Arya spent the first night of her release curled up on the floor of her new chamber, having found it impossible to sleep on a featherbed. She stared for hours into the dark and eventually slipped into an uneasy sleep; dreaming of Tywin, Jaqen, and finally, of the godswood and Jaime; except this time, he took her maidenhead.

His skin felt as thin and frail as the first time she had seen it, but his eyes as they looked into hers were alive, his fingers trailing softly across her cheeks and into her hair; his lips only touching hers with the ghost of a whisper before they began to open and explore and taste; his tongue flickering between her lips, then filling her mouth; his teeth grazing her chin and neck as he slid into her, and seven fucking hells, but she wanted him. She wrapped her legs tighter around him to pull him deeper; her hips pulsing with his; her breath failing with his; her voice crying out with his.

'Jaime I'm sorry,' she whispered, her lips brushing his ear as the fingers of both his hands, both of them, laced tighter and tighter into hers, 'I'm so sorry.'

'I believe you grow more beautiful every day, Lady Arya,' Ser Loras Tyrell remarked as they walked, jolting her unpleasantly back into the present.

'How very unobservant of you,' Arya replied breezily, her arm resting uncomfortably on his; the skirts imprisoning her legs a bother, a nuisance and an ironic gift from the Queen Regent, who had sent a dressmaker to her that morning with a small wardrobe of ready-made gowns, and instructions to 'assist the Lady Arya in assembling a new wardrobe by allowing her to choose whatever gowns she likes and to order accordingly with any changes she sees fit.' Arya had briefly considered refusing, before reminding herself, miserably, that trying to behave like a lady was now essential to her survival. So she had sullenly allowed herself to be measured, poked and prodded like a lady, her throat still throbbing painfully from her time in the black cells; and she had taken an obscene pleasure in the apparently-ladylike activity of observing and rejecting twenty-four different dresses, along with their silk, satin, velvet, lace, embroidery, trains and dagged sleeves, before settling on the one that she wore now; a conservative, severely-cut, high-collared black wool gown that more closely resembled mourning attire than conventional court dress. Despite the dressmaker's howls of indignation that such things were not fashionable or becoming to a Northern complexion, Arya had ordered a variety of the same in black, grey and dark brown, determined that if she absolutely had to wear gowns, then she would wear gowns that pleased her.

Two courtiers laughed openly as they passed them, eyeing her short hair and simple clothing and no doubt remembering the throne room.

I'd put you both on my list if I knew your stupid names, she thought as their chuckles faded away and Ser Loras did her the great courtesy of pretending not to have heard them. She was grateful for that, though she would never admit it, and she swiftly cast about for something to say.

'Did your grandmother give any specific reason for wanting to see me?' Arya asked, her nose wrinkling in distaste as the greenery of the castle gardens grew ever more manicured and ever more absurd around them.

'I have learned that wise men do not ask too many questions of my grandmother,' Ser Loras replied flatly.

'They call her the Queen of Thorns, don't they?'

'I wouldn't say that to her face, my lady.'

'Whyever not? It's a worthy title.'

The gardens were crowded with amorous noblemen and women fluttering like radiant butterflies from one airy golden pavilion to another; but instead of depositing her in one of these structures and abandoning her to the sprawling beehive of tedious conversation, Ser Loras led her further and further into the gardens, and eventually, out of the grounds of the Red Keep itself towards the outermost, silvery-blue reaches of Blackwater Bay; where wildfire still smouldered ominously beneath the surface of the water.

Jaime.

'Ser Loras?' Arya ventured.

'My lady?' he replied.

'Is there a purpose in taking me this far from the Keep,' she asked simply, 'or has the Queen Regent commanded you to assassinate me and dump my body in the river?'

'I would not obey the Queen Regent if she had, my lady,' Ser Loras exclaimed shrilly, 'and I'm sincerely scandalised that you would imagine me capable of such a thing.'

You're a knight. Knights are capable of anything.

Ser Loras gallantly offered Arya his hand as they began to descend a hill towards a sandy natural outlook, and it occurred to her, as she tried not to trip herself up, that if Cersei had not sent him to kill her, then she had almost certainly not been informed of this little promenade beforehand. But all the glee that she would normally have felt at the prospect was rapidly suppressed by a small stirring of wolf blood in her mind, and she took her eyes off the steps for the first time, looking downwards. Two women in blue, one wizened, one young, sat completely alone, without handmaidens or retainers, in gilded golden chairs that looked ridiculous out of doors. A third person was on her feet pacing. A girl with red hair...and wolf blood.

