The Red Keep was a twisted maze of stone and shadow, corridors echoing with whispers and secrets, and yet you knew every crevice of it like the lines on your palms. Growing up within its walls was a strange kind of curse—bastard-born of Tyrion Lannister, with your mother long dead and your father more of a myth than a man. You were the lion’s shame, the child he only acknowledged in wine-soaked mutterings and the occasional sharp coin tossed your way to silence your existence. But you had quick feet, quicker hands, and a mind that saw more than it ever let on. You weren’t golden-haired or smug like the rest of the Lannisters; your features were a mix of Lannisport softness and something sharper, wilder—your mother’s legacy, no doubt. The guards had stopped chasing you after you climbed Maegor’s Holdfast with nothing but a rope and a dare.

It was in the training yard, during a bright morning that cut through the haze of smoke and forge-heat, that you first saw her. Arya Stark. All elbows and tangled brown hair, frowning at her wooden sword like it had betrayed her in some invisible slight. You’d heard of her, the wild wolf girl from the North, the one who didn’t curtsey, didn’t smile, didn’t care for needlework. That alone made you curious.

“You’re holding it too tight,” you told her as you passed, eyeing her grip with the kind of interest one might give a puzzle.

Her head snapped toward you, eyes narrowing. “What do you know about it?”

You tilted your head. “Enough to know your knuckles are white. You’ll tire your arm before the dance even begins.”

She looked at you for a beat, judging, then suddenly tossed her sword from one hand to the other. “Show me then, bastard.”

The insult rolled off you like water. Everyone called you that, some with disdain, some with amusement. She said it like a challenge, like a name she didn’t quite understand.

“I’m not the one who needs to impress Syrio Forel,” you said, stepping closer. “But I’ll show you.”

That was the beginning of it.

You became her shadow in those early weeks. When she crept down the corridors away from her Septa, you were already waiting. When she sneaked bread from the kitchens, you distracted the cooks with your lazy grin and silver tongue. But it was in the small, sunlit courtyard near the gardens that you truly came alive together. Syrio Forel, the former First Sword of Braavos, raised a brow when he saw you the first time, but he allowed it—perhaps amused, perhaps intrigued.

“You wish to dance too, lion cub?” he asked, circling Arya like a hawk. “Water dancing is not for brute strength. It is for those with eyes that see and feet that remember the wind.”

You grinned. “I see everything, Syrio. Even the way Arya’s left foot drags just slightly when she pivots.”

Arya made a sound of protest, but Syrio merely clapped his hands. “Then come, cub. Let us see if your tongue is as sharp as your eyes.”

From that day on, you danced too.

It was a strange, wordless rhythm you fell into. You and Arya would circle one another, wooden swords clacking like bones, bare feet sliding over the stone. She was fast and fierce, you were quick and calculating, and somewhere between feints and parries, between quiet gasps and the brush of shoulders, you forgot where one of you ended and the other began.

After practice, the two of you would lie on your backs staring up at the sky, chests heaving, sweat on your brows.

“I hate it here,” she said one day, voice muffled by the grass.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

You turned your head toward her. Her eyes were stormy, always stormy, like they held the cold winds of the North no matter the heat. “I grew up in this place. My father barely looks at me, and my uncle wish I didn’t exist. I live in the walls, in the cracks. You can learn a lot from listening in the cracks.”

Arya frowned. “I’m sorry.”

“No need.” You shrugged. “But I know what it’s like. To feel…wrong. Like everyone else was handed a script, and you’re just improvising.”

Arya turned fully to you, her hair a wild halo. “That’s exactly what it feels like.”

You didn’t touch her. You hadn’t yet. But you watched the way her fingers flexed in the grass, like she was trying to root herself.

Some days, you’d spar until dusk, breathless and laughing, ignoring Syrio’s exaggerated sighs. Other days, you’d sit by the window in the Tower of the Hand, talking in hushed voices. She told you about Winterfell, about Jon and Nymeria and the cold. You told her about secret tunnels and Red Keep ghosts, about your mother’s lullabies and your father’s silence.

