Chapter Text
“Girl, wine. Two cups.”
Arya startled—she had been organizing his letters for him, trying to do it fast enough to not let on that she was reading whatever she could from them and committing it to memory. He was waiting for his council to reconvene after a long week of waiting. She had not seen such a patient man since her father sat as Lord of Winterfell. He was as cold as the North, despite living in a land touched eternally by summer. Father had been hard like frozen ground—but like the ground he was not always bound by the northern ice. Lord Tywin was like the cold that froze fingers from hands and ears from heads, unrelenting and most of all patient.
She quickly went to the table and filled two cups. Lord Tywin had been extremely merciful to her, even she knew that. She was allowed to sleep in safety because what man was man enough to attack Lord Tywin’s cupbearer? She was allowed to wash, and piss, and eat when she wasn’t serving the great head of the Lannisters. Arya Stark didn’t ask questions, she didn’t speak out of turn when she could help it, and she damn well tried to be the best cupbearer Lord Tywin had ever had.
When he found out her identity, because she knew she couldn’t hide forever under his nose, if he remembered her loyalty he would perhaps ransom her with her sister rather than take off her head as his grandson Joffrey had taken off her father’s.
“Shall I guess who you are, girl, or shall you tell me? I’ve known you for a Northerner for some time—never mind your admission of it—because no high born girl of the South would so easily get her hands deep in muck. No high born Southron girl would so willingly learn to serve, or pick it up so quickly. Now, shall I guess or shall you illuminate?”
She set both cups in front of him, one he took and the other he pushed a little to the right and motioned for her to sit. Arya sat and took what he offered her. It had been several weeks since he had educated her to take what her betters gave to her. She took a protracted sip from the rim of her cup, staring at him in silence until he understood her answer—that he would guess.
“You say your father taught himself to read. That is a clue, if I would spend time to sift it for truth. A stonemason with the stars of dragons and Targaryens clouding his head. A Northron father dead of loyalty. This is what you have told me of this father of yours—do I have it right?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Oh, and a mother who served a Lady Dustin, too. A mother serving nobility, a father carving stone and reading. Who are you, girl, I must wonder, if these are your ready lies for family and history.”
She took another bracing sip from the cup, knowing that this was the first time he was taking time to actually think through her lies. Behind her the fire crackled, and she could smell her own sweat getting old in her clothes—Lord Tywin allowed her one full day to attend to her clothes, saying he was around men sweating through armor and horses with piss and shit in their tails, he was not frightened of a cupbearer only slightly cleaner than a scullion.
“You are cool, you do not break when the shovel strikes you. Hard, frozen earth—and patient too. Believing the winter’s frost will let you free someday.”
The cup was slowly warming to her hand, and she gripped it tighter as Lord Tywin stared at her over the rim of his own cup.
“You are the little Stark girl. I wasn’t aware that you were any place but King’s Landing. When exactly did you get away, so that I might know which of my beloved children is ultimately responsible for not telling me. And once you’re done, why haven’t you buried a knife into my neck?”
“May I ask a question first?” He made a grand gesture for her to continue.
“How did you work out Stark from all that?”
His smile was indulgent as he drained his cup and settled into his chair. Arya stood and poured him some more, and his glance at the hearth had her adding a couple logs before she sat again. His smile was almost kind, now. Sometimes she found herself liking him, he reminded her faintly of her father’s brother, Benjen. Benjen’s coldness, however, came from what he’d seen above the Wall. Lord Tywin’s…the origin was more of a mystery.
She took the liberty of adding a touch of water to her own cup of wine as he took a breath to speak. These might be her last minutes, she would do with them as she liked.
“A father with time and care and foresight to teach a daughter to read, and read well. A man with pride in his blood of his family, even the least of such a family. A Lannister or a Stark. A stonemason, a man who carves to keep his family—and you talked of this stonemason father with much more pride than a gutter rat child. The North is as hard as stone, and all life there is scraped and chipped—and carved. The best known of any Northron family would be the Starks of Winterfell.”
The fresh logs on the fire popped and sputtered as Lord Tywin worried a finger on an old pock mark on his table. Arya sipped her wine and kept quiet.
“And then the dragons. The oldest and best books and scrolls about dragons are contained in the Stark libraries. Winterfell has remained in the Stark family for longer than most noble families have had sigils for their flags. My son mentioned a book he dubbed fascinating, loaned to him by Lord Eddard Stark, found deep within the Stark family library. Contained therein the history and description of the Targaryen Conquest, with special attention to the Targaryen dragons.”
