Arya awoke on the morning of the royal wedding to find two gifts and a messenger from Cersei waiting at the foot of her bed. The first gift was a gorgeous gown of Lannister crimson brocade and gold silk. The second was the legacy of Cersei's having shaved the head of some poor Myrish servant girl to make a wig; a clear indication that nothing would distract from or disrespect her son's big day, not even the crow's nest hair of a traitor's daughter. As Arya listened to Cersei's messenger coo about the Queen Regent's generosity, and thought about the black wool gown she had wanted to wear in mourning for her House, she considered a number of options that included screaming, cursing and impaling the dress on her sword before remembering, for the hundredth, for the thousandth time, that she needed to be a lady to survive. So she sent a message of appropriately obsequious thanks back to Cersei, pulled on her smallclothes, and tried on the dress.
She looked beautiful in it.
It fit her perfectly; the material hugging her tiny waist and cascading down to the floor in waterfalls of crimson loveliness. The colour was vivid and glorious against her skin and hair, and the stupid sleeves were so long and so magnificent that they dragged on the floor. To her amazement, she found that she liked it; even though she knew why this wasn't being done to Sansa; even though she was fully aware that she was meant to be a lute that played nothing but The Rains of Castamere; a walking reminder of the Red Wedding. The thought made her smirk.
Cersei and I have the same goal for once, if for vastly different reasons.
She hated the wig. The long, shining, braided locks tumbled over her shoulders, irritated her skin and got in the way each time she moved, but she put it on anyway, determined that she would face this day proudly and fearlessly.
But when the moment came to go down to the wedding breakfast, she realised two things. She couldn't stand the thought of seeing Joffrey's smirking face and his stupid pouty lips. And she wanted to shoot something.
Don't be absurd, she thought, you have to go. You have to. You can't give that stupid bitch Cersei the satisfaction of thinking that you're weak.
Then it occurred to her that being thought weak wasn't necessarily a bad thing under the circumstances, and she lost no time in sending her handmaiden down to announce that the Lady Arya was indisposed with a slight headache, threw herself utterly on good King Joffrey's mercy and begged his august forgiveness for succumbing to the natural weaknesses of femininity on his wedding morning. No sooner had the girl's footsteps faded away that Arya wrenched open the door and dashed down to the archery range, which she found conveniently empty of people to laugh at or bother her. Preparing themselves for the wedding, most likely.
She hadn't held a bow in almost five years, her clothes were a bother and a nuisance, and she didn't hit the centre of the target once. Nevertheless, the bow felt good in her hands; and for a moment she was back in the yard at Winterfell, watching Robb and Jon chuckle and Mother and Father tut-tut at them as Bran missed again and again; and she felt the cold of the North beneath her eleven-year old fingers as she drew, loosed and struck a spectacular bull's eye, making Bran chase after her and pelt her with every object that got in his way; Robb's laughs, Jon's, Mother's, Father's ringing in her ears like home, like death.
Bran could still stand, then. He could still climb. He was still whole. He was still alive.
Jaime.
She blinked tears out of her eyes and took aim once more, the arrow puncturing the target at a shamefully remote distance from its centre.
'What are you doing?' a small voice asked.
Arya almost shot herself in surprise, and whirled around to find Princess Myrcella, looking stunning in cloth of gold embroidered with emeralds and standing not two feet away from her. The princess' eyes were red from crying, but they were also bright with curiosity, and Arya curtseyed clumsily, wondering what in seven hells she could say that would convince the little shit (not that little. She must be twelve or thirteen) not to tell her mother.
'My princess,' Arya greeted.
Myrcella smiled with beautiful courtesy and curtseyed gracefully in response.
'Shouldn't you be at the wedding breakfast?' Arya asked.
She won't tell Cersei if it also gets her into trouble.
'I am escaping the wedding breakfast,' Myrcella replied, 'and it seems I'm not the only one. Your hair is different.'
'Your royal mother is careful when it comes to propriety…' Arya responded formally, her words trailing off when the princess began to sniffle and promptly burst into tears.
Arya's first, ridiculous thought was that something had happened to Jaime or Sansa.
