Chapter 2: Chapter 2: The Cemetery
It never felt real to Arya. Not even at the funeral. Standing all in a row on that day, staring at the coffin as it was lowered into the ground, Arya felt as if she was hovering outside of her body. She vaguely heard her sister sobbing beside her and Rickon wailing nearly as loudly on her other side. She was crying too. She could feel the tears rolling down her cheeks, and she watched them tumble to the dirt below. But the rest of her felt… frozen.
There were many people there who she did not know. Her father's friends and business partners and distant family. Her mother said it was because her father treated everyone in his staff like an equal. They were all sad to see him go, and they wanted to pay their respects.
And yet Arya didn't want any of them there. She wanted her family. Her brothers and her sister and her mother and her cousin Jon. Maybe her uncle Benjen. Everyone else… they were trespassing on a private moment.
The funeral bled into the reception, and every minute that passed was more torturous for Arya to endure. Hearing people talk about her father into a microphone that kept malfunctioning. Watching her mother deal with a long line of mourners offering their condolences. Sitting in the crowd, trying not to burst. She wasn't just grieving she was… angry. Angry at every person in that room. Angry at herself for not crying and being gracious to the guests like her siblings. Angry at her father, as terrible as it was, for leaving them behind.
Most of all, she was angry at the one that did this to him.
They had ruled the crash as a hit and run. On a mostly deserted road, crossing a bridge, some drunk driver rammed into the side of her father's car and sent it tumbling over into a ravine. They hadn't found the one responsible. They didn't know who they were or even what car they drove. There was no video footage of the accident. Nothing to go on. And so the person who had ruined their lives got away. They were living their life, unbothered by what they had done.
Just thinking about it, Arya felt angry tears well up in her eyes again and she dug her nails into her palm as her fists clenched.
"So… forever then?"
Arya blinked and looked up at the sound of the incredulous voice. A few kids from their school stood in front of Bran, sizing him up. Her brother was red eyed, but not crying. His expression was set like a stone throughout the entire service. He had been like this since he woke and found out the news-their father was dead, and he would never walk again.
"Yes. Forever," Bran said in a flat voice.
"But maybe not, right?" the kid asked. Arya didn't know his name. Was he one of the Umber boys? "You could walk again someday."
"Not according to the doctors, no," Bran said. "I don't want to talk about it."
"Well technology is always advancing. You could-"
Arya advanced on him, drawn by some invisible force. She shoved the kid away from her brother, hard enough to send him stumbling back into a table, rattling the glasses and knocking a few to the ground.
"He said he didn't want to talk about it, asshole."
"I was just asking, " the boy said, in a voice that made Arya want to break his nose. She might have too if Jon hadn't slid between them, resting two hands on her shoulders.
"All right, all right. Back off," Jon said.
"You didn't even know my father," Arya snapped, struggling to get past Jon's arm. She knew people were staring, but she didn't care. "What in the seven hells are you doing here?"
"Arya. Calm down." Jon gave her a gentle push toward the door. "Let's take a walk. Come on. You need fresh air."
Outside of the room-away from the noise and the strangers-Arya felt her mind clear. But when the anger dispersed, it left her with this empty, hollow feeling in her chest.
"I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I just… snapped."
"It's all right," Jon said, running a hand through his hair. "We're all just trying to keep it together. Rickon looked about ready to fight someone away from Bran earlier. And Aunt Cat… I bet she'd send every guest away right now if she could."
Arya nodded once. Of course her mother felt the same as she did. Maybe worse. She could not imagine how she endured all those guests offering empty condolences. "I'm just so… angry. I've been angry all day. I've been angry since the hospital."
"I get it," Jon said. "I know… I know he wasn't my father but-"
"He was your father, Jon," Arya said. Their father had taken Jon in when he was barely one-year-old, when his mother passed away from cancer. The father wasn't in the picture. He didn't even know Jon existed. So their father had stepped in at once. Jon had known no one else. "Do you remember…?" Arya swallowed a lump in her throat. "Do you remember the last thing you said to him?"
