Secrets

The boat bobbed against the water, as sharp winds blowing west fought the river currents. The Wolf Wind had sailed two nights and a day, and the journey was far more pleasant than the hurried flight with Yoren from King's Landing. Then, the roads had been little more than shallow ruts through weeds and the food scarce - blackberries, corn, and apples foraged by Arya, Gendry, Lommy and Hot Pie after the hard bread, salt fish and cheese had been devoured. The prisoners of the Reach ate far better than recruits from the Night's Watch. Cabin boys dished out warm bowls of porridge with milk and dried apples at all hours, and the cook made a hearty white stew from crabs, mussels, and three kinds of fish - purchased fresh with silver stags and copper stars from fishermen plying their trade on the Rush. Loaves of crusty bread were warmed on hot coals, and served with crocks of churned butter and dark colored honey.

The war seemed far away as villagers haggled over the price of a bounty of trout and pike, eager to row back before nightfall. Fossoway, Oakheart and Hightower prisoners paid their respects to the boat crew and were treated in kind. She caught her brother and Owen playing cyvasse and reminiscing about their adventures at the Citadel over a jug of sweet cider. The devastation in the Riverlands - trampled fields, ruined homes, sacked septs, and rotting corpses hung from trees - had faded as they went South. Arya did not like this creeping peace.

"You look troubled." Jon said, as the last smallfolk dipped their oars to head for the shore. He handed her a mug of honey mead.

Arya bit her lip nervously, looking around to see if anyone was close. Jon waited patiently until she realized that Chett and a few other boys formed a shadow guard around the forecastle. She leaned over the boat bow, her eyes facing east, and away from her brother. "Why aren't we doing more?" Arya hissed.

"We are sailing to King's Landing. We will be there in three days."

"But…." She turned her head to Jon. In the sky, the red comet glowed. "Isn't there anything to do now? Plans to make? Preparations?"

Jon shook his head. "All that must wait. The rescue is three things. Find Sansa, take her, and escape the city. We need to wait and see. It would be foolish to plan now."

"But we know she is in the Tower of the Hand, guarded by the Imp." Arya insisted.

"That is what Owen believes, but that knowledge is many days old. She may be moved before the wedding. She might have a new set of guards - Lannisters or Tyrells. And the wedding might take place in the Great Hall, in the Tower of the Hand, or even in Maegor's Holdfast. We will need to know as we can before making our plans." Jon said.

"But how will we find out? We will be in the tunnels, not in the castle." Arya said.

"Owen is close to Ser Garlan. The Tyrells will certainly attend any wedding in the Red Keep. The Lannisters cannot deny that to their allies." Jon rubbed his fingers over the wooden sphinx. "And Alleras, the sphinx, is in King's Landing."

"Will he be able to help us?" Arya said.

Jon chuckled. "Alleras is a she. Alleras disguised herself as a young man to attend the Citadel. She is quite clever, and sphinxes are famed for knowing a great deal. But I do not understand her truly or her game."

"What do you mean, Jon? Could she betray us?" Arya said.

"I don't think so but she enjoys her riddles. Alleras left the Citadel for King's Landing. Why? You do not travel a thousand miles during a war on a whim." Jon said.

"Could this be a trap?" Arya wondered.

Jon shook her head. "Her mother is a Summer Islander but her father is a Dornish lord - and a rich and powerful one. Alleras does not brag but her goldenheart bow is a gift worthy of kings. The Dornish have not forgotten the murder of Aegon and Rhaenys by the Lannisters. And Alleras has spoken fondly many times of Dorne and her family. But why she decided to come to King's Landing now - that is a mystery."

"But you expect her to help us?" Arya probed.

"I do. She is more clever than Owen - and he is no fool. But the sphinx does not yield secrets without a cost. Alleras has her reasons, but what they are - only the gods know. " Jon said.

"Perhaps she wants you to run away with her to Dorne." Arya jested.

Jon smiled back. "Now you sound like Sansa, with her songs and tales of maidens who fall in love and bestow their favor on some brave hero. Alleras is no lady, and I am no knight. We are going to King's Landing to ruin a wedding."

"Like Dunc and Egg in one of their adventures." Arya said impishly. She loved the stories of the hedge knight and his squire who grew up to be an unexpected king.