'What's happened?' Arya asked urgently.
Myrcella wiped her lovely green eyes on her sleeve and made a valiant effort to regain her composure.
'It's Joffrey,' she sniffled, 'isn't it always Joffrey? He's such a –'
'What did he do?' Arya interrupted, no longer caring if she was being rude.
Myrcella was gazing at the sky and trying, once again, to blink away her tears, her tiny white chest rising and falling in distress.
'Most of the gifts were predictable,' she sobbed, 'swords, daggers, chalices, flattery; Joff strutting about pretending he's been within a mile of a real battle. Boring, really, but amusing. Then Uncle Tyrion gave Joff a book, my lady. Lives of Four Kings by a Grand Maester Kaeth. I had heard of it, but I didn't expect…it was…it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, my lady. Almost like an illuminated manuscript, but better. So beautifully decorated that even the pages seemed to reflect light.'
Arya was surprised. She had always disliked the princess on principle because she looked so much like her mother. It had never occurred to her that she was so…so…
'Joff took one look at it,' Myrcella continued, 'and decided to try a dance with his new sword.'
Arya stared.
'I don't understand –'
'A dance with the book.'
'Ah.'
Arya breathed a sigh of relief as the princess explained.
'He cut it to ribbons,' Myrcella declared, 'nothing was left of it. I've never seen my poor uncle so hurt. Or so angry. And then…' she was starting to cry again, 'then it emerged that only four like it were in existence, that is, in the Grand Maester's own hand. When they told Joff about it, he said 'now there are three,' as though nothing had happened and demanded that my uncle purchase him a new gift.'
She's crying about a book? Arya thought in disbelief.
Remember what her life has been, she told herself. Remember that she has never known real sorrow.
Of course she has. She lost her father. Of course he wasn't really her father, but -
'I…I rather like books, Lady Arya,' Myrcella stammered, as though she had read her thoughts.
'A family trait, I think,' Arya replied, overwhelmed by a sudden determination to be kind to this child, no matter who her mother was.
'– I rather like books,' Myrcella continued hesitantly, the threat of tears looming once more in her eyes 'and so does my uncle. So did my grandfather, though he was so very frightening, and it - it pains me to see them destroyed so needlessly…'
And she threw her arms around Arya's neck and broke down completely.
Arya had no idea what to do or say as the child's tears drenched her shoulder. Eventually, she found herself embracing her and muttering the sort of things that Mother had said to her when she was afraid or hurt; tiny, meaningless incoherencies like 'sh' or 'everything will be better tomorrow;' things that had comforted her when she had been too little and too happy to need them to mean much.
I envy her, Arya thought, I envy her passion and her feeling and her innocence, and the way she lavishes them so freely on things like books – the way that she can lavish them so freely on things like books. Life…life has never required her to do otherwise.
As Myrcella's breathing slowed and her tears dried up, Arya came to wonder how the girl had managed to evade the clutches of her handmaidens, or indeed those of any adult that might seek to drag her back to the wedding breakfast.
'Did nobody come after you?' Arya asked, gently breaking away from Myrcella, but keeping one hand on her shoulder.
'Mother will be angry with me,' Myrcella sniffed, 'she says princesses aren't supposed to cry. At least not in public.'
'Everyone is supposed to cry,' Arya contradicted, and decided, on the spot, to give her some advice, 'the next time your royal brother does something bad; or you ever feel like crying, but can't, you close your eyes and you go away inside. In there, no one can hurt you. No one can ever hurt you if your skin is made of steel.'
Myrcella smiled.
'That's what my Uncle Jaime said.'
'Your Uncle Jaime?'
'He came after me. Then he heard my mother coming and told me to run.'
Arya's heart tortured her chest at the thought. If only the child knew how much giving that advice must have saddened him.
Myrcella was eyeing the bow with interest.
'Do you want to try?' Arya asked.
The princess hesitated briefly, but did not seem able to stop herself.
'May I?' she asked politely.
'Why not?' Arya replied, 'you don't look like the type to shoot yourself by accident.'
