"More Ser Dake?" Arya smiled as winningly as Lana had once smiled to coax the sailors of the Braavosi canals to drop their coin for oysters. It worked then, and it worked now.
"I've told you, girl, there's no need for titles. I'm no knight." But the Lannister guard took the bottle that Arya offered, and took a long drink. "Good ale." He grunted, and passed it to Lum.
Arya settled next to the fire, and stirred the stew she was cooking.
Brienne was seated beside her, sharpening a hunting knife against a whetstone with quick strikes. The youngest guard, a lanky boy named Hoke, watched her out of the corner of his eye.
Her father had fallen asleep sometime ago, exhausted by the effort of the ride. Though the Imp's saddle held him tight, the strain of the horse's gait on his wound showed clearly across Ned's face.
Nymeria and Lady were curled beside Ned, their golden eyes half-closed as if on the verge of sleep. Nymeria laid with her head on Lady's stomach as if to comfort her.
The guards had been quite wary of the direwolves at first. Red Lester had shrieked like a babe whenever Nymeria had come bursting out of the bushes, her muzzle bloody from eating. Arya had told them with a grin that the color red made them cross. Lum had ridden with his scarlet cloak turned inside out for the next day and a half.
Arya handed Brienne a bowl of stew, and refilled the men's cups.
"Thank you, m'lady!" bellowed Lester.
"You're not quite the proper lady now are you?" asked Lum, peering at Arya's tunic and britches, dusty from the road.
"Only when I want to be," Arya told him.
"Watch your mouth," Lester scolded Lum. "That girl's to be the King's sister one day."
"Pretty girl your sister is," Dake to Arya, his words sloppy and slurred. "Like the bloody maiden come to be. She'll make a fine Queen."
"To the Queen," shouted Lum.
"My sister is clever as she is beautiful," Arya agreed with a sharp smile. And she'll never be your queen.
"A maiden fair," called Hoke sleepily.
"Give us a song then," Dake called suddenly, lurching to his feet. He slapped Lester on the back, and the man spit out his drink.
For a moment, Arya thought they might fight, but Lester only laughed, the ale spilling down into his red beard. They were a happy, sluggish pair.
"From there, to here!" Lester called out.
"From here! To there!" Lum roared.
Hoke had already fallen over, ale spilled in the dirt. Dake threw a rabbit bone at him, but he didn't move. "All black and brown and covered in hair!"
"He smelled that girl on the summer air," Hoke mumbled into the grass.
"Who?" brayed Lester.
"The bear! The bear!" They choroused. "The maiden fair!"
Her father stirred at their shouts, blinking blearily at the drunken, stumbling men. Arya crouched over him, and tucked her cloak behind his head.
"What have you given them?" Ned murmured, his face pale.
Arya smiled, and placed a finger to her lips.
In less than an hour, every man had fallen over.
"My bear so fair," slurred Lum. He hiccuped, and his head thudded heavily into the dirt.
"Dreadful song," Brienne muttered. She passed a hand over her weary face, and stood.
"They'll sleep for a long time," said Arya, prodding Lester with the toe of her boot. "When they wake they'll expel either their stomach or their bowels. Both if they're especially unlucky."
"What did you give them?"
Arya pulled a handful of dark, purple berries from her pocket. "Luna Berries. The smallfolk in the Riverlands use them to relieve cramps during moonblood. They dull the pain, and ease sleeping. Taken in excess will produce… rather unfortunate symptoms."
"Good," said Brienne, a smile playing on her lips. "We'll make good time riding South while they're incapacitated. Shall I wake your father?"
"No, not yet," said Arya. "Let him sleep while we prepare."
Together they dragged the men into seated positions against the trees, and bound them.
"Take their boots," Arya instructed. "We'll hide them nearby. Weapons too. We'll take those with us."
Arya went to where the guard's horses were dozing, and undid their bridles. "Shoo!" she hissed at the nervous horses. "Lady! Nymeria!"
The wolves shook themselves awake, and prowled towards the horses, growling. They looked fearsome in the golden light from the flickering fire. The horses fled in terror.
"Father you must wake." Arya knelt before Ned and shook him gently. He groaned as he awoke.
"What have you done to them?" Ned asked woozily, seeing the men drunk and tied.
"Made less trouble for us," Arya replied. She thought for a moment, and then crossed to the men. "We'll leave them a bit of food and water. The bonds are not so tight. They will free themselves eventually."
"We will far outstrip them in the time it takes them to recover," said Brienne.
"Exactly," said Arya. "Now come, Father. You and Brienne will conceal yourselves while I ride for King's Landing."
