Blood and Water
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Summary: Despite the distance from her family, Arya's never felt more alive. AryaTywin.
For asoiafkinkmeme, prompt: He brings her with him to King's Landing during the Blackwater, and as she watches him tear down Stannis' troops and retake the city, she finds herself strangely aroused. When the battle's over, the rain falls; it's like something from one of Sansa's silly songs - a first kiss in the rain.
This is pretty much entirely fluff.
Blood and Water
She marched with King Robert down the Kingsroad and supped with the royal family at her table.
She watched as her father was beheaded before her very eyes.
She faced Ser Gregor and the Tickler, terrifying in ways she doubts she will ever encounter again.
But nothing prepares Arya for the sheer force of Lord Tywin Lannister. Not Tywin the Hand, not Tywin the strategist, nor Tywin the commander; it is only the Lord who demands respect in such a way that makes her heart skip a beat with just a glance.
Tywin’s appearance flickers under the torches in the night and Arya's attention has never before been fixated so thoroughly. His armor costs more than most men make in a lifetime; he is muscled very differently from Gendry, but identical power remains beneath each movement; he stands behind an army thousands strong, yet it somehow seems as if he’s at its very head. If Arya continued fussing like a girl over the Lannister, she could easily elaborate her observations, but none of them matter; it's his face, his manner, and the memory of his voice that draws her. Her horse is still, so it's not the creature’s movement that causes the warming between her legs and in her abdomen, a tingle that seems almost self-aware and spreads as she acknowledges it. Tywin's energy - his very presence - seeps into her. Its touch saps her control and rationality; Arya knows the phrase "stirs the blood," but never understands it with as much clarity as she does on this night.
For a brief moment, the young woman swears Tywin meets her eyes as he looks over the army he commands, but whether it’s a delusion or the lord truly distinguishes her from the masses of larger bodies, Arya does not know. His gaze continues as if she is not there, but her breath catches in her throat nonetheless. Even fully aware of how childish her reaction is, fussing over mere eye contact, Arya is unable to stop.
Her hypnosis shatters an instant later, when the Stark recognizes the Lord's spoken command. His voice is inaudible from a distance in the midst of the army, but still he does not shout; to do so would only diminish the effect of his words. Tywin motions his hand - soft hands, she knows, having accidentally touched them in the past - across the army in front of him as the final preparations draw to a close and the horns blare. Arya reigns in her horse preemptively, so that she is not trampled, and watches as the army moves, a ripple of death before her.
The young woman presses her eyes closed for but a second, and listens only to the various war cries. She feels almost like an alien, as she supports neither Casterly Rock nor King Joffrey of the Iron Throne, but also recognizes that her endeavors with the Lannisters - Tywin - prevent her from ever turning back. It gives her some consolation to know that, with Tywin's maneuver and the Tyrell alliance, Stannis is outmatched and the Baratheon army will break. With Stannis’ defeat, Robb has one less opponent. The thought is a laughable excuse for her irrational actions, rashly driven by thoughts even she does not understand.
Arya cannot say what happens next. The world seems to spin around her; even well behind the main force of the assault she feels the ground shake. As the battle rages before her, it is no longer clear who is enemy and who is ally - all Arya sees are waves of death, blood, screams, and fire. She feels like she should cry, scream, run away, yet there’s nothing. It’s frightening, but she holds her ground, armed only with the small dagger and light leathers commissioned for her. The battle washes over her, permeating no deeper than her skin. What happens near the gates to King's Landing feels like a different world; as if to confirm the reality of the situation, she looks over to Tywin, some distance from her on a large horse of his own. He offers her plea no answer; his expression is as neutral as Arya’s as he looks upon the carnage.
It is not a battle, but a massacre - a well-timed strategic decision that, despite the brutality of it all, Arya only recognizes as brilliant.
The battle is over before the rear even joins. Cheers erupt, so loudly she must press her hands to her ears and even then they ring through her until she’s dizzy and her stomach churns unpleasantly. Seeing the fighting rapidly draw to its close, the Warden of the West spurs his horse forward in silence, surveying the situation. The army fans out at the orders of their lords, some pursuing the retreating Stannis, others securing the city, yet more sent out with purposes Arya is not privy to.
Despite her better sense, Arya does not dismount as she continues forward, alone, surrounded by unfamiliar faces, all looking at her with curiosity and outright hostility before they see the embroidery and colors that name her ally. She draws her horse closer to Tywin, but is immediately greeted by a dozen drawn blades. It takes all of her skill to stop the horse from rearing and throwing her off at the obvious threat.
"Let her pass." It is Ser Kevan who speaks. Arya is fond of him; he always has warm smiles for her. Kevan is well aware of her identity and relationship with his brother, so he offers her a hand to help her down from her horse, but Arya declines with a shake of her head. She commands her horse forward, beyond the guards, to the elder Lannister.
"Lord Tywin." Her voice is almost a whisper against the bellows of those around her, yet she does not increase its volume. Her approach is an action brought on by adrenaline, by desire, by foreign passions she's only ever felt in Tywin’s presence - feelings she desperately wants to know again. You’re so stupid she berates herself, yet makes no effort to cease.
