Chapter Text
As Arya trekked her way through the woods, she regretted opting out of using a horse this time. But she worried it would be more of a hindrance to her mission. Leaving Braavos had saddened her; Braavos, the House of Black and White, had been her home for nearly a decade. But she has a whole list of names that she’s now capable of crossing off, and so she left back for Westeros with the knowledge she’d learned everything she needed and the vendetta against those who’d hurt her and her family burning bright as ever in her chest. She’s sure they’d hope training would force her to let go of her list of names, but in the end, she couldn’t let those slights against her family go.
‘Do you know what legacy means?’
Arya shook her head, looking up at him with wide, confused eyes.
“It’s what you pass on to your children and your children’s children. It’s what remains of you when you’re gone.’
The memory bubbled up from somewhere in Arya’s subconscious. It has happened several times over the years. Her short time in Harrenhal had been jam-packed with all kinds of lessons. As much as she hated to admit it, her conversations with Tywin Lannister had stuck with her, clear as day in her mind. She could recall the Lord of the Rock more clearly than her own Lord Father. The gloomy room he’d used as a council chamber, the ice-blue eyes, and that strange one-sided curl of his mouth that was the closest she’d seen to him smiling. The greying stubble on his jaw and the long arms and legs that seemed just on this side of too big for the chair he sat in at the head of the table.
Lord Tywin had retired back to the Rock at the insistence of King Tommen, who put far more weight into the faith than his mother or grandfather, or so Arya had gathered in pubs and inns along the road. Cersei has been married off to Loras Tyrell and is being kept away in Highgarden, and Lord Tywin has returned to Casterly Rock, where he’ll spend his days ruling as Warden of the West until he succumbs to old age. ‘Or my blade.’ She thinks viciously.
She’s positive that of all the people she’s confronted, he’s the one who’d understand. She’s not delusional enough to believe he’d go down without a fight and would be very disappointed if he did. But she already knows he’ll remember their conversation about legacy just as well as she, and he’ll understand her motives entirely, even if he himself will try to kill her, or manipulate her into standing down. She’s seen how he plays his game, how Cersei attempted to play his game. Arya doesn’t know which one she’s looking forward to killing more, the sire or the daughter.
As night fell, she was still a day from Lannisport. She had eaten this afternoon before leaving Cornfield for the woods, but she had some bread, an apple, and two strips of jerky in her pack for tomorrow. Arya looked around at the trees before picking one and climbing up high enough to make sure she was somewhat concealed by branches and leaves. She had made a decent distance today and hoped to roost just outside of the city tomorrow night.
She ties a rope around herself and the trunk of the tree, using her carry bag as a pillow. She’s settled on a thick branch with green-yellow and orange-red leaves surrounding her. Concealed and unable to hear any noises below that pique her interest, Arya’s mind drifts back to yet another memory, this one of the day Lord Tywin had arrived in Harrenhal atop a big white horse.
She hadn’t even realized the others around her had knelt, too busy taking in the golden armor and the bright red sash across his chest. Their eyes had met for a long second, maybe even two, before she had dropped them to find Needle on the belt of the soldier reporting to him. Like being hypnotized, she’d been drawn to her weapon, shuffling forward while Lord Tywin addressed Gendry.
She had been so clumsy back then, Arya realized now. She wondered if Jaqen had been somewhere among the soldiers, silently amused by her lack of stealth at the time.
Of course, the soldier had seen her. She hadn’t even been paying attention to him, solely focused on getting her sword back. She’d ducked the stick he’d tried to hit her with, but had caught the Lion’s attention with her foolishness. While backing away from the sword the soldier had pulled on her, he had threatened her. ‘Kneel! Or I’ll carve your lungs out, boy.’
Lord Tywin had approached with his eyes on her, his hands coming to rest on a post that held their fence in place. ‘You’ll do no such thing.’ His voice held no room for argument, his eyes never left hers as he’d spoken. ‘This one's a girl, you idiot.’ He had looked at the soldier then, letting the man know he was the one intended for the insult, before looking back to Arya. ‘Dressed as a boy. Why?’ His inflection had lilted higher when addressing her.
Arya had missed it back then, later realizing it after some time in Braavos. Though why his voice changed when addressing her then, she did not know. Perhaps it was because she had still been a child, or maybe just of the female sex. She had never figured that part out.
‘Safer to travel, my lord.’
‘Smart.’ He looks around him. ‘More than I can say for this lot. Get these prisoners to work.’ He starts off, heading back to where his horse was. ‘And bring the girl,’ he glanced back at her briefly. ‘I need a new cupbearer.’
