I
She had made a terrible mistake.
Staring at the ground, Ros dragged along the sunset-lit streets of King's Landing, accompanied by two knights of the Kingsguard. A few steps ahead, a tall, well-groomed man in a long embroidered costume with a mockingbird pin was leading the procession – Lord Petyr Baelish, her employer. One of the most dangerous men in all Seven Kingdoms, as some people rightfully described him. Coincidentally, the man she had betrayed.
When the knights, one of whom Ros recognized as Meryn Trant, a known degenerate, had broken into her room at Baelish's pleasure house, he had been remarkably silent – yet his eyes had been glowing with hatred, a sight fairly rare for the always composed and rational man that Petyr had a reputation of being. The only words he had said to her in his chilling, menacing voice as she had been shoved out into the street were "You are working tonight."
And there she was, escorted along the streets of the capital in clothes far too transparent and revealing, left to wonder anxiously where she was being taken to and why. Though, admittedly, Baelish's apparent fury answered the second question fairly well – Ros could think of only one reason in the world for him to be this mad at her. How foolish she had been to think that playing double games with him and that scheming eunuch Varys would bring her anything but trouble, she scolded herself. Varys, that sly master of whisperers, was nowhere around to save her now, despite all of his assurances of protection. In retrospect, standing between two of the greatest plotters of the realm and playing spy games had to be one of the worst decisions she had made during her stay in the capital.
Ros lifted her head and quietly gasped, suddenly realizing that the winding path they were taking was slowly but inevitably bringing them closer to the Red Keep, the ugly tall structure that looked like it was painted with blood way too often at sunsets. "My Lord," she spoke sheepishly, her voice breaking nervously. Baelish didn't respond, continuing down the paved street. "Lord Baelish!" Ros raised her voice, her step slowing. "Where are you taking me? Please. I deserve to know at least this much."
Baelish stopped and turned around with a sigh, giving a sign to the guards to stop as well. "Allow me to remind you of something," he spoke softly. "It is unbecoming of a whore to ask questions. Whores do what they are told, they serve their client and they make sure the client is satisfied. Do not ever forget that."
"I am not a whore!" Ros objected, stressing every word. "Not anymore. I'm your assistant. My Lord, please… Have you forgotten?"
A subtle, almost unnoticeable smirk appeared on Petyr's lips as he approached her. "Oh, but you are."
A look of disgust and fear crossed Ros' face. Biting her lip, she looked him in the eye, feeling her chin tremble. After observing her reaction for a couple more seconds with that same hint of a smirk on his face, Baelish turned around, clicked his fingers and marched on. The guards obeyed, following him.
Ros, however, did not. After a second of hesitation, she turned around, lifted the skirts of her peach-colored tunic and took off in the opposite direction, her face blushing from anxiety, tears welling up in her eyes and warm wind running through her curly hair.
A few moments later, a heavy armored glove suddenly reached from behind and squeezed her shoulder, and Ros gasped as she was whirled around, almost tripping over the hem of her tunic. Towering above her, Meryn Trant raised his free hand and slapped her hard across her face. Ros exhaled loudly and immediately pressed a hand against her terribly burning cheek, feeling scratches from the metal glove on her left cheekbone and lower lip. She instinctively raised her shoulders, as if that could save her from another hit, looking up at the knight in fear.
"Ser Meryn!" Baelish was quick to intervene. "I'll have to ask you to refrain from that. I'm afraid that's excessive."
Trant scoffed, turning around. "I take orders from the King, Littlefinger. Not from you," he spat back.
Ros saw a brief glimpse of a barely contained emotion flash on Baelish's face. She knew he couldn't stand that nickname.
"Of course!" Petyr grinned, clasping his hands together. "You are right. But I've heard His Grace likes them pretty. Makes me wonder, really… What would he have to say if he learned that someone abused his present before him? Let us not make this unnecessarily complicated."
Ros felt all color drain from her face as she heard the words. So that's what it was… His Grace. Of course. Everything clicked into place. The Kingsguard, the secrecy, the back streets. Of all the high lords dwelling in the Red Keep who could ask for her company, of course, it just had to be him. She would choose anyone over him. Anyone, even that old fart Pycelle, or even the greasy beggar up the street watching them now, but not him.
Not that little monster.
"Lord Baelish," she pleaded as Petyr approached her and looked at her face attentively. "Please, My Lord, please. Don't give me to him!"
Baelish squinted his eyes and pulled a handkerchief out of the pocket of his costume, then reached to Ros' face to wipe blood from her lip. "There," he said quietly, putting the handkerchief away, then nodded to Trant. "I hope we have a mutual understanding." He turned around and continued down the street.
"Move!" Meryn bellowed, grabbing Ros by the elbow and gesturing to the other guard to do the same. Ros closed her eyes, fighting the panic growing inside her as she was pulled along. The memory of what had happened the last time when she had been in Joffrey Baratheon's chamber was too fresh.
