She could scarcely recognize her own hands anymore.
Scarred and burnt, these were not the hands that had spent years holding wooden practice swords. It had been someone else entirely who'd sewn a hundred hideous garments alongside Sansa. Part of her wanted to be that girl again, happy and naive, but another part of her, the stronger part, would never feel satisfied until giving her enemies what they deserved.
Willas. Cersei. Jaime. Tyrion. The Hound. Joffrey. Olenna and Margaery. Each and every one of them had purchased a slow and painful death from her, and she intended to deliver.
Arya glanced toward the door as it creaked open and felt her stomach drop at the sight of him. She quickly shifted her gaze back out the window, down to the city below. "Let me see your hands," he said.
She pulled them instinctively to her chest to keep them from him. It didn't deter him. He grabbed her forcefully by the shoulder, turning her around to face him, and pulled her hands from her chest, down into his own. Her hands trembled within his, still sensitive to touch, and she wanted desperately to pull them away. She watched as he ran cool fingers across the burnt, malformed skin, his jaw clenching and keeping him quiet. "Nothing to say," she noted. "A first for you, isn't it?"
"You shouldn't have provoked her," he said. An answer she should've expected; Jaime Lannister was not one for apologies.
"I wasn't the one that made her angry," she reminded him.
"No," agreed Jaime, "but you are the one she'll punish. And yet nothing can stop a fiery heart and an empty head, can it?" Arya's mouth fell open in shock, although, if truth be told, it wasn't particularly out of character for the man to mock her, even in a serious situation. But before she could argue, his hand found her cheek and the protests evaporated from her mind. "It doesn't have to be as hard as it is."
"It does," she argued. She couldn't be like the others. She couldn't pretend. If she died, she wanted to die as Arya Stark, not as a spineless, little girl who gave up every part of herself to survive.
"Why?" he asked simply. There was no judgment in his tone, no mocking smile. Nothing but a concern in his eyes that she was struggling to convince herself wasn't genuine. This was Jaime. Her Jaime. The Jaime that had spent countless hours training her, supporting her, teasing her, getting to know her. The Jaime that had cared about her. Or, at least, she'd thought he had until he'd put his sword through her father's leg.
But Jaime was just another name on an ever expanding list of people she'd thought cared about her. "Why do you care?" she grumbled, her jaw setting. "Like we're friends ."
"Are we not?" asked Jaime. "I suppose you think I didn't cut you in half the day you escaped King's Landing because of your immeasurable skill with a blade." Arya looked away from him, still angry at herself for how little she'd been able to do that day. "I could've killed you and your father absent an arm and both fucking legs. The only reason any of you are still alive is because–"
It was Jaime who hesitated now, drawing her eyes back to him. "Because what?" she demanded. "Because you love me?" It took him by surprise to hear her say it and he found, for the first time in his life, he wasn't quite sure what to say. "You love to let them think you do, don't you? Cersei and Willas. Does it make you feel good about yourself to pretend you could ever care for someone that wasn't just a reflection of yourself?"
It was an observation he himself had made a thousand times over the years, and it had always struck him funny then. He was still smiling now. "Actually, it's all rather irritating," he admitted, as lighthearted and flippant as he often was, even when she gave him the worst look she could muster. "You're quite an unpleasant person to care about."
"You don't care about me!"
"Why's that?"
"You stabbed my father in the leg!"
"What does that have to do with you?" wondered Jaime. "You can stab my father if it would make you feel better. I won't take it personally." Arya found that she had never wanted to hit Jaime more. "You know," he began, tilting his head to give her a look. "If we're airing grievances, you ," he gestured both of his hands towards her, "stabbed me." He moved his hands back to himself. "And I, quite graciously, have never even mentioned it until now! And yet, you refuse to let this … little thing with your father go!"
"Seven hells," she groaned, dragging her hands very painfully down her face. She knew she couldn't win an argument with him when he got like this. She found him smiling at her when she pulled her hands away. "And you think that I'm irritating?"