Just like all of the other memories of Tywin Lannister, this one is so clear it’s like it happened a few hours ago, not ten years past now. It doesn’t make sense to Arya because her memories of her father, Sansa, Robb, Mother, and even Jon are fuzzy. She hasn’t forgotten them, but she knows she has forgotten some of the details, yet for some reason, Tywin Lannister stays, sharp and clear in her mind. She tries to recall Cersei or Joffery as well, but she can’t. She had spent her time avoiding them when she was in the Red Keep, and now all she sees is their blond hair and red cloth as they stand in front of the Sept of Baelor and sentence her father’s death for being the traitor he never truly was.
‘What killed him?’
‘Loyalty.’
The wrong kind of loyalty, though… Not loyalty to the Lannisters, but to Robert Baratheon, her father’s childhood friend. He might’ve been her uncle in another life, had he married her aunt and not Cersei. A lot of things might’ve turned out differently had Lyanna Stark and Robert Baratheon married.
‘You’re a sharp little thing, aren’t you?’
The question had confused her at the time. The compliment seemed out of place coming from him. But that compliment in particular had floated through her head whenever a clever idea worked in her favor. It wasn’t the way Jaqen nodded, impressed with her work, it wasn’t her father's smile, or Jon’s laugh, or the way Bran used to look at her with awe in his eyes when she climbed higher than him. No, it was that moment with Lord Tywin.
‘You’re a sharp little thing, aren’t you?’
Yes, a sharp little thing, indeed, with a sharp little blade.
She settles further against the trees and closes her eyes, drawing her cloak around herself tightly, using it as a blanket. She puts Lord Tywin aside for now, and instead, her mind goes back to the night before last, the house with an older man all alone. She had watched him in town a few hours before, grabbing a young woman about Arya’s age and groping her while she fought to escape. When she had escaped, he had promised to pay her a visit and make sure to take care of her ‘real good.’ Arya had decided he would work well to slake her bloodlust while she journeys west.
She had crept through the door while he was bathing. She can’t explain why, but it’s always more exciting when they're naked, with no clothes to hide the cuts her precious Needle leaves behind, the blood dripping down their skin. When he’d noticed her, he’d risen from the bucket, uncaring of his nudity as he yelled at her for entering his home unannounced. She had her blade pointed at his crotch. She loved watching their faces when she threatened their most prized possession. He’d yelled at her some more, trying to intimidate her into submission. They always try that, like their size is something that might have her quaking in fear. It doesn’t, it just makes her tilt her head and want to play with them.
Arya settled further into the tree, her memories going fuzzy as sleep slowly crept over her. She remembers the man cowering in the corner of the room with blood dripping down various cuts she’d teased into his skin. One on his clavicle, another just above his right nipple, and the outside of his left thigh. Slowly, the image fades as she falls asleep, replaced by dark shadows on a golden background.
She can’t make anything out at first, but slowly, things begin to sharpen. She realizes that the golden background is sunlight peeking through the windows, and the dark shadows sharpen to someone in black clothing above her.
Arya blinks, unable to make sense of the dream.
More things came into focus the longer she looked around. She was lying down on something soft, a bed, likely. She moved to push him off, worried that the man’s ghost had come back to haunt her dreams for torturing him. Her hands were caught by strong fingers, her wrists already pinned above her head. Stubble scraped against the underside of her jaw and neck as he pressed kisses into her skin. It wasn’t harsh, but he wasn’t gentle either; his mouth was hot and firm, his chest pushing hers into the bed to minimize her squirming. He moves slowly from one place to another, like he has all the time in the world to cover every inch of her neck in those firm, hot kisses that make it a little harder to breathe.
It occurs to her that the man she killed two nights ago would not be so… thorough with her. He had been rough and boastful with the girl he had grabbed in the pub; this man or ghost hadn’t said a word, simply responding to her struggles with his body instead. Arya opens her mouth to tell him to get the fuck away from her but as if sensing her attempts to disrupt him, he bites down hard on the junction between her neck and shoulder. Arya yelps, shutting her eyes tightly, and taking a deep breath before shoving her wrists roughly against his hand, her eyes opening to try and glimpse his face. All she sees are twisted shadows, her whole body lurching so violently, she almost unseats herself from the tree branch she’s on.
She shakes her head, blinking as she looks up at the sky, which is just starting to lighten. That surprised her; it had only felt like a minute or two in the dream, but she’d slept through the night. Her heart races, and there’s a phantom sting on her shoulder from where he’d bitten her. Her hand comes up, pressing against it, half expecting some sharp sting to greet her. It didn’t, of course it didn’t! It was just a dream! As she shifted to release the rope around the tree to pack away, she noticed the wetness rubbing against her in her small clothes. Surprise flickered through her. Normally, it was only when her blade pierced skin that could excite her in a sexual manner.
