'I understand that my son had a slight accident today,' Lord Tywin mused, 'you didn't happen to see it take place, did you?'
'No, my lord,' Arya replied, 'I only arrived in the armoury later.'
'What a pity. It would have made for a fine coincidence.'
Feeling the force of Lord Tywin's eyes on her, Arya was seized by the uncomfortable feeling that she was being perused like one of the books on the council table. Clearing her throat, she stared intently at the hole in the wall, pretending to be enjoying the night air.
She felt like such a fool. She had promised Lord Tywin, gravely, absolutely, that she would not attempt to harm anyone by the name of Lannister again. And she'd thrown a knife at the Kingslayer's head and tried to stick a sword in his guts less than twelve hours later.
I didn't, though, she thought, I didn't stick a sword in his guts. That's got to count for something.
Lord Tywin isn't in the habit of making idle threats, stupid. Haven't you learnt that? Haven't you learnt?
I'm not afraid of him.
You should be.
And yet she smiled slightly when she thought of that morning, her blood glowing pleasantly in her veins.
Much like the first time they had – was 'met' the right word? – she had been struck to the bone by how quick he was, like a tempest, like lightning. The force of his first blow had nearly made her fall over from the impact of such enormous weight trapped in such infinite lightness and speed. It was the might of a missile hitting a castle wall, contained within a space no bigger than an arrow head. And his face had woken up with a joy and exultation so powerful that for a moment she had thought he might weep from it; and life had seemed to surge through his body like magma; his eyes blazing emerald and jade; and the sword he held, any sword he held, was his brother, his love, himself. Extraordinary. Beautiful.
If I let him get close to me for more than a second, I'm dead, she had thought as she backed away from him, making a conscious effort to dispel both the anger that had made her attack him and the shameful fear that was making her regret it.
But then she had begun to enjoy herself. It was daytime, she was Arya, and she knew that a light and quick opponent who understood the difference between getting out of the way and running away would always defeat a large man who cared more about hurting his opponent than protecting himself. Most Westerosi, the Kingslayer included, seemed incontinently incapable of understanding this, and the thought made her sigh, as it always did.
Men.
'Baelish was here today,' Lord Tywin remarked, tearing Arya's thoughts away from her exploits, 'he wanted to - '
'So that's why you sent me down to the armoury,' Arya interrupted, glaring at him, 'to get me out of the way.'
'Don't look at me like that, girl.'
'He betrayed my father.'
'He did what needed to be done.'
'Is that what you tell yourself each time you think of your son trying to murder my brother?' Arya murmured, a hole opening inside her chest.
'I will not breathe further life into a malicious lie by discussing it,' Lord Tywin growled, his face hard and intolerant.
Arya looked at him with sadness, desperation and pity.
'How can you believe that?' she asked him softly.
How could somebody so brilliant be so blind?
She was spared further contemplation of the question (together with the no-doubt-unpleasant consequences of the wrathful glare decorating Lord Tywin's face) by a knock at the door that was immediately followed by the Kingslayer, a fresh wound marking the place where her dagger had struck him.
'You wanted to see me, my lord father?' he said cheekily to Lord Tywin, and bowed flamboyantly to Arya, 'my lady.'
'What happened to your ear?' Lord Tywin demanded.
'I cut myself shaving,' the Kingslayer shrugged casually.
Arya expected the lie to give her satisfaction; just as fighting him had given her the satisfaction of facing him at his strongest and his most vulnerable, as herself and no one else. Not as a nameless orphan girl or a pale, emotionless mask, but as a Stark, Arya Stark; no hiding, no pretending; Arya as she truly was, fighting the Kingslayer as he truly was. She expected to rejoice that he was pretending it had never happened and was too ashamed to admit that a fifteen-year-old girl had almost sliced his stupid ear off.
Instead, she felt the past and all its phantoms stirring deep within her mind and her castle walls slamming up around her; her protection, her defence. She had thought that they had crumbled to dust along with 'the girl', because the Kingslayer had killed the girl and let Arya out. But now numbness had returned to Arya's face and limbs, straightening them out, setting them in stone, protecting herself from him.
Why? She'd almost killed him, not the other way round.
'How did you manage to cut yourself on the top of your ear while shaving?' Lord Tywin insisted.
