"There's no need for priests or witnesses in the North," said Arya, having just listened to Tyrion describe wedding customs in the South to prepare her for her own. "The gods bear witness to any vows made before them and they see in your heart whether or not you're true."
"I shudder at the thought," Tyrion replied, smiling to himself as he saw Arya out of his peripheral arching her shoulders and arms to match one of the poses in her book. She was typically not one for reading but her interests had been piqued by an old tome on the fighting style of the legendary Ghiscari lockstep soldiers. A shame, he thought, that she'd been born a rather small woman instead of the knight she so clearly dreamt of being.
"What is it you fear they'll see in yours?"
There were a great many things he hoped to keep hidden from the gods, but it was thoughts of her, most recently, that he thought best kept to himself. Some thoughts were wholesome enough, but he feared his intentions for the girl grew less pure by the day. Her sister was a Tully at heart; she had adjusted well to the South and she was thriving at court. But Arya … Arya was all Ned and she fit in about as well as he did. The difference was that Ned Stark didn't care and his daughter could only pretend not to. She was lonely, though she'd never admit it, and he thought her a bit sad, as well. She wanted friends but she didn't know how to make the kind she should have and instead she found herself with naught but Lannisters and lowborns.
She was kinder to him than she had any right being. Surely even the old gods were not so cruel as to deny him his thoughts about a girl who always seemed so happy to see him. They would probably frown upon his whoring, though. A vice that had grown rampant under Arya Stark's care. Chataya's whores had grown so accustomed to his patronage in recent weeks he would likely beggar them when she left for Highgarden and his desires waned in her absence.
"I should reveal to you what I hide from the gods?"
Arya smiled at him over the top of her book. "I expect I'm more forgiving than any gods."
Of that, he had no doubt, but a subject change was still in order. "Have you learned anything?"
"I've learned that even the Ghiscari legions were no match for dragons," she lamented, closing the book and setting it aside. She knew that Old Ghis had been burnt to the ground but she had hoped for a better facilitator of destruction. What could any man do against dragons? "Do you think the gods caused the Doom of Valyria?"
"The Doom was no more than the eruption of the Fourteen Flames," he said. A natural calamity, as far as most were concerned. Septons had different ideas but he had never put much stock into the opinions of godly men. "You think otherwise?"
"They say the dragonlords of Valyria thought themselves more powerful than gods and they surely answered for it," said Arya. "You don't believe in them, do you?"
He didn't, but he wouldn't tell her so. Not when she made it so clear she did. "Tell me why you do."
"My father says the old gods have no power in the South where the heart trees have been cut down. In the godswood at Winterfell, I could feel them in my bones, in my blood I could feel them," she told him with more sincerity than he'd ever seen from her. "I can't feel them at all here."
Tyrion stood, setting his own book aside in favor of approaching her. He hesitated for a moment when she shifted uncomfortably in her chair, but he soon realized it was not his proximity that bothered her. She was as troubled as he suspected and she didn't want him to realize. His hand found the top of hers and she stared down at it as he spoke. "You want to go home," he stated. It wasn't a question.
"I don't belong here."
"No," he agreed. "You don't."
Arya looked from their hands up to him. "I fear I will spend the rest of my life out of place," she admitted. "My sister belonged in Winterfell and she belongs here too. She'd belong in Highgarden, as well. But I won't." Arya looked a fool in a dress, with her hair done and a stain upon her lips. She could hear the ladies of court laughing at her whenever her father forced her to dress like them. The laughter would follow her to Highgarden too. They would whisper of the misfortune of poor Willas Tyrell, speculating upon how such a handsome and charming lord could find himself with such a hideous little beast of a wife.
Tyrion watched as her jaw set and her eyes grew glassy. He wondered what was going on inside her head. "It is not often Sansa finds herself out of place," he agreed. "A trait she and I share." Arya's lips twitched as she threatened a smile. "I will never be one of them. You will never be one of them. Your father will never be one of them either, and you love him for that. Don't you?" Arya nodded. Her father was the best man she knew, far better than anyone in the South. "Try to look at yourself with the same eyes you look at him. You may find yourself less concerned with the ladies of court."
"I'm not my father," argued Arya.
"Yes, you are, just as I am mine," he replied. "Now come, and let us see what remedy I can procure for homesickness."
All his brilliance had led them to the stables, to where he knew the wolves resided. She had not told him so, but he had heard tales. None of the stories could have prepared him for the actual sight of the beasts. They'd been no more than pups when last he'd seen them at Winterfell, but they were growing quickly. They were each the size of small horses, but one of them stood a full head higher than the other. But it was not their height that terrified him so - he was used to things being much taller than he was. It was their paws that caused him alarm; awkwardly large for the legs they were attached to, they indicated to Tyrion that the direwolves were nowhere near finished growing.