"Yes," Jon said. "I saw him leaving that morning to go to work. I said 'see you later' but I barely looked at him because I was hungry and I was running for the kitchen." He looked up at her. "You?"
"That's the awful thing…" Arya said. "I… can't remember. I can't remember the last thing I said at all. Was it goodbye? Was it something else?" She clutched her head between her hands and slid slowly down the wall. "I can't remember."
And then she was crying. It spilled out of her all at once in broken sobs and the tears blurred her eyes so much that she only saw Jon's shape as he sat down beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. And they stayed there together until the reception was finally at its end and Arya had no more tears to cry.
A few weeks later, Arya sat at the top of the main stairway, aimlessly tossing a tennis ball down the steps and watching to bounce. Nymeria loyally retrieved the ball each time and brought it back to her, tail wagging all the way. It was just entertaining enough to occupy her attention since she did not really want to move.
It had been close to a month since her father had died, and Arya could count on two hands the number of days she had gone to school since. The school had been understanding, sending make-up work to the house. However, her mother insisted that starting tomorrow, everyone would start attending school regularly again. No absences. No skipping.
Arya was not happy with the arrangement. She didn't want to endure the staring or the half-hearted attempts at sympathy from people she had never talked to. She would rather do literally anything else.
I could always get into another fight, Arya thought. Then they'll suspend me. Maybe for a week.
Is a week enough time to finish grieving?
She hurled the ball down the steps again and Nymeria bolted down after it, nearly sliding across the tile in her efforts to retrieve the target. Arya's lips twitched into a small smile.
Then, as Nymeria ran the ball back to her, she heard voices coming from the east wing of the house, off toward the dining room.
"-anything from the police?" a man was asking. Arya recognized his voice. Petyr Baelish. He was an old friend of her mother's and he had been hanging around the house a great deal since her father died. "Any more news on who caused the crash?"
"None," her mother replied. "They said there's not much they can do unless someone comes forward. No video evidence. No eye witnesses."
"Seems very convenient for the perpetrator," Baelish said.
"Sometimes life is convenient for bad people," her mother sighed. "What are you trying to get at?"
"Just that… well your husband had many enemies, Cat," Baelish said. "I think it's worth pursuing more leads. Just in case this was intentional."
Nymeria whined and nudged at the ball in Arya's hand, but her grip had locked tight around it at Baelish's words.
Intentional. Was it intentional?
"Peytr, I'm in no mood for conspiracy theories," Catelyn said. "My family wants to mourn, not think about the person who did this to us."
"And you wouldn't sleep better at night knowing the truth?"
"Would knowing this so-called truth bring Ned back to me?" her mother snapped. "You have no evidence to suggest it was anything but an accident. Ned wasn't the first to go over that bridge. He won't be the last." Her mother paused, attempting to lower her voice with the next words. Arya leaned forward slightly, trying to hear. "Chasing after the culprit won't make anyone feel better, especially when we don't have any evidence. We might as well chase after a ghost."
"All right," Baelish said. "I'm sorry I brought it up, Cat. I just wanted to help."
"I know," she said. "I know. Just…" A faint ring of her cell phone sounded through the hall. "I have to take this."
Her mother's footsteps clicked away, while Baelish's footsteps drew closer. Arya stilled at the top of the steps as he came into view, his hands stuffed into his pockets. Nymeria let out a small growl.
"Arya." Baelish noticed her. "I didn't you know you were listening. I'm sorry about that."
"Do you really believe someone tried to kill my father?" Arya asked flatly.
"I wouldn't say I believe it," Baelish said. "I just find it suspicious. I'm afraid I have a suspicious mind."
Arya had a suspicious mind too. And the temptation of having someone to blame… it was almost too much to resist. Then at least she would have someone to take the brunt of her anger. "Is there someone who would… try to kill him and make it look like an accident?"