Myrcella seemed very confused by Arya's demeanour, but she stepped forward nonetheless and took the bow from Arya's hands.
'You start by –'
But Myrcella was already drawing, and Arya's words died in her mouth as the princess took aim and held, glaring fiercely at her intended target across the yard.
'Have you ever done this before?' Arya enquired in amazement.
'No,' Myrcella replied, 'am I doing it right?'
Arya stared, not believing it. The girl was a natural. Her position was almost perfect, apart from her elbow being a little too low. She even drew with the correct fingers. It was only when Arya stepped forward to pull her elbow upwards that she felt how much Myrcella was shaking under the pressure.
How normal she is, in other words.
'Can I shoot something?' Myrcella pleaded, 'please please can I shoot something?'
Where in seven hells do Jaime and Cersei's children get this predilection for shooting things?
'You can shoot anything as long as it's not alive,' Arya replied.
'I am not my brother,' Myrcella snapped, and fired.
Her arrow sailed far above the top of the target, but this did not seem to bother Myrcella at all. If anything, she seemed delighted by it and permitted herself a charming and thoroughly undignified celebratory jig.
'Did you see that, my lady?' she squealed.
'I did,' Arya replied.
Myrcella's face fell at that.
'You don't seem very happy.'
Does she expect me to dance too?
'That's because you missed,' Arya said.
Myrcella looked out at the arrows peppering the target.
'You've been missing too!' she declared imperiously, 'and more times than me, I might add!'
'I haven't held a bow in almost five years!' Arya exclaimed in indignation.
'And I've never even held one once! I want to try again!'
Arya bowed.
'Be my guest.'
Arya seated herself and watched Myrcella miss and miss and miss, each failure only increasing the girl's confidence. Not one of her arrows struck the target, but by the time fifteen minutes had passed, Arya was thoroughly jealous. It had taken her weeks just to learn how to loose and this little shit had picked it up in thirty seconds, and almost entirely without help.
Be grateful she isn't hitting the targets on her first try. If she were, you'd be in serious trouble. There is a genius for fighting in her blood, and once awakened, it cannot be stopped. Such genius would cause a princess nothing but misery.
'I do hope I'm not interrupting,' a clear voice remarked, making Arya jump out of her skin for the second time that day as she turned and recognised Tyrion Lannister. Myrcella dropped everything immediately and ran to him, throwing herself into his arms. She was taller than he was.
'Oh, Uncle Tyrion, I'm so sorry about your book,' she exclaimed, kissing his cheek.
'Thank you, sweet child,' he replied with genuine warmth, 'so I am.'
'Have you come to take me back?' Myrcella asked, her nose wrinkling.
'Not at all,' Tyrion assured her, 'I am in the process of escaping myself.'
Myrcella began to dance on the balls of her feet again.
'Lady Arya is teaching me to shoot!'
Tyrion looked flabbergasted.
'To shoot? I never knew you cared for weapons, dear niece.'
'Me neither, but I do now! Watch!'
Myrcella scuttled back to where she'd left the bow and performed yet another spectacular missing of the target, and when Arya joined Tyrion in clapping enthusiastically, she curtseyed prettily before turning her back on them and drawing once again.
'May I sit, Lady Arya?' Tyrion asked politely.
'You may,' Arya replied with equal politeness, 'and call me Arya, please. I'm so unladylike that the title seems absurd.'
'In that case it seems equally absurd for you to call me Lord Tyrion.'
Suddenly and quite unexpectedly, the conversation evaporated faster than a pious sermon in a brothel, and Arya found herself in the unusual position of casting about for something to say. She had a lot to say to him and a lot to ask, and she could tell that he had similar intentions, but his face was as embarrassed as hers was red; and for a while, not a word was spoken between them, the silence punctured at intervals by the sound of Myrcella squealing in delight.
'Is the wedding breakfast over?' Arya asked suddenly.
'Far from it,' Tyrion replied, clearly relieved that she had been the first to speak, 'they've only just brought in the wretched food. I wish I had taken a leaf out of Baelish's book and gone a-wooing rather than attend this bloody wedding.'
Arya cocked an eyebrow at him.