She paused as her eyes met Arya's; her sad, beautiful face like their mother's, and Arya pulled her skirts up to her knees and hopped down the rest of the stairs, leaping into Sansa's arms and bursting into tears; her sister's sobs raking against her stomach; her tears staining her cheeks.

'I thought you were dead,' Sansa whispered, weeping, 'I thought you were dead; for years they all said you were dead, and then that Lord Tywin had found you, and I - I heard about what happened in the throne room and I wanted to –'

'You weren't there?' Arya sobbed in response, the tears stinging her eyes.

'No,' Sansa cried, 'the Queen's forbidden me to see you, otherwise I would have – your hair,' she half-squealed, her slender fingers plucking at Arya's scruffy fringe, 'what have you done to it?'

Arya started to laugh, her sister still appearing blurry through her tears, and hugged her again; Sansa's hair shining like copper and tickling Arya's nose as they held each other tighter; giggling, and crying, and giggling again; not saying anything; not needing to.

A part of Arya, the worst part, had believed for a long time that she would never see her sister again. Sometimes she would think of meeting her by chance one day, after the war, after everyone she hated was dead, and curtseying to her and kissing her cheeks like a proper lady. Today, that hadn't happened. Today they were just Arya and Sansa, two lonely little girls torn away from their pack; two wolves in a lion's den that had finally found each other. Courtesy didn't matter. They were kin.

'Arya,' Sansa said, breaking away from her and sniffling as she turned for the first time to the two women in blue, 'it is my honour to present the Lady Olenna of House Tyrell, and her granddaughter the Lady Margaery, the future Queen of Westeros.'

The old lady inclined her head; the young woman curtseyed prettily, and Arya bowed low like a cupbearer, making Sansa blush.

'Oh put away your blushes, Sansa,' Lady Olenna snapped, 'the girl has spent four years hiding under Tywin Lannister's nose. I imagine a disguise that good takes a while to wear off.'

'Not at all, my lady,' Arya replied, 'I just can't remember how to curtsey.'

'How very refreshing,' Lady Olenna replied, 'now come along, Arya, sit by me while Margaery and Sansa pick me some pansies. The smell drives the Queen Regent quite distracted, so I'm never without a good supply.'

'But Sansa –' Arya said, before she could stop herself.

'She'll be right here,' Margaery replied gently, 'I will not take her out of your sight, I swear it.'

Arya decided that she did not like Margaery. The gentleness in her voice did not match the cruelty of her face, and if she was marrying Joffrey just to cement some stupid alliance between the Houses Lannister and Tyrell, then she must be either weak or deranged. But Arya watched as Sansa retreated halfway up the hill with Margaery, the two of them waving jovially to Ser Loras, who had just reached its crest; before beginning to cast about for flowers; their laughs tinkling musically. Sansa looked back every few seconds, as though to make sure that she was still there. Arya smiled affectionately at her, and even from a great distance, she saw that Sansa was smiling back.

But as she thought about her sister, and about Cersei's refusal to let them see each other, Arya became Tywin's child again, and her smile began to fade.

The Tyrells wouldn't risk disobeying the Queen just because they like a good reunion between sisters. They want something from me. Or from Sansa.

Arya looked back at little Lady Olenna, who was settling into her chair and supporting herself on her walking stick, giving every appearance of being the most diminutive individual that Arya had ever seen. Her hands were gnarled and frail-looking; but their knuckles as they clasped the stick were white, strong and fierce. Her face was impossibly wrinkled and fragile; and was framed by wisps of brittle, bone-like white hair, but the hooded eyes were warm, luminous…and oddly ruthless.

Intelligence, Arya realised, genius, even. A powerful woman. A powerful woman who wants people to think she's weak.

'Come here, child,' Lady Olenna commanded, 'I want to talk to you.'

She definitely wants something from me.

'I'm much less boring than other members of my confounded House,' Lady Olenna began as Arya took her seat, 'do you know my son? The Lord Oaf of Highgarden?'

'How could I possibly forget a lord with so illustrious a title?' Arya re-joined graciously.

'I am glad you approve of it,' the old lady remarked, 'and what did you think of him?'