"King's Landing is a cutthroat place for businessmen," Baelish said. "And making murder look like an accident is the most logical choice if you don't want anyone to catch you. That's how they say the Faceless Men operate."
"I've heard of them," Arya said. People at school liked to use the Faceless Men as a one size fits all conspiracy. Someone turned up dead? The Faceless Men. A politician said something strange and out of character? The Faceless Men replaced him with a clone. The food in the lunchroom tasted strange? It had to be the Faceless Men in the kitchens.
It was a joke, mostly, but everyone knew that the Faceless Men did exist. They weren't magic like some of the rumors suggested. They were… a gang of sorts which had nearly complete control over the city of Braavos. People said they would kill anyone for the right price. They did not care about the motive. They did not care about the character of the one paying for the death. They accepted the price and carried out the task.
"And… you think they killed my father?" Arya asked.
"No, of course not," Baelish said. "I was just giving an example. Your mother is right. I'm sure it was just an accident. And it's probably best that you keep believing that, child."
It didn't seem best to believe it. Not if it wasn't true. And now Arya could think about was the Faceless Men. There were plenty of men rich enough to buy the death of her father without getting their hands dirty.
"Peytr." Her mother's voice sounded from nearby. "Are you still there?"
"Right over here," Baelish said, giving Arya a little wave and disappearing from sight again, leaving Arya with a little thought that would not go away.
What if my father's death wasn't an accident?
What if someone had him killed?
What if there is someone to blame?
She felt tears burn at her eyes and she hurried down the steps, throwing the tennis ball down the opposite hallway for Nymeria. Before her dog could even catch the ball, she was out the door, running. Where was she running to?
She didn't know. But if she stayed in her house with her thoughts for one more moment, she knew they might eat her alive.
She ended up at the graveyard. She had just enough money in her pockets to pay for the bus fare and she rode until she reached the Baelor Cemetery. It was an exclusive plot of land just outside of the Sept of Baelor, where only those from wealthy families could afford to bury their loved ones. Tall fences sectioned off different sides of the cemetery and gates emblazoned with old family crests guarded the dead.
Many of the wealthy families that lived in King's Landing came from other places around Westeros. The North, the Riverlands, the Reach… but while their businesses still had roots there, King's Landing had become the true economic hub. Arya's family had been there since her grandfather was young.
She had never met him. He died in a car crash before she was born with her uncle Brandon. A month later, her aunt Lyanna was dead too, killed by some advanced form of cancer. Her father said he thought about burying them back in the north… but he wanted to be close to them, so he bought them a plot in King's Landing.
A wolf's head emblazoned the Stark plot's iron gate, and just past the bars she could see the gravestones-large pillars with stone wolves on top. Her father's statue was fresh carved and clean.
She wanted to go inside, but she did not have the key. She hadn't thought to grab one when she left because she had not thought to come here. So instead she sat down in front of the gate, staring straight ahead through the bars.
She wasn't sure why she came here. For answers? To be alone? Or maybe she just hoped that the last few weeks would prove to be a terrible nightmare and her father would appear at any moment to scold her. She could almost imagine what he would say.
" You shouldn't be out here alone, Arya. Your mother will worry. Come on… let's go home."
She could almost hear it in his voice and it made her eyes burn all over again. She dug her fingers into the earth in front of the gate, tearing away a few blades of grass.
That's when she saw it. A single coin lying just beyond the bars. She slid her slender wrist through and grabbed it, rubbing away the dirt from its surface. It was made of iron. Certainly not Westerosi. There was a strange script written on either side. Her brow furrowed. She knew this kind of money. She didn't know of other countries with iron coins. Braavos. It came from Braavos.
Making murder look like an accident is the most logical choice if you don't want them to catch you. That's how they say the Faceless Men operate.
