Tyrion Lannister had been a resident of the Tower of the Hand for only a few short months. In that time, he had done a lot of refurbishing. Ned Stark had not had a talent for interior decorating, and Jon Arryn before him had been even worse. The Tower in his time had been light and airy, filled with plants and lace drapes, but all of that was gone now. It hardly looked as if the room had any windows at all, everything being covered by heavy, dark red curtains and the only source of light being a handful of lit candles. It made it feel as if it was well into the night, though he knew it to be midmorning.

Or at least it had been midmorning upon his arrival. How much time had passed since, he could scarcely imagine. Had it been minutes, hours, days, or years since he had entered his father's chambers? Had entire generations lived and died in the time that he had been waiting for the man to finish writing a letter? Who sat atop the Iron Throne now that Tommen had certainly died of old age? He glanced at Jaime out of the corner of his eye; his brother had been beside him for just as long, but instead of sharing a conspiratory look between brothers, Jaime kept his gaze forward, paying Tyrion no mind.

With a sigh, Tyrion shifted his attention back to his father. Tywin knew he was there. He knew he knew they were there. He knew that Jaime knew that their father knew they were both there, and had been for several centuries, and yet they continued to sit in silence. He wondered if the goal was to dull his senses by putting him to sleep. He was certainly succeeding, he thought, his eyelids feeling heavier by the second.

It was only when he genuinely started to drift off that he realized that his father had finally set his finished letter aside, and that he held his full attention. He sat up sharply, straightening his posture under the cool gaze. Even then, however, Tywin did not speak; instead his eyes glanced between Tyrion and Jaime, watching them and studying them. Tyrion felt as if he was looking straight through him, into the very heart of him, seeing his every thought and weakness.

And yet, Tyrion knew his father. This was not the first time he had been tested by his father in such a capacity and, nor did he expect, would it be his last. He and Jaime sat in stoic silence, knowing that to speak first and out of turn would be interpreted as little more than a sign of weakness. And so they waited, until their father finally clued them in on what they had been waiting for. "Willas Tyrell," he drawled slowly, precisely, "has wed Sansa Stark."

The breath caught in Tyrion's chest as it became apparent why he was there. Why they both were there. The plan had always been to kill every last male Stark, from goold old Ned to the bastard on the Wall. His two youngest sons were naught but charred meat, and the rest were easy to kill out on the battlefield. But killing male Starks put a disproportionate amount of power into the remaining Stark women. Whoever married the eldest, took the North. If they killed Arya, they were as good as handing Willas Tyrell the North on a silver platter.

The cripple had saved her life. It was all rather romantic, thought Tyrion, if not a bit self sacrificing. He suspected Arya would not appreciate the gesture in the end either, upon realizing he had saved her life only to condemn her to live out her remaining days as a Lannister. All that was left to wonder was which Lannister it would be. "You," said Tywin, answering Tyrion's question sooner than he had expected with little more than a gaze. His father's eyes had not landed on him, but on the brother beside him, "will remove that white cloak. You will leave King's Landing and take your rightful place at Casterly Rock. You will wed Arya Stark and you will father sons called Lannister who will carry on our legacy and expand it into the North. It is time for you to become the man you were always meant to be."

"And if I don't?" asked Jaime.

As Tywin's eyes shifted to Tyrion, the youngest Lannister realized why he was there. "I have two sons," said Tywin. And it was all he said. It was all he had needed to say. The weight of those four words hung heavy over his sons. And I would let myself be consumed by maggots before mocking the family name and making you heir to Casterly Rock. It had not been a particularly clever ploy, thought Tyrion, but it had been effective. Jaime knew Tyrion would not refuse the offer if he did. There was a short, fleeting moment where Tyrion wondered if his brother might do him such a kindness as to refuse, but it had been a fool's hope.

"Once she's given me sons, then what?" Regicide was not such an easy crime to pardon. Jaime knew that better than anyone. "Shall I march my wife and the mother of my children to the Sept of Baelor to pay for her crimes after she's given you the heirs you need?"

"An heir for the Westerlands and an heir for the North," said Tywin, returning to the letter that sat before him. Jaime no longer required his full attention, he knew the answer his son would give. "A spare for each. Four sons may take her upwards of twenty years to produce. There will be time for new kings and new treasons to take precedence." Jaime sat for a long moment of uncharacteristic silence before standing abruptly, the legs of his chair scraping against the floor as a loud announcement of his departure. Tyrion watched him go before shifting his attention back to his father, who was still focused on his letter. "Was there anything else?" he asked, not sparing his youngest a glance.