"I doubt Ser Duncan or Aegon would lie, cheat and steal their way to glory. But we will do what we must to free Sansa. And now, you should rest, little sister. No practicing with Needle or Gram. We must be well rested when we arrive." Jon said. The rapid currents of the Blackwater rushed them to King's Landing.

The serving maid blushed as Alleras pressed a shiny silver stag into the outstretched hand. A smile from the comely black eyes dismissed the pretty girl, as she rushed back to the bar with empty tankards. Alleras nursed the nut brown ale slowly. She had visited several winesinks and taverns the last few days, on the Street of Sisters connecting the Hill of Rhaenys and Visenya's Hill. Away from the Red Keep, there were fewer gold cloaks, and more grumbling with the Iron Throne. But men and women always complained about kings. Only a few were insolent and strong enough to defy them.

The shabby inn on Eel Alley rested halfway between the Alchemist's Guild and the Great Sept of Baelor. Alleras hoped to hear talk about the Queen and her two brothers but the tap room was unpromising. No fat septons slummed here, looking to break their vows by getting drunk before visiting the brothels on the Street of Silk to the west. And only a few pallid men with brown leather robes and cowls drank under the watchful eye of an old crone. Maesters disliked pyromancers for many good reasons, one of which was that the zealots rarely talked about anything but the glories of wildfire. She doubted they knew any useful gossip.

A plump shadow blocked the torch light, smelling of rosewater and lilac. Soft white hands reached for the rickety chair and a bald man with a round moon face, dressed in rich yellow and orange damasks, sat down. "Try the hissing eels. They are quite good here."

"I would rather have roast fowl, well crisped." Alleras said.

"Then you should go to a nicer inn. This one is known for its eels. Mysaria, I presume?"

Alleras raised one eyebrow but the smooth brown face betrayed no emotion. "Who wants to know?"

The plump man smiled. "Mysaria is a woman's name. An unwashed septon might not know but I was born in Lys. An odd name you chose. Mysaria was the mistress of whispers to Prince Daemon, but her skin was as pale as milk. Yours is not."

"Then I doubt this story is true. Why would I hide as a woman?" Alleras asked, smiling. "I am just a trader from Lys, looking to sell rum."

"Rum to the Riverlands?" The man mused. "Rum is a drink for sailors. Ironborn. Pirates and those who need to be drunk to brave the seas. Why sell rum on the Blackwater?"

"Not everyone can afford Arbor Gold or Dornish red, my lord. You can get drunk faster on black tar rum. Would you like a taste?"

Varys tittered. "Would I live if I drank your rum? The alchemists of Lys are rather famous for their concoctions."

"I am just a trader of rum. I can't afford the Strangler or the tears of Lys. Can you?" The Master of Whispers smiled. "What is your true name? And why are you in King's Landing?"

"You do not give up your secrets. Why should I reveal mine?"

He stood up to leave, soft hands clasped behind his back. "My trade is secrets, my lady. We will meet again, and then I will know more."

Alleras smiled, her large black eyes on the eunuch's back. Her voice was too low to be heard. "Perhaps, Lord Varys. I might learn your secrets as well. "

Servants scurried through the Tower of the Hand, and Tyrion wondered how many were spies. He had little choice in the wedding and none in the preparations. The marriage, Lord Tywin decreed, would reflect the glory of the Lannisters. There would be tumblers and singers, pipers and jugglers. Two dozen courses would be served but his father had warned him not to get drunk that night, at least until the bedding. That would be a hard order to follow, Tyrion grimaced. Podrick had poured out one bottle of wine already that morning. No doubt his father would hear if he emptied a second bottle before noon.

"Tyrion." His brother strode past several of Bronn's hired killers, resplendent in a white cloak and plate armor. Jaime's wary eyes swept through the Small Hall. "What in the seven Hells?"

"Our sweet sister sent over her seamstresses this morning. Stewards are measuring space for adding benches and tables. The Tyrells have offered their cooks. Quite a gift, given the size of Mace Tyrell's belly. My private chambers have been taken over by a small army of lickspittles. Luckily, only Sansa needs to be fitted for her robes and dresses. I will be wearing the usual Lannister gold and crimson." Tyrion said.

"Why are there so many guards?" Jaime gestured to the heavily armed and armored fighters standing at the wooden door of the solar.

