner!"

Arya was back in her room at the H'ghar manor peeling off her armor and the tightly bound length of linen beneath when she heard a knock at the door. Assuming it was one of Jaqen's servants with the bath she had requested, she was surprised when she turned to meet the gaze of her sponsor himself. Blushing, she crossed her arms over her breasts and dropped her eyes to the floor.

"My lord."

"So formal now? Even after I've spent the past moon's turn as your equal in the training yard? I had hoped we were past the point of such courtesies, Arya."

Her eyes sought his again, filled with worry and fear. "I'm not Arya anymore. I'm Arry Snow. A bastard lucky enough to get a sponsor. A boy who could've been killed today." She glanced at her reflection in the mirror behind him, at the short hair and the stubble on her chin that the ashes from the fireplace had created. "How do they do it, Jaqen? How did I do it? Just watch people kill each other."

He shrugged, his expression blank. "All men must die." Their eyes met, and after a minute, he turned away. "Join me in the dining hall when you've finished with your bath. We have some celebrating to do."

The next month passed in a blur, each fight nothing more than instinct, the killing blow, and the cheers that met her victory, growing louder with each consecutive fight. Jaqen was being invited to functions across the Empire as his gladiator grew in fame, and it was after taking the life of the widely renowned Ilyn Payne that Arya received the first invitation of her own.

Jaqen was seated beside her when she woke, and it was only when the pounding of her heart settled that she self-consciously pulled up her blankets to hide her nudity. He seemed not to notice, merely smiling down at her in amusement.

"We've been invited to the palace."

Her embarrassment subsiding, she turned away from him and frowned deeply. "What palace?"

"The palace," he emphasized, lifting himself from her bed and pacing to the window. "The Baratheon palace. The emperor's palace."

She sat up in alarm, barely noticing when the blankets fell from her grasp. "I can't go to the palace."

He turned back to her and she blushed when she realized that his gaze had fallen to her chest. "Why not?"

"Because my sister is the empress. She'll recognize me!"

Jaqen's eyes met hers, surprisingly cold. "You are no longer the girl she knew. You haven't been for many years. And besides, you'll be accompanying me as Arry Snow, the gladiator. As long as those aren't on display, no one will know." He gestured toward her breasts with a teasing smile and she crossed her arms over her chest with a huff.

"Fine. But don't expect me to stay long. I need to prepare for tomorrow's fight."

"So, Snow, you're a bastard then." Arya gritted her teeth and nodded, giving the Emperor a tight-lipped smile. "How did you meet Lord H'ghar?"

The question found her with a mouthful of charred boar and Jaqen, ever the charming gentleman, answered for her. "Arry was a blacksmith's apprentice. I saw his work and asked if he knew how to fight as well as he could craft. When the answer was yes, I asked him to consider a sponsorship for the arena. You've seen all that's happened since." Not for the first time, she wondered how he had learned to lie with such ease, and if it should worry her.

Beside her husband, Sansa Baratheon sat quietly, her plate virtually untouched as she stared vacantly at the wall opposite her. It hurt to see her so reserved. When they were young she had always been quick with a kind word or a genuine smile. Now she looked like a shell of her former self and not for the first time, Arya wondered if her sister's life had been as hard as hers despite its apparent luxury.

The dinner passed slowly, a thirteen course hell that Arya barely managed to stay awake through, letting Jaqen talk for both of them as she ate plate after plate of royal delicacies. Thankfully, her sponsor's mysterious charm and her own success in the arena had attracted the emperor and the two men excused themselves to Joffrey's solar after the meal, allowing Arya free range of the palace grounds.

After exploring the gardens, she found herself hopelessly lost in the winding hallways and was ready to give up and ask the nearest guard when she heard a familiar voice.

"Must you return? I thought your fighting days were over." Sansa sounded desperate, nearly in tears.

The voice that answered was deep, and though Arya didn't recognize it, she knew for sure that it didn't belong to her sister's husband. "I thought so too, little bird, but after that new whelp killed Joffrey's favorite, he's gotten bored. He wants me back, to either kill Snow or die trying. Either way, it would be a good show for the bastard."