"More so than anyone I've ever met," he confirmed, before his face grew serious again. "You and I both have roles to play in this war, Arya, whether we like it or not. And I will play mine well. But it doesn't mean I enjoy watching you kill yourself because you can't keep your mouth shut."
"I–" she tried to protest.
"You see!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands up. She rolled her eyes and forced her mouth shut, glaring at him. "Learn how to shut up, won't you? For both our sakes."
The younger Stark girl had been summoned to the Throne Room several times in her few short months in King's Landing. It never went well for her, demure as she was, and Aegon found that he hated her. Her hands were always trembling, clenched together in front of her, her eyes always glassy and on the verge of tears. It was boring to watch her be tormented by the Lannister boy, day in and day out, but it wasn't as if he could just get up and walk out in the middle of it.
He was almost grateful to find the other one had been summoned with her today. This was the Stark he liked, despite never having actually met her. He knew that she had lodged a dagger in between Jaime Lannister's third and fourth ribs, and that alone had more than earned her a certain level of affection. The mere sight of her tempted a smile from him, her arms clasped firmly behind her back and her eyes hard. She had ice in her veins, this one.
"Lady Sansa," the young king began, starting with the easier prey, as Aegon had suspected he would. "Have I treated you poorly?"
"No, Your Grace," the girl lied, her eyes flitting between the king and the sister behind her, as if struggling with how to appease Joffrey without angering Arya. "You have been more than kind, much more so than I deserve."
Joffrey nodded his head in agreement, relaxing slightly as he sat down upon his throne. "I've been merciful, haven't I? Despite the treasonous and perverse claims made by your father."
"It is far more than I deserve, Your Grace," repeated Sansa. "My father is a wicked man and-" Aegon could see the elder Stark girl glaring at the back of her sister's head, her jaw clenched tightly together as if trying to force herself to remain quiet.
"And now he's rallied the Northmen behind my usurper of an uncle," he interrupted, and a wave of murmurs washed over the court. "They're calling him a king, my uncle Stannis," Joffrey regarded the girl below him as if she were little more than an insect in desperate need of crushing. "And here I had good news to bring, but instead it's been soured by your father's endless treachery-"
"I had no part-" Sansa tried helplessly.
"Do not ," Joffrey suddenly shouted, so sharply it made the girl flinch. "Interrupt me," he finished gently, "Don't you want to hear the good news?"
She nodded, "Yes, your grace."
"Good." Aegon could hear the smile in his voice and knew what news was coming. "I've taken Winterfell," Joffrey informed Sansa. Her gaze shot up to meet his, her heart fluttering to life as hope flickered in her chest, like a damp candle being lit for the first time. It wasn't entirely true, of course. The Golden Company had taken Winterfell on Aegon's own command after being instructed to do so by Tyrion Lannister, but it hardly seemed the time to make corrections. "I had every intention of bringing your brothers here, keeping them both safe until your father came to his senses … but now … we may have to use them to teach him a lesson."
Aegon's eyes flickered to the other Stark girl, who had taken a sharp step forward before Sandor Clegane put a heavy hand on her shoulder to keep her in place. Even Sansa had trouble keeping up her perfect Lady Stark facade upon hearing the news. "No," she said.
Joffrey's eyebrows flickered up, as if he'd been waiting for the reaction, for the slip, as if he knew she was merely playing a part, and was desperate to make her crack. "No?"
"Please," she added quickly. "Not my brothers. They're just … they're only children."
"All the more reason they'll help your father to see reason. Sending him their hands may convince him that attempting to take my throne is futile," he pondered aloud.
"Your grace," the girl tried to keep her voice steady. "Please, they've done nothing, they've only protected their home-"
"It's not about them, Lady Stark. Your father needs to be made an example of, and if his youngest boys are the way to do it … perhaps I should send him their heads. That would be far more merciful than sending them to him piece-by-piece … wouldn't it, Lady Stark?"
"No," she tried again, her lip quivering.
"It wouldn't be merciful?"
