Arya picked absently at the bandages wrapped around her knuckles. It had taken Tyrion time to wear her down, but he'd been determined, and she'd finally conceded to allow him to see to her wounds. They hurt considerably less now, and the persistent, dull ache was easy enough to ignore. She was grateful for the distraction truthfully, as it gave her something to do aside from engaging with her current company.

They were out in the gardens, surrounded by beautiful flowers and trays of cakes and tea, but the tension among them was suffocating. Cersei, Margaery, Sansa, Myrcella, Arya and Joffrey's new betrothed, now that Sansa had been set aside, had little in common and little to discuss as far as Arya was concerned.

Maids had set upon her early in the morning and they'd spent hours trying to make her look presentable, but Arya knew she still appeared out of place with cheeks and lips stained red from berries. She could only imagine how Robb, Jon, and Theon may have teased her if they could see. The thought alone was enough to bring a small smile to her lips as she remembered how much warmer life had been when they'd all been together. It was thoughts like these that forced her to keep moving, knowing deep down in her heart, one day she would live days like this again.

"Is there something funny?" The sharp voice was enough to drag Arya out of her head as she glanced up to see a table of expectant women staring at her, Sansa's eyes nearly bulging out of her head as some sort of warning.

Arya pursed her lips, feeling annoyed, and shifted her gaze to Cersei. "In present company, I imagine not," she replied.

"I certainly agree, Arya," said Margaery Tyrell, not missing a beat and speaking before Cersei had the chance to escalate the situation. "It would be positively sinful to speak of anything frivolous with a wedding approaching so quickly. Are you feeling nervous?" she asked Daenerys, placing a hand gently atop the blonde girl's arm. "Although after a Dothraki wedding, I imagine this will be a rather dull affair."

It was effortless, Arya thought, watching as Margaery engaged with a table full of women who despised her and each other without ever faltering for a moment. She was just like her brother and Arya was torn between admiration and resentment. Would she have been capable of the same had she spent enough time in Highgarden, or was it some innate skill the Tyrells had been born with?

"It's said that a Dothraki wedding without at least three deaths is quite boring," replied Daenerys, a smile upon her lips that was little more than exposed teeth. There was no warmth in the girl's eyes and while she was playing along with Margaery's game, it was clear she wasn't quite as skillful.

Margaery gasped as if it were the most positively delightful information she'd ever learnt, but Arya was quick to speak before she had the chance, raising her cup of tea as if it were a mug of beer. "Then I pray your wedding altar float in a sea of blood," she said. "It will be a wedding spoken of for centuries to come."

"And isn't that what we all strive for?" asked Margaery. "Legacy."

Arya rolled her eyes, sliding down into her seat as it became abundantly clear Margaery would not let her send things awry. "To have songs written about you," Sansa sighed wistfully. "Like Florian and Jonquil!"

Arya's eyes settled on her sister now, watching as she smiled and it looked nearly sincere. Her hand was confident and didn't look at all out of place as she placed it on Daenerys's, earning what appeared to be a real smile from the Targaryen girl as they discussed something too inane for Arya to try to follow. It appeared that the Tyrell skillset was something learned after all, and while Sansa was yet a novice, it seemed likely she would one day have the same social graces as Margaery.

Arya's jaw clenched with thinly veiled envy as she glanced away from the pair and back to her bandaged knuckles.

Arya's emotions were never more conflicted than when she spent time with Tyrion. He was the kindest to her of anyone in the Red Keep, with little competition, and granted her much more freedom than she was allowed absent his presence. And yet … there was an odd feeling brewing in the pit of her belly every time he spoke to her. He had little time to speak to her on this particular day, his chambers in constant rotation with different visitors.

First had been Lord Baelish and Arya paid their conversation little mind as she flipped through the assortment of books Tyrion had provided for her. She had never been particularly fond of the man and he didn't seem any more interested in her than she was in him. However, she found herself growing more interested in the conversations taking place when Lord Varys entered the room and was told something completely different than Lord Baelish had been told not ten minutes before.

It was when Grand Maester Pycelle entered the chambers and received conflicting information again that Arya finally set her book aside to give the Lannister her undivided attention. "Why did you lie to them?" she asked Tyrion after Pycelle had left the Hand's chambers.