The Faceless Men were based in Braavos. They killed anyone for the right price. Of course, if they had anything to do with her father's death, it did not seem right for such an organization to leave any evidence outside of his grave.
And yet… it was such a coincidence. How many Westerosi people carried Braavosi coins around in their pockets?
They could have made a mistake, Arya thought. One little mistake… and thought I wouldn't notice.
Was he… was he really murdered?
In answer to her thoughts, the skies above opened up, releasing a torrent of water on Arya and the surrounding graves. She didn't move. She just watched the rain drops plink off the iron coin in her hand as grief closed its grip around her heart.
Tywin was not one to linger on grief. It was inconvenient at the best of times and he rarely had the minutes in the day to dwell. But he allowed himself one day of dwelling every year when he visited Baelor's cemetery. It was one of the few times he went anywhere alone because he did not want anyone else around him in those moments.
When he arrived, the cemetery empty, perhaps because the sky was a dark grey and looked ready to open up at any minute. That was fine by him. Better no one noticed him on this particular day.
It had been twenty-six years now. That was an awfully long time ago. He tried not to think on it most days. On her. It was hard to even picture her face without feeling something deep inside of him shift. But he forced himself to remember on this day at least. Otherwise, he might forget her, and that was intolerable to consider. He was always stuck between that. The temptation to lock every memory of her away and the fear of forgetting.
Whoever said time heals all wounds knew nothing, he thought.
It started raining, and he swiftly opened his umbrella to shield himself as he looked over the other stones. He knew many people buried in the Lannister family plot of land. His two younger brothers were here, laid to rest after they died in the first war with the Free Cities. They buried them beside his mother and father. And scattered throughout were a few cousins, aunts and uncles who Tywin knew once upon a time. Only half of them actually rested there. Some of them were buried back in the family cemetery in the west, but they memorialized them here.
He buried her here though, in the same city where she had died. He wasn't sure why. Because he wanted her close? It was a foolish thought. She could not be close anymore now that she was dead.
He let out a long breath, passing from her grave to the graves of his parents and brothers, briefly paying his respects there. Then the rain picked up, and he decided he had mourned enough for the year. He slipped from the Lannister plot of land and locked the gilded gates behind him, burying his grief again.
When he rounded the corner onto the main path toward the cemetery entrance, he stopped. There was someone else in the cemetery, though he could have mistaken them for a shadow, curled up on the ground in front of one of the gates. The shadow had no umbrella, but did not flinch at the touch of the rain. Whoever they were, it was easy to see their loss was fresh.
Tywin was about to leave them to their mourning when he realized which gate the shadow kept watch over. The Stark gate. Tywin tilted his head to the side. Was it one of the Stark children? He couldn't imagine anyone else would keep such a dedicated watch over his once rival's grave.
He couldn't tell which one it was at this distance. Not that he would know their name if he could. He didn't have much interaction with most of them.
He wasn't sure what drew him closer to the shadow. Curiosity, perhaps. He wanted to see who it was. And before he could think better of it, he stopped beside them.
"How long have you been out in this?" he asked.
"Since it started," the shadow murmured, their voice flat and lifeless.
"Hmm," he looked the child over. He couldn't see their face because of how their head was bent, but they resembled a drowned cat. "Doesn't seem wise to stay."
The shadow looked up at him, grey eyes burning with fury past strands of dark hair. It was one of the daughters. He recognized this one. What was her name again? "I don't care about a little rain."
"Clearly," Tywin said. "It's Arya, isn't it?"
Her eyes narrowed. A clear yes. "Who are you?"
"We've only met a few times. I wouldn't expect you to remember."
"That doesn't answer my question," she said, flicking a few strands of wet hair from her eyes. "Did you work with my father?"
Or against him, Tywin thought. "You could say that."
Her brow furrowed as she studied him. Then came the recognition. "Wait… you're Tywin Lannister."
"Correct."
