The Heir to Casterly Rock

Who was the girl?

The question plagued Tywin Lannister as he rode from Harrenhall and had been an interesting mystery while he had been there; a girl smart enough to play a boy. Even if she'd been killed, she would have successfully avoided the rapists that made up the Mountain's men.

Anyone can be killed.

Certainty, that's what he thought. She had the certainty that death would come for them all, but not in the way that a knight would. A knight saw glory in death, a legacy all on its own. She saw death as the end, the conclusion of a life, and that it was a terrible tragedy whenever it happened. He'd felt the same, when Johanna had died on the birthing bed.

Tyrion never appreciated the gift she had given him, ending the story that made up their time together for a stunted little monster. He was a layabout as a child, and he was even worse as an adult. Would that Tywin could have set the little beast in the forest and left him to the wolves. But he could never do that, Tyrion was Johanna's son. Tyrion was his son.

Just as a traitorous part of him wished that the girl had been his daughter, more so than Cersei to some degree. His sole daughter was a spiteful woman, filled with his bile and none of the kindness that was her mother. She was his daughter, but there were times he had to wonder if she was her mother's.

It did no use to think of his children, each such terrible disappointments in some way. It was when thinking of them that he wished he had been a Stark. That was a great house that appreciated family and preserving the legacy. The Starks had stood for thousands of years as the pinnacle of honor.

It would be a shame when he had to destroy them. He was already in contact with dissatisfied parties within the Stark boy's army. Who was left of their house now? They had a madwoman as their matriarch, the boy king who would not see the knife until it plunged into his heart, and the girl still safely locked in Maegor's Holdfast.

Sansa Stark would be the key to the North, after the Greyjoys had murdered the other two boys and Cersei had lost the second daughter. He had never felt more shame than when he read Tyrion's letter to that effect. They had three hostages, and his daughter had allowed one to escape and his moronic grandson to kill another.

Eddard Stark had not needed to die, and because he had they were embroiled in a war that spelled the end of the Seven Kingdoms if Tywin did not play everything to perfection. It was a war on three fronts, with the Starks, Greyjoys, and Baratheon forces all arranged against him. He was already marching to save King's Landing, thanks to Stannis and his damned incest scheme.

What bastard accused a man's wife of cuckolding with her own brother? It was truly a depraved accusation, and said more of Stannis than Tywin's own children. It wasn't to say that Tywin wasn't sure that the children were somebody other than Robert's. His daughter had hated her husband, and she was stupid enough to mate with a man without his coloring. Now her bastards sat on the throne, but they were Lannister bastards.

He would look after them, just as he did his brother Gerion's bastard. Though in this case he could not treat them as they deserved to be treated. They were lesser, but that could not be known, or the war would be lost with a word.

"M'lord," He turns his attention to the entrance to his tent, raising an eyebrow. The man, a lieutenant in his army, lowborn, bows his head, "The men you assigned to guard the rear have returned. They have three prisoners."

"A girl and two boys?" He asks.

"Yes, m'lord," the man nods, and though he fights it a lecherous grin grows across his lips, "What shall I have the men do with them?"

"You will bring them here, unharmed and unmolested," Tywin tells his soldier, and watches as the man's face falls, "And if I learn the girl in particular was harmed, I will have the men responsible castrated before they are hanged."

The terror in his eyes gratifies Tywin. It was not often that he gave threats so overtly, but if his time at Harrenhal had taught him anything, it was that he should not try to mince words. The girl had been a rare catch, and if she were indeed one of the new prisoners, she would prove herself truly unique in his eyes.

It would not do to let something useful go to waste.

"They… they were harmed... m'lord," The man whimpers, "Ser Maryn said that they resisted, killed a man, even."

"And their current condition?" Tywin was willing to forgive a few bruises, but if they were completely useless he would be very displeased.

"Banged up, m'lord. Worst to have it is the girl, she put up more a fight, had to get a good whack in the head to stop her struggling."

Tywin growls, and he points back out the tent flap, and the soldier flees.

He had known many men to die of seemingly small head injuries, and if the girl died of the blow he would never learn how she managed to escape. He would not be able to use her as his cupbearer anymore, and he would never learn who she was. If she truly was from a Noble house, as he had long suspected, she would prove very useful. He wanted to be right about her.

He had to wait, though, because it would be at least an hour before she was in front of him again. In the meantime, he set about his tent. The girl was smart, and she was Northern. Any way she could help her own would be used, including trying to steal secrets. She hadn't managed at Harrenhal, but that was probably self preservation. Now she was in his camp, and would know that with the constant movement of his armies she could make her escape.

It would be in her friends that he found his advantage. It was where he often did, nobody ever expected their greatest allies to turn on them. It would be unfortunate to break the smith boy, if that was who she brought. But the fat one? A good cook, but no great loss if he needed to hang from the noose.

