Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire, or any of the characters therein. I'm just playing with them for a little while.
Not Entirely With Modest Means (Or With Any Honourable Intentions At All)
Chapter 1: Not Quite Who You Think
Howling ghosts – they reappear
In mountains that are stacked with fear
But you're a king and I'm a lionheart.
A lionheart.
They were searching for her avidly. A girl had only just snuck into the brothel in time to hide with Lanna in the back rooms as the soldiers garbed in gold rushed in.
"What is it they want with you, Cat?" the blonde girl asked softly.
Cat shook her head, the dark curls that now reached past her shoulders swaying at the movement. "I do not know," she lied easily. "They have been following me about all day!"
She thought back to the tall man with eyes that brought back memories that weren't hers, but belonged to a girl she once knew. What was that man doing here, of all places?
Lanna considered her friend's words, but kept quiet as golden knights strode past, her grass-green eyes following them as they trotted about like horses with purpose.
Cat held her breath as they did, and prayed to The Stranger that the men did not notice her. The black-haired man with the blue eyes had not accompanied them, and so they did not know exactly what Cat looked like; they did not pay her any mind as they brushed past her and back to where they'd came.
When all of them were gone, Cat snuck away from the blonde whore and followed the golden little shits that had tracked her from Pentos.
Perhaps a part of her wished to leave Baavos, to go to the place that Arya Stark was born. But Cat preferred it where she had a freedom to do as she wished, could duel a man to defend her own honour; not have to have another man do it for her.
Cat shook her head, When has that ever happened to me? I am an orphan of Braavos, The Cat of The Canals, First Sword of Braavos; nothing more and nothing less than that. At least that was what she was telling herself as she was spotted by the black-haired man with the bull's helm from her youth.
"Arya?"
Cat froze behind the men as they turned to face her, the blade in her hand had been poised to strike; but he had ruined it. She slid it deftly back into its sheath.
His voice boomed now, and the name he called her by, she had not heard in nigh on five years. Give or take a year, Cat had never been very good with time.
"That is the Lady Arya?" one of the men questioned; a gruff old thing, with wrinkles covering his stern-looking face.
Cat bit back a retort that would have been second-nature to a girl named Arya Stark, and instead offered a polite smile. "I do not speak," she started in Braavosi, then paused as if thinking, "Westerosi, is it? I cannot speak that tongue."
The old man frowned. "It is a name, little girl. Lady Arya, have you heard of her?" he asked in the same tongue, voice rough from age.
Cat skipped backwards, a sly smile on her face. "No, old man," she answered lightly. "I've not ever heard of a Lady by that name. But the Merling Queen is a lady, though Arya is not her name."
The black-haired Bull made an impatient noise and stomped towards her. Cat did not so much as blink.
"You are Arya! You look just like her," he argued hotly, fingers pointing rudely at her. The old man eyed Cat once more, and she felt stupid for even considering following the bloody knights in the first place.
Cat made her face a confused mask, but hollered back at him, "I do not know what you are saying, you black-haired shit!"
The old man chuckled, before translating to her. "The man says that you look just the same as the princess we are searching for."
Cat's eyes widened, before changing back to the confused look of annoyance, a laugh working its way from her throat, husky and soft. "That dolt thinks I am some sort of princess from wherever he comes from?" she questioned, but kept her grey eyes on the Bull. "I've never been anywhere but Braavos, old man. Though my father could've been a captain of some ship or another, I do not think he's some king."
The Bull leaned forward to inspect her, and Cat found herself meeting his cerulean eyes. It was pride and her training that had her keeping her ground, not that little voice that said he was awfully pretty for a man. Those eyes were as blue as the seas by The Titan, though not as deep as the canals that lined Braavos.
Cat had forgotten how beautiful they were.
"Why are you doing this?" he asked her gruffly, hurt shining in those eyes of his. She almost felt bad.
Cat rolled her eyes. "For the last time-"
The old man cut in. "You told me that you had never been anywhere bar Braavos, correct?" he had asked it in the Common Tongue, and it meant only one thing.
Cat stilled, and felt a peculiar fear run through her as cleanly as a blade would flesh. She would need to backtrack and fix her words rather quickly.
She kept her calm air about her though, and shrugged easily. "I stowed away on a ship a few months back," she answered. "It took me to Pentos," she met the Bull's eyes as she said her next words. "I'm a whore, old man; if you hadn't already guessed. I was working there."
The lies came easily to her, and Cat held her chin high. The old man's grey eyes lit up. "You understood me," he said testily.
Cat shrugged, then answered in broken Westerosi. "I would be, ah, a poor merchant if I did not."
"Then you lied when you told us that you did not understand," he turned to the black-haired dolt, and then back to Cat, a speculative gleam to his eyes. "You may even be Lady Arya Stark."
Cat glanced behind her; soldiers stood not too far, looking ready for a fight. "I have told you before, old man. I am not that bloody person!"
