This is a wild game of survival

Instead of men eating their fill and drifting away from the great hall, the chamber had become impossibly more crowded after the Riverlands and the North declared for Arya. Word was spreading, it seemed, both within the castle and beyond its walls to the encampment. Those who hadn't been present during the great council began to flood the hall, wanting to see this newly made Winter's Queen with their own eyes. Ale and wine flowed, increasing the general joviality of the mood, the laughter and cheers and boasting of the men filling the room to its rafters.

Amid the din, the young queen was quiet; thoughtful. Her eyes were trained on the throng below, her shrewd silver gaze roving and observing. Her faceless brothers gave a convincing appearance of celebration, but they were alert as well, watching over the tops of their tankards, prepared to move should any further threat declare itself. The Bear's eyes caught his sister's every so often. The Lyseni quirked up one corner of his mouth as they looked at one another across the room. It was a small salute, and an acknowledgment of the absurdity of the girl's predicament. Her own countenance reflected a rather stark solemnity as she replayed the events of the day in her head, wondering how they would impact her plans.

Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei…

Would the Queen of the Winter Kingdom have the freedom to seek her vengeance?

"Your grace, are you ill?" The Blackfish was leaning toward his niece, a look of concern on his face as he spoke, but it took the girl a moment to realize his words were meant for her.

Your grace.

Her eyebrows drew together for a moment and she frowned as the unfamiliar address washed over her. She considered it, examining how it affected her, expecting to be repulsed, or possibly amused at the sheer inanity of it. Instead, all she felt was a sort of calm acceptance. It was as though the mask, this mask of sovereign ruler ('your grace') settled comfortably over her face and she wore the costume with ease. She had a strange thought then.

Is this what it's like for Jaqen when he takes a new face?

Her Lorathi master had always seemed to slip in and out of a new identity as easily as donning and doffing a cloak, and if the pretense ever chafed him, he certainly never showed it.

"No, I am well, uncle," she replied softly, marveling that perhaps her very facelessness was what made her answer truth. It was ironic, really. She, who had never been fully able to give up being Arya Stark, could now easily fill this role meant only for Arya Stark because of the years she'd spent in the House of Black and White, training to be no one at all.

But she could not deny that there was another reason as well. The deep hum that originated from somewhere in her center and spread relentlessly through her body, to the very tips of her fingers and toes, was her constant reminder that there was something else at play here; something difficult to explain but no less true; something beyond this world of man's ambition.

Something beyond simple acceptance.

Something beyond the lessons she'd learned at the feet of the Kindly Man.

What had the witch at High Heart called her? Gods-touched?

She huffed a small laugh at the idea but when the Blackfish's brow rose at her response, she only smiled sweetly at him and shook her head, indicating that her thought was only a trifle and he need not be concerned about it.

"You've barely eaten, child," he observed, "and you've barely smiled, when you have much that should bring you joy now."

"I know, uncle. I'm…" She sighed, calling up an easy lie. "I'm just tired. I was awake before the dawn, training."

"Yes, of course, my dear. You've had a taxing few days."

The idea that she was thought weakened or worn out by such common circumstance annoyed her, but she'd courted the sentiment with her falsehood, so she bit back her irritation.

"Another bite or two, then bed?" he suggested, resting a warm palm against her forearm.

Arya gave the Blackfish a nod, mostly to appease him, and made herself pinch a piece of bread from the loaf that had been laid out between them. She popped it into her mouth, chewing slowly, the act more for show than for hunger, and washed it down with a swallow of water. She repeated the actions while scanning the chamber once again. This time, it wasn't the Bear's eyes she found, but Gendry's.

She wasn't sure when he'd arrived, but he was seated in a far corner with the other members of the Brotherhood, including Lady Brienne. He was too far away for the girl to make out the aspects of the stare which made it uniquely his (the deep blue of his irises that called to her mind the waters of the Narrow Sea at dusk, or the way the fringes of his black lashes were so thick, his lids seemed almost pulled down by the weight of them) but she felt it nonetheless. Her neck prickled under the dark knight's scrutiny. She could not say why.

Gendry's gaze did not waver when his eyes locked with Arya's, and she wondered at his boldness. After a moment, he raised his cup to her and dipped his head in deference before drinking. No smile touched his lips. She could not tell if the gesture was meant as mockery or if it was sincere, and she wasn't sure which sentiment she found more irksome. The girl's eyes narrowed a bit, and she allowed herself to feel him, just for a moment. That was all it took for her to understand what was behind his stare. In his head, the dark knight was turning over a thought that somehow both satisfied and grieved him: the thought that Arya had become who he'd once dreamed she was; what he'd always believed her to be.

A Queen of Winter.

There was no satisfaction in that for her, but the grief in it, she understood very well.