No, supposed Tyrion. There was nothing else. He had served his father's purposes well, they both had. As they always had. He followed behind Jaime, surprised to see his brother nearly out of sight by the time he had exited his father's chambers. Apparently Jaime had little interest in sticking around for a conversation. "Congratulations," Tyrion called loudly after him, grateful that his voice traveled much faster than his legs. Jaime hesitated at the end of the hall, turning to face him as he waddled closer. "They are in order, are they not?"

Jaime hesitated, looking unsure of himself, for only the briefest of moments before his usual demeanor returned to him. "Yes," he answered, "it's an honor to be the first knight of the Kingsguard to be dismissed with all limbs yet intact."

"You could've said no," replied Tyrion without missing a beat.

"You know as well as I do that 'no' is not an option with our father," said Jaime. "There is the easy route and the hard one, but all roads lead to yes."

Tyrion smiled. "Ah, we are all but puppets on the mighty Tywin's strings, dancing along to whatever tune he plays," he said in agreement, watching as Jaime's shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. "But don't pretend it wasn't a song you liked."

Jaime's mouth fell open in an attempt to speak, to make a quick witted quip or diffuse the tension, Tyrion did not wait to find out. It had not been Jaime's fault after all, and there was little to be gained from further conversation with him. He was the eldest son, the golden lion, a whole man … this was his birthright, though he had long given it away. But the laws of men seldom applied to those in power, and it was an easy thing to wipe away an oath when your father was the Hand and your … nephew the King.

No, it was not Jaime he wanted to talk to. His interests lay lower, deep in the depths of the castle's dungeons, where he had been expressly forbidden to go. But his father was also the Hand, his nephew also the King. Why should the laws of men stop him?

She had lost all concept of time weeks ago. For all she knew, she'd been locked in that cell for thirty years. It was difficult to know when days ended and began when all you knew was darkness. She had tried to track her stay by the number of meals they gave her, but even those couldn't help. She'd had three a day when she'd first arrived, but then they stopped. She was lucky now to receive a meal when she still had the strength to eat it.

Even now, her hands shook as she brought the bowl to her lips, downing the contents inside, whatever they had been. She was long past questioning what she ate. Her body couldn't afford to be picky. She'd always been skinny, but she was little more than skin hiding bones now. Every time she drifted to sleep, she found Nymeria, and she ate and ate and ate to her heart's content, but when she woke, she was still hungry.

The sound of heavy footsteps startled her enough that she dropped the bowl, splashing its contents into the dirt. She had had approximately one visitor the entire time she'd been there, and she could not imagine he was returning again after so recently bringing her food. She scrambled back deeper into the cell, trying to get to her feet, but her legs caved out from under her and her arms no longer had the strength to support her.

A light accompanied the footsteps; brighter than anything she'd seen in longer than she could remember. It hurt her eyes to look at it, though she wanted so desperately to see again. Even closing her eyes was not enough to protect them, some of the light still seared through her eyelids until she put up a trembling hand to shield them.

Finally, the footsteps stopped, but the light persisted and then it was joined by the sounds of scraping metal until her door swung open. Risking the pain, her eyes shot open, searching for an answer to the question that plagued her mind. Were they there to finally kill her, or was she to be released? Did she even care anymore which it was?

"Y-" she tried before dissolving into a fit of agonizing coughs. You, she had tried to accuse.

Though unable to put a voice behind her resentment, it was plainly evident on her face. Aegon smiled in response. "You've seen better days, Lady Stark."

She couldn't have replied if she'd wanted to. He hadn't expected an answer anyway, and instead offered her something more helpful than an observation on her current appearance. She took the bread readily, trying to rip it into smaller, more manageable pieces but found her fingers lacked the strength. Instead she tried to tear it with her teeth, but her jaw ached at the attempt. Aegon reclaimed the bread, squatting before her now absent the smile he had been wearing, and tore it into bite sized pieces for her.

She accepted them hesitantly, and chewed them with noticeable difficulty. She hadn't had anything to chew in some time and her teeth were sensitive from disuse. But each bite became less and less difficult to swallow until it began to feel normal to eat again. "How long," she wondered.

"Nearly two moons," he answered.

Two months since she'd last seen the sun. The thought alone was enough to turn her stomach and threatened to spill the contents she'd just filled it with. What had changed since she'd been locked away? What further horrors had her family endured in her absence from the world? "Where-" Her brain struggled to formulate the rest of the question. Where could she even begin? Where was Sansa? Where was her father? Where had her brothers been buried, if they'd been buried at all? Certainly not in the crypts beneath Winterfell where they belonged. The thought of her younger brothers was enough to change her question into an accusation. "You said they were safe."