Tyrion glanced at her, surprised to see she'd been listening and even more so that she wished to talk to him about it. Arya had not been quick to warm to him after her return to King's Landing and getting her to speak was not an easy feat. "One of them is feeding information to Cersei," he informed her, too pleased with the chance to interact with her to consider if he ought to tell her this. "This should reveal who it is."

"You're much cleverer than I am," she murmured, fearing the same could be said of all of her enemies.

"But my hair looks terrible in plaits," he replied, his fingers absentmindedly grabbing one of hers as he walked past where she was sitting to find a letter he was in need of.

Arya's eyes followed him. "Did you tell any of them the truth?"

"Truth is … circumstantial," he answered, waving his hand dismissively.

"Tyrion," she said firmly, causing the man to pause in sorting through his assortment of letters to look at her. "Are you the reason I'm here?" Tyrion's brow furrowed, a joke about Cersei being unlikely to send her to his chambers on the tip of his tongue, though he knew very well that wasn't what she meant. "In Highgarden, they never spoke of Cersei. Only of you. Did you make the trade for Loras Tyrell?"

He hesitated for a moment, just the briefest respite, his brain circulating through a thousand different lies he might tell, before conceding. "Yes."

She watched him carefully, waiting for him to blunder on with different excuses, but he didn't. He was quiet, waiting to follow her lead. She considered for a moment if she should ask him if his terms had always been for her and Sansa, or if her father's head had also been part of the negotiations, but she quickly thought better of it. "I see," she said instead, breaking eye contact and sitting back in her chair.

"That's the end of that conversation, is it?" asked Tyrion, sounding rather amused as he moved to stand in front of her again. She tried to meet his eye again, to remain stoic and impassive, like Willas, like Margaery, like Sansa. "You aren't a very good liar, Arya."

She let her facade drop, giving him exactly the kind of look she wanted. "You want the North," she said.

"My father–"

" You want the North," she insisted. "You could've had my father just as easily as you have me. But killing my father would do little to end your war with the North, and you know northerners would never accept a southron lord even if you managed to kill Robb as well. You need a Stark, don't you? A stupid, little girl easily plied with kind words and books who will give the North on a silver platter to whichever Lannister lord she marries." She smiled now, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "It'll be you, won't it? That's why I'm in here with you now, isn't it?"

"Yes," he answered.

Arya nodded, her smile wilting into something more honest. Tyrion reached a hand out to her but she jerked sharply away, fleeing him and the Hand's chambers as quickly as her legs would allow.

House Tyrell coming into the fold felt like the final nail in Ned Stark's coffin, at least from where Tyrion Lannister stood. The tides had finally shifted in their favor and they now possessed the overwhelmingly larger army. Even Dorne had pledged her allegiance shortly after the Targaryens landed in Westeros.

And the armies were but a pale shade of threat when compared with the three dragons that the pair allegedly possessed. Tyrion had not seen them himself, admittedly, but the rumor of their existence had spread through Westeros like wildfire. Oftentimes fear alone was enough to squash a rebellion. He had learned that much from his father.

Lord Tywin Lannister, however, was not a man who could be menaced by rumor. His only interest had been in the recapturing of the Stark sisters, and he had wasted little time in sending a letter with his explicit instructions for the girls. If Ned Stark would not bend the knee in exchange for his daughters' lives, the girls were to be married within a fortnight. The eldest to Tyrion and the younger to Willas Tyrell.

Arya Stark was being dangled right in front of his nose, but he feared should he reach out to grab her, she would be lost to him forever. It'll be you, won't it? Had her contempt stemmed from betrayal or repulsion?

"Might see if you can trade," suggested Bronn, picking at his nails with a dagger, his dirty boots resting upon the table. "Younger one's more stable. Prettier, too," he added, glancing around the Hand's chambers to see the destruction Arya had left in her wake. Tyrion hadn't had the time to clean things up just yet. "Didn't you tell the Tyrell boy he'd still marry the crazy one?"

"Arya's the heir," said Tyrion, deciding it was best to ignore the rest. Objectively, Bronn was … not exactly wrong, about any of it. Sansa was more stable, and objectively prettier. He had, also, most certainly guaranteed Willas Tyrell that his engagement to Arya Stark would hold. But he had promised that at a time when the pair had still planned to wed. How could he be expected to uphold an arrangement that the boy himself couldn't maintain? "Or she will be if my father manages to kill all of her brothers. He won't give the North to the Tyrells."

"How many brothers does she have?"