"Oh, those four." Tyrion sipped the Arbor gold. "They are here for Sansa. The shorter one is Loras Tyrell, here to defend the honor of his sister's new lady in waiting. As for the taller three - the Hound has guarded Sansa the longest. Brienne, you know as Lady Stark's messenger. And the final one is Ser Osmund Kettleblack. He is one of Cersei's swords."

"Ser Osmund? I have never heard of a Kettleblack in any tourney or melee." Jaime said.

Tyrion shrugged. "He claims he was knighted by Ser Robert Stone when he served with the Gallant Man fighting for Lys or Tyrosh in some hellhole in Essos."

Jaime stared at the muscled man with black hair, a hook nose, bushy eyebrows, and a triangular brown beard. Kettleblack was Brienne's height but half a head shorter than Sandor Clegane. "I have not heard of Robert Stone either. A bastard knight of the Vale serving with sellswords?"

"Who gives a shit? He is a sellsword working for Cersei. All of my wife's guards serve different masters. They do not answer to me." Tyrion said.

"Don't you worry about them being so close?" Jaime said.

"That they will try to kill me? The four of them are more likely to attack each other. Ser Loras does not like Brienne. Brienne does not like the other three. Kettleblack might be favorite with servants and wenches but not in a fight. My bet is that the Hound could kill them all in a fair battle." Tyrion said.

"No, that they might be spies." Jaime said.

"Might be?" Tyrion blinked his eyes. "They are all spies, Jaime and all watching Sansa Stark. I hope this lasts only until the wedding, and that I can dismiss the guards in a sennight. My first wedding was so much better. A drunken septon and pigs as witnesses. I was even sober."

Jaime fingered the pommel of his longsword before placing both hands down on the trestled table. "Tyrion, I have to speak about." He stopped when Podrick rushed over with a note.

Tyrion dismissed the boy curtly and read the missive. "Littlefinger has returned to King's Landing. That could mean trouble."

"Why?" Jaime asked.

Tyrion tapped his fingers together. "I took something of his. I wonder if he will try to take something of mine. Baelish is not to be trusted. A man who trafficks in whores lies to everyone, and he lies very well."

"About your first marriage..." Jaime said.

Tyrion stared at the wine. "I remember. She was a sweet young thing. She sang to me - "The Seasons of My Love." We played at being man and wife in a little cottage by the sunset sea until you told me the truth. The best two weeks of my life. I have never forgotten. But it was all false. No one could love someone like me."

"That is not true, brother." Jaime said.

"Oh, I suppose, a few of our family did not despise me. Aunt Genna. Uncle Tyg. Gerion. And of course you, brother. You hired a whore to make me a man. She taught me the truth of the world, that no girl could ever love a dwarf." Tyrion said.

Tyrion would have noticed his brother's discomfort had he looked up from the table. "Tyrion, your marriage was not." But before Jaime could finish, the great wooden door slammed open. Sansa Stark walked out, pursued by a gaggle of women bearing garments of many colors.

"I will not wear that." the Stark girl said. She might be a prisoner but his betrothed carried herself with courtesy and grace.

"But you must, my lady. The queen insists on it."

One of Cersei's maids, he realized. Tyrion stood up, quite aware that he was much shorter than Sansa. She is one and four, and yet she towered over him. "What seems to be the problem?"

Sansa pointed. "The seamstress insists that I wear that." The dress was heavy cloth of gold with two heavily embroidered bands wrapped from the waist to the neck. There were Stark dire wolves and Tully trout entwined but a great lion's head was stamped at the back of the neck. Even Moon Boy would understand what that meant. Ripe red pomegranates were woven into the back, another symbol of the power and wealth of House Lannister.

"But what will you wear?" Tyrion asked gently.

"I know that I cannot have a maiden's cloak sewn by my mother, and that I must take a bride's cloak with lions and rubies. But for my dress, I would rather have something simple - white and ivory samite, and not gold." Sansa said.

"But the queen says that.."

Tyrion interrupted. "The queen is not marrying Lady Sansa. My lady's gown should suit her birth as the daughter of a great lord. If she wishes for a dress of white and silver rather than gold, then I will not object." He turned to his betrothed. "I know that you do not want this. But I would try to make the marriage ceremony less unpleasant."