“And my mother?”
“Only great ladies from the South care about each other’s names. You can take people North, but you cannot take the South out of them. Knowing that your father is a Stark, it makes sense that your mother is Lady Catelyn Stark.” He paused for a long moment, and then, “Lady Dustin has a boy around your age, a boy whose father has more money and men than he has sense. The best way to make him find some sense would be to tie him permanently to the Starks.”
Arya managed a wavery smile at Lord Tywin as he stopped speaking.
“Before Sansa was betrothed to King Joffrey, Mother wanted to have her marry Lord Karstark’s son. Lady Karstark’s cousin is Lady Dustin, whose son they hoped to give me to. Mother is a Tully, they like marrying sisters to blood-brothers—she could hardly help it.”
Lord Tywin laughed shortly, gazing off into the hearthfire behind Arya’s left shoulder. She wondered if he ever laughed in earnest or if he always had the hardness of winter air around his eyes.
Winter is coming, those were her words. Winter took all manner of forms, she’d found since going to the warm southlands.
“Such behavior starts wars, to be sure, but it also forms alliances that are difficult to break. Your mother probably reconciled herself to marrying you off to Tommen, or, if your father would hear of it, a Lannister boy. As it stands, I have half a mind to promise you to that smith you were caught with. A commoner’s betrothal to a common bastard boy would do nicely to keep you in line. And then, when the time comes I will perhaps marry you to Tommen instead. The great Lady Stark will be so proud.”
“But Tommen cries so, my lord!” her cup sloshed a bit of wine on the table as she slammed it down.
Lord Tywin’s grin was fierce as he stood up and ruffled her hair as he passed by. She had assisted in bringing up food for the council meeting, and it was growing cold as they spoke—no doubt the man wanted some of his midday meal hot. As he loaded food onto his plate—she had not brought him mutton since he’d expressed dislike for it and he had started eating more. Arya was, oddly enough, proud of this. She was controlling the great Lord Tywin of House Lannister, if only by getting him to eat properly.
“My son Jaime opened the veins of the Mad King for reasons he has never shared with me. My grandson is far worse than the mad Targaryen at far younger an age, and I have planned an accident for him. Accidents do happen to passionate, energetic, brash—reckless—kings. We must remember the good king Robert who died, and we must remember that you must be queen. A girl who loves her family, knows that it raised her and made her who she is because of it—a girl who might guide Tommen to be a good king.”
“A girl who might bring the North back into the fold, you mean.”
He sat once again and didn’t look up from his meal for a few minutes. Arya rolled her eyes and got herself a plate too. According to Maester Luwin the lions in Essos just killed their prey after they caught it. With a long glance he had told her that the lions of Westeros would play with it for a time. Fine, she could play along. Lord Tywin was like her father, allowing her her games with easy grace. The difference being that her lord father had loved her as though she was his best son—Lord Tywin might any moment shout for his guards.
The food wasn’t tasteless in her mouth and she hated it. Weren’t those condemned to die supposed to only taste ash and soot in even the richest meal?
“Your brother Robb will pay the price of rebellion. If he’s a father to any they will live as hostages to preserve his life. If he is not, his head will pay that debt. Your sister Sansa is too old for Tommen, I will marry her to my son Tyrion. His words have been,” she looked up at his pause, seeing his face conflicted for only the barest of moments, “disturbing as of late concerning the treatment of Lady Sansa. Through the lines I read that he is one of few who care for her, and so will make a fine husband for her.”
He glanced at her, scrutinizing.
“I put a queen on the throne once, and I haven’t been able to trust her since. I am gambling, little wolf, that putting another queen on the throne won’t repeat such a mistake.” Arya gave him a flat look before she began speaking, low and rational at first but growing slightly in volume as she went on.
“Tommen cries—he’s a coward. A good little boy, but a coward. He clung to his nursemaid every moment I ever laid eyes on him!” Arya’s voice was raised to a shout, her utensils thrown without grace on the table. She was her father’s daughter and spoke wisdom and sense when it was called for. Yelling if necessary. Lord Tywin wiped his lips with a cloth and set his own food to the side for the moment.
