Jaime Lannister gazed unseeing at the familiar grotesque of post battle. Bodies lay cooling, strewn across landscapes of red like poppies in spring.

But it wasn't spring.

The white ravens had come, blinking their black eyes and heralding in winter.

The cold had not quite reached this far south, but he could feel the absence of heat as keenly as the corpses littered before him could not.

The Freys. The Fools.

Walder and his dubiously selected heirs got themselves killed shortly after his departure from the twins and between all the infighting on heritage and inheritance, the only thing the bumbling lot of idiots can agree on is that he must have been the one to give the order.

Happily ignoring the question of why he would do such a thing after having just helped deliver Riverun into their greedy little hands, they quickly gathered their armies and made haste after their scapegoat.

Jaime might have been their scapegoat, but he was certain that he was someone else's patsy. Whomever did kill Walder Frey and his heirs, it certainly wasn't a coincidence that they did so so near the time of his departure.

Giving credit where it's due, the Freys were smart enough to know that if he was able to make it back to King's Landing to join with the rest of the Lannister forces, they'd lose their opportunity for recompense.

They were, however, either not smart enough or not organized enough to capitalize on the possible pincer movement they could have achieved by coordinating with their remaining forces at Riverun.

The main contingent from the twins was sighted by scouts a half day march from the Lannister contingent. Runners were sent, but never returned. Jaime instructed his forces to make camp on nearby high ground, and allowed the Frey forces to come.

In theory the Frey's had the numbers to contend with his men, but the Lannister army was well trained, well equipped, and had the high ground. Any chance the Frey's had was undercut by the disarray of their command. No one seemed to be following orders from the same person, there seemed to be several men delivering orders with no clear chain of command.

It was only after the battle when some survivors were questioned that Jaime learned that reinforcements had been expected from Riverun after all, and the option of retreat had been discarded in favor of waiting on them.

While a second, smaller army did arrive, they arrived about two and half hours too late.

Seems Walder Frey passed on more than just a weak chin to his numerous scion.

They managed a bit better, if only because they did call a retreat.

It was some days later, when the battlefield had been seen to, and the army was halted as the wounded we're being given what care they could, that he received more information from the now captive survivors of the Frey's army.

A young boy, a runner that had come from the Twins in the hours before the battle had begun, carried with him a missive with news of King's Landing.

Horrible news.

News he refused to believe.

He sent his own runners out to see what information they could gather until one arrived back with with something more than gossip of raging green fires, violent streets, and a mad queen. Until one came with a letter.

A letter from Cercei.

A letter admitting to her actions, taking pride in them, mourning their son.

He holed himself up in his tent with one missive, one letter, and a wineskin that couldn't seem to block out the ghosts that kept screaming 'burn them! burn them all!'

The only thing in his life he didn't give up for Cersei was his honor, which he had already thrown on the Targaryen funerary pyre in place of the people of King's Landing.

The most honorable thing he'd ever done in his life also made him one of the most reviled men on this side of the narrow sea.

And he'd never regretted it. He withstood the sneers and the distrust. Held onto the tatters on his name and reputation as if he'd preferred them that way. He'd given up his children to a man he hated for Cersei's protection. He'd given up his inheritance and right to bear those children to the very throne that broke his oaths to protect, and he did those things to be closer to Cersei.

The Mad Queen

They were already calling her that, as unaware as they all were with Aerys's threats that day, as unaware as they all were as to how deeply the similarities ran.

He'd once run his sword through a king for threatening to do what Cersei--his beloved, his love, his partner, his everything--had now done.

She bid him come home, recalled from the battlefield, but he remained stuck here with the wounded.

Something in him, something he'd only felt so strongly twice in his life, something he hesitated to call honor, made demands of him.

He had only one thing left to give and it was the one thing he could not cede; Cersei.

This unwanted burning part of him he preferred to shun, like it caused the world to shun him, it knew what needed to be done just as surely as he knew he could not do it.

This was when she came to him, alone in his tent with his demons and two parchments. She was a ghost with no face and an offer as horrible as it was practical. As much an answer as an end, as much a savior as an executioner.

It seemed he had something more to give after all.

And in the end, he gave it freely.