'His voice had a rather soporific effect on me, my lady,' Arya stated, 'so I'm afraid I can't recall.'

'Your directness is dazzling, child,' Lady Olenna declared, sitting back in her chair and smiling approvingly, 'you have him exact.'

Arya's thoughts leapt from Mace Tyrell to the Blackwater to Tywin; Tywin who impossibly, incredibly, wasn't here anymore. She remembered him at war council on the night the shadow had taken him; how he had sat glaring down at his maps like a thunderstorm that could easily rage for a thousand years; a power and a life in those ice blue eyes that she would always love, but that she could never fully understand. Nothing but a blade had taken that from him; something great and beautiful and immense destroyed by something so simple and so malleable as steel. She couldn't believe it was that simple – that metal, worked in a certain way, was all it took to extinguish something; to kill and unexist it completely.

And then she remembered the look in Jaime's eyes as the maester had sewed him up; how dead they had been; how pale; how the light had seemed to bleed out of them like the blood that was spilling all over her hands and clothes, clinging to her like he did, never letting her go.

Steel is all it takes, she realised, a thing of indescribable beauty can be completely destroyed by some idiot who wants to show the world he can hack off a limb. That's how Joffrey will destroy the Seven Kingdoms.

With one vital difference. He'll never have the guts to do his own dirty work.

She remembered watching him through bloodshot eyes and imagining the little shit impaling himself on every one of the barbs and spikes that he seemed so comfortable to be surrounded by; she remembered the nameless and the faceless laughing at her; and she remembered the mob screaming for her father's head; for the death of a person they didn't even know.

'My son was present, yesterday, when Margaery's royal betrothed received your allegiance,' Lady Olenna ventured cautiously, seeming to read her thoughts.

'Really?' Arya replied, trying to appear nonplussed, 'it must have been quite a spectacle.'

'It was certainly cheaper than the theatre, with the added advantage of the drama being real,' Lady Olenna concurred, 'a monstrous action, on the king's part.'

Arya almost smiled.

Now we come to it.

'How much of the ordeal do you remember, child?' the old lady was saying.

'Not much beyond a few murderous thoughts and being desperate enough to fuck any man or woman that would bring me a glass of water,' Arya shrugged.

Lady Olenna chuckled.

'I would not reply in that way to every person that asks you the question.'

'I won't. But if you were interested in hearing a lie, we wouldn't be sitting here right now.'

Lady Olenna's pale blue eyes met hers, and Arya felt expressionlessness spreading out across her own face like ripples across a pond as she closed herself up, locking the doors to her soul.

'What do you want from me?' Arya asked unconcernedly.

The old lady did a decent job of seeming bowled-over.

'What in the world makes you think I want something?' she asked, clutching frantically at her walking stick for support, and Arya could swear that the curve of Lady Olenna's back had just become more pronounced; her stoop seeming more severe than before.

This woman is a genius, Arya thought, and presented her argument.

'You've just had me escorted out of the Red Keep and down to the furthest reaches of Blackwater Bay by a person unlikely to be stopped,' Arya observed, leaning back in her chair, 'out here, the chances of being overheard by Varys' little birds are eliminated entirely, that's if we don't take into account lip-reading, which is less likely due to the significantly reduced chances of our being seen. We have the sea at our backs and a hill of considerable size in front of us, both of which make an unseen approach almost impossible. Not that we'd be able to do much hiding if someone arrived in a boat, but that would be rather obvious, don't you think?'

The old lady smiled wordlessly and gestured for her to continue.

'So,' Arya said, 'once you've succeeded in getting me here and reduced the chances of being seen or heard, you then weaken me emotionally by reuniting me with a sister I haven't seen in four years and that the Queen has expressly forbidden from having any contact with me, thus making me grateful to you and therefore more likely to trust you. So I'll ask you once again, my lady. What is it that you want?'

Arya was breathless; not knowing whether she had spoken the truth or made a spectacular fool of herself. Her heart had pounded madly while her mind ripped through one layer of inference after the other, concluding and concluding and concluding, and she felt that she was back in Harrenhal again, Tywin asking her what she was laughing about.

Tywin.

Lady Olenna's eyes had not left hers, and if her face had born fewer wrinkles, Arya might even have allowed herself to think that the old lady was impressed.

'I will tell you what I want from you, child,' Lady Olenna smiled, and dropped her walking stick into the dirt.