"No," she said again. "Please, my king, I beg you, don't hurt my brothers …"
"How else will I show your father?" he asked her expectantly, as if he already anticipated her answer.
"Me, your grace. Please, use me as an example."
"Well, if you insist," he said without missing a beat. "Ser Meryn." Sansa's gaze shot over to see Meryn Trant approach Joffrey, a crossbow in his hand that he passed over swiftly before taking his place again. Joffrey took his time to check the arrow that was loaded, then the tautness of the string, before lifting it to his shoulder and looking down the length of it as he put her in his sight. Her stomach dropped to her feet, her knees knocked against one another beneath her gown as gasps of shock echoed around her. "Now, the only remaining question …" he said with a sigh. "Do I kill you now? Or once I have your brothers in hand?"
In that moment, Sansa wasn't sure what would be worse. Dying there, at Joffrey's hand in front of the entire court, not seeing any of her siblings, her mother, ever again? Or living to see Bran and Rickon brought in and torn apart right in front of her?
But he didn't have them yet, she had to keep reminding herself, and the relief of that alone was enough to spring tears from her eyes. She shook her head, pulling her lip between her teeth before Joffrey let out a sigh, "But your death now would be a waste, wouldn't it?" he dropped the crossbow, dangling it from his arm as he looked her over. "If we can't teach your father a lesson, I suppose you'll have to do. Ser Meryn," Joffrey gestured towards Sansa as turned back towards the throne, practically throwing his crossbow beside it before falling gracefully into the seat.
Sansa met Meryn Trant's gaze for the briefest of moments before the back of his hand met her chin, splitting her lip instantly. She let out a sharp cry, her hands flying to it, but not before she could feel the blood dribbling down her chin. She barely had time to react before he delivered a swift fist to her stomach and she immediately doubled over, the wind completely knocked from her. She gasped in pain, spraying the blood down her dress.
"Leave her alone!" shouted Arya, struggling desperately to get out of the Hound's grasps. It was only when she bit his hand that the massive man finally released her, letting the younger girl run to her sister just as Ser Meryn drew his sword. He swung the flat edge at her shoulders but the girl was quick and dipped below it and out of harm's way. She wasn't quite fast enough to dodge the second strike aimed at the back of her legs, and it sent her propelling forward to the ground beside her sister.
Sansa let out a choked sob as Ser Meryn tangled his fingers in her hair and yanked her up to her feet. He grabbed at the soft fabric at her back and ripped it at the seams, letting the cold air hit her back. He made to pull it down further when Arya landed a solid kick on the side of his knee, buckling his leg out from under him. Even from a kneeling position, the girl stood little taller than him, and she hit the floor fast when the back of his hand met her cheek. Meryn kicked Arya in the stomach, hard, for good measure as he stood, and turned his attention back to Sansa.
But Joffrey was less interested in Sansa now, and seemed more keen in breaking every bone in Arya Stark's body if that's what it took to keep her on the floor. He stood sharply and descended several steps upon seeing her rise, albeit with a bit more difficulty than before. "Ser Meryn, teach her to stay down," he demanded. This time when Meryn hit her, it was with a closed, armored fist, and she hit the ground hard. As hard as she had fallen, it took her no longer to rise again, spitting a mouth full of blood at Ser Meryn's face, before being struck yet again.
Sansa Stark's cries were piercing in the otherwise silent hall as those present waited with bated breath to see if the smaller girl would move again. Aegon thought it unlikely, as he watched her lay still, only her fingers twitching in pain, but then the screaming started. A vile, piercing sound that sent a shiver up his spine, but it didn't come from either Stark girl. Instead, it was Ser Meryn screeching, a dreadful high pitched sound that did not sound as if it should've been able to come from him.
No one in the Throne Room moved as the man convulsed where he stood, his fingers clawing frantically at the flesh around his eyes, tearing it off in bloody chunks. It was a horrible sound, but it was even worse when it stopped.
As if the very life had been pulled from him, Ser Meryn hit the floor and moved no more, his face little more than a red pool of mush where eyes had once been.