Her face did not betray disgust as Tyrion waited. "My Lord, they will not allow me to wear the Stark sigil. Not as I would like. So I only ask to wear the colors of my house. Gray on white."

"As a cloak?" Tyrion asked.

"Yes, My lord. As a cloak and as a veil before the wedding. To honor my father." Sansa said. Tyrion nodded even as others in the room winced.

Sansa curtsied and turned to walk back to the solar. Pity, Tyrion thought Sansa Stark would have made an excellent bride for his idiot nephew. He admired her straight back and high head as she departed, followed by her many guards. Tyrion did not notice Jaime wince. The eyes of the room were on Sansa Stark. Even caged, she looked every inch a queen.

Tyrion trudged up the twisting steps from the small council chambers to the Great Hall, walking past dozens and dozens of armed and wary soldiers. Men wearing the lion rampant bumped shoulders with Tyrell retainers proudly displaying golden roses. Reachmen, Westermen, and Crownlanders drilled in the courtyards and the lower bailey, under the watchful gaze of gold cloaks wielding iron spears. Even without the raucous and always combative mountain clansmen, the Red Keep bristled with tension, and Tyrion rarely left the Tower of the Hand without Bronn and a handpicked band of sellswords.

Tyrion had lost control of the Small Council. He accepted that with only a modicum of bitterness. His father's shadow was long and dark, and loomed large over King's Landing. Only the oafish Mace Tyrell seemed unaware of who was the True Hand of the King. Jaime knew, as did the fawning Grand Maester Pycelle. His brother's pitying look and Pycelle's bootlicking did not bother Tyrion. It was two remaining members of the Small Council that troubled him.

Varys had known days ago that his father intended to marry Tyrion to Sansa Stark. That, of course, was no great surprise. The Master of Whispers had little birds that hid behind the walls and doors, always listening. Ravens were lost and messages stolen, only to reappear later, at the eunuch's bidding. Varys had known but simply chose not to tell him. What else was the Spider hiding? What other secrets and plots festered behind that oily powdered facade?

Tyrion was no spring lamb. He knew that Varys stole information the way others hungered for gold or women. No thief gave up their treasures willingly but he could no longer rely on the eunuch. That was a pity. He had hoped to set Varys against Baelish, and that the Spider's web of spies could keep the Master of Coin in check.

For it was Littlefinger that worried him more. It was Litlefinger that had nearly cost him his head at the Eyrie with a lie to Catelyn Stark. And as Master of Coin, Baelish had gathered far more power than many realized. The harbormasters, the tax agents, the toll collectors, the ship pursers - they were all his men, many appointed in the last seven years, merchant's sons and bastards of minor lords dancing to Littlefinger's tune. True, Baelish had no army or banners but he had gold - and enough coins could buy the first two. After all, the gold of Casterly Rock allowed the Lannisters to rule the Westerlands.

Men like Ned Stark and Jaime Lannister were easy to predict. When provoked, they lashed out with their sword or harsh words. But Petyr Baelish did not dirty his own hands. He worked through others - corrupted goldcloaks, whores, hedge knight, even Catelyn Stark. He had sent Janos Slynt to the Wall and Allar Deem to a watery grave but there were other tools in Baelish's quiver. Tyrion did not have the power to remove them all.

As he ascended the serpentine staircase, a furtive little boy snuck out of a side door, blocking the steps up. This was no little bird though. For one, he was rather plump. And two, stealth was impossible when wearing a bright yellow and crimson doublet with a prancing stag sewn in pearls and a lion in garnets.

"Tommen, shouldn't you be attending your lessons with the maesters?" Tyrion asked. The boy looked with worry at the guards and then dragged his uncle's hand into an empty hall. Tyrion signaled his men to give them space. "What is wrong? Is it Joffrey?"

The boy nodded, his eyes looking around carefully to make certain there were no listeners. "

Don't worry, nephew. I will protect you from your idiot brother." Tyrion said.

"Uncle, I am not worried about myself. Joffrey means to attack you."

Tyrion blinked and kept calm. Tommen was a sweet child, incapable of lies. "Tell me everything."

The words rushed out. "I overheard Joffrey laughing in the holdfast. He means to ruin your wedding, uncle. There was a man in the room, who promised to help, and said he would show to the world who you truly were."