"How could you say such a thing?" Her tone was furious now, and Arya heard the sound of harsh footsteps, as though she had moved closer to confront the other speaker. "You know I couldn't live without you. And what about..." There was a soft rustle of movement and Arya resisted the urge to peer around the corner.

"Hush, little bird. Do you want them to kill us both?" The man sighed heavily and Arya held her breath as they grew silent. Finally, Sansa spoke again.

"Just promise that you'll come back to me. To us. Don't let him tear us apart."

She heard the telltale sound of a kiss and her eyes widened. So that's why Sansa was so unhappy. Aside from being married to the biggest prick in Rome, she was in love with another man. A man who was supposed to kill her.

Arya nearly jumped out of her skin when Sansa rounded the corner, but thankfully, Sansa was preoccupied and hardly seemed to notice her as she brushed past and hurried away into the heart of the palace. Steadying her pounding heart, she walked forward and came face to face with Sandor Clegane, the younger of the two brothers famous for their success in the arena and their inhuman strength. Her heart sank, but she managed a smile. Of all the men for her sister to have fallen for...

"Do you know the way to the Emperor's solar, ser?"

The large man glared down at her with an unfriendly snarl, the burns on the left side of his face twisting harshly. "I'm no ser. And get the fuck out of my way." With that, he pushed past her and Arya stood rooted to the floor for several minutes before wearily returning to her fruitless wandering.

"The Emperor made a request of us." It was the first time that Jaqen had spoken since they had climbed into the chariot, opting for a pensive silence instead. Arya grunted noncommittally, lost in her own thoughts, and he continued. "You'll be fighting Sandor Clegane after the passing of two moons. He wants you to win until then so that it will be the 'spectacle of the century' when you finally meet in battle."

"I thought he had left the arena," Arya said drily, wondering if she should tell her sponsor about what she had learned regarding the gladiator and her sister.

"He did, but he's coming back at the Emperor's personal request. His excellence is a hard man to refuse."

She snorted and crossed her arms, staring moodily up at the stars. Jaqen took note of her reaction and he reached out, laying a gentle hand on her knee. "We will keep training until then. I will do everything in my power to keep you alive."

When she met his gaze, she saw nothing but sincerity and instead of soothing her frayed nerves, it merely set her further on edge. She wasn't ready to die.

"Ser Snow?"

It took a moment for her to realize that she was the one being addressed. The knighthood was new: a gift from the emperor who got no end of amusement from the thought of a bastard knight fighting against the man who had famously refused to ever take such an oath.

"Yes?"

She wiped the sweat from her brow and leaned on her sword as she cocked an eyebrow at the flighty servant wringing her hands in the doorway from the manor to the training grounds.

"You have a visitor, ser. She's waiting in the solar and she wishes to speak with you most urgently."

Arya's brow furrowed at that. She could think of many men who would seek an audience with her, particularly with the knowledge that Lord H'ghar was away at a neighboring manor, but not very many women. They tended to stay out of the public eye in regards to the gladiatorial battles. She hoped with all that she had that it wouldn't be a whore hoping for a romp with the now famous warrior that all of Rome believed her to be.

"Very well. Thank you."

The servant bowed and scurried away, leaving Arya to put away her sword and trudge into the manor. The sight that greeted her in Jaqen's modest solar stopped her in the doorway and she was suddenly immensely glad that her sponsor had ordered her to keep up her disguise in the event of any visitors—or spies.

"My lady." She dropped into a low bow, her heart hammering in her chest as she straightened up to meet the weary gaze of her older sister.

"Ser," the empress replied cordially, before glancing nervously around. "Is there somewhere more private that we could speak?"

Arya faltered for a moment. "Yes, my lady. This way."

She led her to her private quarters and shut the door behind her. As soon as they were alone, Sansa spoke. "You are fighting against S...the Hound on the morrow." It was a statement rather than a question, but Arya nodded regardless. "It is imperative that he wins."

Arya stared at her in disbelief before finally narrowing her eyes and stepping forward. "Do you realize what it is that you're asking of me?" Of course she did. Broken as she had become, she had to understand that if anyone knew what she was asking, her secret would be discovered and she would be sentenced with high treason.