--

Breath trickles out of her in the way that bodies necessitate.

She had hardly exerted herself, but she could feel the blood rushing through her veins, encouraging her lungs to contract more rapidly than was strictly necessary.

She could feel her fingers-all ten of them-and the palms they were attached to.

She pressed the ridges of her nails into them in alternating patterns, reminding herself that neither were phantoms.

She wiggled her toes and scrunched her feet in boots that now had room to spare.

She rolled her shoulders, breathed deep to feel the resistance of her armor-no, not hers, never hers- against her chest, pressed one hand to the juncture of her thighs and sighed at the lack of a protrusion.

Her breath hitched when, for a moment, she wondered if that was right-wasn't there supposed to be something more there? Panic trickled into her mind as the feeling of being less, being wrong flooded through her. knowing intrinsically that pieces had been stripped away from her- like a picture puzzle whose pieces had been lost somewhere along the way.

she instructed her hands to move further, past the gap where she felt something should be, and felt herself calm.

There was never meant to be a growth between her legs, only depths.

She waited for her breathing to even out, letting her mind fall carefully blank before removing her hand and opening her eyes.

The twilight of a city spread before her beyond the balcony. This centered her. There was no confusion here. She knew this place. Knew it like a scar long carved into her skin. She felt no wonder at the raised edges.

Removing a face-especially one she had worn for so long-could be disorienting.

She had been surprised by how easily she slipped into the skin of Jaime Lannister. She had expected to have to search for the memories, the emotions that would allow her to become him. She thought she would have to stretch to fit the life and thoughts he'd had.

Then again, she'd never worn a face this fresh, never worn a face of someone she'd known.

Even still, how readily she'd fallen into him surprised her. The more she wore him, the more she learned about him; the more surprised she became.

However, the disassociation when coming back to herself was...concerning.

As it was, she was lucky that some part of Jaime Lannister had wanted his sister dead. It wouldn't have done to hesitate.

That was the deal after all.

As had happened each time she had transitioned from Jaime to herself, the visceral memory of pushing her brother out a tower window pulsed through her consciousness.

This time though, it seemed quieter. Soothed by a sense of justice and satisfaction. The visceral feel of her hand on her brother's chest overwritten by that of her hand releasing it's hold of Cersei's wrist.

The look on her face when she'd seen her, really seen her; the fear and confusion and hurt as her mind had struggled to catch up with what was already happening to her body.

She didn't scream.

That was probably for the best, though it felt like ending a sentence without a period.

Or handing down a sentence without swinging the sword.

The keening ring of valyrian steel, the heavy grating slap of it pressing through flesh, the manic jeering of the crowd, the futile pleading of her sister; the harsh fluttering wings of birds taken to fight to escape the unpleasantness of such an unmelodic combination of sound.

These are the things burnt into her memory; what she has left of her father's last day alive.

By comparison, Cersei is silent.

Her death characterized by Arya's chance to look her in the eyes and see horror, confusion, hurt, and recognition. See her slipping through her hands, off the bannister, and into the darkness of night. See her become as small through the powers of perspective as the woman always should have been in life.

It was done.

She wished she'd had more time, time to deliver to Cersei Lannister a fraction of the pain she's delivered unto others, time to let the woman truly realize her fate, time for her to understand who was giving it to her and why it was happening.

But there was a very large and very devoted guard standing at the bottom of the staircase leading into the Queen's chambers and she'd made Jaime Lannister a promise before he'd given her his face.

It was about doing what was necessary.

She had other names that needed to be crossed off her list, and she needed his face to do it. The magic would hold stronger, give more to her, if he gave it willingly.

So she'd promised: no unnecessary pain.

Cersei may have deserved worse, but as Arya prodded her emotions she found that she felt satisfied.

There were others that needed her attentions and she needed to be somewhere else before Cersei's body was found.

In other words. she thought smilingly, releasing a deep breath as she picked what remained of Jaime Lannister off the floor, life must go on.

Bracing herself, she pressed him into the lines of her face until it began to feel natural.

Fingers pressed to her temple, she spoke, "Valar Doheris".

Jaime Lannister left the tower of the Queen with no witnesses but the ever silent Sir Robert Strong.