He began to question his own sanity when their stall was opened and they burst out with such sudden strength and ferocity he was nearly knocked from his own feet. But then he heard her laughing as they swarmed her, a sound he'd never heard before, and dancing so close to death by trampling felt worth it. "Come here," she called to him.
Tyrion may have considered rejecting her had he not been afraid to look the coward. He was a lion, after all. Lions were meant to be brave, even the little ones. He sidestepped in her direction, trying to give the smaller of the two beasts a wide berth so it would not mistake his intention. When he grew near enough, Arya grabbed his hand, lacing her fingers with his and holding it up in the air. Tyrion winced, holding his eyes shut as he felt a wolf's snout huffing and puffing the air above his knuckles but an alarmingly large tongue dragged across them. "I see you're feeling better," he grumbled when he heard Arya laughing again.
"Definitely," she confirmed, trailing behind him with a big smile on her face as he led her to their final destination.
Tyrion suspected he wasn't necessarily allowed to let two massive direwolves into the godswood, but there were only two men who could tell him no and one was in Casterly Rock and the other in the kingswood for a hunt. "I don't imagine there's much for them to hunt here," said Tyrion. But at least they would have more freedom to run than they'd had since arriving in King's Landing.
"There's animals everywhere," Arya replied. The birds and squirrels in the trees, the rabbits and foxes in the bushes. The godswood was filled with little creatures and she could hear them all. The fluttering of feathered wings, the rustling of leaves, soft, padded feet treading across the dirt. "Can't you hear them?"
Tyrion had heard a bird chirping a few minutes ago, but nothing since. "No."
She could even smell them. Earthy and soft, wood and fur. When Nymeria lunged and caught a rabbit in her teeth, Arya found she could taste them, too.
The blade sang as it swung over her head.
She dipped below it and moved past him, throwing a sharp elbow back and into his spine as she went. He grunted in pain, but she only had a moment to feel smug before his fingers tangled into her hair and he yanked her back against his chest, bringing his practice sword to her throat. "Dead," said Jaime, his breath hot against her ear. She threw a second elbow back, this time catching him in the gut. He released her with a laugh, smiling while she fumed. "Cut your hair," he suggested. "That may have worked better."
"Again," commanded Arya, gesturing impatiently for him to raise his sword.
She had improved considerably from when she had first arrived in King's Landing. The Braavosi waterdance suited her much better than whatever she had learned in the North. She wasn't big enough to be a scrapper, and his own style relied too heavily on strength. But she was quick now, and her movements were fluid. Every step was planned and calculated, every swing of her swords was thought out. She had not, admittedly, managed a win yet, but she was taking much longer to lose. They had been at it for hours and it usually took several minutes for him to land a killing blow. "Aren't you tired yet?"
She answered with a sword, swinging it at his middle and forcing him to lift his own to block it. Her attacks were relentless; she had a sword in either hand and she used them equally well, aiming strikes at his arms, his legs, his head, each in such quick succession that he was forced to stay mostly on the defensive. She put so little power into every strike that he could scarcely counter them. Each time he parried, she had already pulled away and struck elsewhere.
It was several minutes of this before he could go on the offensive, and even then, he fared little better. It was difficult to hit such a small target, especially when said target could duck so easily under strikes that would cut grown men in half. She dipped below another strike, moving past him again, but this time she swung her sword into the back of his knee, taking his leg out from under him.
He landed flat on his back in the dirt, and found himself staring up at the tip of a sword hovering a few inches from his eye. "Do you yield?"
"Sure," he said. "I yield."
The sword was gone, discarded to the dirt, and he was left with naught but a girl standing above him, looking happier than he thought he'd ever seen anyone. He watched her run her hands through her hair before she couldn't hold it in any longer and let out a squeal, spinning and bouncing around gleefully. Jaime caught her by the ankle and pulled, sending her toppling into the dirt beside him. He expected her to swing at him, maybe kick him in the ribs, but when he looked at her laying beside him in the dirt, she was still beaming.
He wasn't sure why she was so happy. Anyone could beat anyone once in a hundred tries, but oddly enough, he didn't want to take the victory from her, no matter how hollow it was. "You did good," he conceded.
He felt her response instead of hearing it. She practically lunged for him, throwing her arms around him and burying her face in the crook of his neck. She pulled away as quickly as she had embraced him, but she didn't go too far. "Thank you," she said, smiling down at him.
He had thought her ugly in Winterfell; she was too skinny, her face too long, her eyes too wide and too dull. She should have been even uglier to him now. She was covered in dirt and sweat, her hair was slick and stuck to her forehead and cheeks in patches. She wasn't beautiful, not by any means. Not like Cersei. He knew it in his head, but something in his chest did not quite agree. He felt himself moving closer, his lips searching for hers, and she froze, her smile falling. But she didn't pull away, not when his hand lifted to rest against her flushed and sweaty cheek. Not when he propped himself up upon an elbow and his nose brushed against hers. Not when his thumb caressed the length of her cheek and brushed across the fullness of her bottom lip.