It is some time before Tywin turns his attention towards her, only after he gives his sharp orders, expectedly flat of emotion, but with a body language that reveals his satisfaction. All around them soldiers run about, pushing and pulling, armor bruising her legs as they pass, but as the lord meets her eyes - stern, quiet, solemn, even with a hint of weariness that he does not show in his posture, but Arya reads it easily enough - Arya feels like the world stops around them. Time bends as drops of water fall from the sky, almost purging the stench of battle, cleaning the blood from the streets and restoring King's Landing to a temporary peace.
She does not know why she does it, be it the heat of the moment, the adrenaline that still pumps through her veins, or a simple, hormonal desire, but she moves her horse closer to his. The top of her head dampens from the droplets, but it's secondary, almost as if happens to another person. For just that brief period, all that exists is she and the Lord.
Arya leans over from her horse and kisses him. There is no blush, kindness, or even her previous lust in the test; it's a kiss of relief, perhaps romantic in its own way if either of those involved cared to consider such things. It lasts less than a second, barely even enough to feel his lips beyond a simple brush of flesh before she pulls away. There is no shame in her action, simply accomplishment tinged with a small spice of confusion.
Tywin’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly the dark, noticeable only because Arya spends prolonged periods in discussion with the man - longer than she has with anyone else in many moons, even Gendry. The rain falls harder, with large drops that blur her sight and dampen her clothes, and time finally speeds up. The cheers, the torches, the footsteps, the commands, the smells - of smoke, of death, of mud and dirt, all return in a flash that overwhelms her senses. So focused is Arya on the world around her that she barely notices the Lord's motion - quick, as fast as the young woman is with her blade. He takes hold of her hand and draws her close with such strength that she could not pull away even if she wanted to. He is not delicate, but also not harsh; Tywin is firm, commanding, and unyielding as he leans her over the gap between them.
Tywin Lannister does nothing in half-measures.
This time, the kiss is not innocent. Arya is intimately aware of everything: the rain, the cheers, the men all around her that she knows look up in shock at the public display, Tywin's smell, and even his very taste - so much like the wine she pours for them in their quiet moments together. It feels so much like one of Sansa's stupid songs that Arya almost - just barely and only for an instant - wishes to push him away. Lord and lady, kissing high above the soldiers after a stunning victory, the heat of battle still surrounding them - perhaps there's some truth to her sister’s tales, after all.
Summary: Despite the distance from her family, Arya's never felt more alive. AryaTywin.
For asoiafkinkmeme, prompt: He brings her with him to King's Landing during the Blackwater, and as she watches him tear down Stannis' troops and retake the city, she finds herself strangely aroused. When the battle's over, the rain falls; it's like something from one of Sansa's silly songs - a first kiss in the rain.
This is pretty much entirely fluff.
Blood and Water
She marched with King Robert down the Kingsroad and supped with the royal family at her table.
She watched as her father was beheaded before her very eyes.
She faced Ser Gregor and the Tickler, terrifying in ways she doubts she will ever encounter again.
But nothing prepares Arya for the sheer force of Lord Tywin Lannister. Not Tywin the Hand, not Tywin the strategist, nor Tywin the commander; it is only the Lord who demands respect in such a way that makes her heart skip a beat with just a glance.
Tywin’s appearance flickers under the torches in the night and Arya's attention has never before been fixated so thoroughly. His armor costs more than most men make in a lifetime; he is muscled very differently from Gendry, but identical power remains beneath each movement; he stands behind an army thousands strong, yet it somehow seems as if he’s at its very head. If Arya continued fussing like a girl over the Lannister, she could easily elaborate her observations, but none of them matter; it's his face, his manner, and the memory of his voice that draws her. Her horse is still, so it's not the creature’s movement that causes the warming between her legs and in her abdomen, a tingle that seems almost self-aware and spreads as she acknowledges it. Tywin's energy - his very presence - seeps into her. Its touch saps her control and rationality; Arya knows the phrase "stirs the blood," but never understands it with as much clarity as she does on this night.
For a brief moment, the young woman swears Tywin meets her eyes as he looks over the army he commands, but whether it’s a delusion or the lord truly distinguishes her from the masses of larger bodies, Arya does not know. His gaze continues as if she is not there, but her breath catches in her throat nonetheless. Even fully aware of how childish her reaction is, fussing over mere eye contact, Arya is unable to stop.
Her hypnosis shatters an instant later, when the Stark recognizes the Lord's spoken command. His voice is inaudible from a distance in the midst of the army, but still he does not shout; to do so would only diminish the effect of his words. Tywin motions his hand - soft hands, she knows, having accidentally touched them in the past - across the army in front of him as the final preparations draw to a close and the horns blare. Arya reigns in her horse preemptively, so that she is not trampled, and watches as the army moves, a ripple of death before her.