'I thought the lice might like a shave as well,' the Kingslayer declared, pouring out wine for himself, 'But I presume you didn't send for me to talk about shaving?'
Lord Tywin leaned back in his chair.
'No, I did not…where do you think you're going, girl?'
Arya, already halfway to the door, paused in surprise that he wanted her to stay, and raised her eyebrows in annoyance that she now had to spend the rest of the evening staring into the Kingslayer's stupid face.
'I was – I was just – '
'Sit.'
Arya sat and waited silently for the conversation to continue, but no discussion was forthcoming; father and son so deathly quiet that they might have been strangers. Arya amused herself by examining the maps and raven scrolls on the council table (a habit retained from the days when she had thought about betraying him) and when the appeal of that wore off, Arya began to look about the room, her eyes falling first on Lord Tywin and then on his son.
He wore a doublet and breeches of black leather that were not unlike those favoured by his father, his golden hair a shock against the dark. Though he sat lazily and complacently in his chair, his face seemed far more lined now than it had been earlier that day. He was steadfastly avoiding Lord Tywin's eyes; and Arya thought it a very strange thing that his father's presence should be more distressing to him than losing a fight to a girl. She thought once again of that first blow, and the vibrating steel that had seemed to trap her entire arm in metal and pulverise her bones within her. She could not believe that perfection like that existed – even if it failed to adapt when facing a foreign technique.
She continued to examine him, her face blank, her posture stiff and upright. His index finger was tapping rhythmically on the rim of his wine goblet, his heel balanced jauntily on his knee, and his face smiled at some unknown (and probably non-existent) thing that he seemed to find extremely funny.
I hide discomfort with silence; he hides it with ridiculous posturing, Arya thought, I prefer my method. It's much less irritating.
The Kingslayer slowly turned his head and looked at her as they sat there, the three of them; Arya, the Kingslayer, the Kingslayer's father; and suddenly her pulse was crashing within her as his green eyes besieged her, questioned her, challenged her, flickering across her face and her body like leaves. She told him no stories and answered none of his questions; the armour that she had made for herself deflecting him each time; but growing warmer and warmer as fresh blood spilled with each new attack. His gaze was running her through, her skin was starting to burn, and her breath sprained and struggled in her lungs. And with a final blow, her armour fell from her in sheets of steel; and she was Arya again, her face flushing crimson with the ecstasy of freedom and the effort of fighting against it. Then she folded her arms and glared at the Kingslayer once more, her head spinning from a desperate desire to breathe deeply, and an equally-desperate determination not to look it.
He did not smile or mock or say a word, but the attack subsided as his lips parted slightly, his intake of breath like a whisper.
'So what did Littlefinger want?' Arya asked abruptly, turning to Lord Tywin, 'or are you not going to tell me because the rest of the world now knows who I am?'
'I hardly think that you're likely to be spying for Stannis Baratheon, girl,' Lord Tywin retorted.
'Do you mean he's finally left that miserable pile of rock in the middle of the sea?'
'No. Not yet.'
The Kingslayer snorted, and reached across the table for the wine.
'Surely an uninspired fool like that poses no threat to the capital?' he laughed.
'He may be uninspired,' Lord Tywin agreed, 'but he is certainly not a fool. And he has some twenty thousand men, now that his brother is dead.'
'I did not know that,' the Kingslayer admitted, 'I've been out of touch. Prison, and all its attendant inconveniences. I'm sure you understand.'
'Do you think he plans to march, my lord?' Arya asked, ignoring the Kingslayer completely, 'or to sail?'
'Both,' Lord Tywin declared.
Though Arya would have loved nothing better than to see King's Landing fall, she couldn't help but despair at the idiocy of some people.
'So why is Littlefinger here instead of finding sufficient coin to defend the capital?' she asked.
'He asks my permission to open negotiations with the Tyrells of the Reach,' Lord Tywin replied.
Arya grinned.
'Congratulations, my lord. I've heard their eldest daughter is very beautiful.'
Lord Tywin gave her a withered look.
'Don't be impertinent, girl.'
'Indeed,' the Kingslayer interjected merrily, 'impertinence is a most unattractive quality in a woman.'
'How would you know?' Arya snapped in acidic tones, 'is studying women something you do in the Kingsguard?'
Lord Tywin folded his arms.