Arya had finally risen from her seat in the great hall to make her way to her bed, and had drawn on her faceless training to suppress the groan and eyeroll that tried to manifest when both the Kingslayer and Brynden Blackwood had moved with her as if they were bound to her very shadow. She'd even managed several adequately regal nods at the men who'd risen and bowed their heads while murmuring 'your grace' as she passed.

When the trio reached old Walder's door (my door, the girl mentally corrected herself), Ser Jaime insisted on inspecting the chamber before allowing Arya to enter. No man had been left to stand guard over the empty room and anyone might have entered in the interim, he insisted. Considering the earlier events in the great hall, arguing against such a possibility seemed futile, and so she did not try.

"We must be sure an assassin hasn't hidden himself away behind your tapestries or beneath your bed, your grace," the golden knight explained without any hint of humor. The girl lifted an eyebrow, wondering what her protector would say if she told him an assassin would soon be stretched out atop the bed he meant to inspect rather than beneath it.

"You've never searched my chambers before…"

"You were never the queen before."

That gave her pause. "By all means, then, fulfill your duty, ser," she replied, and, with a smirk, added, "and do let me know if you discover any lurking assassins."

Jaime looked at her a moment, and Arya had the impression he was summoning the strength to keep a firm grip on his patience. She thought for a moment he might have something to say, but he seemed to think the better of it and instead, pushed his way through the door, sweeping through the chamber while looking this way and that. When he was satisfied it was free of all threat, he called out to her.

"The room is clear, your grace. You may safely enter."

"Thank you, Ser Jaime." She turned to look at her other companion. "Goodnight, Ser Brynden."

The heir to Raventree Hall smiled at her, bowing at the waist. "Sleep well, your grace."

She wasn't sure she would ever become accustomed to the honorific, especially when spoken by those she'd counted as friends before it had been bestowed upon her.

As Arya moved through the door, Jaime addressed her. "For tonight, your regular guard will stand at your door, but I'll join for the first watch and then Ser Brynden will relieve me. In the morning, we'll…"

"What?" The girl's forehead wrinkled in confusion.

"Your grace?"

"Why would you, or Ser Brynden, need to supplement my guard?"

"Until your permanent Queensguard can be appointed, it's best if formally trained knights and proven fighting men known to be loyal to you are included in your protection detail. It's not worth the risk to your person to trust that…"

Arya interrupted him again. "Queensguard?"

"Yes, and speaking of your Queensguard, we should carve out some time tomorrow to discuss appointments. Of course, I'll be the Lord Commander…"

"Lord Commander?"

"…but we need to carefully consider the six other swords you'll name, and…"

"Six other swords…"

Ser Jaime's head cocked to the side. "Is there some reason you're repeating what I say in that incredulous tone, your grace?" His own tone was suffused with his typical irreverence despite the formality of his speech. He was teasing her.

"It's a waste," the girl retorted. "I've no need of a… a… Queensguard." She almost spat that last, as if the word tasted sour on her tongue.

The golden knight chuckled. "You're a queen now, your grace, and that fact will necessitate certain changes in your life. The formation of your Queensguard is one of the most basic. Or, did you think you'd merely accept the declarations of two kingdoms and then flit about as you always have?"

"First of all, ser, it's one kingdom now, the Kingdom of Winter," Arya groused, "and second of all, I do not flit."

Jaime sighed, suddenly serious. He moved toward her, dropping his voice low. "Stark, did you think you could take on this role without sacrifice?"

"I didn't ask for this role," she reminded him.

"No. I know you didn't." His acknowledgement comforted her somehow. Just a little. She thought of his earlier warning; his advice that she make her own choices, and quickly, lest they be made for her. It seemed she'd not been quick enough.

But then again, maybe this choice had been made long before his warning and no amount of speed on her part would have saved her from it.

"And I did not expect to avoid sacrifice," she continued, "but a Queensguard isn't my sacrifice to make."

It was Jaime's turn to display a furrowed brow. "What do you mean?"

Arya sighed. "You, of all people, understand what a man must pledge before he may serve in this role. How can I ask anyone to sacrifice such things—family, land, legacy—for me?"

"Your grace, there is no greater honor…"

"Are you glad that you traded your lands, your wealth, for the great honor of serving the mad king?"

The Kingslayer's lips pressed into a tight line and his jaw worked, but only for a moment. "Perhaps you see a wasted life, or betrayal and dishonor, when you look at my tenure in the Kingsguard, but had I not taken those vows, had I not been guarding Aerys the day the city fell…" Jaime breathed in deep, then slowly exhaled. His eyes flicked up and for a moment, he seemed lost to his memories. The girl closed the small distance between them, slipping her palm over his left wrist, wrapping her fingers partway around it. She closed her eyes, just briefly, and saw what he saw.

'Burn them all.'

Jaime's gleaming sword, first running Rossart the pyromancer through, then the king himself.

It had cost him to do it, she could feel that, feel the heaviness in the knight's heart, but he had done it anyway. He'd done it simply because it was the right thing to do.