"Who I am? I am Tyrion, the Lion of Lannister." He grinned.

Tommen's face turned anxious. "This is serious, uncle. You know that when Joffrey laughs…"

His shit of a nephew took joy in torturing others. As a child, only the fear of his purported father, Robert Baratheon, had checked Joffrey's sadistic streak - and now a cruel boy had been anointed king. "Who was the man speaking to Joffrey?"

"It was the short one with grey hair. He wore a blue velvet waistcoat and a yellow cape."

Baelish. Littlefinger was whispering in the king's ear. "Did Joffrey summon him or did he come by himself?"

Tommen's eyes fell. "I am sorry, uncle. I do not know."

"And they did not say what they would do?"

"I only heard bits and pieces. Joffrey spoke Sansa Stark's name. And the other man mentioned that he would bring whores. They won't hurt Sansa, will they?"

"I won't let them." Tyrion said but the empty words did not dispel the concern on his nephew's face. Tommen might only have ten name days but he knew his brother's kindness well.

"I like Lady Sansa. She is sweet and kind. I wish I was stronger, uncle. I wish I wasn't a stupid little boy. Joffrey says I am a mewling kitten always crying for mother."

"Hush, Tommen. You are worth ten times your brother. Kittens can grow up to be lions, too. And I am thankful that you told me. Now I can protect Lady Sansa for both of us."

He patted his nephew awkwardly on his shoulder. But Tyrion was not certain that Tommen believed his words. Even with the warning, he was still in the dark. What in the Seven Hells was Littlefinger plotting? Did Varys know? And what of his father? Joffrey was a reckless fool but Baelish would not anger Tywin Lannister for no reason. His father had ordered the betrothal. Lord Tywin would be furious with any slights against Lannister honor. Or he might blame it all on his youngest son.

Tyrion's head throbbed. Seven days to go, and already the wedding was a disaster. He was not well suited for marriage.

Arya stared glumly at the bolt of cloth that the Winter Town boys cobbled from several cloaks. The colors matched - silver on waves of blue and mud red. But she had completely botched the job, and there was no way to salvage the work, just like that day at Winterfell with Sansa and Princess Myrcella. She set down her needle and sighed.

"It doesn't look that bad." Jon said, trying not to laugh.

"My stitches are crooked." She held up the cowl. The loose hood meant to be wrapped about the neck and head billowed in the wind. A long silver shape faced left on a field of blue and red. It looked more like a fat frog than a leaping silver fish. "I hate needlework."

"It doesn't matter, Arya. Only that she will know." Jon said.

Arya chewed her lip. "Are you sure? When I saw Sansa last, she was screaming and sobbing. What if she can't hide her surprise? What if the Lannisters find out?"

Jon held the cloth, outstretched between his two hands. It was long enough to be wrapped about the head thrice over, and the folds would veil the face like a septon's hood. The embroidery on the wool was meant to be the silver trout of House Tully. "They won't. Have faith in our sister. And even if they do, the trail will not be clear." He rapped on the door.

Owen Fossoway walked into the cabin, his face relaxed. The hold of the Wolf Wind had few prisoners left. Many Reachmen had departed at Tumbler's Fall for the Rose Road and more still at Castlewood. Both Arya and Jon had shaved their heads, their long brown hair tossed into the depths of the Blackwater. They wore the drab plain brown capes of tradesmen or small merchants. Good, Arya thought. It would be easy to slip into King's Landing. The ship would dock at the Mud Gate soon, and the game would begin.

Two of Jon's boys, dressed as pages, guarded the door. Chett would follow Owen into the city and Clydas would watch the docks. Jon wrapped the cowl tightly into a small bundle.

"Do you know exactly what you have to do?"

The Reachman nodded. "I could do more, Jon. I could.."

Jon shook his head. "No, Owen. Better a few simple things than a complex plan. You have three tasks only. The Tyrells will be guests at the wedding. You need to find any details possible. Guests, guards, septon, feasts. Second, stay in touch with Chett. He can reach me at…"

"The Jester's Green on Copper's Smith Wynd. North of the Mud Gate and near the Street of Steel." Chett had constructed a map of King's Landing from the top of Visenya's Hill to the walls near the docks. The boy was quick and clever, and would blend well into the crowds.

