They sailed along the Mander for several more days, marched a few more, before finally sailing into King's Landing. The first time they came to the capital, they had come along the King's Road. The Red Keep was much more formidable from the depths of Blackwater Rush. Even worse, it was very easy to spot a ship sailing into your harbor, and there were several golden heads of hair waiting for them at the port. Even from a distance, Arya could spot Loras Tyrell among them. He looked less shiny than he had at her father's tournament, but he was certainly alive.

Sansa had realized several days earlier what was happening. She learned things rather slowly, but she did learn them. She was holding back tears best she could as the sight of House Lannister came into view, but they were streaming down her cheeks all the same. Arya felt a different urge entirely as she felt the eldest Tyrell step up beside her. "The day will come when you regret this," she told him.

"I already regret it, Arya," replied Willas. His voice was as even tempered as it always was, despite the situation they found themselves in. He was sailing into the lion's den and still his face was impassive. Arya wondered if he truly felt nothing, or if he had learned to hide it in a way that she would never be able. "This isn't what I wanted, this is what it had to be."

"I'll tell you the same when the day comes," she assured him before stepping back further into the ship. There was no avoiding their destination, but that didn't mean she had to stand there and watch as it grew closer.

The younger Stark sister was in shambles as she was helped off the ship, her face red and splotchy and her cheeks damp. Arya's hand found her sister's quickly, steadying her as best she could. They would make a united front into King's Landing, though they had never looked less alike. Arya was all Stark, and Sansa was every inch her mother.

Arya appeared considerably less moved than her sister. Mostly she just looked mutinous, as if she wanted nothing more than to hurl each and every Tyrell overboard to see how well they could swim. His hand flexed instinctively at the sight of her, hovering over his ribcage.

The wound she'd given him had healed. Or at least as well as a wound from a Valyrian dagger could. He'd bear that scar for the rest of his years and he would think of her every time he saw it. It seemed to make Cersei think of her, as well. He suspected that was why she hadn't asked to see him since that day. To Jaime's surprise, he'd not missed his visits to her bed chambers.

He felt himself moving closer as she stepped onto the dock, the cripple close behind her. He was too far away to hear anything they might say to one another, and he wanted to hear every last syllable. It was a wonder how they had gone from what they were when last he saw them to how they were now. The boy had loved her, he knew he had, but he had betrayed her all the same. What had changed in the months since he'd seen them last?

But she didn't seem to care about Willas Tyrell. Her eyes had landed on Sandor Clegane instead, on the way he seemed to favor one leg over the other, and she smiled. Her eyes searched for him next, hoping to find him as damaged as the Hound.

She seemed disappointed to find him whole, but not so disappointed she needed to avert her gaze. In fact, she seemed quite content to stare at him. A look in her eyes as if he had been the one to betray her instead of Willas Tyrell. Her attention was only stolen from him when his brother approached her. "Lady Stark," he greeted. She appeared less sure of how she felt about him, her eyes darting warily between Tyrion and the pin on his chest. The pin that had been her father's not so long ago. "Shall I escort you into the castle?"

"That hardly seems wise," Cersei said, observing the pair just as closely as he was. "You've seen what that little beast can do with a blade. What do you expect she'll do to a man of your stature?"

Tyrion turned his gaze from Cersei to Arya. "I'll take my chances," he said. "With both of them," he added, beckoning Sansa to follow.

"The King and his betrothed have many things to discuss," his sister interrupted, halting the younger Stark girl with no more than a glance. Tyrion looked as if he just might try to contest her on that. "Be grateful I'm letting you take that one."

Deciding to take a win where he could, Tyrion glanced at Arya again before walking away, expecting her to follow. What annoyed Jaime the most, out of everything, was that she did. She didn't hate Tyrion, not like she hated him. His little brother had somehow managed to weasel his way out of that one, despite being the one to have orchestrated the entire damn thing. The Tyrells had refused to even receive the envoy Cersei sent to Highgarden. Oh, but they had received Tyrion's.

Jaime wondered distantly if his brother would tell her the truth. If he would openly admit that he was the reason she was back in King's Landing. Likely not , he thought. Not for as long as the Stark girl favored him.

Her eyes were on him again as they passed by. Or rather, on the dagger at his hip. Her dagger. He could still remember the first time he saw her with it, her hands cut to shreds after protecting her brother from an assassin, and yet she had been practicing. Every hurt is a lesson , he could hear her telling him. And every lesson makes you better. He wondered if she still believed that.

And then she spoke. Her first words since arriving in King's Landing, and they were just for him. "Someday I'm going to shove that through your eye and out the back of your skull," she promised, her eyes flashing from the dagger up to his.

"Why wait?" he heard himself asking. He pulled her dagger from its sheath, and handed it towards her, hilt first.

"Jaime-" his brother protested, undoubtedly giving him the most disapproving look he could manage. Jaime didn't particularly care, and neither, apparently, did Arya. She lunged for it, desperate and angry, but he had expected this and moved it quickly out of her reach with a laugh.

That didn't deter her in the slightest. Instead she grabbed the hilt of his sword, getting it nearly halfway out of its sheath before Bronn had her three feet up in the air, doing what little he could to keep her there without hurting her as she kicked and flailed against him. There you are , Jaime thought. This was Arya Stark, not the calm, quiet girl that had stepped off the boat.