'You surprise me. I didn't think your taste in women ran to batty and half-mad.'
Tyrion laughed.
'No. It tends to run to pretty and half-clothed.'
'Is Sansa at the breakfast by herself?' Arya asked, suddenly worried.
To her surprise, Tyrion rolled his eyes at her.
'I do wish you would get out of this habit of treating Sansa as though she were made of porcelain,' he stated candidly, 'she has survived four years of hell at this court, with precious little help from anyone. That takes spirit, and strength.'
'She hasn't been without help,' Arya contradicted, his modesty setting her teeth on edge, 'she's told me how many times you've saved her from that little shit Joffrey.'
Tyrion blushed to the roots of his golden hair.
'She exaggerates, she – '
'Come now, Tyrion. My sister is only prone to exaggeration when it comes to the colour of her gowns and the state of her hair. She likes you very much, I think.'
Tyrion was staring firmly at his lap with a childlike hesitancy that was moving to look upon.
'She…she certainly esteems me very much, Arya,' he stammered, still avoiding her eyes, 'though her esteem is ill-placed.'
'Is it?' Arya demanded.
Tyrion lifted his eyes to hers, and they were filled with an ancient kind of anguish that only came from the constant bearing of sorrow.
'Lady Sansa,' he said firmly, 'enjoys filling her head with the idea that she will someday meet a handsome knight who'll tell Joffrey to fuck himself and take her far away from here to a castle by the sea, where they'll fuck day and night and have hordes of beautiful babies.'
'Sounds horrid,' Arya replied.
Tyrion smiled sadly.
'Nevertheless, it is that that she dreams of, not brutally disfigured dwarves who never keep their mouths shut.'
'An admirable quality, in my book.'
Tyrion snorted.
'But in almost no one else's, including mine. I am Hand of the King, and when it comes to your sister, I only do what needs to be done; what any decent person would do. Joffrey cannot be seen to be treating a helpless girl and a ward of the crown in such an infamous fashion.'
'So that's why you've helped her?' Arya grinned, 'to save the king's reputation?'
'Somebody must do so,' Tyrion said off-handedly, 'especially when the little shit clearly has no interest in saving it himself. The laws of succession have never served us so badly as they have in Joffrey's case.'
'What about the Mad King?'
'Aerys' reign began with great promise; with intelligence, with enlightenment. Everything was set for the early flowering of a golden age, before that monumental fuck-up at Duskendale. I'd hardly describe Joffrey's reign as having begun with great promise; would you?'
'Primogeniture's a terrible thing,' Arya stated gravely.
'It is,' Tyrion agreed, 'particularly when it gives the throne to a person who is less fit to rule than one or two of my hill tribesmen.'
Myrcella whooped as she missed again, and her laugh tinkled beautifully and innocently in the morning air.
'This is the first time I have spoken to her, and I don't know Prince Tommen at all,' Arya said, gesturing towards Myrcella, 'but it seems to me that that young lady would make a far better sovereign at twelve than Joffrey is at twenty.'
Tyrion smiled fondly and regarded his lovely niece as affectionately as he might his own child.
'So she would,' he agreed softly, 'she has a good heart and a fine mind. Tommen would be a fine king if one could only separate him from his mother. Myrcella would be a fine queen regardless.'
Arya grinned mischievously and steered the conversation back to Sansa.
'Do you think my sister would have been a good queen?' she asked.
'Why are you so interested in what I think of your sister?' Tyrion replied breezily.
Arya shrugged as though the answer were devastatingly simple.
'Because you have the distinction, relatively rare in this city, of appearing to have more than fog between your ears. And since my capture, I haven't seen as much of her as I would like. Cersei's been keeping us apart.'
'Yes,' Tyrion responded quietly, his face darkening with both anger and sadness, 'Cersei is very fond of destroying bonds between people.'
'Don't change the subject, Tyrion.'
His face was red again, but he did not look into his lap; his expression remaining guarded despite the Lannister crimson of his complexion.
'I do believe your sister would be a good queen,' he confessed, 'she has a talent for courtesy, and an even greater one for elegance, for modesty, for regalness. And perhaps someday, when she learns not to be afraid, she might even have one for intrigue.'