The memory was confirmation of what Arya had learned when she'd walked in Jaime's dream the night Lady Stoneheart had died; that the bravest, most selfless, and noblest act of his life had been misunderstood by everyone, unjustly tarnishing his name for all time.

Opening her eyes, the girl looked up into the golden knight's face. "You of all people understand the cost," she murmured as she squeezed at his wrist. "I'll ask no man to pay it."

Jaime shook his head, smiling a little sadly. "You're so young. You can't know what price a man is willing to pay to realize his dreams. These men have dreamed this kingdom into existence, and you are the only thing holding it together. What cost is too great, if it means protecting you, and in protecting you, protecting this grand dream, your grace?"

Arya was humbled by the sentiment, but she could not dismiss the impracticality.

"To give so much, to give everything, when the role is little more than ceremonial…"

The Kingslayer stiffened. "I doubt Arthur Dayne or Gerold Hightower would think their roles ceremonial."

"I'm no dying woman tucked away in a crumbling tower," she protested. "I need a guard as much as I need a necklace of fiery rubies."

Pretty to look at, but not much use besides.

"Even the fearsome Arya Stark must sleep."

Her reply was mumbled. "Not much."

"What was that, your grace?"

She sighed. "So much of your life has not been your own to direct. I do not wish to ask this of anyone, and I certainly cannot ask it of you."

"Much of what was mine to direct is a source of regret for me. You do not need to ask it of me. I'm offering it freely."

"But…" The girl chewed her lip thoughtfully. "What about Lady Brienne?"

Jaime frowned. "What about her?"

As she swallowed, Arya's eyebrows pinched together, forming a crease just over her nose. "Earlier, you told me that I should choose the path that would bring me some measure of love."

"And see how well you listened?" he scoffed. She ignored him.

"How can I ask something of you that would forever prevent you choosing that path for yourself? Do you think me so cruel?"

"Your grace, all men in this new kingdom are subject to your rule. It's not cruelty to expect their service. Indeed, it's their duty to offer it. It's my duty."

"I don't need your service, ser, and I won't allow you to waste your chance at contentment on some misguided belief that I do."

The knight drew himself up tall and he gazed down at the girl's face. He seemed touched by what he found in her expression. "I could never know contentment if some violence befell you and I was not at your side to prevent it."

"And Lady Brienne?"

He sighed and looked past Arya's shoulder as he answered. "She could never know contentment with me."

The queen's voice was soft. "I think she would say differently."

"That's because she doesn't know her worth. But I do." The Kingslayer moved away from her and strode toward the door. Before he exited her chamber, he stopped and turned, bowing with respect. "Your grace."

And then he was gone.

Over the next week, the queen met with the men who would advise her, discussing the logistics of implementing Lord Hoster's plan to strengthen their new kingdom, the makeup of her small council, and the details of her coronation (the lords were all insistent upon the need for a lavish ceremony, no matter how much she protested). But, as contentious as these issues were, none produced the churlishness that the arguments regarding her proposed move northward or the establishment of her Queensguard did. Despite their agreement to form one kingdom, the Riverlords and the Northmen often clashed when decisions needed to be made. Adding to the general rancor was Arya herself, for the girl had her own firm ideas about how things should be done, and unsurprisingly, her views were shared by very few.

"Seven knights in the Queensguard is nonsensical," she insisted evenly, her calm at odds with the mood of the rest of the council. "The Targaryens were bound by the Faith of the Seven, but I am not. I'll agree to two guards, at the very most." She'd arrived at this number on her own, and did not explain herself when she suggested it, no matter how the lords clamored for her justification.

One knight was to honor the old gods of her family, and one was to pay homage to Him of Many Faces.

Of course, none would be better. She still contended outfitting a royal guard was a complete waste, both of resources and of men.

"Two white cloaks?" Jaime echoed, aghast. "How will two men rotate to cover all the watches? It's impossible. They'd be dead on their feet, and no use to anyone."

"They wouldn't need to rotate. I've told you, the role is ceremonial. They'll only need to come out and stand on either side of the throne when ambassadors visit, to make an impression. And why must their cloaks be white?"

"Because they've always been white!" the Kingslayer sputtered.

"The Kingsguard of the Iron Throne have always worn white cloaks," the girl corrected, "but I don't plan to seat myself on the Iron throne, ser."

"Your grace, the people will expect something traditional," Lord Blackwood remarked. "Familiarity is a comfort in trying times."

"Why did we go to the trouble to create a new kingdom if we merely wished for everything remain the same?" Arya countered. "Shouldn't we take this opportunity to improve things?"

"You think the Kingsguard can be improved upon?" Ser Jaime's eye twitched as he asked, and he rubbed at his forehead as though he felt a headache coming on.

"Well… how many kings and queens and princes have died violently just in the past, oh, twenty-five years or so, ser?" Arya bit her lip to keep at bay the smile that tried to shape her mouth. "Perhaps there is some room for improvement?"