Frowning, she packs herself up and carefully finds her way to the forest floor. After gaining a sense of direction, she starts off north, having reached the Sea Road. She was glad at least for the early start. Her mind wanders back to the dream. She’d had similar dreams before, very few, but she’s aware they’re common once everybody reaches a certain age. She’d never had any interest in anybody, though, apart from noticing Gendry very briefly at her time in Harrenhal. But they’d separated before she’d really understood that feeling. She remembers about a year into her training with the Faceless Men, she’d had a dream about him, about Gendry being king instead of Joffery, and Arya had been his betrothed. It had been innocent and kind of cute, but this had been far different. Not the bright-colored, fast-paced dancing and the innocent kisses she had stolen in her dream of Gendry, where the sensations had been muted, although her dream self knew they were kissing, she hadn’t felt the feeling of Gendry’s mouth on hers. Last night’s dream had been vivid, extraordinarily so. She had felt the weight of the man above her, the tight grip he’d held on her wrists, the heat of his breath, and the moisture he’d left behind on her neck when he’d moved to a new spot.
Just the thought of it left her cheeks burning and her stomach fluttering. These feelings weren’t something she was familiar with. Even with Gendry, it had just been a curiosity, not a nervousness. Arya had never really known true nervousness as far as she was aware.
The closest she had remembered feeling it was her first encounter with Lord Tywin, afraid he’d recognize her for who she was. But it had dissipated over the short time they’d spent together, where he’d been … not exactly gentle with her, but certainly not very harsh with her either. In fact, he’d seemed genuinely intrigued by her, going as far as giving couched advice and some compliments every once in a while.
‘And girl,’ he’d called after her retreating form. ‘Milord.’ Her brows furrow as she turns back to him in her confusion.
He raised his eyebrows, and even back then, she hadn’t missed the knowing look he’d given her. ‘Lowborn girls say ‘milord’ not ‘my lord.’ If you’re going to pose as a commoner, you should do it properly.’
She hadn’t panicked, keeping her face neutral, she’d turned to him fully and stated, ‘My mother served Lady Dustin for many years, My Lord. She taught me how to speak proper… Properly!’ She corrects herself before he gets the chance.
The smile that curled one side of his mouth matched the pride that sparked briefly in his eyes. ‘You’re too smart for your own good. Has anyone told you that?’
‘Yes.’ It had been one of the few genuine answers she’d given him.
“Go on.’ He dismissed her for the second time.
Arya shakes her head, coming back to reality. It was different with Tywin Lannister than it was with the others. She doesn’t have good memories with Poliver, or The Mountain, or Joffery, or Cersei. He was unique in that sense… but he’d cheated because Robb had been winning. He’d let them believe Guest Right would keep them safe, before protecting the Freys and Boltons as they slaughtered her mother, brother, and uncles like livestock. He treated her the way he did simply because he hadn’t known who she was. Had he, he might’ve sent her right back to Cersei or used her as his own little bargaining chip with Robb. She had already decided she’d tell him her name. She’d wondered for years how he’d react to her if they’d ever come face to face again. Someone he needed right within his grasp, and he had willingly ridden off without her. She hopes she gets a chance to bask in his wrath before her blade pierces his heart.
About an hour into her hike, Arya comes across a river and stops briefly to relieve herself and then bathes quickly before drying with her cloak and dressing herself. She continues her trek for another hour before the sun is up properly, and she finds her lone apple and decides on that for breakfast. She spends the day tracking animals and trying to guess which birds are squawking in the forest. It passes the time as she continues forward.
It’s not until the sun is nearly set that the trees start to thin, and Arya gets her first glimpse of Lannisport in the distance. A childish part of her wanted to go watch the ships coming and going from the ports and compare them to how it worked in Braavos. She forced herself to stay hidden among the trees. She would have time after her list was complete to watch every ship in every port in the world and compare them all. But now, her focus needs to be on Tywin Lannister and Casterly Rock. She could see the Rock in the distance and knew it would be a pain to get into.
Arya sighed. Reconnaissance isn’t her favorite, but she’d likely have to do a few days of it before she ever reached Lord Tywin. She could wear the face of a guard, though she thought it’d be amusing to wear the face of a serving girl there. What better way to greet Lord Tywin than by resuming her cupbearer duties right before she holds him at bladepoint?
She wanders around the forest, picking a tree near the sea so she can watch the ships go into the docks. She estimates she’s still roughly five miles from the city, but will be able to get there by mid to late morning tomorrow. She’ll be able to get more bread and maybe some fruit, and perhaps find a public well to refill her waterskin. Her reconnaissance will take place at night, making it easier to blend into the shadows as she skulks around the castle, trying to find a face to wear. Maybe two, a guard and a servant… She’ll decide tomorrow night.