"Four," said Tyrion. "if you count the bastard. Three who matter. Robb Stark should be easy enough to kill now that he's south of the Neck, but the little ones will be trickier. No one wants to invade the North."

"Certainly not by land," a new voice agreed. Tyrion watched as Aegon Targaryen wandered into his chambers, his hands clasped behind his back. Tyrion shifted uncomfortably in his seat at the sight of the boy; he always left Tyrion feeling rather unsettled, but he was the newly appointed Master of Ships and Tyrion had called a small council meeting. "Are we invading Winterfell?"

"That depends," Tyrion answered, watching as Bronn made his swift exit and Aegon filled his empty seat. "Are we ready to invade by air?"

The boy smiled at that. "Not for a few more years, I'm afraid," he said. "But I expect ships ought to suffice if we sent them to Deepwood Motte."

Certainly they would, thought Tyrion. There would be little more than the Wolfswood to traverse before reaching Winterfell if they landed there. "You've thought about this before," he said, flipping open his book to a page with a map of Westeros. It was small, and only major ports and cities were listed, but it was something.

Aegon placed a finger on Lannisport, sliding it up to Deepwood Motte. "This is the most direct path you have available to you. You might run into a bit of trouble with the Iron Islands, but a raven or two may serve to clear your path. Of course, the Golden Company is at your disposal if need be." He moved his finger again, landing on King's Landing. "While they're sailing North, I'll take the Dothraki up the King's Road towards the Neck. We'll be loud, let them know we're coming. The Northerners will think I mean to attack Moat Cailin and send every available man to defend it. That ought to make Winterfell a bit easier to take and we should avoid heavy casualties on either side."

"I hadn't expected you to worry about Northern casualties," admitted Tyrion. It had been the Starks and Baratheons, after all, that had started the rebellion that deposed his family.

"It's easier to sue for peace with people you've left whole," said Aegon. "And that is what we want, isn't it?"

Tyrion had been so focused on the Targaryen boy he hadn't heard the other members of the small council filing in. Lord Varys and Littlefinger arrived first, followed by the new Master of Laws, Mace Tyrell, then Grand Maester Pycelle, and finally his brother, sister, and nephew. There was little good to be said of his nephew's rule thus far, but the boy was certainly more involved in his ruling than his predecessor had been. "Why are we here?" Joffrey asked as soon as everyone was seated.

"We're to decide what to do with our prisoners," said Cersei. Either she was a very good guesser or she had received a letter from their father, as well. "Have you sent the terms for surrender to Lord Stark?"

Petyr Baelish spoke before Tyrion ever had the chance. "They'll be rejected," he assured the group. "You know what they say about Starks. Quick tempers, slow minds."

A few grumbles of agreement wafted through his chambers. Tyrion grabbed the letter from his father, rolling it between his fingers. "Regardless, we have plans moving forward should he reject them," he said.

Cersei didn't hesitate in snatching the letter out of his hands, scanning its contents and scoffing before handing it off to Jaime. Tyrion watched as his brother read it as well, but looked away before Jaime could meet his eye. Mace Tyrell scrambled to try to reach the letter next but Jaime had it crumpled into a ball before he could manage. "What does it say?" demanded Joffrey, looking very irritated that he had not been the first to see the letter.

"It says your uncle is to marry Arya Stark," Jaime said before clenching his jaw tightly together to stop himself from saying more. Tyrion swore he could see the Targaryen boy smiling in his peripheral, but by the time he turned to look, the smile was gone.

"The older one was meant to-"

"Willas will marry Sansa," interrupted Tyrion.

"But he was meant to-"

"I expect Arya would slit your son's throat while he slept," Tyrion explained calmly, almost grateful to have Mace Tyrell to focus on as it gave him a reason to avoid Jaime. "There would be little benefit to the union if she killed him before he could put an heir in her. Sansa will be more manageable."

Mace looked decidedly displeased, but said nothing further as he sat back in his chair. With no further distractions, Tyrion's gaze drifted back to the familiar green eyes across from him. "You think she won't do the same to you?" his brother asked.

At night, she dreamt she was a wolf, running through the Riverlands to the sound of thousands of marching feet.

But they weren't dreams, they couldn't be. She could taste the rabbits she caught, she could feel it when Grey Wind and Lady nipped at her ears. It had to be real, as real as it had been when they had escaped King's Landing, but it only ever lasted so long as she slept. It felt so easy to slip into Nymeria's head when she was asleep, like pulling on a glove, but she could never find her again upon waking.