"The queen is right," Hoster Blackwood said. "The old ways are not necessarily the best ways. We must be open to change."

"So, what color cloak does your grace wish to see her Queensguard wear?" the Kingslayer asked sarcastically. The girl did not allow Jaime's ill humor to affect her.

"Black," she replied after seeming to give the matter some thought.

"Black?" he scoffed. "And how will we tell them apart from the Night's Watch, then?"

"Well, the Night's Watch will be at the Wall, ser, and the Winter Guard will be at my side. At least when we have visiting ambassadors we wish to impress."

"The… Winter Guard?" the golden knight choked. "So now even the name must be changed?"

"Ser Jaime, I can't see that it matters what the company is called," the Blackfish said in an effort to diffuse the tension at the table.

"The black cloaks?" Jaime spat.

"Call them 'winter cloaks' if you wish," the girl suggested, mostly to see her Lord Commander's reaction. It was not that she enjoyed torturing him (well, it was not solely that she enjoyed torturing him), but rather, she wished for him to see how ridiculous she found the entire ordeal. They needn't be discussing a Queensguard at all, much less these ludicrous specificities. At some point, she hoped it would become clear to him, but the stubborn knight seemed determined to argue the matter until they both died of age.

When it came to choosing a site to locate the royal party more permanently, the arguments were even more intense. The Northmen, of course, insisted that Arya's place was in the North while the Riverlords proposed to remove the girl to Riverrun, or Raventree Hall, or even Wayfarer's Rest. Ravens flew as the lords sought to win support for their own plans, and daily, messages arrived listing what assets and men were available at each castle to guarantee the queen's comfort and protection. Even Jason Mallister sent word that he would be happy to host his queen at Seaguard for as long as she might have need of his hospitality. Patrek Mallister made that announcement personally.

Unlike the Riverlords, the Northmen seemed to be more unified in their approach. They did not suggest that Arya should make her home behind any walls but those of her ancestral home. Their plan gained favor when Thoros backed it, saying his visions suggested that the further the queen was from King's Landing, the safer she would be. And, despite the fact that he was a Blackwood of Raventree Hall, Lord Hoster agreed. His father had made plain his desire to have the girl back under his own roof (pointing out that she could enjoy the company of his daughter Bethany, who, he reminded the council, was of an age with Arya and had formed an attachment to her during the queen's earlier stay at his castle), but his son argued against it.

"I see the sense of removing what is most precious to the kingdom as far away from the army of the Targaryens as we can," Lord Hoster said. "We should not make it easy for Aegon or his aunt's dragons to reach our queen."

Objectively, Arya knew Hos was right, but the sentiment was distasteful. The idea that she should fear Aegon or Daenerys and should run and hide herself rankled her. Still, she understood that they could not value her pride over strategy, and so she kept silent on the matter. Besides, just the idea of seeing Winterfell again warmed her and made her heart swell.

Still, the discussions continued, with the lords unable to agree until finally, Maester Brenett burst into the chamber where the lords were cloistered with the queen, waving a raven scroll between his ink-stained fingers.

"Your grace," he huffed with a crisp bob of his head toward Arya, "my lords…"

"Yes, Brenett, what is it?" the Blackfish asked, impatience coloring his tone.

"There has been a raven. From… Winterfell."

Jon Connington strode into the king's pavilion, his face as grim as ever despite the good news he was delivering to those assembled there. "Your grace, the Lannisters have agreed to treat with you."

"Baratheons, surely," Aegon replied, his voice light, the corner of his mouth turning up as he spoke.

"I don't suppose even Cersei is trying to keep up that pretense anymore," Tyrion remarked wryly.

"And where is this meeting to be?" the king asked his Hand.

"I've suggested your pavilion, but they are understandably nervous. They countered with an offer of the small council chamber in the Red Keep, but I am inclined to refuse."

"You are right to do so," Tyrion concurred. "The dragons must be perceived as an immediate threat. We should have Drogon within sight of the meeting. That should make an impression."

As the silver king nodded his agreement, Daenerys snorted lightly. "More of an impression than Rhaegal made by raining fire on the Lion Gate towers yesterday?"

Aegon shrugged. "That was rather hard to ignore. And I liked the symbolism of it."

"You liked riding my dragon."

"I don't claim to be the expert you are, aunt, but one thing I've learned from reading the various volumes on the subject is that the dragon chooses his rider. Is that not true?"

"I'm not sure I understand your point, your grace." The khaleesi's expression almost seemed carved out of stone but the way she gritted out your grace left no doubt as to her mood. Grey Worm was standing to Daenerys' side and he gripped his spear tighter as she spoke, shifting his weight forward slightly onto his toes.

"Just that if the books are to be believed, Rhaegal would be my dragon, would he not?"

"He would not."

"Hmm."