The black-haired shit leaned forward once more. "Who am I?" he asked her, steel to his tone.
Cat scoffed. "How am I to know what some black-haired bastard's name is?"
He did not move, only glared at her knowingly. He was never fooled; but how did he remember her at all? Cat glared back, but her tone of voice was softer. "How'd you get all the way over here, Ser?"
"Say my name," he requested, and Cat let out a laugh.
"You're making demands of me?" she asked, a haughty lit to her voice. "That will be the day." She flicked a stray lock of dirty, dark hair from her face and let out a sigh. "First, bastard, I want to know what it is you want with me. You could be Lannister men for all I know."
He flinched at the callousness in her tone, but responded as she wished quickly enough. "We are men of Queen Daenerys Stormborn and King Aegon Targaryen VI, m'lady. We are no lion scum."
Cat grinned. "The Little Queen has finally settled in Westeros then?"
The old man glanced between she and the Bastard Bull. "Lady Arya?" he asked.
Cat turned her nose up at that. "If you insist on me being Arya, then you must drop that godsdamned 'Lady' that is before it. I am no lady, ser." She wiped the sweat from her face. No matter how many years she spent in Braavos, Cat did not think she would ever get used to the heat of summer. "Where is Queen Daenerys?"
The old man shifted to rest his hand on the hilt of his blade. "My Lady," he began, ignoring the annoyed look that the girl gave him. "My name is Ser Jorah Mormont. Her Grace, Lady Daenerys, is docked in Pentos." He paused and nodded to the men. "She sent for us to collect you and return you to your House; your elder sister is believed to still live."
Cat snorted. "I am, or rather was, Arya of House Stark; that is true." Her slim fingers came to rest on the dagger at her hip. "But am not leaving my home to help some war that destroyed my old family. I have nothing for me there."
Ser Jorah looked perplexed. Cat shook her head vehemently. "The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. My father had it wrong; it seems that wherever more than one Stark goes, death follows. If I return to Westeros, what is left of my family will die. I am not leaving Braavos; it is my home now."
Ser Jorah gave her a grim glance before turning away from her and back to his men. "Then I am terribly sorry for this."
Cat stiffened and unsheathed both the dagger on her thigh and the one at her hip. "Pardon?" she asked sweetly. The black-haired shit was giving her a sad look.
That was when the old man gave the command to get Cat into their custody. Needless to say, it did not go quite as smoothly as the old knight had thought.
She had quickly slain two of his men, but her hand stilled when she brought the black-haired shit to his knees. Though, in truth, he did not lift a finger against her.
Cat wasn't sure if that pissed her off more.
As Ser Jorah drew his blade, Cat fled into the mass of Happy Port, not bothering to glance back as she melted fluidly into the crowd and slunk back to the darkness of the House of Black and White.
.
.
"Who are you?"
The same question, as it had been since she had cast away her old face, was asked that morn following.
Cat did not glance at the Kindly Old Man, did nothing but cock her head to the side.
"I was No One two moons ago," she answered silkily.
The Kindly Old Man pursed his mangled lips, not once believing her words. "And who are you now?" he stressed the last word, black eyes searching her face for any sign of change in her expression.
Cat did not give him any. " I am known as Cat of the Canals by most these days."
He made a disapproving sound at the back of his throat, but his face relaxed into a small smile. "Still such a terrible liar, Cat of the Canals." He turned from her and started down the staircase that had been her cocoon her first years here. "Your black-haired knight, the Dragon Queen's knight, and their men know you by the title, Lady Arya of House Stark. Go back to where you came from."
Cat's hands clenched by their own volition, and she grit her teeth. She did not retort, only stood still until the sound of the Kindly Old Man's footsteps faded, and the only thing she could hear were the droplets of water leaking from somewhere above and her own breaths.
That was his saying that she was no longer welcome, was it?
Cat let out a breath, then let out a frustrated sound. Not if I am going to bring attention to the Faceless Men. I am not going to get shelter here.
Cat wandered about Braavos the rest of the day. The heat of the day made her seek shade; that being a whorehouse she knew as well as her own chambers in The House of Black and White.
The one face that she did not want to see. Of course he would be here; this was where they'd last tracked her.
She would make a note to not be so repetitive next time.
He had yet to spot her, so Cat carried on milling through the other men and women in the brothel with silent grace. There was no sign of the others, but she kept a wary eye out for them despite that fact.
Looks could be deceiving; Cat of all people knew this.
Keeping her attention on the bastard-knight, Cat saw that a blonde whore had seated herself in his lap, and that-for the most part- he had taken to ignoring the poor girl.
It was Lanna, and the surge of feelings that came at the sight made Cat anxious.
Did the bastard know that Lanna knew her?
Why was Lanna servicing him?
But, above all: Why did Cat care at all?
Cat spun away from them, and sauntered over to a table. Better to watch him from this angle, a part of her whispered as she talked to the particularly handsome one to her right.