Jon handed Owen the red and brown cloth. "And this. Hand this to Brienne of Tarth. Repeat my words exactly. Do not say any more to her."

Owen scratched a wispy beard. "But will she understand your message?"

"Probably not. But that is not your problem. Do not answer any of her questions."

"I could hand the scarf to Sansa directly. I am sure the Tyrells will call on her before the wedding." Owen said eagerly.

"No. She will be watched. Brienne has a reason to seek her out. You do not. And Brienne is stubborn. If she believes the gift is from Catelyn Stark, then she will move heaven and earth to place it in Sansa's hands." Jon said.

"But the cloth is not from Lady Stark." Owen looked dubiously at the floppy trout.

"Brienne does not know that. But Sansa will." Jon patted Owen on the shoulder. "It is better that you do not know the exact details. Then you won't attract the eyes of others. Do exactly what I say. Brienne will seek you out afterwards, and when she does…"

"I will find you at Jester's Green." Owen said.

"Just so. Good luck, Owen. Confide only in Chett. No written messages, Speak only when you cannot be overheard. Be careful." Jon said.

"I am not the one in danger. Good luck, Snow."

King's Landing stank. She could smell the smoke, sweat, piss and dung of the city long before the tall walls came into view. Arya remembered Winterfell. The castle was warm, even when it snowed. She recalled her brothers sparring in the courtyards, her father looking proudly on from the covered bridge, their dire wolves gamboling about in the godswood without any regard for the hunting dogs in the kennels. The dire wolves were only pups then, but they had no fear. Like her big brothers, Arya thought. Like me.

The Wolf Wind bobbed slowly east, hugging the north bank. Men in iron helmets, black armor, and heavy wool cloaks, dyed gold, patrolled the walls. They had passed the king's gate and the stink of the fish market hit her nostrils. Several dirty cats prowled along the wharves, attracted by the briny smell of fish and brine. Open barrels of shellfish were guarded by smallwives and grizzled men selling their wares to sailors. The day was crisp and clear but the city was as ugly and dirty as ever. The capital of the Seven Kingdoms claimed to be rich but tens of thousands lived in ramshackle buildings and slums.

The captain shouted, and the boat stopped. All the boats stopped. A large crimson banner was unfurled at the Mud Gate. On the opposite shore, a stately barge made its way across the Blackwater, festooned with half a dozen banners. Jon stood to her left at the bow, a spyglass hidden in this right hand. He motioned to the city wall. A dozen men sat there on their horses. The shortest one led that pack.

"The Imp." Arya said. Tyrion Lannister sat on a white palfrey between his squire and sellsword. "What is he doing here?"

"He is still the Hand of the King. Look carefully at the ship crossing the river." Jon said.

Arya saw many sigils - a golden hand, a black vulture clutching an infant in its claws, a row of lemons, a.. "What's the chicken like thing with a snake in its beak?"

"A cockatrice. They are said to live in Sothoryos but no one has seen one in a few hundred years. Those banners don't matter. Which one does?" Jon asked.

That was apparent. One sigil dominated the rest, a gold spear piercing a red sun on an orange field. Arya had never paid much attention to The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses but even northmen knew that banner. "House Martell. The Dornish are here."

Jon played surreptitiously with the spyglass, scanning the boat. He stopped on a cluster of figures at the center of the boat. Wordlessly, he handed the instrument to Arya. An exotic lady in red stood with three very different women. The tallest was a long legged muscular warrior wearing breeches and a linen tunic, the second was slim and elegant with full red lips and pale olive skin, and the third was a golden haired girl with dimples and a sweet false smile. And then Arya saw the man. He was older, but slender and graceful with a deeply tanned and lined face, a sharp nose, and lustrous dark hair with only a few streaks of silver.

"Are those the Martells?" Arya whispered.

Jon nodded as he took the spyglass back. "That is Oberyn Martell, the younger Prince of Dorne. And some of the women must be his daughters."

"The Sand Snakes. I hear that they can all fight with knives or spears." Arya gushed.

"Or a goldenheart bow." Her brother replied with an amused tone. "I should have guessed. Black hair. Black eyes. And a widow's peak. She is not a lord's daughter."

"Do you know them, Jon?" Arya asked with surprise.