Arya burst out laughing. The thought was too hilarious to countenance.
Tyrion was glaring at her.
'You did ask for my opinion,' he remarked disapprovingly.
'You think much better of her than I do,' Arya replied.
'I doubt that very much.'
'You like her.'
'She is difficult to dislike.'
'You know what I mean.'
Tyrion smiled at her with a kind of familiarity that she found she did not mind.
'Jaime was right about you.'
Arya's face fell as her heart sunk into her new shoes.
'What do you mean, 'Jaime's right about me'?' she hissed.
'He said you were unquestionably the most infuriating person he'd ever met,' Tyrion grinned in reply.
'He's one to talk!'
Her own indignation made her blush. Myrcella was beginning to stamp her foot each time she missed the target. And Arya stared into her lap and thought of her slaughtered pack, and Jaime, and of how happy she would have been, how happy…
'My brother has told me everything,' Tyrion said with a gentleness that almost made her weep.
'Has he?' she mumbled, still not looking at him.
'He has. And I am more sorry than I can say.'
'Are you?'
'Yes. Even if you're only fucking him to spite Cersei.'
The tears departed swiftly from her eyes as she leapt to her feet and faced him, anger clawing its way out of her stomach and into her clenched fists.
'I am doing nothing of the sort, you malicious little shit!' she exclaimed.
'Really?' Tyrion demanded with an inhuman kind of composure that infuriated her, 'your behaviour makes it difficult for me to think otherwise.'
She hit him in the face, relishing the gasp of surprise that escaped his lips in response.
'I don't care a fuck what you think about my behaviour!' she shouted, 'if I wanted to spite Cersei, I would find other ways of doing it; I certainly wouldn't go to all the trouble of opening myself up and…and… giving myself to that arrogant, irritating, immature…self-obsessed old shit, all in the name of fun! Stop…stop grinning at me!'
As he continued to grin cheekily at her, delight dancing in his mismatched eyes, Arya realised that he had been testing her, and she wanted to hit him again. Instead, she sat down beside him and finally started to cry, tears choking up her eyes, her throat and her voice.
'I've fucked everything up,' she sobbed, 'everything is so utterly and completely fucked up –'
She felt Tyrion's hand grasp her shoulder, which only made her cry harder.
'If you think this is a fuck-up,' he said kindly, 'then you clearly haven't lived at court for very long.'
She looked up at him and wiped her nose on her sleeve.
'Does he hate me?' she asked.
Tyrion sighed,
'He doesn't understand. He doesn't understand at all. But he doesn't hate you.'
He was looking at her with an intensity that commanded attention; that demanded it absolutely, and his mismatched eyes were the same shape as Tywin's.
'You haven't known Jaime as long as I have,' he said, 'you don't know what he was like. Before. He was my tall, handsome, unbreakable brother, and…and he could think for himself, contrary to what my father may have told you – he could. There were many times when he did.'
'You mean when he killed the Mad King?' Arya asked.
'Among other things, yes,' Tyrion replied, 'but he was so deep in Cersei's pockets – and in her cunt, most of the time – that he would commit any kind of insanity to impress her, or just to show her that he cared; and she would hold him to that; more times than I could count. Under her influence, he was as biddable as a lapdog. It's been like that ever since we were children. It was the one fault I could find with him, the one thing that prevented him…he's…'
Tyrion looked down into his lap.
'But he's not the same since he met you,' he said, 'he's become…he's become himself.'
Arya leaned forward and embraced him as a fresh flood of tears engulfed her body and her mind, and he returned the embrace awkwardly, patting her back and telling her that everything would be alright. She smiled. He was as bad at this as Jaime was.
The sound of a loud thud and a squeal made them break apart and look back at Myrcella. The princess was jumping up and down in adulation as she gestured wildly, her golden hair flying in the sun, the bow still clutched in her tiny white fist.
'I did it!' she shouted, 'Uncle Tyrion, Lady Arya, I did it!'
Arya and Tyrion stared at her, and then at each other.
She'd managed to hit the target.
