"Lady Stark!"
Arya's eyes frantically searched the halls of the Red Keep for a shock of auburn hair and a tall, imposing figure. The realization that she was the 'Lady Stark' in question, and not her mother, was a painful one. "Lord Tyrion," she murmured, shoving her practice swords up into the crook of her elbow so she could offer him a curtsy.
As he grew closer, Arya found herself oddly disappointed. She had been promised a monster, a demon monkey with two claws and one red eye. But Tyrion Lannister was not a monster; he was just a man. A short man, perhaps, and certainly not handsome like his brother, but there was nothing in his appearance that struck either fear or amusement in her heart. "I hear congratulations are in order," he said, falling into step beside her as she led him out of the Red Keep and into the blazing afternoon sun. "Highgarden will make your father a very good ally in the wars to come."
"Which wars are those?"
"There are wars brewing around every corner, my lady, or at least so my father says," answered Tyrion. He watched as Arya unintentionally outpaced him; each step she took equalled two of his, and she was several feet ahead of him before she took notice. Once she did realize it, she glanced back toward him and then around them before heading for a nearby bench and sitting upon it. He wondered if that bench had always been her intended destination or if some unimaginable kindness had led her to it. From what he knew of Arya Stark, she did not seem the kind of girl to sit idly amongst the roses, but the other notion felt too farfetched even for an imagination as formidable as his own. "Though it would take a great fool to bring a war to House Stark now."
Her father never talked to her about war. He'd been in two and won them both, but he never regaled her with tales of great victories. Any stories she'd heard of the Battle of the Trident had come from people who weren't there. He wouldn't even tell her how he'd defeated Ser Arthur Dayne and there was no one else alive who knew that tale, save for Howland Reed, who Arya was not liable to ever meet. It was a topic that interested her greatly and she made no efforts to conceal it. "Why?" she asked him eagerly. "Is the North very powerful?"
"Not powerful, per say," answered Tyrion, watching her face fall. "But very difficult to invade. Moat Cailin is said to have defended southern invasions for ten thousand years and the rest of the coastline is so barren it would be impossible to field the supplies needed to support an army."
"If the North is so difficult to invade, why do we need allies?"
"The key to any war is avoiding what is strong and striking what's weak," he said. "The North alone is scarcely thirty or thirty-five thousand men spread out across a massive terrain. It would take weeks or even months to call upon all the Northern banners. This makes the North appear very weak and susceptible to attack. Because of your mother, the Riverlands would be likely to join in any war efforts the North made, but the Riverlands are easily invaded and terrorized. The Reach, however …" Tyrion smiled now as he looked at her, surprised at how keenly she was listening. "The Reach is a hundred thousand good men and more than enough food to feed one kingdom, or starve another. I wouldn't want a war with the Reach. And when you marry Willas Tyrell, a war with the North becomes a war with the Reach."
Arya wasn't sure how she felt about this information. She knew the Tyrells were one of the great Houses, but she didn't realize what an intimidating force they were considered. She hated being treated like nothing more than a commodity for her family to sell for power, but part of her was pleased to know that she alone could make the North so much stronger. "You know a lot about it," she observed, hoping she didn't sound as jealous as she felt.
"Ah, a prerequisite for calling yourself Tywin Lannister's son," he said. "Another man I would not want a war with."
"Do the Westerlands have more than a hundred thousand men?" Arya knew the Lannisters were considered the most powerful family in the Seven Kingdoms, but she didn't really know why, especially when a Baratheon was king.
Tyrion shook his head. "Far fewer, in fact, but wars are not always won with brute strength. Clever tactics are more powerful weapons than numbers alone. To make yourself appear weak and indefensible when you're poised to strike, or to make your enemies believe you're halfway across the kingdom when you're waiting just around the corner for them … My father is unmatched in his craft."
He was surprised to find Arya grinning at him. "Would that I had a second sister to marry to you," she said. "Then no one would ever think to cross the North."
"Your father could have ten daughters and he would not marry one to me," Tyrion assured her.
"Why not?"
Her lack of understanding struck him something painful. "You met several suitors before your engagement to Willas Tyrell, did you not? At any point did Lord Stark suggest meeting with me?" Arya shook her head. "Ah, but I am the heir apparent to Casterly Rock and no older than your husband to be, and yet I was never even a possibility." Comprehension had not yet dawned on Arya Stark's face. "Lord Stark would not marry his daughter to half a man," he put it plainly
"I would not call you half a man, my lord," said Arya. "More like three quarters."
"The Three Quarter Man doesn't have the same ring to it."
Arya had her own experience with mean nicknames. She wondered if it bothered Tyrion as much as it bothered her. He didn't seem to mind, but maybe he'd just learned to hide it better. "Why did you help Bran?"