The dwarf ignored the exchange and continued. "Tommen is a sweet boy, with no taste for war, but his mother, well… A cornered Cersei is dangerous. She needs to know Aegon is more dangerous, or she'll try something foolish, I'm almost certain."

The king nodded, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Instruct them that they shall meet us on the tourney ground tomorrow."

"And if they refuse?" Jon queried.

"Then instruct them that the Red Keep will burn."

"Your grace…"

Aegon lifted a hand, stopping his advisor from saying more. He turned and looked at his aunt expectantly. Daenerys pursed her lips and straightened in her chair for a moment.

"I agree," she finally said.

"There, you see? We are of one accord," the king pronounced. "My aunt grows as tired of the Lannisters' games as I do."

"The Baratheons' games, surely," Tyrion japed, earning a deep scowl from Lord Connington and a half-smirk from Aegon.

"Let us put an end to this," the king said once he had mastered his mirth. He locked eyes with his Hand and his expression hardened. "Tell them, Lord Connington."

"Your grace," the Hand pronounced, nodding once. He motioned to Haldon and murmured into the halfmaester's ear. Haldon listened intently, then bowed to the king and turned to leave so that he might pen the message as directed and have it delivered to the Red Keep.

"Lord Dayne," Aegon called. The comely young lord pulled himself to attention as the king spoke. "I should like you with me tomorrow, at the tourney ground."

"Of course, your grace."

"Yes," Daenerys said softly. "That will show Tommen and Cersei that they are short on friends, with Dorne supporting Aegon." There was only a small hint of bitterness in her tone as she spoke the words. Her nephew ignored it.

"What news from the Riverlands, Lord Connington?" the king inquired.

"None as yet, your grace. We've sent ravens and have had no reply."

"Curious."

"I would take it as a positive," Jon said. "They haven't marched south to defend the capital, though the crown has almost certainly demanded it, and they've not penned any repudiation of your claim."

Tyrion nodded. "They are most likely waiting to see you take the throne before declaring their support. You must remember, your grace, this land has been in throes of war for years now, and the people of the Riverlands have borne the brunt of it. Their hesitance is… understandable."

"Even so, I find their silence troubling," Aegon remarked. "Jon, you did tell them I planned to visit their lands?"

"Yes, your grace."

The king's eyes grew soft as he looked into the distance, considering the problem. After a moment, he snapped his attention to the dwarf whose advice he trusted almost above all else. "Lord Tyrion, can you think of any other reason to explain their reluctance to declare for me besides a weariness of conflict?"

"Well…" Tyrion began pacing, his mismatched eyes staring at the ground as he considered the problem. "The Lord Paramount is a Frey, and he's married to a Lannister…"

"Your aunt, I believe, my lord," interjected the Hand drily.

"…and they are not well-loved in the land." The dwarf continued his slow pacing. "The peace that was settled with the crown years ago was tenuous, at best, and obtained under much duress, through ugly sieges and the taking of hostages. Many lords were threatened with the deaths of their heirs."

"War is always ugly business," Daenerys remarked. "Rebellion, even more so."

"That is true, khaleesi, but the rebellion in the Riverlands grew out of their understandable fury and fear when their villages were burned by men said to be sent by my father, and their rage over Ned Stark's execution. To this day, the names of Stark and Tully are revered there."

"Yes," the king murmured. "They are, aren't they… Deeply revered."

Tyrion nodded his assent almost absently and continued. "The Riverlords may have sworn for the crown, but their allegiance was won through coercion and intimidation rather than any respect for the puppets and bootlickers who had their reward from Joffrey."

"Another who was not well-loved," remarked Daario Naharis from his corner. Tyrion's gaze traveled to the Tyroshi's handsome face, watching as the captain stroked his beard. The dye had faded from it, and it had mostly returned to its natural color.

"No, he was not," the dwarf agreed, then resumed his pacing. "It could simply be that the Riverlords are reluctant to commit to you because they truly fear inviting war back into their lands, but…"

When Tyrion did not speak for a moment, the king prompted him. "But?"

The dwarf sighed. "But, if you chain a dog and beat it, you should not be surprised if it bites your hand when it manages to slip its tether." Tyrion ceased his movement and looked at Aegon. "It's possible they are shrewdly using the distraction of your campaign here to enact their own plot."

"And what sort of plot do you imagine they are enacting, Lord Tyrion?" Edric Dayne asked curiously.

"Perhaps a plot to overthrow Lannister control of the Riverlands. They could be challenging Emmon Frey's authority there. They may even be entertaining the idea of asserting their own sovereignty."

"Do you think really think that's possible?" Edric asked.

"It's what I'd do." The dwarf's eyebrows furrowed, and he seemed to be musing to himself when he said, "It's the perfect time to do it. King Tommen can do nothing to stop them, and we are too occupied at present to mount any sort of effective objection."

