A/N: Hello there, my dear readers! So, I felt that this was…incomplete. Here I have one final part, which happens to be extremely AU. I hope you can forgive me for making this totally AU. Anyway, this chapter is probably the darkest, but I'm not sure if it merits an M rating. I would also be forever grateful if you would check out my Robb/OC fic, Jar of Hearts, and review.

A huge thanks to: Social Resistance, unforgiveable, -Babyeex.X, Anon, hoppnhorn, LittleMonsterStick, TheFamouslyUnfamousAuthor, Lord Queen, booksroock, Lynne Harrow, WickedWriteroftheWest, Hellzz-on-Earth, LauraNeatO, babygurl1944, Callista252, kimi492, 1stDeathAnniversary, moomolie1709, WhereDidYouGo, vicky and LadynahEireann. You guys have all been extremely awesome and I hope this last chapter meets your expectations.

Arya had quickly come to realize that she was a prisoner within herself. Even if she had the chance to attack Joffrey, she could not take it. The threat of Sansa's death loomed over Arya's head. She had already lost too much, and she would not risk losing her sister. Now, she endured the internal struggle inside herself in silence. Joffrey had left her alone for several days, but he would be back. He enjoyed tormenting Arya too much to stay away, especially when they both knew why she would no longer fight back.

It was hard to tell night from day in the cursed darkness. So when the key jingled in the lock like a warning bell, Arya prepared to wince at the daylight that streamed in – only she was met only with the soft glow of a torch. Somewhat relieved, Arya tensed, listening as the intruder moved towards her cell. Her shoulders dropped when she realized that it was not Joffrey, yet she was puzzled when the guard unlocked her cell door. It opened with a screech of protest.

Arya blinked. "What's happening?"

"You're to be taken to his Majesty." The guard averted his eyes and his face was unreadable. "It would be best that you did not put up a fight."

The implications were too much. Arya forgot how to breathe as the guard led her from the dungeons with an iron grip around her arm. Instead of Joffrey coming to her, she was going to Joffrey? Her terrified mind struggled to make sense of what exactly this might mean.

They passed through a myriad of corridors. The encroaching darkness and the fact that they were the only people in sight assured Arya that it was indeed night. The tension was building up inside her and she desperately wanted to unleash the scream that clung grimly to the inside of her throat…but it was as though she couldn't make a sound.

The guard opened a door and pushed Arya none too gently into a small room. It was simple and without ornament. A steaming bath sat in the centre, tempting Arya. She had spent so long playing the grimy orphan, yet what she wouldn't give to be clean. The guard gestured towards the bath.

"Clean yourself up. I'll be back soon and when I knock, that means it's time."

Time? Time for what? Arya was beyond comprehending as the guard closed and bolted the door behind her. She immediately set about working out her escape, yet was disappointed as the door proved to be the only exit. Heaving a sigh, Arya frowned at the dress on the bed, before she peeled off her grimy clothes and surrendered to the soft warmth of the bathwater.

The scented water wafted around Arya, making her feel pleasantly warm and sleepy. She could almost forget where she was…only once she remembered, she suddenly felt the urge to slip underneath the surface of the water and never rise. She choked back a sob and forced herself to get out of the bath, drying herself and scowling as she pulled on the dress that hugged her slender frame. Arya wanted to wear her dirty clothes as an act of defiance – yet what was the cost of defiance nowadays? Her father had been defiant, and met a grisly end.

There was a sharp knock at the door and Arya lifted her chin, preparing herself for…whatever it was Joffrey wanted of her. Perhaps he'd had her dress up like a doll just so that he could order her execution. It was the sort of sadistic thing he'd enjoy. A shiver of disgust ran down Arya's spine as the guard opened the door and beckoned.

"Come. His Majesty is not to be kept waiting."

Of course not, Arya thought rather sarcastically. The guard marched her onwards, and Arya's heart hammered a frightened tempo in her chest. It was some time before they reached another door, upon which the guard now rapped his knuckles. Arya stood tense, wondering what was going to happen. That was perhaps her greatest terror – fear of the unknown. She didn't know what Joffrey wanted of her, what he might do next, and that terrified her.

It was the hated Joffrey himself who opened the door. A look of smug approval crossed his face as he saw that Arya wore the dress and she scowled, wishing she'd worn her old clothes. Joffrey inclined his head curtly to the guard.

"You may wait outside."

Joffrey's cold fingers closed around Arya's wrist and he tugged her inside, closing the door behind her and bolting it. Meanwhile, Arya was inspecting the room with a growing horror. There was no doubting that between the detailed tapestries and luxurious furniture that this was Joffrey's own room. She nearly choked on her own fear and disgust as she added it all together.

"Do you like it?" Joffrey asked, the hint of amusement colouring his tone as his cold, vacant eyes inspected the room he was all too used to. "If you consented to become my queen, you could share it with me."

Arya's temper simmered, her rage and hatred boiling dangerously close to the surface.

"I'd stab myself in the heart first."

Joffrey's lip curled into a mocking smile as his eyes raked over Arya. His gaze was invasive and unwelcome and Arya very much wanted to throw her arms over herself. The king took a step closer to Arya, too close. She could feel his hot breath on her bare neck.

"We'll see about that." Joffrey's tone was flippant, but then he became more serious. "Surely you know why I've asked you here, Arya."

Arya turned away from him. She may be a prisoner within this room, within the psychological chains Joffrey had bound her with, yet that did not mean she needed to remain in close proximity to this…monster.