The question was sudden, but not entirely unexpected for Tyrion. Robb Stark had asked the same question. "Your brother Jon asked me to," he replied simply. "And I have a tender spot in my heart for cripples, bastards, and broken things." Arya grimaced at the word cripple again. "Perhaps I misspoke-"
"No," she said quickly, before he could finish an unwarranted apology. "He is what you say but it is a difficult thing to swallow all the same." Tyrion wasn't sure what to say then. A consoling hand on her knee seemed the proper protocol, but he did not think it would be well received. "What was it you wanted? I'm sure you did not seek me out to discuss battles strategies and I'm overdue for a visit to the Blacksmith."
It wasn't, in truth, but the questions he'd had about the girl, and how she had found herself on Jaime's radar, had long been answered. "I shall not keep you from it any longer, my lady," he said, rising first from the bench and offering her a quick bow.
He was nearly halfway back to the doors of the Red Keep when she called out to him. "Lord Tyrion," she said. She was on her feet now, as well, and fidgeting awkwardly with her two wooden, practice swords. "I don't think you're three quarters of a man, either."
Tyrion Lannister had never considered himself a slow witted man, but by the gods, he was a dawdling fool that afternoon. Arya Stark had long disappeared from view, but he still found himself standing in place, wondering what in the seven hells she could have meant by that.
It was Jaime's least favorite task, standing guard outside Robert's door while he got 'friendly' with some lowborn woman that was not his sister. And yet it seemed that Robert had delegated the task exclusively to him, as if he kept a whore on retainer for whenever Jaime was on duty. Jaime thought his afternoon was as unpleasant as it could possibly be, but then he caught sight of Willas Tyrell, approaching alongside his brother and Renly Baratheon.
Renly appeared no more pleased to see him. "Ser Jaime," he said, a smug look upon his face. "I would speak with my brother."
"I'm afraid he's rather occupied at the moment," said Jaime. "Though I would not stop you should you wish to interrupt." Jaime smiled as a woman's shrieking moan cut through the silence of the hall. "Perhaps a knock first," he suggested. Renly didn't deign to respond as he turned sharply, clearly deciding he would return later. The brothers Tyrell were on his heel and had nearly slipped from view when Jaime's self control gave out. "Shall I summon a palanquin for you, my lord? To help you with the stairs."
It was Loras who reacted, much to Jaime's disappointment, wheeling around and marching toward him with a face growing redder by the second. His brother's hand on his shoulder stopped him, just out of Jaime's earshot, leaving him unable to hear whatever words the brothers shared that led Loras to leaving alongside Renly.
The sound of his cane tapping the cool, marble floor echoed throughout the hall and Jaime may have mocked Willas for his incredibly slow pace had he not quickly realized it was intentional. It took the boy nearly thrice the time to return to Jaime's side as it had taken him to leave it and Jaime couldn't deny that it had irritated him. What bothered him even more was that Willas seemed in no rush to return with a cruel jape of his own, either, but instead stood silent before him for so long Jaime nearly spoke out of turn, if only to fill the quiet. "Is it painful for you?" he finally asked, leaving Jaime to wonder what he meant. The silence? Standing guard while Robert demeaned his sister? His own leg? "It must be."
"I don't know your meaning, I'm afraid," he replied.
"It's not me you hate," said Willas, both his tone and his face remaining pleasant and cordial. "It's her you love, isn't it?" Jaime opened his mouth to dispute it, but Willas didn't offer an opportunity for rebuttal. "You think I don't know how you haunt her steps? That I don't see how often you force your paths to intertwine?"
"A wonder I've not heard the tapping of your cane with you following so close behind," remarked Jaime.
Willas smiled. "She could've been yours in another life," he said. A life where he had not joined the Kingsguard. As the heir to Casterly Rock, he could've had any woman he wanted. Had his father held out on marriage long enough and not forced that insipid Tully girl on him, it could've been Arya. "Tell me true, Ser Jaime, is that painful for you?" There wasn't an answer Jaime could give that didn't show his hand, but not responding at all had been a mistake. "Enjoy her time in King's Landing," the boy said. "Once she's gone, you'll never see her again."
As he watched Willas Tyrell go, slow and meticulous in every step, Jaime wondered what it would feel like to plunge his sword into a cripple's back.
"Ser Jorah," the boy greeted, as casual as Jorah had ever heard him before. But the boy's appearance was contradictory to his tone, dressed in full plate armor from his neck to his feet. It did not take Jorah long to notice Ser Arthur Dayne several feet behind him, dressed similarly in armor with a Targaryen crest in the center. His old Kingsguard armor, Jorah quickly realized. "Do your loyalties lie with the Targaryens or with the Dothraki? You were with them first."
