'Seven hells,' Tyrion murmured, bile rising in his throat as the raven scroll crumpled in his hand, 'both of them?'
'So it would seem,' Varys replied, retrieving the scroll and delicately smoothing it out, 'such a tragedy. And so young, both of them.'
'And there I was thinking that the Greyjoy boy was good for nothing but burning fishing villages and brutalising peasants,' Tyrion remarked, 'and you're quite sure there's been no mistake?'
'Quite sure, my lord,' Varys purred, 'my little birds were silent for some time, but now they sing again.'
Tyrion smiled ironically.
'Immortal, are they?'
'We all have our qualities.'
'What else?'
Varys smiled, his eyes twinkling like the satin of his robe. Tyrion rolled his eyes in response, not feeling remotely in the mood.
'Well I presume you aren't swimming this close to a drowning man just to tell me about the deaths of two children!'
'And why should I not?' Varys enquired, cocking one eyebrow at him, 'everyone is well aware of your enduring fondness for the Lady Sansa. I assumed you'd rather she hear about the indiscriminate slaughter of her little brothers from you rather than from the King.'
'You're too kind,' Tyrion acidly replied, 'now what else?'
Varys handed him another raven scroll.
Tyrion took it testily, admiring the eunuch's penchant for drama, and found, to his own surprise, that he had missed him. Strange.
It isn't strange at all, Tyrion thought as he started to read, intelligent conversation is difficult to come by.
He ceased to think of intelligent conversation when the contents of the scroll became clear to him.
'No,' Tyrion exclaimed, handing the scroll back to Varys, 'surely not. Robb Stark wouldn't be that stupid.'
'I admire your respect for your enemies, my lord,' Varys said, 'it is the true province of an intelligent man.'
Tyrion snorted.
'Theon Greyjoy decides to provide the world with incontrovertible proof that he is the greatest fool in the Seven Kingdoms,' he said hostilely, 'all he gets is the enmity of the North and a general desire for his cretinous ironborn head on a spike. We get a betrayal from House Westerling – I didn't think they had it in them, the fools – that will inevitably result in an heir to the Starks' cause, plus a full scale bloody invasion!'
'Perhaps Robb Stark's commanders have reminded him of the original purpose of his campaign,' Varys smirked in reply, 'he has been dilly-dallying for rather a long while.'
'I wonder if they bothered to tell him that even Aerys wasn't mad enough to attack Casterly Rock.'
Varys sat back in his chair.
'Nevertheless,' the eunuch said, 'my spies inform me that that is his intention.'
'Is the boy simple?' Tyrion exclaimed, 'he doesn't have enough men! He saw to that the minute he allowed his cock to become more important to his cause than Walder bloody Frey!'
'Perhaps he believes that some way may be found to appease Lord Walder.'
'I'm delighted to hear it. A man who believes that it snows in Dorne will be easy to defeat.'
'Your wit is dazzling today, my lord. I take it your strength is returning?'
A sudden jolt of nausea went through Tyrion's heart.
'Does Joffrey know about this?'
'He does,' Varys replied, 'His Grace is not pleased at all.'
'BRONN!' Tyrion roared.
The sellsword sauntered in from the balcony, looking righteously indignant at being shouted for.
'I am right here, you know!' he pointed out, 'same room. Same space.'
'Find both Stark girls and bring them here immediately,' Tyrion commanded, ignoring him.
'May I ask what you intend to do when you have 'brought both of them here immediately?'' Varys simpered, wincing as Bronn banged the door behind him.
'I don't know,' Tyrion snarled, 'I have no fucking idea.'
'Calm as still fucking water,' Jaime growled as Arya faced him, sword in hand, 'where's the fun in that?'
'Feet!' she barked in return, poking at his toes with her tourney sword for what felt like the hundredth time that morning.
At his first lesson, Jaime had mastered the stance of water dancing in approximately ten seconds; his entire body moulding smoothly to it as though he'd been doing it forever, and the leap of excitement that had jumped from Arya's heart to her throat had almost choked her. Since then, however, he had soon proved to be such a compulsively perfect executor of the Westerosi stance that he continually and unfailingly slipped back into it; half the time without thinking about it, the other half of the time just to annoy her. The former was pardonable, if irritating. The latter was encouraging, but rather more irksome.
'My knees are aching, Stark,' Jaime was complaining.
'Grow stronger, then!' Arya shot back.
'Of course!' Jaime snorted, 'grow stronger! Whom do you suggest I pray to to accomplish that overnight? Your bloody trees, the Warrior, the Stranger, or all three?'
'Pray to whichever one of them is responsible for banishing bullshit,' Arya suggested.
That did not please him.
'Why, you little –'
'Hurry up and dance with me once more before I leave. I have a harp lesson in ten minutes.'
Jaime burst out laughing.
'A harp lesson?'
'Will you just come at me and shut up?'
Each time their blades touched in the slow execution of one of the precise, endless infinity of drills that Syrio had taught her, she could feel his frustration at their slowness groaning right through her body. Speed was trapped screaming inside both him and her; a primal instinct that Jaime glided into each time his heartbeat increased and that she had to battle down in herself just as often as she did in him; telling him over and over and over that racing ahead would only lead to more mistakes; disarming him just as often when he couldn't get the message into his stupid head.