You didn’t know what to make of her, this girl with the fire of a sword in her spine and the eyes of a lone wolf. You weren’t sure when it changed—the way her voice started sticking in your chest, or how your gaze lingered a little too long on the bruise at her collarbone after a rough spar. She didn’t know what to make of you either. You were a Lannister, and not. You had golden blood but not golden pride. You made her laugh when no one else could.

One night, you stayed long after practice. Syrio had gone, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet.

“You’re not like the others,” she said suddenly, sitting with her knees pulled to her chest.

“Which others?”

“Your family. You don’t lie like them. You don’t look at people like you’re above them.”

You gave a crooked smile. “That’s because I’ve never been above anyone. Always below. Always watching.”

“I like that about you,” she said, so quietly you almost didn’t hear.

You blinked. Your heart did something strange—something fast and reckless.

She looked away, cheeks flushed. “I mean—I like training with you. You’re not awful.”

You didn’t call her out on it. You just nodded, letting the silence stretch like a thread between you. But when your fingers brushed as you reached for your swords, you didn’t move away.

And neither did she.

You’d known it was coming. You’d felt it in the bones of the Red Keep, in the silence that echoed louder than any footfall. Something in the air had turned foul, heavy, like a storm curling in on itself. The whispers carried it first—little birds chirping behind drapes, behind stone, behind the backs of kings and queens and fools. Your family was playing their game again, the same cruel chessboard of deceit and power they had always known. And this time, it was Arya's father who was the piece about to be removed.

You watched Arya from the shadows more often than not now, because her face had changed. She no longer scowled in that half-childish way; her mouth was taut, her gaze distant, always flicking toward the Tower of the Hand as if willing her father to step free. You didn’t have the heart to tell her that Ned Stark wasn’t coming back. You’d seen him. Your bastard blood and quiet tongue got you into places no trueborn lion ever dared to look. He was a broken man behind those bars, his honor used like a blade against his throat. Cersei wanted him silenced, Joffrey wanted him dead, and your father—Tyrion—had gone south on business, far from the jaws of it all.

So you stayed close to her.

The day they came for her, you were waiting.

You’d been in the armory hall, listening as the Lannister guards murmured to one another, then fanned out across the courtyard. Arya’s name was passed between them like a coin, carelessly. She was a loose end. And loose ends were always cut.

You slipped away before they could see you.

She was in the Great Hall corridor, her hand clenched tight around the hilt of Needle, eyes focused and ready. “They’re looking for me,” she said without surprise.

“I know.” You grabbed her wrist. “Come with me.”

She didn’t ask where. She never did. She trusted you in the way wolves trust their own kind, not in words, but in movement—silent, instinctive. You led her through servants’ passages, down into the cellars where damp clung to the stones and the smell of mildew thickened the air. You took her through a black door nearly lost to time, and into a hidden stair carved deep into the rock of Aegon’s Hill.

“This leads to the old catacombs,” you whispered. “No guards. No servants. No eyes.”

Arya followed, quiet as breath, though her heart pounded loud enough for both of you.

You emerged behind the Sept of Baelor, the roar of the crowd already thundering above. She turned to you, face pale and trembling. “They’re going to execute him.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

You stayed hidden among the masses, pressed between stone and shadow as Arya stood on her toes, peering through the crowd. You held her arm, in case she tried to run. You felt the tremor pass through her when Ned Stark was brought out, kneeling in the square, a hush descending over the gathered mob. You felt it again when he began to speak—confessing lies to save his daughters, to play the game just once. Arya’s grip on your forearm was iron.

And then the sword fell.

The crowd screamed.

Arya screamed.

You covered her mouth, wrapped your arms around her so tightly you were certain she’d break. But she didn’t. She bucked and fought and cursed you, but she didn’t break.