It was a simple matter to move the carved figures of houses so that anything gleamed from the map on his table would be completely incorrect. After that, it was just tidying up. He did not enjoy servants in his personal chambers, even on the march. They would build his tent and strike it, but that was it.

He poured himself some watered down wine and sat in one of his more comfortable chairs to wait. He was getting on in years, and he wouldn't be sitting in the Iron Throne at this age. Let his grandson sit there, he would arrange for a nice seat to the side so he might enjoy some comfort while he ruled what kingdoms he could maintain.

His tent flap opened slightly, and a guard poked his head in. Before the man can say anything, Tywin waves his hand and the head disappears.

A few seconds later the flap is pulled fully open and the girl is herded in, along with her two companions. He was right, his cupbearer had taken the smith and the fat cook. He notes that their heads are bowed, but hers remains raised. Her will had not waned, even with the large cut across her cheek and an eye blackening from the blow she'd taken to the temple.

"Girl."

"My Lord."

"You've abandoned the safety of Harrenhal, not a very smart move."

"I think anywhere the Mountain isn't is safer than where he is."

"True, Gregor has always been a singular brute."

"He has a reputation."

"He does," Tywin takes a sip of his wine, watching her steadily. She does not flinch, not like her companions. They are the lowborn, he knows, and he wondered how loyal they were to their lady. He sets his goblet down and looks levelly at the girl, "I think, now that we are far from Harrenhal, we can drop what pretense is left."

"Pretense, my lord?"

"Yes, pretense," He gives her an even look, "I didn't care for your name while within the walls of the castle because it did not matter, but now my armies are marching. I need to know whether I am to spare your life or let you swing from the noose."

"You'd kill me?"

"Indeed," He can see that she probably expected worse, and he is shocked to see that she would gladly accept it rather than the alternative. She knew he would not allow his men to have their way with her. She'd probably already heard the warning he'd given from the lieutenant when she was collected.

He looks into the eyes of the young girl, and he sees that she has accepted this, and asks her, "Do you want to die?"

"No, my lord," She tells him, then she swallows and tells him, "What do we say to the god of death? Not today."

He raises an eyebrow, "You've met Braavosi, now? You truly are an interesting child."

"My father hired Syrio Forel to teach me dancing, he thought it would distract me while he worked."

Tywin's jaw works behind closed lips, thinking. The former First Sword of Braavos, one of the most renown fighters in the world in his prime. The man had been something special, ten years ago, and when he had moved to King's Landing it had been one of the few interesting pieces of news his spies had given him.

King's Landing.

She had been in King's Landing, learning sword work from the former First Sword of Braavos, and was captured with a train of recruits for the Night's Watch that were heading North. She claimed to be from a Northern House, but he had assumed that she had joined the train further into the Riverlands.

Now he was seeing the answer laid out in front of him. He narrows his eyes, and he finally demands the truth, "What is your name?"

"Arya Stark, my lord," she tells him, and now she does looks down.

Tywin was no stranger to regret, but what poked at the remains of his conscious here was more than that. He was feeling melancholy, discontent, angry. But he was not feeling these things for himself, he was feeling them for the girl's sake.

Arya Stark was standing right in front of him, had served him meals, and shared in talks he would not have indulged any of his children with. She hated him, he knew, but not as much as his daughter and grandson.

He looks to her companions, they had exchanged terrified looks. They were not shocked, though. They'd known exactly who she was from the start and worked to hide her from his men. The man he had guarding them all looked shocked.

"You," The guard snaps to attention and looks at him, "Find them a tent and put them in it. Guard it and do not let them leave, they are not to be harmed, I need to speak alone with Lady Stark."

"Yes, my lord," The man grabs both and drags them from the tent, leaving the old man and the young girl alone.

Tywin barks out a brief laugh, "A stone mason that died for loyalty. You are clever, girl."

"Thank you, my lord," She smiles.

"Well, now we know that we're of equal station I can't be having you serve me wine, can we?" He asks.

"We could pretend, my lord?" She asks, and it is more to hope that he can forget that she's told him who she is.

He ignores the plee and pours her a cup of wine before refilling his own, "Sit."

She sits, and waits. He raises an eyebrow at her and she takes the cup to drink.

As she drinks, he looks for the Stark features. She has them in abundance and he has to wonder how he'd missed them so spectacularly. The only sound for a few seconds is the greedy gulping as the girl enjoys what may be the first drink she's had for a day, then the tink as the cup is set down.

"How did you escape Harrenhal?" He asks her.

She looks at him, then down. He can see her play through what he might do to her if she refuses to answer, then he sees the point where she thinks of what he might do to her companions, and she gulps. There are times that it pays to have a reputation as fearsome as his, and those times are always.