"Not those three. But I know their sister." Jon aimed not at the Imp or the Red Viper but at the walls and wharves near the River Gate. He looked for a long time, until the barge had docked and the Martells and their retainers entered the city.

They walked past the shabby wood stalls of Fishmonger's Square with their cries of mussels and cockles and clams. The secret tunnels under the Red Keep had many exits, but Arya knew only one passage well, twisting east past the cavern holding dragon skulls to Flea Bottom. That was their destination but they had many hours before nightfall. They would not march to Flea Bottom directly but rather wind their way around, going back and forth to make certain they were not followed.

Muddy Way was full of begging children. She knew - she had been one only six moons ago, searching cobblestones for crusts of stale bread. Arya had been lucky - she was fast enough to kill pigeons with her wooden stick sword. They left the wide road before it met the other great streets, making for Weasel Street, where they pretended to ask for a room at an inn, for a merchant and his son. They bought food from a pushcart peddler for a dozen coppers - three tarts stuffed with blueberries and bits of apricots and lemons. They went west - a long and circular path to the Street of Steel, through Cobbler's Square, and past the brothels on the Street of Silk. Everywhere, there were signs of want and plenty - hungry refugees and frightened smallfolk scurrying past high stone and timber mansions behind bronze gates bristling with armed men. A carriage pulled by two bay ponies passed them, two short broad shouldered servants guarding a young girl with a shy smile. A high class whore, Arya guessed from the bright and revealing dress, being driven to a lecherous master.

Her brother's eyes roved about the streets, alleys and lanes, taking in the many buildings and signposts. "What are you looking for?" Arya asked.

"Just thinking about what could be improved - more pipes, more fountains, wider streets, trees, and sturdier buildings. I could take this pile of sticks and mud and make it a city of stone."

"King's Landing is a shithole." Arya said.

"It doesn't always have to be."

Arya snorted. "I think that is beyond even your powers." Jon only smiled back.

As the sun fell low in the sky, they finally came to Flea Bottom. Arya had spent many weeks here, in the maze of twisty alleys and unpaved cross streets. They bought fresh hot bread from a baker on the Street of Flour, ignoring the pot-shops with their bowls of brown. They ignored the stench of pigsties, tanneries, and stables, mixed in with the sour fragrance of whorehouses and winesinks. At dusk, they entered the tunnels.

They waited until the corridor lightened as their eyes adjusted to the darkness. Arya led the way, her hands touching the rough unfinished stone and cold earth of the walls. They progressed slowly through dim gloomy rooms and pitch black halls. Jon had packed a small hooded lantern and carried wooden torches with tips of sulfur and lime. If they could, they would not use any lights. The only sound was the drip of water and the rap of Jon's staff as he prodded the ground for traps or secret doors. The taps would sound like water drops on puddles to most listeners.

Arya took small steps in the darkness, feeling for the iron rings in wood doors. A gust of cold air blew against her face at the end of a long hall, stirring a faint memory.

"Jon." She whispered. "This is where I saw them - the two men with a torch that were talking about killing the Hand."

"And where did they go from here?" Her brother asked intently.

Arya thought for a moment. "They pushed at some slab of rock, and it slid down. I crept after them, and the stone became rocks. I had to wade through the water and came out near the Rush. It smelled something foul."

"Likely, you found the sewer if that way leads to the Blackwater. They clearly know these tunnels. Do you remember more about their talk or the two men?" Jon asked.

"I am trying…" Arya said. "One was stout, but the other was fat. The really fat one with the jeweled rings had an accent from Essos. They said that a second Hand could die. But it was Joffrey that killed Father. And they talked about Stannis Baratheon, Lysa Arryn, the Lannisters fighting against the Tullys. Jon, they predicted the war - and this was before the fighting started."

Jon's eyes glittered. Even when he was younger, her older brother had a rare ability to focus. He was thinking hard and Arya hoped desperately that he would discover who had plotted against their family. In the dark, his eyes almost seemed violet.

"The question is why the two men met here in the tunnels." Jon said softly.

"To avoid spies."

"It must be more than that. One man had an accent. He likely sailed from the Free Cities. But the other one." Jon said.

"He was carrying the torch. He had scars on his face - and he was asking about little birds." Arya volunteered.