By the end of the hour, Cat had managed to wiggle her way into his lap, his sweaty hands resting easily on her hips and arse as she laughed at every little thing he said.
She felt stupid, but Lanna and the rest had taught her that it was the right thing to do; and it was working.
He grinned proudly whenever she did, and his hand would travel further down her abdomen. She kept a careful eye on just how far that hand went; she had blades hidden in quite a few places.
Cat had no intention of actually letting him fuck her, or doing anything else that was expected of a whore. No, she would sooner slit his throat; she was using this man as a ploy.
Two more of Ser Jorah's men had since marched in, and not once had they looked her way.
Cat rose, and the man did not seem to notice as a new whore-one with a shock of red hair-took her place. She was halfway up with steps when she felt a strong hand on her wrist, spinning her around.
Cat snarled, pulled the dagger from her hip and came very close to burying it in the bastard-knight's skull. "You!" she growled out.
The bastard wrestled the blade from her-it dropped from her hand with a clatter- and then managed to get her pressed up against the wall. He had his weight as an advantage, and he made sure to use it. "You," he whispered, and then a wry smile worked its way onto his face. "You are a very hard woman to find, m'lady."
Cat pulled a face; but whether it was at the use of the old moniker, or her anger at the situation, neither knew.
The bastard started speaking again. "But what are you doing in a brothel?"
Cat sneered up at him, and flexed against the hold he had on her elbows. His hands tightened in response. "I was leaving," Cat growled. "I do not even have to ask why you are here; that much is obvious."
A strange look passed over his face; it could have been jealousy or guilt, for it was gone too quick for her to interpret. The bastard sneered back after a beat.
They both went silent when the sound of woman's laughter and a man's throaty chuckle came closer.
After the trio had passed them in favour for the rooms upstairs, their argument started anew.
"I was looking for you, highborn." The bastard bit out, and it interested Cat that the word 'highborn' was spoken like a slur. Cat tested the movement of her legs. She wiggled it and when he made no move to correct her, she stilled and filed away this information.
"I told you yesterday, bastard," she said, keeping the same contempt in her tone as he. "That I do not want to join your little militia group. This fact has not changed overnight."
His face clouded for a moment in thought, then, in a low tone that sent shivers down her spine for a very different reason, said, "Gendry."
Cat gave him a bemused glare. "What?" she demanded.
"You always called me Gendry."
Cat let out a laugh. "That's not true," she argued lightly. "From what I can recall, I always called you Stupid."
A happier emotion flitted across his face then, and Cat felt like biting her tongue off.
"You did, didn't you?"
Cat let out an aggrieved sigh, and flexed her arms again; her own hands were clamped around his forearms, and she would be able to use that as leverage. The bastard did not seem to realise that she was planning her escape, and Cat couldn't help that twinge of regret at the thought of head-butting such a pretty face.
It was quite short-lived.
Smashing her head into his teeth, she manoeuvred her hips out from under his and used her grip on his arms to spin him around.
Cat only ducked once to pick up her dagger, but otherwise she was as quick as a shadowcat in her haste to leave that whorehouse.
It was only later that Cat realised that she still had his blood on her face, and she rubbed it off absently with the back of her sleeve without a second thought.
.
.
It was almost a moon later that Cat finally made a decision on the matter. And by that time, the lot of them were gone.
Cat wanted her sister back. The sweet-tempered red-maned elder sister that had harshly named her 'Arya Horseface' so many years before.
And it wasn't as if she would get any work as a whore; Cat was nothing compared to Lanna, even though they were very near the same age.
The whore's name and looks had caught Cat's interest; after all, how many blonde whores with green eyes were there, that were named for House Lannister this far east?
It brought many a different questions to Cat's tongue, most all of them centring around Tyrion Lannister.
With a sigh, Cat trotted off to the docks.
Cat drew upon a favour owed to her by Brusco, and was aboard a ship within a day of making her decision.
She had planned everything out, and everything was starting to fall into place.
Lanna would stay with her mother in a small inn in Pentos until Daenerys Stormborn sailed for Westeros. That would be when they would become useful. And necessary, if Cat was being honest with herself.
Cat sighed and traced an indentation on the railings of the Maiden Fair. If there was one thing that the destruction of her House had taught her, it was that things never happen for a reason; one had to help themselves. And by helping Lanna and the Sailor's Wife sail to Westeros, Cat was making a new ally in the process.
Never do something for nothing.
It wouldn't be an exceptionally long voyage, getting to Pentos. But it wouldn't be short, either.
Cat cast her eyes to the horizon as the sun set, and wondered if her family were looking at it in a similar light, or if at all.
D.P~ So I've been writing this since Monday, I think; and that of course, means that I've been neglecting my other fics just a little. I did say that I would update and so winter comes very soon, and I plan on that still. But, since this is what I've somehow placed on this site, could you pretty please review this for me?
I'll only post the next chapter if I get at least three reviews. Steep I know.