Sansa nodded sagely and folded her hands absently across her abdomen. For the first time, Arya registered the noticeable swell beneath her gown, and as her heart leapt to her throat, she wondered absently if the child's father was Joffrey, or Sandor Clegane. "I'm asking you to die."

"And you expected me to just roll over and accept this?"

At the sudden aggressive rise in volume from the gladiator that stood before her, Sansa's eyes widened and she grew flustered, her cheeks flushing darkly. "I told you—you must. There is no other option."

"Did the emperor send you here? I thought Joffrey wanted to see a battle, not a slaughter. Gods damn it, Sans, I can't just give up my life like that!" Her heart nearly stopped when she realized her blunder, but fortunately, her sister seemed not to notice the use of her childhood nickname, merely looking at her with tear-filled eyes.

"You don't understand!" She wailed, stepping forward and taking one of Arya's hands. "You must! I can't—he can't die!" Overcome with emotion, she burst into tears and fled the room, leaving Arya to watch her go, alone with her choice.

"Arya? Arya..."

She stirred at the sound of her name and opened her eyes, squinting into the darkness. When they had adjusted, she saw a familiar slender form perched beside her in her bed and she propped herself up on an elbow.

"Jaqen? I thought you wouldn't be here until the morning."

She yawned and he simply shook his head, a troubled expression on his handsome features. "I heard that the empress made a visit while I was away."

Arya sighed and nodded wearily. "The emperor merely sent her to wish me luck in the battle. I'm sure she did the same for Clegane." That and then some.

Jaqen didn't look convinced, but he nodded as though he believed her before watching her in silence for a moment. When Arya began to grow uncomfortable beneath his piercing gaze, she opened her mouth to speak again. "Was there something that you—" Before she could finish, his lips were pressed to hers, soft but insistent, and he broke away before she could think to return the gesture.

He looked almost afraid when she met his gaze again and he stammered nervously, for once at a loss for words. "I just...in case...I wanted to do that, if only once." And with that, he was gone.

"Any last minute advice?" Arya asked, trying to be lighthearted despite the reality of the situation. Jaqen shook his head, keeping his gaze turned to the ground. He had hardly spoken more than two words to her all morning, let alone met her eyes.

She could hear the crowd outside begin their applause and knew it would only be a matter of seconds before she was back in the arena for what very well could be the last time. "Jaqen..."

Finally, he raised his head and Arya stepped forward before she could second guess herself, cupping his face in her hands and kissing him soundly. When she finally pulled away, she rested her forehead against his, drinking in the look of desire and fear in his deep blue eyes. "I'll walk out of there, Jaqen, I promise you." After years of denying her name and living in fear, she finally had a life again and she wasn't ready to throw that away. It was time to embrace it, and start over for good.

"...Ser...Arry...Snow!"

She pressed her lips to his for another quick kiss before turning and jogging into the arena, her heart heavy in her chest as she steeled her resolve and stalked to the center of the ring, her eyes on her opponent as he watched her warily.

"Let the battle...begin!"

The crowd was deathly silent as she continued her advance, even when the Hound drew his sword and planted his feet in the blood-soaked dirt. She was mere steps away when she stopped and without a second thought threw her sword to the ground. In the silence of the arena, her voice carried, echoing against the walls around them and traveling to every pair of ears that sat above watching with tense anticipation.

"I forfeit."

The silence continued for a few seconds before all hell broke loose, one voice rising above all the others with a childish petulance. "He can't do that! I'm the emperor and I say he can't! Fight, damn it! I came here to see a fight!"

Having expected such a reaction, Arya looked up to meet the panicked gaze of her sister before reaching up and removing her helmet. Jaqen, having been preoccupied with avoiding her, hadn't thought to ensure that she had disguised herself thoroughly for the battle, and the crowd was met with the sight of a young woman, her shaggy dark brown hair framing a set of features far too delicate for even the prettiest of young men.

A shocked silence reigned again and gave her the opportunity to speak once more. "My name is not Arry Snow. And I am no man. I am Arya Stark."