"So, the Riverlands delays a reply to us while they engage in their own coup?" Aegon squinted, fingers drumming slowly against the arm of his chair as he considered the possibility.

"Or, your ravens were eaten by a hungry cat, or a hawk, and word never reached the Riverlords," Daario suggested, amusement dancing in his eyes. The man seemed almost perpetually amused. "They may not even know you have King's Landing under siege."

"Perhaps we should write again," the king said. "Perhaps I should write, in my own hand…"

Jon shook his head slightly. "This matter is hardly pressing now, your grace. Our focus in this moment must be King's Landing, and the work ahead of us to establish the peace here once Tommen and Cersei are dealt with."

"I hardly think penning one raven scroll will distract me too much from conquering the capital, Jon. The deed is nearly done as it is."

"There's plenty of time to consider a strategy for the Riverlands," the Hand argued.

"And yet we will soon march through that land. I would have the matter settled before then."

"Soon, your grace?" Jon's face pinched at the thought. "It may take a year or more to establish order and prosperity to the capital. You cannot leave before that."

"We must travel north, Jon," Aegon contended. "We must travel to the North, and I cannot wait a year or more to begin that journey."

"Your grace…"

"I mean to have this kingdom in whole and the North is the key to pulling it together and binding it."

"Much can be accomplished without you ever stepping foot in the North," the Hand said. "You may sit on your throne here, directing the rebuild and overseeing the lands which have already pledged loyalty, all while ravens are flying."

"And how effective has this raven-reliant diplomacy been thus far?" the king scoffed. "You've already said you've had no word from the Riverlords. I assume if any Northern houses had answered you, I'd have been told already."

"We may yet have our answer. It's been barely more than a week since our latest messages were sent," Jon replied, but he did not sound convinced.

Aegon waved his hand dismissively. "When my throne is secure, I will march north, and I will claim my prize."

"What prize is that, your grace?" Daario asked. If the king minded the impertinence of the question, he did not show it. Perhaps it did not register, for when Aegon answered, his voice was soft, and his look was far away.

"A jewel for my crown."

The Tyroshi's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly at the silver king's words.

To the Lord Paramount of the Trident,

I am told the Lady Arya Stark is under your protection. I am grateful for the shelter you have provided her but ask that arrangements be made to move her home to Winterfell with all haste. The North has been without a Stark for far too long. If a suitable escort cannot be arranged within the fortnight, I will come fetch her myself. I await your reply.

Jon Snow

As the maester finished reading the scroll, there was an outburst amongst the Riverlords.

"Who does he think he is?" scoffed Theomar Smallwood. "We will take no direction from a Northern bastard!"

"How can we know he has our queen's interests at heart?" Ser Patrek wondered.

"Of course he does!" Harwin spat. "He'd not harm his own blood, nor dishonor his father that way."

"Does he mean to threaten us?" Lord Piper blustered. "A fortnight, indeed! Then what? He'll march here with his band of wildlings?"

"If he does, we'll be ready," vowed Lord Blackwood.

"Jon Snow may be a bastard, but he's not wrong. The North has been without a Stark for too long," the Greatjon declared. "And I don't need a fortnight. I can be ready to carry the little queen home on the morrow, if need be."

"Don't be foolish, Lord Umber," the Blackfish growled. "We must have the coronation first, and the preparations for such a treacherous journey are not to be undertaken lightly. Even a fortnight may not be enough."

"We must finalize the appointments to the Queensguard…" Jaime started, then, when Harwin cleared his throat, the Kingslayer breathed in and out loudly through his nose to quell his frustration, and amended, "…the Winter Guard before Queen Arya moves beyond the walls of this castle."

The men continued to bicker and grumble endlessly. Normally, Arya would have felt compelled to intervene and set things to rights, but this time, she did not. Her attention was instead commanded by a small scrap of paper. It was tightly rolled and held closed by wax impressed with her father's seal. Maester Brenett had remarked that a second message addressed just to Arya had arrived with the scroll from Winterfell, and he'd handed it to the girl before reading aloud Jon's missive addressed to the Blackfish.

As her advisors bristled and balked and argued, their queen broke the seal on the small scroll and slowly unrolled the paper. Her eyes drank in Jon's tight scrawl and her heart clenched painfully in her chest as she read his message. It was simple, and direct, and unsigned.

Sister, come home.

The members of the council took their leave of the king and drifted from his pavilion once their discussions had ended and their plans for the parley with the Lannisters had been made. Much to Jon Connington's displeasure, Aegon asked Tyrion to remain behind.

"Do you wish for a drinking companion, your grace?" the dwarf asked hopefully once they were alone. "I'll pour."

"I wish my needs were so easily met," the king said, shifting in his seat. "But, I will take a cup of Dornish Red."

Tyrion nodded, then moved toward a small table across the pavilion where two decanters of wine sat, one red and one white. He poured two cups of red and brought one to the king.