Instead she focused on the rats, the ones that came in and out of her room in the night, their little feet pitter pattering across the stone floor. They seemed to grow louder with each passing night in the castle and she began to anticipate their scurrying, almost as if awaiting the arrival of friends. Sometimes she followed them, too, down deep into their little holes in the walls. They were the closest thing she had to friends in the castle, and they were often her only visitors, save for the Grand Maester, who stopped by on occasion to check the state of her knuckles.

She always received him as graciously as she could, most often by hurling things at him until he fled. Her bandages were in desperate need of changing - they grew more sore by the day, but she'd rather die from infected knuckles than accept help from anyone in King's Landing. She was surprised to hear her door opening again, as she'd just scared him off no more than an hour before, but she was quick to lunge across her bed and scoop up a wooden bowl, cocking it back and preparing to throw it when the old man stepped inside.

But it was not an old man who stepped inside her chambers, and the woman's presence alone was enough to make her drop the bowl. "Ever the little beast , aren't you," she drawled, disgust etched into her regal features. Arya was surprised to see the door close behind her, leaving the pair alone absent any of the queen's guards. Perhaps Cersei felt confident enough that the consequences for harming the queen would be enough to deter her from acting.

"Have you come to play bed nurse?"

Cersei's lips curled into what almost appeared to be a smile. She was happy, Arya realized, far too happy to be goaded. Arya's stomach plummeted at the thought of what could have her so pleased. A defeat for the Northern army? Her father's head on a spike? Had Winterfell fallen? "He does like a bit of the back and forth, doesn't he?" said the queen. "He'd never fall for a pretty, dimwitted girl like your sister. I expect you liked that about him."

"Quite a long way for you to walk just to talk about Jaime," observed Arya. She'd have called him Kingslayer or something worse had it been anyone else, but the familiarity of his name had turned Cersei's smile sour.

"He'd have made you a fine husband. Better than you deserve certainly. Loyalty isn't something most men understand ... but he does. To a fault, some might say." Her smile was back in full bloom now, though Arya hadn't a clue why. "And the Tyrell boy … handsome and kind, isn't he? To be Lady of Highgarden ... a marriage any young maid might dream of." Cersei struggled to control her smile now, to conceal it and put on a serious face, but she succumbed to giggles quickly, sounding like one of the young maids she spoke of. "In the end, we do get what we deserve, don't we? A beast for a beast."

Arya Stark was a great many things, but slow was not one of them. It appeared that her future nuptials with Tyrion were no longer a secret, and Cersei Lannister was watching her for any hint of a reaction to the news. "Was he angry?" she wondered. "When he heard."

Malicious glee made way for surprise. "Why should he be? Ugly, little thing that you are, you're still better than he deserves."

"I meant Jaime," said Arya. "He must've been angry. That's why you're here, isn't it? I nearly killed him and yet, he still … hoped for something, didn't he? Something that wasn't you." Arya wanted to smile, to show the same cruelty Cersei had, but she couldn't. "If only he hadn't joined the Kingsguard, it would've been him. He'd have left you behind and gone to Casterly Rock. He could have been happy and you would've been alone, and he was angry . That's why you're here, isn't it?"

The tension between the two women was palpable, but Arya was resigned to her fate. Cersei could have her drawn and quartered and she'd die well knowing she'd dealt a blow to the woman with her final breath. She began to suspect herself a greenseer when Cersei opened her chamber doors allowing her guards to step in and grab Arya by the arms. They dragged her from her bed and through the corridors, for long enough that she ran out of fight by the time they finally reached the kitchens.

She didn't have long to wonder upon their destination before it became evident. The heat from the massive oven stifled her breath as they drew her closer. Fire was a clean death, she told herself, trying as she could to steel herself against it in the few short moments she had left. The guards hesitated just before the flames, pausing to tear her bandages from her hands. She had a moment to wonder why before they forced her knuckles to the burning stone surface and all that remained in her brain was pain.

She screamed, louder than she'd ever screamed in her life, thrashing wildly about to try to escape the guards, but they held her there until the queen waved a lazy hand. Arya fell to the floor when they released her, the skin on her hands still bubbling. "There, now," said Cersei, crouching down so she could put herself at eye level with Arya. "We wouldn't want to lose you to an infection, would we?"

Cersei watched as the Stark girl's eyes rolled back into her head, finally succumbing to the pain, and felt her smile return again.