"Let me go!" she all but snarled, throwing her elbow up and back, straight into the sellsword's temple. Cursing, he dropped her, but caught her again before she could get too far. Jaime could hear Tyrion urging him to take her away, to get her as far from the source of her anger as possible, to get her away from him . "I'll kill him," he heard her say. He smiled as he watched them go, ignoring the tightness in his chest. "I'll kill him, let me-"

It was no easy thing to climb the many steps up to the Tower of the Hand. It was considerably more difficult when carrying a screaming, manic girl who had not stopped since they'd left the docks. She kicked against the walls, hurling Bronn backwards into the opposite. She threw her head back into his, leaving him with a bloody nose and split lip. Her nails tore into what little exposed skin he had. Had it been any other girl in Westeros, Bronn may have thrown her out one of the windows on the way up. As it were, he was thrilled to finally toss her to the ground in the Hand's chambers.

"That will be all," Tyrion murmured, dismissing him. Bronn gave him a look. The girl was clearly mental. Even now, she raged through his room, grabbing a pitcher of wine and hurling it at them. Bronn ducked, letting it shatter into the wall behind him as she moved to flip over his breakfast table next. "Go," he insisted.

Even without Bronn's presence, she did not calm. Perhaps, he thought, bringing her to Father's old chambers had not been the wisest step to pacify her. She continued her path of destruction until there seemed to be little left for her to destroy. Still, she was not satisfied, and instead turned her fury onto the very castle walls, hitting them again and again and again until the stones were stained red with her own blood.

Strength seeming to finally fail her, Tyrion watched as she slid down to the ground, her body concealed by an overturned armchair. He couldn't see her, but he could hear her. Her tiny, sharp gasps for air called to him and, against his better judgments, he followed them.

Her hands were slick with blood and they covered her face as she sat in the corner of his room, her body curled up as small as she could make it. She flinched as she heard him approach, quickly kicking the overturned armchair in his direction and Tyrion knew better than to approach her again.

She didn't react when the doors to the Hand's chambers opened. Perhaps she'd been expecting his brother, perhaps she didn't care who entered at that point. Jaime was surprised to see Tyrion's chambers in such a state, though he'd heard rumors of her tantrum. "Not going to try to kill me today?" he called out to her. She glanced away from her spot by the balcony, staring at him for only the briefest moment, before going back to overlooking the city below. Disappointed by her lack of response, Jaime sighed. "Come," he commanded.

"Why?" was all she asked.

"This isn't your home anymore," said Jaime, though he was certain Tyrion would've liked it to be.

Arya let out a heavy sigh. She felt tired. She felt weak. She felt hopeless. It wasn't a feeling she'd experienced before in her lifetime, and it wasn't one she particularly liked, but what could she do? What hope did she have? The world had been at her fingertips not long ago, but she had nothing now. She had no one, save for a sister she hadn't seen in days. She didn't even know if Sansa was alive. She didn't know if it would be more merciful if she were already dead. She pushed to her feet and brushed past Jaime as she left her former home in King's Landing behind.

She didn't make it far before he grabbed her sharply by the shoulder, bringing her to a stop and grabbing her by the hand. He scanned her split and angry red knuckles with a grimace, her hand trembling within his from the pain of even the gentlest touch. She had not allowed Tyrion to tend to the wounds and they had festered, the few knuckles she had broken already growing misshapen. "Are you trying to die here?"

She ripped her hand from his, gasping sharply when his thumb grazed painfully over one of her knuckles. "I can handle more than a few bruised knuckles," she stated.

"But not much more," he said. "You're a little girl, not a battle hardened warrior." He grabbed her hand again, this time more forcefully, refusing to let go even when she squirmed in pain. He held her hand up between them, her scars from the assassin back in Winterfell still on display alongside the fresh wounds of her knuckles. She could scarcely recognize her hands anymore from the ones she'd used to climb the castle walls with Bran. "If you keep getting hurt like this, it's going to kill you."

"And what should I live for?" she asked. "To serve as a pawn to bring the North to its knees? To be traded like a broodmare for my claim to Winterfell? Let me die then, and you can bury me with what's left of your honor."

"Honor," he repeated with a mirthless laugh. "And whose honor should I aspire to? Your father's?"

"My father is the most honorable and just man in Westeros," said Arya.

"He is," Jaime agreed. "Ned Stark means everything he says and he thinks everyone else does too. That's why you're here. Your father gave you to his enemies without so much as a fight. If your father were a less honorable man, you'd be safe in the Riverlands alongside him. You'd all be in Winterfell with no war looming outside your gates."

Arya glared at his chestplate, her eyes burning with tears she couldn't quite explain, her jaw clenched tightly as she refused to let it tremble. She wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, to tell him to shut up, but she knew if she tried to speak the floodgates would open.

Jaime dropped her hand and grabbed her by the jaw instead, forcing her to look up at him. "Stop searching for your father in other men," he warned. "You will not find him. Did you not learn that from your cripple?"

A tear formed in the corner of her eye, surprising him. He watched as it pooled up for a long moment before making its journey down her cheek and to her chin where his fingers still resided. He loosened his grip on her jaw, wondering if he'd been hurting her. He watched as a second tear formed, then another, his brow furrowing as he realized he certainly had, but not in the way he'd suspected.

His hands moved hesitantly, unsure of themselves as they cupped her cheeks, his thumbs brushing lightly against the corners of her eyes where tears were still threatening to fall, his brow still furrowed all the while. It felt foreign to him, unnatural, but it was also exactly what he wanted to do in that moment. "If you die now, you die friendless and abandoned," he told her softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Weak and defeated." She closed her eyes as his thumbs brushed away the teardrops that still clung to her eyelashes. "What choice does that leave you but to live?"