Jorah glanced from Aegon to Arthur, unsure of what was happening. "My loyalties are with you, Your Grace," he said. "You and your aunt."
Aegon smiled. "You should keep your sword ready, then."
"Is this about Viserys?" asked Jorah, stopping Aegon before he could get too far away or grow too close to Drogo. He did not imagine the great Khal would respond favorably to being approached by a boy in full armor. "He's gone, Aegon. There's nothing to be gained for avenging him now."
"It's not about vengeance," said Aegon. "You asked me many moons ago why I am here. You'll have your answer shortly."
Daenerys looked surprised to see him, but her expression turned frantic when she noticed his armor. "Aegon," she whispered, grabbing him by the wrist with one hand while cradling her growing belly with the other. "What are you doing?" She looked back over her shoulder to see Drogo watching them, his eyes dark and foreboding. Drogo's bloodrider Qotho stepped forward, his arakh at the ready in case Aegon should try anything stupid. "Do not do this," Dany pleased. "You are the only family I have left in this world."
"Whose fault is that?"
He shrugged out of her grasp, stepping closer to Drogo, who sat atop his makeshift throne with a tall pile of decapitated, rotting heads beside him. Qotho put himself between the two men but Drogo called him back, speaking to Daenerys instead. His aunt leaned closer to him, her hands gripping his arm again as she translated. "He says he has already killed one T-"
"I understood him quite well," Aegon assured her. "Yeri vos jif ray drozhosh Viserys."
"What choice did he have?" demanded Daenerys, flinching when Drogo stood as well and she was stuck between her nephew and the much larger man. "What choice did I have?" Her hands found his face, pulling his eyes from Drogo and down to her. "You would leave me alone in this world?"
Aegon pulled her hand away, giving it a gentle squeeze before handing it to Ser Jorah, who pulled a protesting Daenerys out of the line of fire. "Anha vaddrivak yer," he told Drogo, who laughed at the threat. "Anha aqorasok khalasares yeri."
Jorah looked to Arthur, wondering if this had been his plan all along. Did he know from the first that Viserys would not last long? Had Aegon simply been biding his time until Drogo gave him a reason to do this? Had the boy only threatened to kill the Khal, Jorah may not have thought so, but to threaten to take his khalasar, as well? The time to ask was gone when Aegon drew his sword. Clearly amused by this, Drogo pulled his arakh, as well, glancing over his shoulder to share a joke at the boy's expense with his bloodriders.
A mistake, he soon realized, as Aegon plunged the tip of his sword neatly into Drogo's thigh, just below his waist. By the time the man could react, Aegon had already pulled the sword away, his eyes on Drogo's face as Drogo examined the blood now spouting out of his new wound like a fountain. The Khal did not seem nearly so amused now.
Daenerys wailed as Drogo staggered toward him, his arakh just narrowly missing Aegon's throat as he ducked beneath it. He dipped and ducked and dodged two dozen strikes from the Dothraki man, but returned with none of his own, always moving just out of his reach. It did not take Jorah long to understand his strategy. The mighty Khal was growing slower and paler by the second and the blood was still pouring out of his thigh. Only then did Aegon go on the offensive, knocking Drogo's arakh out of the way and cutting him across the arm and then the chest, circling the Khal like a vulture until his leg gave out from under him.
"Aegon," cried Daenerys, tearing pouring down her cheeks as she looked at her once mighty husband. It had taken little more than a nicked artery to bring him to his knees, and he was nearly as pale as Aegon now, his eyes unfocused as he stared out ahead of himself. "Please … please, don't kill him."
Aegon sheathed his bloody sword, walking behind the Khal's back as he pulled out his dagger now. "He's already dead," he told Daenerys, slashing his blade across Drogo's throat.
Several new blades were drawn the moment Drogo's body hit the dirt. Qotho, Cohollo and Haggo, Drogo's bloodriders, advanced on Aegon now and Arthur stepped forward to meet them. Jorah realized why the boy had told him to keep his sword ready; the bloodriders were sworn to their Khal, and now that he was dead, their only path forward was to avenge him and then join him. Jorah had no choice but to release Daenerys in favor of drawing her own longsword, and the little Khaleesi was on her nephew in an instant, tearing at his exposed skin with her nails and swinging tiny fists at every other part of him.
Aegon met her with a sharp elbow, knocking her back and to the ground so he could focus on the men with arakhs poised to kill him. The battle did not take long with Arthur and Jorah at his side and once the three bloodriders were dealt with, he knew the rest of the khalasar was his.
He had not expected Daenerys to still be on the ground when he turned around to deal with her, nor had he expected the blood now staining her inner thighs as her handmaidens fretted over top her.