With difficulty, they seated Ned back onto his horse. His head bobbed, and Arya feared he might fall, but he shook his head vigorously and assured her he was fit to ride.
"I do not know how quickly I will return," said Arya. "Keep hidden. Let Father rest his leg. I will take Nymeria with me. Lady will stay with you. Wherever you are, we will find you."
"Aye," said Brienne. "We shall head in the direction of Riverrunn. We will await you and Lady Sansa."
"Take care my darling," said Ned. Arya caught his outstretched hand, and gripped it hard. "I am sorry I cannot accompany you."
"Rest as much as you can," she told her father. "And heal. We shall have a long journey yet when Sansa and I return. Now go. We must all be far from this place when these men regain their senses."
Arya kicked ash over the fire, and mounted her horse. With Nymeria by her side, she turned South.
Tyrion placed Stannis Baratheon's letter into his sister's hand as delicately as he had once poured wildfyre into the Blackwater Bay.
Her breathing became laboured as she absorbed the contents. The parchment began to twist and tear where she gripped it in her fist. She was as lovely as ever even as her face reddened and twisted in rage.
"This means nothing," she seethed. Tyrion was reminded absurdly of the hiss of a dragon's steaming breath. She crumpled the letter, and crossed to the fire. They watched it burn in silence, Stannis' words turning ash.
Tyrion cleared his throat.
"Lies," Cersei hissed, thin and sharp as a Braavosi blade. "How dare he call himself King! He is nothing but an embittered fool. May all the gods smite him for his insolence, his arrogance."
"He is no fool, as you well know," Tyrion interrupted her. "Many in Westeros have not forgotten his capabilities, even as he has spent these last twenty years stewing atop his dismal rock."
"It will not matter how clever you think he is," Cersei snapped. "When Jaime takes an army of men and shows him what happens to those who treat with treachery."
"With what ships?" demanded Tyrion. "Stannis took most of the royal fleet when he fled to Dragonstone. We have scarcely enough ships to maintain a perimeter around the bay as it is. You leave us vulnerable if you send Jaime."
"So you advise me to wait, and let the infestation grow?"
"Waiting dear sister is a blessed virtue." Tyrion smiled crookedly up at her. "There is worth in biding our time. Stannis may find his path to victory a trifle more difficult than expected. And we needn't even lift a finger."
Cersei watched beneath hooded eyes. "What is it you think you know?"
Tyrion poured them both glasses of wine, filling his just a touch and hers to the brim. She snatched it when he offered it to her.
"Stannis believes he is the rightful heir to the Iron throne," said Tyrion. "And as the Crown's official position is… denial on that fact, it would not serve us to panicked by the spreading of such a falsehood. It is simply a foolish grab for power by a overlooked younger brother. As long as we hold the throne, our truth is law. But now is the time to be benevolent with that law, to breed friends rather than enemies. We hand in precipitous times. Your son holds the throne not two decades from a bloody civil war that left every acre of this realm aching. And do not think the Crown's proclivity for nepotism has gone unnoticed."
"A fact to which you owe your very presence here."
In this position or on this earth? thought Tyrion wryly.
"You seem to have forgotten this as you sit here, judgement dripping from that hideous face of yours," Cersei continued. "Let Stannis rise up, I will crush him as he does. The seven kingdoms will learn what it is to have a lion on the Iron Throne. A lion does not cower before an enemy. This is what ruling is. Lying on a bed of weeds, ripping them out by the root, one by one, before they strangle you in your sleep. Robert never understood what it was to be a true ruler. He should have scoured the Iron Isles after Balon Greyjoy rose against him, but did he? No, once they were on their knees, he let them up again. He should have made another island of their skulls. I will not make his mistakes."
"I'm no King," said Tyrion, his words falling faster than he could catch them. "But I think there is more to ruling than that."
"I don't care what you think," Cersei spit. "You've never taken it seriously. Never. You haven't, Jaime hasn't. It's all fallen on me."
Keep your mouth shut.
"As has Jaime, repeatedly, according to Stannis Baratheon." He could not even blame the loosening of his tongue on the wine. He watched the words fly as if arrows, saw the fury that rose in Cersei's eyes when she registered them.
"You're funny." Cersei's voice was deadly, fire that had iced over. "A funny little man. But none of your jokes will ever match the first one will they? You remember don't you? Back when you ripped my mother to pieces on your way out of her and she bled to death."
The anticipation of the barb did not lessen the pain as much as he expected. "She was my mother too," he reminded her.
Cersei tilted her head. "Mother gone for the sake of you," she said softly. "There's no bigger joke in the world than that."
"I need you to speak sense to our sister."
"Speak it to her yourself if it is so important," said Jaime with disinterest. "Though I am a trifle surprised, to say the least. You have not been known for your sensibility in the past, brother."