"I'd rather taken you for an Arbor Gold man," the dwarf remarked before taking a sip from his own cup.

"I developed a taste for the Dornish wines during my stay with my uncle." Aegon took a long swallow. "I can't abide the sweet wines now."

Tyrion nodded, taking another sip before asking, "What did you wish to discuss, your grace?"

The silver king sighed, then rose, pacing across the floor before turning to address the dwarf.

"Lord Tyrion, you are a clever man, and an invaluable asset to this campaign."

"I am pleased you think so, your grace." He raised his cup to the king in salute, then took another swallow before adding, "Why do I think there's a 'but' coming?"

Aegon grunted a humorless laugh at that. "But I do not know if I should have you by my side when I treat with your sister and nephew in the morning."

"I assure you, my king, you have my loyalty."

"I do not doubt it, my lord, but even the staunchest of allies would be hard pressed to remain dispassionate when discussing the fate of close kin."

"I'm your best hope of seeing through Cersei's tricks and schemes."

"But is she not their best hope of outmaneuvering you?"

Tyrion laughed. "If so, they are doomed before they even begin trying, your grace. Cersei's strength lies in the unapologetic use of brute force and her feminine wiles. Neither of those will prove an effective weapon tomorrow."

"And what about your nephew?"

"Tommen has no wiles at all."

"Yes, I'm aware. A truly innocent puppet whose strings are pulled by those with far more ambition and imagination than he possesses."

"I cannot dispute the description, your grace." There was a question in the dwarf's tone as he spoke the words.

"Can you face him across the table and do what must be done?"

Tyrion's forehead wrinkled as he studied the king's face. "You said you've no wish to harm the boy…"

"Nor do I, so long as he gives me what I want."

"His complete surrender and agreement to accept exile."

"Yes," Aegon affirmed. "And his mother."

"To be kept as a hostage?"

"To be tried and executed."

Tyrion's expression was blank. "For what crimes?"

The king's smile was bitter. "Where to begin? She married the man who murdered my father and usurped my grandfather's throne; the man who sent assassins after my aunt and uncle and praised the murder of what he thought were my father's children."

"Those are Robert's crimes, your grace."

"She is daughter to the man who betrayed his king, and sister to the man who murdered that same king."

"Again, those are the deeds of other men, not Cersei herself."

"She committed adultery and incest then schemed to place her bastards on a throne not rightfully theirs."

"Certainly, those are affronts to the faith, but not crimes worthy of death."

"She conspired to murder Robert…"

"Robert the usurper, the man who killed your father?"

"…and Ned Stark."

"That was Joffrey's doing."

The king nodded, his jaw working, then said, "And this is why I cannot have you sitting across the table from your sister. You still bear her love."

"I assure you, I do not."

"Then why do you fight so hard to defend her?"

"I don't! I fight for fairness and a just rule, your grace." Tyrion heaved a great sigh, shaking his head. "My sister has tried for years to have me killed. She was never kind to me, not once in my whole life, even when we were children. She has given me no reason to desire justice for her sake. I desire it only for yours."

"For my sake?"

"So that your rule may begin with no cloud, no doubt cast over it. So that men may call you a good king and not a tyrant. If there is evidence of some crime my sister has committed that warrants death, I will not speak against the execution. But if you wish for your people to respect you, justice must be applied evenly, even in the case of someone as despicable as my sister."

The king approached the dwarf and clapped a hand over his shoulder. "As I said, Lord Tyrion, you are a clever man, and an invaluable asset. But more than that, you are a man of integrity."

Tyrion bowed his head in gratitude, then looked up at his king, his mismatched eyes gleaming. "That said, your grace, if Cersei so much as looks like she's thinking of double crossing you tomorrow, and I'd lay even odds she's planning to, don't hesitate to burn the bitch."

Aegon's lip curled into a wicked smile.

"Lord Hoster."

The young man jumped, startled by the queen's voice. Somehow, she'd entered the library so quietly, he hadn't noticed her until she spoke.

"Your grace," Hos said somewhat breathlessly as he stood and bowed. When he straightened, he looked around. "Where are your guards?"

"They will not honor my request to let me walk about the castle alone, or ride out beyond these walls to find Nymeria, but they will wait on the other side of a door when asked." Arya approached the table where Hoster was working. There were several pages covered in neat, even script spread out before him and a nearly empty ink pot. "What's all this?"

The lord colored slightly, then turned to shuffle the loose papers into a stack. "It's just, ah… the history I've been penning."

"Oh, yes, your project with Maester Brenett. The recent history of the Riverlands."

Hos gave the girl a quizzical smile. "I… I am surprised you remembered, your grace."

She shrugged, saying something about forgetting very little, then changed subjects. "I've come to ask you something."

"Of course, your grace. I am at your disposal."