The young woman presses her eyes closed for but a second, and listens only to the various war cries. She feels almost like an alien, as she supports neither Casterly Rock nor King Joffrey of the Iron Throne, but also recognizes that her endeavors with the Lannisters - Tywin - prevent her from ever turning back. It gives her some consolation to know that, with Tywin's maneuver and the Tyrell alliance, Stannis is outmatched and the Baratheon army will break. With Stannis’ defeat, Robb has one less opponent. The thought is a laughable excuse for her irrational actions, rashly driven by thoughts even she does not understand.
Arya cannot say what happens next. The world seems to spin around her; even well behind the main force of the assault she feels the ground shake. As the battle rages before her, it is no longer clear who is enemy and who is ally - all Arya sees are waves of death, blood, screams, and fire. She feels like she should cry, scream, run away, yet there’s nothing. It’s frightening, but she holds her ground, armed only with the small dagger and light leathers commissioned for her. The battle washes over her, permeating no deeper than her skin. What happens near the gates to King's Landing feels like a different world; as if to confirm the reality of the situation, she looks over to Tywin, some distance from her on a large horse of his own. He offers her plea no answer; his expression is as neutral as Arya’s as he looks upon the carnage.
It is not a battle, but a massacre - a well-timed strategic decision that, despite the brutality of it all, Arya only recognizes as brilliant.
The battle is over before the rear even joins. Cheers erupt, so loudly she must press her hands to her ears and even then they ring through her until she’s dizzy and her stomach churns unpleasantly. Seeing the fighting rapidly draw to its close, the Warden of the West spurs his horse forward in silence, surveying the situation. The army fans out at the orders of their lords, some pursuing the retreating Stannis, others securing the city, yet more sent out with purposes Arya is not privy to.
Despite her better sense, Arya does not dismount as she continues forward, alone, surrounded by unfamiliar faces, all looking at her with curiosity and outright hostility before they see the embroidery and colors that name her ally. She draws her horse closer to Tywin, but is immediately greeted by a dozen drawn blades. It takes all of her skill to stop the horse from rearing and throwing her off at the obvious threat.
"Let her pass." It is Ser Kevan who speaks. Arya is fond of him; he always has warm smiles for her. Kevan is well aware of her identity and relationship with his brother, so he offers her a hand to help her down from her horse, but Arya declines with a shake of her head. She commands her horse forward, beyond the guards, to the elder Lannister.
"Lord Tywin." Her voice is almost a whisper against the bellows of those around her, yet she does not increase its volume. Her approach is an action brought on by adrenaline, by desire, by foreign passions she's only ever felt in Tywin’s presence - feelings she desperately wants to know again. You’re so stupid she berates herself, yet makes no effort to cease.
It is some time before Tywin turns his attention towards her, only after he gives his sharp orders, expectedly flat of emotion, but with a body language that reveals his satisfaction. All around them soldiers run about, pushing and pulling, armor bruising her legs as they pass, but as the lord meets her eyes - stern, quiet, solemn, even with a hint of weariness that he does not show in his posture, but Arya reads it easily enough - Arya feels like the world stops around them. Time bends as drops of water fall from the sky, almost purging the stench of battle, cleaning the blood from the streets and restoring King's Landing to a temporary peace.
She does not know why she does it, be it the heat of the moment, the adrenaline that still pumps through her veins, or a simple, hormonal desire, but she moves her horse closer to his. The top of her head dampens from the droplets, but it's secondary, almost as if happens to another person. For just that brief period, all that exists is she and the Lord.
Arya leans over from her horse and kisses him. There is no blush, kindness, or even her previous lust in the test; it's a kiss of relief, perhaps romantic in its own way if either of those involved cared to consider such things. It lasts less than a second, barely even enough to feel his lips beyond a simple brush of flesh before she pulls away. There is no shame in her action, simply accomplishment tinged with a small spice of confusion.
Tywin’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly the dark, noticeable only because Arya spends prolonged periods in discussion with the man - longer than she has with anyone else in many moons, even Gendry. The rain falls harder, with large drops that blur her sight and dampen her clothes, and time finally speeds up. The cheers, the torches, the footsteps, the commands, the smells - of smoke, of death, of mud and dirt, all return in a flash that overwhelms her senses. So focused is Arya on the world around her that she barely notices the Lord's motion - quick, as fast as the young woman is with her blade. He takes hold of her hand and draws her close with such strength that she could not pull away even if she wanted to. He is not delicate, but also not harsh; Tywin is firm, commanding, and unyielding as he leans her over the gap between them.
Tywin Lannister does nothing in half-measures.
This time, the kiss is not innocent. Arya is intimately aware of everything: the rain, the cheers, the men all around her that she knows look up in shock at the public display, Tywin's smell, and even his very taste - so much like the wine she pours for them in their quiet moments together. It feels so much like one of Sansa's stupid songs that Arya almost - just barely and only for an instant - wishes to push him away. Lord and lady, kissing high above the soldiers after a stunning victory, the heat of battle still surrounding them - perhaps there's some truth to her sister’s tales, after all.