"She was rather unforthcoming on my last attempt," Tyrion pressed him. "I recall it was something about me being a vicious little half-man who commited the vile, hateful act of being born."
Jaime's mouth twisted slightly, an expression Tyrion well remembered from his youth. He understood at once that Jaime was far more upset that Tyrion had brought Cersei's words to his attention, than the fact that they had been said at all. Loving Cersei did require a certain amount of deliberate disregard on Jaime's part.
"And what exactly is it that you wished to speak of?" Jaime asked.
"The ruling of this kingdom," Tyrion growled impatiently.
"A terrible tedious affair ruling is,"
"Jaime!" barked Tyrion. "We stand on a precarious edge. Stannis Baratheon has just sent a letter to every lord in the Kingdom declaring Joffrey to be a bastard born of incest, and insinuating that Cersei murdered his brother." Jaime flinched almost imperceptibly when Tyrion said the last. You cannot throw Stannis Baratheon from a tower, brother. "You told me when I arrived here that we were in the midst of uncertain times. Well the times have surely become uncertain. The King is dead and the realm could be soon launched into chaos."
He was breaking the rules, Tyrion realized, when a look of displeasure crossed Jaime's face. He had not softened his words with banter, nor left room for Jaime to pass him a wry and careless reply.
"Robert," Jaime said coolly. "Was a drunkard who died in an overzealous hunting accident. As for Joffrey, there is no evidence that he is anything but Robert's trueborn son. When Father receives word of Stannis' actions, he will call our banners. We will deal with Stannis swiftly and quickly. The stormlords have no love for him. I would be surprised if he were able to raise and army of three thousand men."
"It is not strictly Stannis who concerns me," Tyrion bit back. "A concern I attempted to raise with Cersei before she refused to heed it. The Stormlords will not rise for Stannis, but they will raise their banner for Renly."
"Renly?" Jaime repeated. "Renly is a fool and a coward. He was gone from the capital before his brother's body was cold. He does not concern me."
"Oh?" Tyrion shook his head. "How about a man who rides at the head of a combined force of the Stormlords and the Reach? A hundred thousand strong at least, if not more, and in full command of the Redwyne fleet."
"The boy doesn't have the nerve to dare counter Stannis' claim," said Jaime softly. "He would not dream to do such a thing."
"I have sat next to Renly Baratheon through countless small council meetings," said Tyrion. "I have watched him, and I have listened. He harbors a bitter animosity towards Cersei, one that I am sure has been stoked by Robert's death. He has become embolden after all of these years of being Lord of Storm's End and Master of Laws while Stannis rotted on his rock. Renly will not be the first reckless fool to think himself ripe for kingship."
This had given Jaime pause. A crease appeared between his eyes as he considered Tyrion's words. "And you think Mace Tyrell will join his forces to Renly's should he declared against Joffrey?"
"Robert may have turned a blind eye to Mace's loyalties during the rebellion, but you know as well as I do that Stannis will do no such thing. Stannis Baratheon has not forgotten the taste of dust and death that festered on his tongue as Mace feasted outside the walls of Storm's End. Mace has everything to gain if Renly were to ascend the throne. It is evident that Renly has grown… close to the Tyrells. I'm told he carries a miniature of Mace's daughter inside a locket. What would Joffrey offer Mace that would match his daughter being Queen of the Seven Kingdoms? Certainly he cannot offer marriage. Not only have suspicions of bastardy been cast upon him, he also risks the wrath of both the North and the Riverlands if Sansa Stark is cast aside."
Jaime stared at him before throwing his golden head back and laughing.
"I do not speak in jest," Tyrion snapped.
"I confess, little brother, I did not fully believe you when you said you had come to help the family," said Jaime. "I think Father would be intrigued despite himself to hear you speak of preparations to secure our hold on the throne."
"I'm sure he would still say I've fallen short of his expectations as a Lannister," Tyrion responded dryly.
Jaime smiled widely. "Go on then," he said waving a hand. "What would you have us do to stay the chaos?"
Tyrion grimaced at the note of mocking in Jaime's voice, but continued. "If the gods are good, then our enemies will tear at each other's bellies before turning to us. Stannis is as unyielding as iron. He will be enraged when he discovers the disloyalty of Renly and the Stormlords. I would bet all the gold in the Westerlands that Stannis and Renly will clash before either sets foot in the Crownlands."
Jaime rubbed his chin. "Cersei will order me to attack Stannis."
"She will," said Tyrion. "She has already spoken of it. And in doing so, you will make Renly's claim even stronger. He will gather his forces and ride unencumbered for King's Landing. You must stall her until Father arrives. I believe that Renly will have declared his intentions by then."