Arya took the seat across the table from where Hoster had been sitting when she'd disturbed him. "Please," she said, indicating his chair with her hand. He dropped into it, sitting up straight as he peered at her over his papers and the few books strewn across the table. The queen cleared her throat. "I know you've read much about dragons. I wondered how much you might have read about… wargs."

"Wargs, your grace?"

The girl breathed deeply then chewed her lip for a moment. "Skinchangers," she said by way of explanation.

"Oh, yes, I knew what you meant, I was just… surprised by the question."

Arya nodded. "Have you come across any books on the matter during all your studies?"

"Books?" He shook his head. "No. I doubt there has even been a book written on the subject." The girl made her face impassive, hiding her disappointment, but Hoster continued. "Scrolls, though… I've only come across one myself, but I imagine that libraries further north might contain more."

"Oh!"

"Yes. The idea of skinchanging is very old, and deeply rooted in the Northern lore. It would make sense that most of the writing on it would be found in the North. I suppose the Citadel would also contain some of the written scholarship on the subject, but I've not had the privilege of visiting that library." Hoster's voice sounded a little sad as he said it. After a moment, he brightened, though. "The library at Winterfell must have something. Perhaps even a great deal!"

"You may be right, though I've never read such scrolls. The collection was so large, I'd barely read a fraction of it before I left for King's Landing with my father."

"What's your interest in wargs, if you don't mind me asking?"

"It's not an interest in wargs, exactly," the girl revealed. "It's more a question of controlling a dragon."

Her words seemed to spark a light in Hoster's eyes. He nodded slowly, considering it, his mind seizing on her question without it being spoken. "The scroll I read simply listed the brief histories of men purported to be skinchangers, and those stories were very old. Ancient, even, from the time before there were dragons in this land. There was nothing about dragons, but that's not to say such stories don't exist." He became visibly excited. "If you accept the idea that there are men who may enter the mind of beasts and control them, then it certainly seems plausible that such men could enter the mind of dragons…"

"That was my thought exactly, Lord Hoster."

"I don't imagine my father, or your uncle, or any of the lords would give such an idea more than a passing thought," the young lord murmured. "They might even name it fancy, or lunacy."

"Which is precisely why I have not mentioned such ideas to the council. Though I hope it will not come to this, we must prepare ourselves to be mere men and women, with weapons of our own making, facing down fearsome creatures. But still, if such a thing were possible, it would be irresponsible not to explore the advantage."

"Of course, of course…" Hos was up and pacing now, becoming more frenzied by the minute. "But we'd have to locate a warg, and many believe they are nothing more than tales for children while others think they all died out long ago, along with the children of the forest. Still, if there's anything to be discovered, it will be in the North. Either at Winterfell, or perhaps at the Wall…" He was talking to himself now. "Surely the maesters at the Wall would've written records through the years. There must even be scrolls and books dating back to the founding of the Night's Watch…"

"But you yourself know of nothing, my lord?"

The young lord had paced toward the hearth but at the queen's question, he turned and looked at her regretfully. "Unfortunately, your grace, I do not. But I also have not been looking for such information. The question, though… It's intriguing, is it not?" He smiled broadly. "I agree with you. It bears further investigation."

"And you'll undertake such an investigation?"

"I will, your grace."

"And you'll say nothing of it to your father, or my uncle?"

"I shall tell no one."

Arya smiled. "Thank you, Lord Hoster. I knew you would be discreet."

"You may always depend on my discretion, your grace." He bowed then as he had when he'd greeted her, then watched her sweep from the room as silently as when she'd entered it.

Aegon Targaryen, sixth of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, watches as a crimson curtained litter approaches the tourney ground. The Lannisters have the audacity to be late.

Not one hundred yards behind the silver king, Drogon stands, still as a stone, his hulking shape in the distance a menacing reminder as to why the soon-to-be deposed King of the Seven Kingdoms and his mother have no choice but to agree to this meeting.

The silver king sits at a table under a tasseled canopy, flanked by his trusted men: Jon Connington to his right, Tyrion Lannister to his left. Edric Dayne is also there, representing Dorne, while Garlan Tyrell represents the Reach. Rolly Duckfield, Daario Naharis, and Tristan Rivers (a formidable knight who rides with the Golden Company) stand shoulder to shoulder behind the seated nobles, serving as guardsmen, hands resting lightly on sword pommels and dagger hilts.

The Lannisters have brought their own strength, two members of Tommen's Kingsguard, Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Robert Strong, and the King's Justice, Ser Ilyn Payne. As the negotiations begin, Daario stares over the heads of the two kings as they face off with each other. The false-Tyroshi studies the features of Tommen's guards with interest. At least, he studies those he can see. Ser Robert wears a full helm and does not bother to lift his visor, but truth be told, he is the man who holds the least interest for the captain of the Stormcrows anyway.

Ser Ilyn and Ser Meryn, though, standing at Queen Cersei's back… That is something which interests Daario Naharis a great deal.

Game of Survival—Ruelle