Arya digs out her jerky and a small loaf of bread that’s starting to go stale on the crust. She enjoys the food as she watches the play of colors on the sea while the sun sets. It’s gorgeous here, she can only imagine the view up on the Rock, where Lord Tywin resides. Arya makes a mental note to figure out how to get up on the roof of Casterly Rock to watch the sunset before she continues on to Highgarden.
Her thoughts turn back to the Rock, mulling over the other House of Lannister members that reside there. Kevan Lannister was in Kings Landing with Tommen and Ser Jamie, Lady Genna was currently holding her lord uncle's rightful seat in the Riverlands, and she’s pretty sure Tyrion is helping Sansa in Winterfell… a strange friendship those two have. Technically, they are married, so maybe it’s not so strange he decided to stay with her, especially with the knowledge that it’s no secret how much Tywin despises his youngest son. But that does leave the Old Lion alone in the Rock, something that satisfies her. Alone and forgotten in his older days.
Stars come out over the sea, and Arya secures herself to the tree trunk. The dream from the night before comes back to her. The scrape of stubble against her skin, the slow, firm kisses that were scattered over her throat. She listens to the sound of the waves, as she remembers the golden light against the dark cloth on his back. Her eyes fall shut as she tries to remember more details from last night, but the biggest detail that comes back to her was that damned mouth on her skin, and the strong fingers keeping her pinned down. Her body doesn’t stir the way it did this morning. Good. She would never lie beneath a man anyhow, much preferring being the one in control.
Late at night, the few times a month she takes care of herself, she had imagined how she’d lose her virginity. Part of her knows that a victim is probably best, since that is when she is most likely to get aroused. But no one on her list particularly appeals to her in that regard, and those she picks to keep the bloodlust at bay when she’s traveling are the worst sort of people. She has absolutely zero interest in actually exploring with them. Maybe she’ll find someone of her own… someone who is not terrible and is more than happy to let her play and use them as she pleases. She has had such thoughts before, often imagining Gendry in that place. The idea of having someone to toy with while she rides him at her own leisure is often the only thing that can get her off. Maybe she’ll go find Gendry once all the names are crossed off her list, proposition him just to see his reaction to it.
She hadn’t even realized she’d been falling asleep until her vision cleared and she was back in the same bed as the night before, the same golden light shone into the room, and the same heavy body pressed her into the mattress. The same hot mouth was just as slow and firm as before. The same stubble scratched at her skin. One difference is that her hands were free tonight. The hand that had been pinning her wrists down was now tangled in her hair, tugging her head back so he could lay greedy kisses wherever he pleased on her throat. Her hand found his shoulder, and she was a bit surprised by how small she felt beneath someone else. Beneath someone else… that snapped her out of the compliance she felt. She shoves on him, squirming to kick him away, to find a blade and hold it to this man’s throat for daring to assume she’d want this.
A grunt came from the man, and she felt the hand not in her hair reach down to tug the back of her knee higher on his hip, shifting his own knee so she wouldn’t be able to bring it down again. His thumb stroked gently at her thigh in an attempt to soothe her panic. He bit her again, this time it seemed more of a sharp nip, like the way older horses correct yearlings and foals when they get to in the older horses' space. Did… he just correct her with a bite like an animal? His tongue soothed the spot immediately after. “H-hey!” She meant to be intimidating, but it really just came out indignant. She was too stunned to get her bearings. He sighs as if put out by needing to pause his task for a moment. He lifts his head, and their eyes meet.
Arya swears the entire world stops. They just stare at each other in complete shock. She can’t hear a single noise, she can’t even be sure she’s breathing. In fact, she’s pretty sure she’s not breathing or blinking. Ice-blue eyes stare right back, just as unblinking.
“Girl.” He’s quicker to recover, confirming what she already guessed. A decade after he rode from Harrenhal, Tywin Lannister still recognized her immediately. She blinks, and when she opens her eyes, she's back above the sea, the water raging below her tree. Her heart pounded so hard in her chest that it hurt, and her breathing was rapid. Arya looked for something to steady herself with, but found nothing but bark and leaves. It’s still night out, she can’t see the water, but she can hear it. After the silence of the last few seconds of the dream, the water was far too loud to be comforting at the moment. She fumbles with the rope around her waist, but she can’t get her fingers to work properly. Her eyes drift toward the distant city and the looming castle behind it. She can’t see much, but little torches dot the mountain Casterly Rock rests upon. Staring at it finally seemed to calm the panic; her breathing slowed, and she relaxed against the tree. Exhaustion seeped into her bones, but the memory of ice-blue eyes meeting hers and the world going quiet kept her awake.
~
The Lord of Casterly Rock sat against his headboard, panting. That had been the second night in a row he had dreamt of bedding his cupbearer of old. That slip of a girl that had served him in Harrenhal the short time he’d been there was now a young woman in her own right, and so beautiful the world had paused when their eyes met.