“Tommen is a coward, with a weak mind that is agreeable to everything suggested to him by those who care for him. A wife cares for a husband as the primary among her children. I believe I can bring the North to heel because the capitol will finally listen to them with an understanding ear and speak back words they can understand. I believe you will help me in that confidence one day because you owe me this day. And,” his tone turned wry, “if the rebel rallying cry has truth in it, the boy you wed will be more Lannister than Baratheon.”
“And my mother will see that my brother meets your terms so long as my sister and I are safe,” her voice was barely audible, knowing already how fast her mother would agree if only to save her children. With a shaky hand she reached for her cup of watered wine. The snap of the fire startled her and she almost knocked it over.
The old man nodded, sliding his plate in front of him once more with a loud scrape. He was methodical as he ate, now, as he waited for her to answer his own questions. Which Lannister was in King’s Landing, and why hadn’t she seen fit to murder Lord Tywin yet. Arya knew better than to push her food around the plate. Her mother, somewhere, ought to be proud of her. Her father would be proud though as she started to cut her meat and chew on it as she spoke.
“One of the sworn brothers of the black took me from the city on the day King Joffrey saw fit to unburden my father of his head. Someday I will see his head on a spike, and I will make the queen watch. And then I want to see her head on a spike. I would make Ser Payne do it, but I don’t think he would understand why. I think I would burn him, like the Dothraki savages do for their lords and ladies. I would burn him alive.”
Tywin was working on some gristle, staring at her now in the relative quiet of the room. The fire had found all the pockets of sap and burned like whispering behind her back. She wondered if he saw in her girlish face the face of a young and rebellious Ned Stark. She wondered if he saw the lanky ghost of the then-uncrowned stag, Robert Baratheon, next to her.
“And you aren’t actually on my list, my lord. Your grandson, your daughter, others—but not you. The first time I saw your face was here, when you saved me from the tickler. You saw a girl when others had seen a boy. You weren’t kind, my lord, but neither have you ever been cruel.”
“So I—“
“But I did think about it one day. I had a knife, and you had your back turned. I’m quiet on my feet when I want to be, and I’m little so I’d be hard to shake off. I thought about it long and hard. I still don’t know why I didn’t.”
They were quiet then, listening to the shouts of men coming or going from patrol. People screaming as the torturers looked for the Brothers Without Banners. Chainmaile tinkling on knights walking the passageways. She stared at him, and he stared right back at her.
“You must cultivate that feeling then, she-wolf, but you must also work to understand why you must feel it. A queen must sometimes kill, or choose not to kill when she as ample ability. All people must do this, but men oftentimes get away with ignoring it. That is their privilege, and many lose their heads over believing it is a right. Women must tread carefully. Do you think you can continue to tread carefully—perhaps I might allow Robb Stark to keep his head on his shoulders if I present you, my Lady Stark, with the head of my mad grandson? A show of my faith in your quiet feet and quick mind.”
“Can I be allowed to best Tommen at archery?”
“You will be queen. And despite what Mad Aerys Targaryen, Robert and now Joffrey Baratheon were taught to believe, it is not the king who may do as he pleases. Kings must decide fates, kings do not have long for reflection while the head of a house sworn to them kneels at their feet. Kings must keep the people, or else the people will support other kings—just as it happened before the Targaryens, and then before the Baratheons, and now we live these days because a king did as he liked instead of giving thought. As much as I am sure my mad grandson enjoyed seeing your father’s head on a spike, the thought now gives the rest of Westeros little joy.”
There was a knock at the door and Arya sprang up to clear the table. A lord did not sit with his cupbearer and break bread with her. Certainly not Lord Tywin of House Lannister. As she passed by him a second time, the knife rattling on the plate with her slight shaking, he caught her arm and his hard blue eyes looked deep into hers.
“I tell you this, tiny Lady Stark, because the only one who may question, truly question, the queen is the king. Because she has no true responsibility and no true overseer the queen may do as she likes. If you’d like to best Tommen at archery, I will see it done if I have to send him out without a string for his bow. Are we come to an agreement, she-wolf?”
“You give me Joffrey’s head, Robb’s neck unopened, and control over the one who sits on the Iron Throne—and I give you peace from the North and a means to enforce reason on the king?”
“Just so, I might even give you Cersei’s head depending on my mood.”
She went to the door, and laid a hand on it to open it.
“I accept. Though I do warn you, I will need you to go over my plans on how to defend King’s Landing from dragonfire. One can’t be too careful, and winter is coming.”