"Who?" wondered Aegon. "Your brothers?" Her hands clenched into tiny, trembling fists. She wished more than anything she had the strength to use them. "You mean to tell me you've spent two months down here with little more than your thoughts to occupy you and you've still not figured out I burnt the bodies for a reason? You do continue to disappoint."

Somehow his latter comment annoyed her more than the rest comforted her. She had suspected, of course, that things were not exactly as they had seemed, but she'd had a lot of time to think down in the cell. She had run through a thousand different scenarios in her head, a thousand different alliances, a thousand different ways for her story to end. The most realistic was still dying of starvation alone and forgotten beneath the castle. "I killed a king for you," she reminded him, willingly taking the water he offered her now. "How disappointed could you be?"

"You killed a halfwit child who's already been replaced with another," he argued. "No, you killed Joffrey for yourself. If you'd been killing for me, you might've killed someone actually important. Tywin would've been nice."

"Kill him yourself," said Arya.

"Someday," he promised with a smile. "Can you walk?"

Arya's stomach plummeted down into her shoes. There was only one place he could want her to walk now, after spending so long in the cells. "Depends, I suppose, on where you want me to walk to," she said.

Something unreadable passed over Aegon's face as he finally pulled away from her and stood, pacing around her cell for a short moment before finally glancing back at her. "Unfortunately, I am, occasionally, a man of my word," said Aegon. Her brow furrowed, wondering why that would be unfortunate. "Despite your rather uninspired murder choices, I did say I would protect you." Arya pushed the bubble of hope brewing in her belly back down. His expression didn't match what ought to have been good news. "Stand up."

She struggled to do so, her legs wobbling beneath her weight as much as they had when she'd tried a few minutes earlier. The only difference was that now she had Aegon's arms to hold her up as he caught her before she could drop again, holding her in place as her legs tried to remember how to function. "I've got it," she assured him after a long moment.

"Good," he said, his hands moving from her waist to her hands. "Now wal-"

Her stomach lurched at how suddenly he had silenced himself. It did not take her long to figure out why. Footsteps could be heard echoing from not so far away. Aegon released her hands sharply and her knees buckled shortly after. She was back on the floor by the time he was closing the door to her cell again, and she could do little more than stare at him until he disappeared into the darkness.

Her breath held in her chest as she waited for the agonizingly slow footsteps to arrive. Only when a new face illuminated itself before her, carrying a torch, did she release it. She scrambled to her feet again, the fear making her stronger, as the Lannister soldier unlocked her cell, and half a dozen more filed inside behind him. She had no clue where Aegon had intended to take her, but she was certain it was better than where these men would. She opened her mouth, planning, foolishly, to call for his aid. He could not have gotten far, but the opportunity escaped her as the guard put a gloved hand over her mouth, and wrapped an arm around her middle, lifting her with ease. Reputation preceding her, several guards had been sent to move her, but Arya found she had little strength to fight against even one as he carried her out of the dungeons.

Author's Note: Well, so the world is ending, but it does give us a lot more time to write and read some fanfiction. I hope everyone is safe at home with enough income, groceries, and entertainment to get them through this.

Normally I love to respond to each review, but I don't want this chapter to be deceptively long by the author's note, so here are some answers to questions I read in the reviews:

Will Ned survive?

I honestly can't say yes or no because I'm not sure if it's possible for him to make it to the end in order for the story to go the way I want. But of all the Starks, I will say I do want Ned to make it to the end the most.

How does Arya feel about Jaime, Tyrion, Willas, Aegon?

I don't think Arya knows how she feels! I will say that she does currently feel the most (probably only) romantic attraction and interest in Jaime. Does she love him? Possibly. But if she does, she doesn't know it yet.

Why wasn't Jaime more upset that Arya killed his son?

Let me point you to this quote: "Joff was no more to me than a squirt of seed in Cersei's cunt, and he deserved to die." Everyone is going to interpret the characters in their own ways, and you're free to think Jaime would have reacted differently. Personally though, I can't imagine Jaime being particularly upset that Arya killed 'his son'. If anything, I think he would've minded another king being killed on his watch.

Why are all of her suitors betraying her?

Okay, this wasn't exactly a question, but a few people are pointing out that she doesn't really have a romantic interest who hasn't betrayed her in some way, shape, or form. For me, for this to feel like Westeros and the game of thrones, I think it has to be that way. For either Tyrion or Jaime, to put their love for Arya over what's best for House Lannister would feel cheap and unearned. Yes, Tyrion wants what's best for Arya, but he wants what's best for himself and his family more.

While Arya tends to be a bit smarter than the other members of her House and she might show it in a less cut and dry Jon Snow/Ned Stark way, she does suffer from the same Stark sense of loyalty and honor. She is going to be betrayed more often than she betrays, but I think that's in character for her.