"There was a man with us, a prisoner set to join the Night's Watch," She tells him, "He was in a prison wagon with two murderers. When your men set the camp on fire, I freed him."

"Why?" Now he's curious, why save a random man, especially that one. He knew why some men were kept in carts by the Night's Watch, the most dangerous and the most deranged.

"He said he could fight," She tells him.

He nods, a good enough excuse in the heat of the moment. He waves for her to continue.

"Next I saw him, he was at Harrenhal, one of your men," Now that was concerning, he would need to ask the man's name and get a description. Though that might not be very useful, men so often looked the same with three weeks of marching on their faces, "He told me that he owed me a debt, and that we owed three names."

"To who?"

"The red god, I didn't know what he meant."

He narrows his eyes, and cool certainty enters him, "Go on."

"I gave him two names," She tells him, "And you were going to be the third."

He nods, a smart decision, assuming that two of the strange deaths that had occurred in Harrenhal were her doing. He wasn't sure what the man was, not yet.

"You had already left, so I gave the man his own name, Jaqen H'ghar."

"And did he kill himself?"

"I promised to un-name him if he helped me and my friends escape."

"I see, smart of you."

He leans back in his chair and takes a sip of his wine.

"What's going to happen to me now?"

Arya Stark was lost, he could see it. She was terrified of every moment of every day, but the terror was blunted. Her fear was slowly being eroded to a dull consistency. If she was always afraid, why feel fear? He pitied her, in this moment, but not enough to let her run free.

"I will be taking you back to King's Landing, where you will be my honored guest," She nods in acceptance, which he was glad for. The next thing, though, he doubted she would be happy about, "Once in the Capital, we will begin arrangements for your wedding to my grandson."

"What!?" the chair crashes to the ground, and if there were any silverware on the table she would probably have grabbed it.

Guards rush into the tent, but a glare from him has them halting. A few seconds of frozen silence pass before they back out of the tent and he turns his attention back to her.

She takes a gulp, "Kill me."

"Excuse me?"

"Kill me. I'd rather be dead than have to marry Joffrey."

"I have more than one grandson," Tywin tells her.

"What?" This is said far more calmly.

"As far as I know, Tommen is near your age and has no match set for him."

Arya blinks at him, "What?"

"Stop repeating yourself, you sound like a simpleton."

"Sorry, my lord."

"Better."

"Why do you want to marry me to Tommen, my lord?"

"Because we need the North," He tells her. Her eyes narrow and he carries on, "Your brother will be defeated, the Northern armies will be routed. He will be dead, by the end of it. The Starks have no male heirs left, only girls."

"Sansa is already marrying Joffrey, isn't she?" There was some disgust there, likely a bitter sibling rivalry. Just as Cersei and Tyrion had, or him and his own brother Tygett.

"No, an arrangement has been made with the Tyrells," He tells her, "My grandson is setting your sister aside and marrying their girl."

"Oh."

He raises an eyebrow and notes, "You don't seem so scared of marrying my youngest grandson."

"I can stand Tommen," She tells him, "He's nice, bit stupid, but nice."

"And you're not afraid of telling me my grandson is a simpleton."

"I think you already know they both are," her lips twitch up in a small smirk, "Why else would we be here?"

"Why indeed," He frowns.

The war had been the folly of morons, they could both see it. She may not know, but the girl clumps her own mother in with his fool of a grandson. Catelyn Stark had helped start the war with her kidnapping of Tyrion, escalating the precarious situation that already existed between their families.

Then Joffrey had ruined any chance of reconciliation. They could have released Eddard Stark in exchange for Jaime, forced a peace accord of some kind. They could have found a way to stop the war from happening. Let the Northerners stay in the North. Kept the elder girl as a hostage so she could wed the king and bind the realm together whether the Starks wanted it to or not.

They could have fought Stannis together, forced a resolution. There was never a need for war, until idiots decided they wanted blood. Aerys had been that kind of idiot. The Mountain was that kind of idiot, one on his leash. Now Joffrey was that kind of idiot, and Tywin's last war was going to be in defense of a gods damned moron.

He hopes that not all the Great Houses will be destroyed in this conflict. The Arryns were nearly gone, the Starks would soon be destroyed, the Baratheons would be whittled down to a young girl with Greyscale, the Martells had so far been the only Kingdom to stay out of the war. Marriage had kept them at bay, and if the Mountain displeased him enough, the big man's head would do as well.

Now he had to make sure his family survived. The Lannisters would prevail, they always did. Casterly Rock would stand now and forever, King's Landing was theirs by marriage, and soon Winterfell and Highgarden would be much the same. The entire kingdom would be bound by the ties that his family made, if they could make it through the war without Cersei and Joffrey fucking it up.

Tywin takes another sip of wine, and looks to the girl. Arya Stark watches him, and he watches her. Both wonder what the future will hold, now the truth is out.