She slipped in and out of consciousness as they carried her up to the Tower of the Hand. A second trip for Bronn, and likely the preferable. It was much easier to carry the Stark girl up half a dozen flights of stairs when she wasn't ricocheting off of them, trying to send them both plummeting to their deaths.

But each step weighed heavily on Tyrion. It had felt natural for her to fight them tooth and nail every step of the way - that was who Arya Stark was, not the tiny, broken little girl gurgling up blood and flittering between life and death. There would have been no question in it had he arrived to the Throne Room any later. There was a call for her head that he didn't quite understand - Ser Meryn was dead, but he looked as if he'd had a run in with the Mountain, not a girl who could scarcely reach the eyes that had been torn from his skull.

And yet he dare not disbelieve his nephew's claims. There had been a fear in his eyes, honest and consuming, and he did not doubt the boy at least believed she had done something monstrous.

Arya looked even smaller now that she was upon his bed. It was a massive thing, far better suited to Ned Stark than it was for him. Tyrion wondered distantly if it would bring her some sort of comfort, to sleep in a bed her father had not so long ago. "I'll fetch the Grand Maester then," said Bronn, though it sounded more like a question as he hesitated a few feet from the bed.

"No," replied Tyrion. The last thing he needed was Pycelle up in his chambers, seeing him fret over the Stark girl. Cersei already had more than enough to torment him with, he didn't need to add his affection for Arya Stark to the list. "But find her some milk of the poppy."

And then they were alone, and the silence was deafening. He approached her side hesitantly, reluctantly, something in his chest tightening at the sight of the blood now staining his silk sheets, still dribbling down her chin. He had to remind himself that blood was good; it meant her heart was still pumping, that she was still alive.

It was difficult to find water in his chambers. There were several half full goblets of wine littered throughout, but there was only a small cup of water. One that had belonged to someone during their latest small council meeting he was certain; it could not have been his. He tore at his sheets with a knife, ripping off a large enough piece to dunk in the water and bring to her chin. He wiped delicately, as gentle as he knew how, but she still flinched, grimacing at the pain that shot through her body as he rubbed against what was likely a fractured jaw. "Nn," she tried to protest. It was the best she could do. It hurt too much to open her mouth.

"Okay, none of that," said Tyrion, understanding immediately. It was difficult to look at her in her current state, but returning her to normal would have to wait. Her eyes wandered then, taking in her surroundings. He thought she almost looked relieved to see where she was. Maybe she thought she'd be safe there, with him. Or maybe that was wishful thinking. "Arya." Wandering eyes found him again, but he suddenly found that he couldn't meet them. "I won't let this happen to you again." Doubt was etched into her features when he snuck a glance; doubt at his ability to protect her, at anyone's. "I swear to you, any man, woman, or child that puts their hand on you will not live long enough to regret it."

Her face contorted painfully as she struggled to open her mouth wide enough to ask the question burning in her mind. "Why?"

It took him aback, if only for a moment, and his eyes found the floor again. How could he look at her while the truth hung in the air between them? How could she even stand to look at him while knowing? "You know why," he told the floor.

He almost thought of clarifying, just in case she didn't, but the words fell short when she wrapped her tiny, trembling fingers around his. Her grip was weak but he strengthened it with his own, cupping her hand with both of his.

He didn't know what it meant, if it had meant anything at all. All he knew was what it meant to him to stand at her bedside, offering what little comfort he could until Bronn returned with the milk of the poppy and she finally succumbed to a peaceful rest.

Milk of the poppy weighed heavy on her as she tried to swim her way back to the light. She had been asleep for days, maybe even weeks. It was difficult to track time in dreams and she had drifted through many, but none had been so frightening as the vision sitting at the foot of her bed. "Hello, little wolf girl," it greeted her, little more than a blurred frame to her weary mind.

She choked out an attempt at a question, descending into an agonizing coughing fit soon after. She had been able to speak in her other dreams, only now could she feel the pain of the choices she had made what felt like an eternity ago.

A warm hand found her cheek as she coughed; no, more than warm, it felt like fire against her skin, and then a cup was being brought to her lips. Milk of the poppy again, she feared, and struggled against it with weak hands. "It's only water," the voice told her, patient as she fought against it until finally giving in, accepting what was, to her surprise, really only water.

And then the bed beneath her shifted as the figure moved away, settling back in its original spot. She struggled to gain enough clarity, to force the world to stop spinning, long enough to make out more than just the outline in front of her. He came together in pieces, his hair forming first, a startling shade she could scarcely name, before the rest of him came into view. His legs were crossed as he watched her patiently, picking underneath his nails with the tip of a dagger. She had seen the Targaryen boy before, sitting in the Throne Room only a few steps away from Joffrey. He was difficult to miss, even in a crowded room. "Why," she managed to ask.

"Why am I here?" he guessed, a smile playing on his lips as he watched her. Part of her wished he would look away; there was something to his presence that made her feel smaller and uglier than she was, and she doubted her swollen eyes and blood stained chin were making her look anything but a beast to him. "Well, I quite liked your performance in the throne room. I thought we could talk about it."

"I don't-"

"You're a skinchanger, aren't you," said Aegon. It wasn't a question, though he had phrased it like one. "Though I've never heard of anyone changing skins with a human."

"What's a skinchanger?"

Aegon's smile only grew. "You don't have to be afraid. We're friends, you and I."

It felt more and more like a fever dream the longer he spoke to her. She wouldn't have believed any of it to be real if not for the pain. "I don't think that we are," she argued.

"Would you feel differently if I told you I was housing your brothers? Keeping them warm and safe and far away from all of your Lannister friends?"

The mention of Bran and Rickon made her stomach ache. She had thought nothing of them in her delirious state, but it all came rushing back to her now. "If you have my brothers it's because you took Winterfell," she said.

"Someone had to take it," he replied. "How long did you think a castle would stand with no more than a crippled child at its helm? Someone would've taken it, someone who wasn't your friend, and your people would've been killed and your brothers ransomed," Aegon pouted at the notion, and she knew he was mocking her, before a smile overtook his features once again. "But no one will take Winterfell from me, and your little brothers are the only safe Starks in Westeros."

He was crazy, thought Arya. He had to be. Either he was absolutely insane or he thought she was such a great fool she'd believe it. "You think I'm stupid," she accused. Did he really think he could play both sides and she'd just blindly go along with it?

"No, I didn't expect you'd trust me. I had hoped, of course, to save us both the time, but I've learned patience over the years and I'm willing to indulge your desire to do this the hard way. That's why I've come bearing gifts." He smiled again as he flipped the dagger in his hand, extending the hilt of it towards her. Arya all but lunged for it, grasping it desperately with both hands and pulling it back to her chest. The cold steel felt right in her hands. "I knew we understood each other!"

He knew the right kind of present for her, she would admit, but nothing was ever free. The dagger would have a cost, likely higher than she would be able to pay. "If you want someone dead, kill them yourself." As much as it pained her, she offered the dagger back to him, but he ignored her, standing instead.

"Kill whoever you'd like, zoklītsos . The queen, your Lord of Highgarden, Ser Jaime ," he said. Arya wished she had the strength left to knock that mocking smile off his face. "Whatever you do, I'll protect you. Then get ready to dance on the bones of our enemies."

Author's Note:

zoklītsos - little wolf

Finally got around to uploading this with the new edits I've done. Hopefully if anyone is around reading it, you'll appreciate the new scenes and better writing. :)