"I can make assumptions. I only hope I'm wrong."

Joffrey's cruel laugh made her want to hurt him, so very badly. He moved closer again, despite her need for distance, and placed a hand on her cheek in a warped imitation of a romantic gesture. Arya's breath rattled out through her lips and she closed her eyes, forcing herself not to smack his hand away. She had to be strong. For Sansa.

"I guarantee your assumptions are correct." Joffrey was smirking as he let his hand drop, disappointed in the lack of reaction from Arya. "You know why you must do as I ask. You cannot afford to disobey me. Whatever your silly notions of rebellion, I am your king and you will do whatever pleases me."

Arya's eyes snapped up to meet his. They were sharp and burning as her lip curled with utter loathing.

"You will never be my king."

Joffrey's face tightened with anger, yet he did not make any attempt to hit her. Instead he simply examined her critically, as if he could see right through her.

"You think you are brave," Joffrey shook his head almost sadly, and immediately the anger was replaced by a malicious glitter in his eyes. "Take off your dress."

The command was crude and it shocked Arya. She had guessed at Joffrey's intentions, yet she had not expected him to be so blunt. Her shoulders stiffened and she took a step back, shaking her head. Joffrey just smiled tolerantly.

"Are you forgetting your sister, Arya? All it would take is a few words from me to the guard outside and she could be dead within the hour."

Arya shook her head fervently, refusing to believe that even Joffrey would be so cruel.

"She carries your child, possibly a son. You would never."

Joffrey's smile still lingered upon his thin lips, but his eyes were cold as ice.

"Oh, I would. You should have learned by now not to underestimate me, Arya. I always get what I want and this time it's you. So I'll say it again: take off your dress."

There was no resistance. Arya knew now that it was futile. She bit down on her lip so hard that she could taste blood. Tears blurred at her vision and her fingers managed to find the ties at the front of her dress, fumbling with them. Joffrey's smile of gleeful triumph spread like a poison across his face. Arya loathed him, with every fibre of her being.

She was shaking with fear and anger and hate. Somehow, Arya's numb fingers just could not undo the ties of her dress. Joffrey's euphoric smile faded and he frowned as he stalked across the room towards her. Why would she not obey him? Did her sister's life mean nothing to her? Perhaps he had no leverage over Arya Stark after all.

"Didn't you hear me?" he snarled at her, growing agitated now, "Or do I have to rip it off for you?"

Arya's slender frame was wracked with sobs. She couldn't do it. She would never. Despite the fact that he might kill Sansa, she felt repulsed at the thought of exposing herself to him. Joffrey, irritated by her tears, grabbed her by the shoulders, his thin fingers digging into her.

"Stop your crying," he snapped at her, effortlessly tugging the ties to her dress loose and then pulling the dress down over her shoulders. Arya quickly hugged herself to protect her modesty, while a leer crossed Joffrey's face as he inspected her. Prizes were always hard-won. If Arya had to be taken by force, so be it. It would be all the sweeter.

"There." Joffrey sounded satisfied. "That wasn't so hard, was it? Now, shut up and let's get on with it. I don't like to fuck crying girls. I've had enough of that with your sister."

Arya froze suddenly as Joffrey grabbed her wrists, attempting to pry her arms away from her body so that he could inspect her. Joffrey had unwittingly betrayed the fact that he had already harmed Sansa, perhaps not in the physical sense…but he had raped her. By his cold, dismissive words, Arya knew that he had raped her sister.

Arya moved quickly, pulling her dress up over her shoulders. Joffrey scowled in disapproval and opened his mouth to say something – but then Arya's hands had fastened around his throat and her slender fingers were tightening, crushing his windpipe and unwilling to let any air into his lungs. Now, Arya had become ruthless. She sneered at Joffrey as he staggered, his mouth open wide and his eyes huge with terror.

"You are a monster," Arya hissed at him, her grip not relenting in the slightest, "You killed my father. You raped my sister. You will never have me. You will never have what you want ever again. You so wanted to be king, Joffrey…and look where it's brought you."

Joffrey gagged as his face started to turn a horrible purple colour. Arya was hardly aware of what she was doing anymore. She knew that she was killing the king, that those were her hands fastened so tightly around his throat – yet it was like she couldn't make the connection. Joffrey's legs gave way and he crumpled to his knees, twitching and buckling violently before being overcome by a terrible stillness. His eyes rolled back in his hand and Arya gasped as she released him, knowing he was dead.

Yet it wasn't enough. Why should Joffrey endure such an easy death, after all the pain he'd put her family through? Incensed, Arya stalked across the room and snatched Joffrey's dagger off the dresser, crossing towards where the dead king lay immobile on the ground.

"This is for my father."

Arya brought the knife down in a swift slash across Joffrey's throat. She grimaced at the red blood that gurgled from him, yet she forced herself to remain impassive. This young man had tormented her family. She could show no remorse.

"This is for my sister."

The knife was plunged into Joffrey's heart, which was no longer beating. By now, smeared with the king's blood, Arya felt a kind of savage pleasure at the way she was degrading him – and then she felt sick at herself as she tore the knife free with a half-sob.

"This…this is for me."

Arya let the knife drop from her shaking fingers and embed itself in the centre of Joffrey's forehead. Turning away from the mess she'd created, disgusted at herself, Arya quickly tightened the ties of her dress as she found her escape: an open window across the room. She smiled grimly. All too easy. By the time the guards broke in and found their king dead, Arya would be long gone.