Meanwhile, in the Eyrie:

"Mwa ha-hah hah hah hah!" Lysa Arryn laughed manically. "Bwa hah hah hah hah hah!"

Tyrion listened to the madwoman through the main hall entrance in horror. "Please kill me now," he begged Catelyn. "Get it over with."

Catelyn ignored him and swung the doors open.

Lysa sat in the decorated throne at the head of the hall, her son Robin in her lap. "Mwa hah hah hah!" she read from the children's book in her son's hands.

Tyrion still wasn't relieved.

Lysa raised her gaunt face from the book and narrowed her eyes at her sister. "Catelyn," she greeted coldly. "What brings you here?"

"I have a prisoner for you," she replied, indicating in Tyrion's direction. "Your husband's killer."

Lysa's eyes scanned the room behind her elder sister until they found Tyrion shivering just behind Catelyn, still scarcely dressed. She pursed her lips in distaste.

"Can't it wait until she's finished the story?" whined Robin. "She's nearly on the good bit."

"Don't worry, sweetrobin," she said reassuringly, stroking his hair. "This won't take long." She slid from underneath her son and rose to her feet, glaring at Tyrion. "A Lannister," she spat. "I knew it. Only a Lannister would stoop to cold-blooded murder."

"I am only half Lannister, though," he pointed out.

"You're only half of anything at all," Robin said in reply.

"Exactly my point."

"Quiet," Catelyn ordered. "Lysa, I brought him here to bring to justice. As he slaughtered your husband, it should be your honour to punish him as you see fit."

"Open the Moon Door!" she ordered immediately.

Robin bounced in his seat excitedly. "Yay!"

"Yay," Tyrion echoed unenthusiastically.

"Uh, no, not the Moon Door," Catelyn interrupted.

Robin's face fell and Lysa sighed heavily, folding her arms.

"His siblings have my daughters Arya and Sansa," she continued. "Cersei will not trade for them, but maybe her twin Jaime will think differently."

"Hold on," Tyrion interrupted, raising a shackled hand. "My sister allowed you to retrieve Arya, if I'm not mistaken."

"Well, she did," Catelyn conceded, "but Ned retrieved a boy from the streets by mistake and we realised too late. Anyway, if Jaime does not make an appearance in three months, then we can kill him—er, bring justice to your husband's death."

Lysa sighed heavily. "You bring my husband's murderer here before me and you forbid me from executing him?"

"She always does this," Ned said miserably from behind his wife. "Did I tell you about the time the boys were building snowmen and—"

"Yes, about fifty times, Lord Stark," Lysa said tiredly.

"Your defenses are more advanced then that of Winterfell," she informed her sister calmly. "He is more intelligent than he looks; we cannot risk keeping him in Winterfell. And Bran is there..."

Lysa looked at her son in empathy. "I still want to throw him into the Moon Door."

"No Moon Door," she said sternly.

Lysa gave a huff and stomped her foot on the ground. "You can't boss me around, Cat—"

"Yes I can. I'm older, prettier and I have more children than you, now lock him into one of the sky cells."

"But it's my castle!" she wailed.

"Don't care."

"I'll eat you," Lysa threatened.

"This is getting silly," Tyrion said with a sigh. "If we just return to King's Landing—"

"No," Catelyn said firmly.

"She's right, you are bossy," Tyrion said accusingly.

Catelyn gritted her teeth. "If you don't shut up, I'll have you thrown into the Moon Door."

"No you won't, what about your daughters?" Lysa asked testily.

"We'll swap him for another dwarf. One that's less gobby."

"Can we kill him, then?" Robin asked eagerly.

"No—" began Tyrion.

"Yes!"

The doors swung open.

"No," Jaime said.

"Silent as a shadow."

Silent as a shadow, Arya agreed, sneaking around Syrio. Silent as a—SHIT!

Syrio's sword whipped around and caught the back of her thighs, knocking her onto her back.

"You are dead," he said lightly, almost cheerfully.

"Thank the gods," Arya said sullenly, sitting up and folding her arms. "Maybe then you'll bugger off."

Syrio tapped her on the head with the wooden sword, making her yell out. "There is only one god," he reminded her. "The god of Death. And what do we say to Death?"

"Take that one," she replied, pointing at him.

He paused. "Not bad." He hit her on the head again. "But the wrong answer."

Arya rose to her feet as five palace guards approached. They stopped in front of the two and split apart to reveal King Joffrey, wearing his usual haughty smirk.

"Ah, Lady Arya," he said patronisingly, eyeing her boyish attire with his nose wrinkled. "I've been looking for you. My new queen requires a new hand maid – her old one walked into a crossbow quarrel by mistake. I was thinking you would make a lovely replacement."

"Me?" Arya asked in bemusement.

"Yes," he said in earnest. "Of course, we'll have to train you up first – your hairbrushing skills have fallen by the wayside of late, and we'll have to have a nice uniform made for you, but no matter. Oh, and you'll have to give up the sword fighting. We can't have the queen's handmaiden prodding people with sharp metal objects, can we?"

Arya scowled. What do we say to Death? King's Landing. Joffrey's in there – go fetch.

"As for you," Joffrey continued, turning his gaze to Syrio Forel, "you shall now be my training master. As fond as I am of crossbows, I must learn to use a sword sometime."

"As you command, your grace," he replied, bowing his head, "but one question – what do we say to Death?"

Joffrey blinked. "Well, I am the king—"

Syrio hit him on the head with the tip of his sword.

"Wrong answer," he said lightly.

Arya grinned.

"How dare you!" Joffrey snapped, his face screwed up in fury. " I am the king—"

"Wrong answer again!" he said again, hitting him again. "What do we say to Death?" He turned his wooden weapon on Arya.

"Not today," she replied with a grin.

"Not today," he agreed, shiething his sword and facing the king with a faint smile. "I shall teach you all I know, your grace, but this you must first learn."

Joffrey scowled at him in hatred and Arya grinned again, handing him her own wooden sword.

"Go to Lady Sansa," he snapped, rubbing his head. "And pray I don't see you again today."

Arya bowed with a barely suppressed smirk and walked to Sansa's quarters, not before eavedropping on the next exchange between the king and her former swords master.

"You propose to hit me deliberately again," Joffrey snarled, "and I will make sure the last sword you see is a real one in your mouth."

Arya snorted ot herself as she walked away. I'd like to see him try. She went to find her sister.

Sansa was in her bedroom, sitting in front of her mirror and obscuring Arya's view of her face as she entered the room and shut the door behind her firmly.

"What do you want, Arya?" Sansa asked loathsomely.

"Nice to see you too, sister," she greeted her sourly, hopping onto her bed. "Apparently I'm your new handmaiden, if that idiot Joffrey is to be believed. Why do you like him anyway? He's a worm in gold trimmed clothing."

"I don't like him," Sansa said in a monotone.

"I know, you love him." She rolled her eyes at this folly. Love. Hah! "I hope Father comes back from the Eyrie soon. Then he can take us home. Syrio might come with us," she said brightly. "He won't be able to teach Joffrey, he'd have better luck teaching a snake how to sew."

"I don't care, Arya," Sansa said thickly.

It took Arya a moment to figure out that her sister was crying. "What's wrong with you?" she asked in distaste. "Is it because I'm replacing your handmaid? Because she was stupid anyway—"

Sansa turned to face her and Arya's expression darkened.

The left side of her face was a tapestry of bruises.