'Have you two quarreled?' he queried blandly.
'A small matter,' Arya shrugged, grinning spitefully at the Kingslayer's resulting glare.
They played at staring each other down for a few seconds, before the Kingslayer looked back at his father, Arya bursting with satisfaction that she had won the match.
'So I take it the plan is to join forces with the Tyrells and bite Stannis in the arse?' the Kingslayer ventured.
'Indeed,' Lord Tywin remarked.
'Does Lord Tyrion know about this?' Arya asked.
'He claims that it was his idea,' Lord Tywin declared imperiously, 'though I'm more inclined to think that Baelish –'
'Tyrion?' the Kingslayer exclaimed.
'He's Acting Hand of the King, stupid!' Arya snapped, 'how can you not know that?'
'I don't think this one likes me very much,' the Kingslayer observed, smiling knowingly at his father.
'I can't imagine why,' Lord Tywin remarked drily, eyeing the Kingslayer's nonchalant posture.
'Tyrion is organising the defense of King's Landing?' the Kingslayer repeated.
His surprise seemed to profess delight rather than horror, and the stony frown on Lord Tywin's face suggested that he did not approve.
'Your brother is the lesser of two evils,' he stated candidly, 'since your sister has proven that she cannot be trusted with any responsibility whatsoever.'
'Really?' the Kingslayer interrupted, 'you surprise me.'
'Some weeks ago,' Lord Tywin continued, 'she was apparently made aware of the existence of two enormous caches of wildfire beneath the Guildhall of the Alchemists and the Great Sept of Baelor. Thinking that the substance might prove useful in the event of a siege, she took it upon herself to immediately commission more, and to send a raven informing me of her discovery. A raven that could have been shot down at any time, by anyone. The girl is an idiot.'
The Kingslayer's face had gone so white it was almost grey, and Arya looked from him to Lord Tywin to see if the latter had noticed. He hadn't.
When she looked back at the Kingslayer, he had regained his composure by downing an entire goblet of wine, his eyes closing as life flooded back into his cheeks.
'I'm sure Cersei only meant to show you how much she has to contribute to your legacy, dear father,' the Kingslayer said theatrically, 'and if you were to consider the sheer volume of sensitive information that travels every day by raven – '
'No ravens will go out to King's Landing,' Lord Tywin was saying, 'and nobody but Littlefinger, and your brother, of course, will know of our proposed alliance with the Tyrells.'
The bitterness with which the Kingslayer pronounced the word 'legacy,' and the indifference with which it was attended by his father was not lost on Arya, and she sighed as yet another deathly silence descended.
'Who's to say that Stannis' fire priestess hasn't already seen your plans in her flames?' Arya asked, with a deliberate increase in volume that she hoped would change the subject.
'Her flames,' Tywin snorted, 'a pretentious name for guesswork brought on by smoke inhalation.'
'I've heard people saying she was behind Lord Renly's death,' Arya persisted, 'she sent a shadow in the night to kill him.'
'Where did you hear about this?'
Arya's breath caught in her throat.
Shit.
'From…a friend.'
'Then I suggest you tell your friend that she's a superstitious little fool,' Lord Tywin commanded, 'a fine sharp sword was behind Renly's death, girl, and nothing else. We are simply uninformed as to whom it belonged. All we do know is that is that your lady mother was somehow involved, though I doubt she would have had much reason to want Lord Renly dead.'
Suddenly Arya felt very weak. She hadn't seen her mother in four years. Four years.
She looked at the Kingslayer once more. He had seen her. Quite often, probably. And he had joked about it.
'I was happy to be of service.'
Arya covered her eyes with her hand. She knew that what he'd said about him and Mother wasn't true. He'd just been trying to hurt her, and she had got her own back. Her words had offended him too. She could see that they had. The light had sapped from his eyes, the words had fallen out of him, the blood had drained from his body into hers with a rush of warmth and heat and fire and she had seen, for just a moment, that she had hurt him; really hurt him.
Good, Arya thought, I'm glad I hurt him.
She glanced sideways at the Kingslayer, her eyes finding his once again, and in the dwindling candlelight they looked dark as Valyrian steel.
'If you'll pardon me, my lord,' she murmured to Lord Tywin, getting to her feet, 'I have a terrible headache.'