"You were there the day they suspended me for punching Joffrey Baratheon in the face."
So she recalled. Yes, that had been their second meeting if he remembered correctly. She was nearly as furious then as she was now. "I believe I was, yes. He's my grandson."
She scrutinized him before looking back to the locked gate. "My father hated you."
"You don't make a practice of filtering your words, do you?"
"Why should I? It's the truth."
So, she doesn't just resemble her father in looks, Tywin thought. She was an honest little thing, and if she was afraid of him, she didn't show it. But then again, grief stripped away most emotions. Including fear.
"Yes. It's the truth. We did not get along," Tywin said. "Nonetheless, you have my condolences."
The girl shivered, maybe from the cold or maybe from something else. One of her hands clenched into a tight fist like she was clutching something for dear life.
"You should get out of this rain soon, girl," Tywin said. "Go home."
"I can't," Arya muttered.
"And why is that?"
She mumbled something that he couldn't hear and he raised an eyebrow.
"What did you say?"
"I don't have enough money for the trip home," she snapped, glaring up at him, as if he had caused her to forget her bus fare.
"I don't suppose you have a phone," Tywin said.
"Left it at home," she said.
"No phone, no money, no umbrella. You planned poorly," he observed.
She let out a huff, her arms tightening around her legs. "I know. I wasn't thinking when I left I just… Leave me alone."
He probably should. He owed nothing to this child and if she wished to catch her death in a rainstorm, that was her business. But then again, if he left her to walk home for miles in the rain… well, he imagined her mother would have something to say to him about that. And Tywin chose to avoid that headache of a conversation.
"All right, stand up," Tywin said. She gave him a look and his expression hardened. "I won't ask again."
For the first time, a flicker of fear passed through her gaze, as she seemed to remember that most did not trifle with him. When she was fully standing, he realized that she was awfully small for someone who so openly picked fights.
He fished a few coppers from his pocket and offered them to her. "You can use this for the bus fare."
"I… what?" She stared at the money like she didn't know what it was.
"You're not deaf. You heard me," he said.
"I did but…" she looked up at him. "My father said you weren't very charitable."
"I'm not. It's just a courtesy," Tywin said. When she still hesitated, he sighed. "By all means, pay me back at your earliest convenience."
She swallowed hard and held out her hand. As he let the coppers fall into her palm, he caught sight of something iron there. But before he could study it for too long, she had slipped everything into her pocket.
"Thank you…" she mumbled. Now that her anger had faded, he could hear that her voice was trembling. He imagined the rain was chilling her.
He nodded once. "How far away is the nearest stop?"
"Half a mile, I think," Arya said. "I wasn't really… paying attention as I walked."
No. Of course she wasn't. She likely hadn't been thinking of much of anything since her father died. Grief really was a vile emotion.
"Start moving then," he said. "Before you drown in all of this."
She nodded and hurried toward the front gate. He followed her, wondering, not for the first time, why he was bothering with this. They reached the parking lot and with Tywin's car in sight, he turned and held out the umbrella.
"Take it."
Once again, she looked up at him with a confused expression. Ned Stark truly must have spoken ill of him often in order for her to react in such a way.
"You can always return it to me if you're so worried about being in my debt, you know," he said, an exasperated note creeping into his voice.
That prospect seemed to satisfy her, and she accepted the umbrella from him. "I will."
"Good," Tywin said. "Now go. Catch your bus home before your mother calls a phone you don't have."
Fear of worrying her mother seemed to light a fire under the girl and she nodded once, turning and hurrying down the street. Tywin did not watch her for long before he returned to his car. He could have offered her a ride, he supposed, but given the girl's reactions to his other offers, she might think he was trying to take her hostage.
She was right to doubt him. He didn't make a habit of offering anything to anyone unless he had something to gain. But even he couldn't bring himself to just leave the girl in the rain like a drowned rat.
She was not the only one who had come to the cemetery to mourn.
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