You held her long after the body stopped twitching, until the screams became murmurs and the heads turned away, like cattle tired of a show.

Her voice was hoarse when she finally spoke. “He was lying. He only said that to protect us.”

“I know,” you whispered.

She shook her head. “No. You don’t. You can’t—”

“I do,” you said, pulling her back so she could see your face. “Because I would do the same for you.”

That silenced her. She blinked up at you, eyes wide and rimmed with salt. Then she whispered, “What now?”

“Now,” came a voice from the shadows, rough and familiar, “we run.”

Yoren of the Night’s Watch stepped forward, his dark cloak blending with the walls. He’d been warned by you—told in hushed tones days before to be ready to take Arya with him when the time came. And now it had.

“She’s a boy now,” he growled. “‘Arry.’ Got hair like a rat’s nest and a mouth like a dockhand. No one’ll look twice.”

Arya looked to you again, her breath short. “You’re not coming?”

You swallowed hard. “I can’t. If I disappear, they’ll know. They’ll send hounds after us both. But you—they won’t expect a boy. Yoren can get you out.”

“I don’t want to go without you.”

“And I don’t want to let you go,” you said softly, brushing her hair from her face. “But you have to live, Arya. You have to survive. That’s what your father wanted.”

Her bottom lip quivered, but she nodded. Then she did something you didn’t expect—she leaned in.

The kiss was sudden, uncertain, but it stole the breath from your lungs. Her lips were cracked, rough, chapped with grief, and yet warm. Fierce. It lasted only a second before she pulled away, eyes burning, but it branded you all the same.

“I’ll come back for you,” she whispered.

You smiled, despite the ache in your chest. “I’ll be waiting, wolf girl.”

Yoren nodded to you, then to her, and just like that, they were gone—vanishing into the maze of alleys and shadows.

You stayed in the dark long after they left, heart pounding, the taste of her sorrow and salt still on your lips. The lion’s son and the wolf’s daughter. They would come for you if they knew. But you didn’t care.

You would see her again.

“you’re getting sloppy,” arya taunted, lunging forward and tapping my ribs before i could block.

i staggered back with a laugh. “i’m just giving you a chance to win.”

her eyes narrowed, sharp as her blade should have been. “a chance? you think i need one?”

i grinned, lifting my sword again. “maybe i just like seeing you smug.”

she smirked, and then she was on me again, fast as lightning. the clash of wood rang out as we traded blows, spinning across the yard. i was better this time, matching her pace, until her boot hooked behind my leg and sent me sprawling flat on my back.

before i could move, her wooden blade pressed to my throat. her chest rose and fell with every breath, hair tumbling loose from her braid.

“say it,” she demanded.

“say what?” i asked, smirking even as dirt stuck to my palms.

“that I’m better.” her voice was steady, but her eyes glinted with mischief.

i tilted my head, feigning thought. “better at swordplay, sure. but not at everything.”

her brows pulled together, suspicious. “like what?”

i let my grin widen. “not better at being charming. that’s me, hands down.”

her lips twitched, fighting a smile. “charming? you?”

“mm-hm.” i leaned back casually, still pinned beneath her. “though i don’t mind this view—flat on my back with you standing over me like some conquering warrior.”

her cheeks flushed pink, and she lowered the sword an inch. “you’re impossible.”

“and you like it,” i shot back, my voice softer now.

for a moment, her grin faltered into something gentler, something almost shy. she reached down, offered her hand, and hauled me up—but she didn’t let go. her fingers lingered against mine, rough from training, warm against my skin.

i tugged her just slightly closer, enough that our chests brushed. “so,” i murmured, “do i get a reward for letting you win?”

her eyes flicked to my lips, quick and sharp like the flick of a blade. then she leaned in, and her mouth brushed against mine—soft, quick, but enough to send heat racing through me.

when she pulled back, she smirked again, trying to mask the blush on her cheeks. “that’s all you get.”

i chuckled, squeezing her hand. “best two out of three tomorrow, then?”