Often, Arya felt sure that he hated her for that. He would regularly glare at her like he wanted to kill her, just as she had glared at Syrio each time he exclaimed that she wasn't holding a battle axe, or clouted her on the shoulder to see how she would react (badly, on most days). She would see that desire to harm, to murder and to release blistering out of him every time she stopped him, and she would tell herself to be patient; repeat to herself that he would eventually understand, just as she had, and probably in less time. But she wasn't made for teaching, especially when her body and mind were drained and numbed and destroyed by the loss of Tywin; and Jaime clearly wasn't made for learning. She was too angry and too impatient; and he had been too damn good for far too long for him to go back without a fight.
'You're going too fast,' Arya grunted, trying (and failing) to slow him down, 'you're going too fast.'
'Does that frighten you, Lady Stark?' he grunted in return.
With a thrill of childish satisfaction that she would later feel ashamed of, Arya promptly sent the blade flying out of his hand and slammed her own sword into the back of Jaime's knees; shoving him over and bringing the tip smartly to his throat when he hit the ground, groaning as he rolled onto his back.
'Yes, Lannister,' Arya quipped, the tourney sword prodding the skin beneath his chin, 'that does frighten me. You're going too fast and you're making more mistakes.'
'Stark,' Jaime ventured.
'What?' Arya demanded.
'Look down,' he said, and something thrillingly cold pressed into the skin above her shoe, calling her eyes downward.
The dagger was poised above her heel with all the elegance and menace of a threat beautifully made; the steel threatening to bite down and tear balance and stillness and escape and swordplay right out of her before staining the godswood floor with a brighter red than its leaves.
The expression on Jaime's face was infuriating as he grinned openly at her, the perspiration on his face for once not accompanied by a ghastly pallour, but by something resembling...being alive, really. She could see the blood glowing beneath his skin.
But she wouldn't tell him that. It didn't change the fact that he was a shit pupil.
'I still would've killed you if this was a real sword!' she blurted.
She felt the steel grind harder into her heel.
'You would not,' Jaime declared softly.
'Yes, I would,' Arya insisted.
Jaime made no move to rise and no move to sheathe his dagger; his stare commanding her to take her words back into herself; to unsay them or to not say them at all. The rush of leaves and wind, the godswood sound, disappeared beneath his gaze; as did the pain in her body and the imbalance and the void and the fear that was the absence of Tywin and of everything that Tywin had been. And suddenly she felt naked as her name day, her skin shivering as though exposed to the wind; exposed to the wind, and him.
Suddenly a discordance of red plate and steel tore the silence asunder and overran it with the sound of marching and clattering; first on red stone and then on wet earth. As Jaime rose to his feet, Arya hurriedly clapped the sword into his hand and turned away from him as the clearing was occupied by four red cloaks, their visors down and their armour well-worn.
'Ser Jaime; my lady,' their captain greeted with an exaggerated politeness that did not fool Arya for a second, 'I trust we're not interrupting anything?'
'On the contrary, Ser,' Arya replied with equal candour, 'Ser Jaime and I were about to engage in improper relations, and you've arrived just in time to save my honour. I am eternally in your debt.'
'Kindly forgive my lady sister's predilection for making clever remarks,' Jaime interjected roughly, 'now what did you four paragons of mediocrity say you wanted?'
'We have orders to escort Lady Arya to the throne room, Ser,' the captain replied, not rising to the bait.
'Why?' Arya demanded, hoping that her tone would disguise the fear that had ripped through her body at the thought of putting so much as a foot into that hall again.
'His Grace wishes you and your sister the Lady Sansa to attend him there,' the captain informed her.
Jaime rolled his eyes.
'Can't my little cockroach of a nephew find some puppies to torture instead?' he coolly enquired, 'Lady Arya has a harp lesson to attend.'
The urge to hit him (or at the very least to tell him to shut up) deserted Arya completely, and she stood staring at the red cloaks for a moment, wondering what they would do if she ran, or simply refused.
I can't run now. I can't refuse now. I can't do any of that anymore. I am a lady now, and it is my business to shut up and do what I'm told; and to let people do what they want to me; whenever they want to do it.
Her jaw hurt her as she bit down on her teeth, and the red was rising up behind her closed eyes as she vowed to herself in the name of all the gods that one day she would kill them all.
But then she remembered the Great Sept and Ser Ilyn and Father; and Joffrey waving almost uncertainly beneath a crown that was too big for him. She felt the heat of the stone beneath her shoes as she clung to the statue of Baelor the Blessed; the dragon who had said that the gods should be merciful. She seemed to fall from the plinth and into the crowd; every last screaming someone a grain of sand of sound of the blade; a thud that she had heard and would never stop hearing; no matter how hard Yoren clutched his dirty hands over her ears and told her not to look.
She remembered her tongue swelling with thirst in the heat and dark of the black cells, and Father sitting silent beside her, unable to see her or talk to her. She remembered how hard the throne room floor had felt beneath her knees; the laughter drowning her in memory; her tongue stumbling over her allegiances as she repeated them again and again and again.
She opened her eyes and looked up at Jaime as she felt his fingers lace through hers and squeeze her hand once; his face calm as still water; his eyes angry like the Rock.
'Give me your arm, my lady,' he said, 'let's go and see what the little shit wants.'