Listen to me Jaime. For once in your life, unwind a knot before you rend it in two with your sword.
"I am a sworn member of the Kingsguard," said Jaime, finally. "My place is at the side of the King, not at the head of an army." There was the faintest touch of disappointment in his eyes.
Tyrion ignored it. "In the meantime, efforts must be made for the defense of the city and plans for a siege must be drawn up. If the Reach chooses to cut the food lines, we will be facing a shortage. And it is not like Joffrey to go hungry so his people may eat. Speaking of which, the boy must start attending council meetings. If there is to be a war to keep him on the throne, he should have some notion of what it means to be there."
"When Father comes, I shall advise him to put you at the head of our armies," said Jaime, drolly.
Tyrion smiled. "I shall hold you to that. If only to see the expression on our dear sister's face."
The city was restless. Whispers of "bastard" and "treasonous" rustled in the air like leaves in the wind, but when Arya looked around the smallfolk's lips were tightly sealed.
Dusk was on the horizon as Arya darted through the busy, shadow-drenched streets. The Sept of Baelor loomed in the setting sun. Arya spat on its marble steps as she passed, and fled when a goldcloak bellowed and gave her chase.
Nobody gave her a passing glance as she tied her boots around her neck, and rolled her trousers to her knees. Her feet sank into the soft mud as she crossed to the sewer pipe pouring into the Blackwater Rush.
Arya grinned to herself as she plodded through the muck. She couldn't wait to tell Bran and Rickon the story of the brave knight who waded through the contents of a castle's privy to rescue the princess in the tower.
She stole up the tunnel as it turned to earth and then to wood beneath her feet. Finally she found stone, and crept through the heavy door.
Arya trailed her fingers across the dragon skulls as she passed them, imagining they burned hot beneath her fingertips instead of ice cold.
She kept one hand on the wall as she approached the prison cells. The smell of urine and sick was so strong that it made her eyes water. It was lighter here, the moonlight peeking through the small barred windows of the cells. She could hear men rolling fitfully inside.
"Water, water," one was calling.
"Boy, lovely boy."
Arya shivered as Jaqen H'ghar's voice danced in her ears.
"A man could use a taste of beer. A man has a thirst, wearing these heavy bracelets."
But Jaqen H'ghar was far from here, perhaps in Yoren's rattling carriage, perhaps he had escaped and was far across the sea, far as the House of Black and White.
And she was no faceless man. She was Arya Stark of Winterfell, and she was here to rescue her sister.
Arya continued. There was a turnkey passed out with his head thrown back at the end of the hall. An empty cup lay abandoned by his feet dripping ale onto the stones. She passed him soundlessly thanking the gods for men's love of drink.
She found was she was looking for down a long narrow passage. The stones were uneven here, giving her the impression as she walked that she was falling sideways. At the end of the hall was a door that had fallen halfway off its rusty hinges. There were no torches lit here. Even the moonlight did not see this place.
Better for her work. A girl is Arya Stark of Winterfell, Arya reminded herself once more. A girl, a girl of Winterfell. Arya moved her lips soundlessly around the words as she wrapped her fingers around Needle's hilt. She stepped forward into the darkness.
How long must I be blind?
Until darkness is as sweet to you as light.
Sweeter still was it when she had slid Needle through the Waif's belly.
The door emitted a low moan when she pushed it open. She stilled for a moment, tracking the ragged breathing of her target. The stench of death and decay was already thick in this room. She crept to the man who lay in the bed, listening to him sleep in the darkness.
Slowly, she withdrew Needle from her sheath. Arya slid the blade through the blackness until it hovered an inch from the man's throat.
"My name is Arya Stark of Winterfell," Arya said softly into the darkness. "You killed my father. For that I have sentenced you to die."
With a quick thrust, she plunged the sword into Ilyn Payne's throat. Her aim had been true. He did not scream. She did not know if he could have had she not slit his throat. It mattered not now. A strange guttural cry was the only sound that rattled from his throat as he died.
She wiped a splatter of blood from her cheek as he writhed on the bed and fell onto the stone flood. He tried to cough, tried to stauch his wound, but it only forced more blood to gush from the gash in his neck.
It did not take him long to die. When it was finished, she lit a lone candle that lay on the dirty floor to survey her work. It illuminated the slick blood that drenched the bedding and the dry straw that was strewn across the stone.
Carefully, Arya wiped Needle clean before selecting the dagger strapped against her leg.
Finally, a girl is no one.
A girl is Arya Stark of Winterfell and I'm going home.
In the light of the candle she offered a prayer to the Stranger and began.