It was only when he could hear the sound of footsteps approaching that she removed herself from him, falling back and stumbling awkwardly to her feet while Jaime remained where he was on the ground. Jaime watched her as she fumbled while picking up her swords, looking anywhere but in his direction.
"Ser Jaime," he heard the call, frantic and panicked, but he did his best to ignore it anyway. His cousin Lancel seemed to find most things worth panicking over, and Jaime seldom agreed. "Ser Jaime," he repeated. "It's the King."
The news of Robert's wounds spread through the castle quickly. They said a boar had struck him through the middle and that all his intestines poured out of his belly like worms. Arya knew better than to ask her father if it were true. "When the king dies, will we go home?" she asked him. She hadn't meant for it to sound so cruel; she had no love for Robert Baratheon, but she didn't wish him dead. All she wanted was for her mother and father to be together again, and to spend the next few months with her brothers in her home.
"Robert is not yet dead," her father answered, leading her through the halls and back to the Hand's chambers where she belonged. "The gods may spare him. If not … his boy is yet a child. He may name me regent in his stead until Joffrey comes of age."
Arya tried her best not to look disappointed. A figure in the near distance caught her attention and she was surprised to find Renly Baratheon standing outside their chambers, with Willas and Loras Tyrell at his side. "Lord Stark," called Renly upon seeing them approach, taking a step forward and then a step back, taut as a bowstring. "A moment? Alone, if you will." He glanced toward the Stark guards behind them. Ned gestured for them to go, to take Arya the rest of the way to her room. "I would rather your daughter stay."
"You have business with my daughter?" asked Ned, looking past Renly and to Willas instead.
"Not with Arya," Renly amended. "But it may concern her and we thought it best she were here to hear it." Her father regarded all three men coldly, suspecting a conversation he would not like ahead of him. "Robert has named you protector of the realm, if you haven't heard." Ned certainly had. "Cersei won't care. Willas has a hundred men in his personal guard and I have thirty, and other friends besides, knights and lords. Give me an hour and I can put two hundred swords at your command."
"And what should I do with two hundred swords, my lord?"
"Strike! Now, while the castle sleeps." Renly looked over Ned's shoulder and dropped his voice to an urgent whisper. "We must get Joffrey away from his mother and take him in hand. Protector or no, the man who holds the king holds the kingdom. We should seize Myrcella and Tommen as well. Once we have her children, Cersei will not dare oppose us. The council will confirm you as Lord Protector and make Joffrey your ward."
"You would have me dishonor Robert's last hours on earth by shedding blood in his halls and dragging frightened children from their beds?"
Renly ran a hand through his hair, looking more frantic than Ned had ever seen him. It was Willas who stepped forward now. "Lord Stark, you find me an honorable enough man to trust me with your daughter. I know that what we suggest sounds like treason, but when the king is dead, all power in this realm goes to his boy and the queen mother. A piece of paper declaring you Lord Protector will mean nothing to them."
"You know as well as I do, as well as Robert does, that boy will not make a good king." Ned knew it well. He also knew that boy was not Robert's trueborn son. "What's best for the kingdoms? What's best for the people we rule? Cersei Lannister and that demented half wit she calls a son?" Renly seemed poised to continue, to offer a better candidate, but Willas put a hand on his arm to cut him off short.
Ned swallowed, glancing down at Arya, who was staring up at him as she awaited a reaction. He wasn't entirely sure how to respond. To steal frightened children away from their bed, regardless of who their father was, was not something Ned Stark could or would ever do. But he could not deny that he wanted Joffrey to sit the throne even less than Renly. "If you will not strike," said Willas. "We would do well to leave."
"I will not tuck tail and run-"
"For your honor you would stay," Willas cut him off. "It's for your daughters you should go. Highgarden is no more than a week's ride from the city and once we're there, Arya and I will be married and so will Renly and Margaery and then we can make our move."
"It will be the Stormlands, the Reach, and the North," said Renly. "With the Riverlands and the Vale likely to join. The Dornish are no friends of Tywin Lannister and the Greyjoys will not move against you while you hold the heir as your ward. We could cut off their food supply and starve them out. There would be no need for unnecessary bloodshed and we could crown a good king, a just king."
"It must be Stannis," declared Ned. He had already written to the man to proclaim him Robert's heir. Stannis was a hard man, but he was a good man and just to a fault, some said.
"We must leave the city before Robert dies," Willas spoke before Renly had the chance. "Every moment we wait is another moment Cersei has to prepare. This city is only safe for as long as the king yet lives. They will kill you, Lord Stark, and what do you think they'll do to your daughters once you're gone? Is your honor worth their lives?"
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