"Little birds?" Jon asked.

"Yes, he wanted fifty little birds from the fat man. They had to know their letters. And the first man said something about keeping their tongues. He said something about risk."

Her brother's face turned cold. Arya knew the glare was not for her, but the two plotters in the tunnels. "One man is from Essos. The other must be in the Red Keep. And these little birds…." He shook his head. "The world is full of monsters."

"I wish we could kill them all. The Lannisters, Joffrey, Cersei. Ilyn Payne, the Mountain, even the Tyrells. All of them." Arya cried.

"I want revenge too. But what matters is the safety of our sister. One day, we will make them all pay. But Sansa comes first."

Just then, they heard a hiss. An old black tom with a chewed and torn ear glared at them with angry yellow eyes. Arya remembered her training from Syrio Forel. This was the last cat she had captured, a tough black devil that ruled the Red Keep. Arya had kissed him right between the eyes before the sharp cat claws would have found her face. Jon walked to the tom, his right hand extended.

"Careful. That one is mean. Watch out for his claws and teeth." Arya called out.

"He won't bite me." The tom sniffed, and lowered his head, submitting to her brother's touch. Jon whispered something as he rubbed the ears - both the whole and the torn one. The black tom purred, a soft deep rumble that echoed in the tunnels. Then it hissed and walked away, precisely as any soldier marching, the footing sure and silent. Jon nodded to his sister, and they followed in the dark.

The cat led them through dark halls, past red stone walls that seemed to drip with blood, down long circular staircases, and finally, to a heavy metal door deep in the bowels of the earth. The walls were damp and splotched, and it was so very cold. Arya wrapped her wool cloak tightly over her doublet and the metal brigandine underneath. The chill was unnatural - bitter and bleak, worse than any nights in the wolfwood outside Winterfell.

Jon opened the door into a monstrous cavern, larger even than the room with the dragon skulls. Arya thought first that the floor was full of large pebbles but then she realized it was thousands of small canisters, buried in sand, round like a fat orange and made of rough clay. The tom hissed, squatting on a pile of stacked jars, like a dragon guarding a hoard. Jon stooped down and unsealed a wax lid. She saw the murky green liquid, oozing at the lip, and smell the pungent aroma as her brother raised the container. In the darkness, the green illuminated his freshly shorn head and his almost violet eyes.

"What are you holding?" Arya asked.

"Something rather useful. Wildfire." Jon answered.

Author's Notes

Seafood stew is served at the Septry of the Quiet Isle during a Brienne chapter as they look for Sansa Stark. The limping gravedigger and the black stallion are in all likelihood Sandor Clegane and Stranger. That chapter (Feast for Crows, Chap 31) conveys a real sense of peace.

Alleras is quite a mystery, and only given a few intriguing lines. Maybe she will be the Princess of Dorne after all the crap goes down! Or maybe she will just be a riddle inside an enigma that GRRM never explains like how the Prince Who Was Promised turns out to be Arya Stark.

The hissing eels are from a GRRM story in a 2009 anthology to celebrate Jack Vance. Vance is an old school fantasy writer who created the Dying Earth, a future where the world is exhausted, magic has re emerged and things have gone to hell. A Night at the Tarn House is weird and funny, and the hissing eels are great. The line on the roast fowl is also a quote from the story.

The wedding dress in the book and TV show differs by a lot. In the book, it is a quick affair. Sansa stupidly tells Ser Dontos about the Tyrells and then the Lannisters marry her off promptly. The age difference is important. Sansa is two years younger in the book, and she is still quite frivolous. (more understandable at 13 than 15-16) On TV, the costume designer makes a gold dress with a Lannister lion at the neck. The imagery is quite heavy handed.

Jaime fails (again!) to tell Tyrion about Tysha. It is hard to admit to your brother that you were part of a plot to gang rape his 13 year old wife who had done nothing wrong. Remember in the books - he only tells Tyrion after freeing him from the Black Cells.

The TV show makes it seem like the Varys and Tyrion show as they travel to Essos. But I have always thought that GRRM intended Varys as the master player of the Game. He is seen as a spymaster but Varys actually does kill with his own hands - Kevan Lannister and Pycelle. Note too that he uses a crossbow bolt, putting the blame on Tyrion. Of course in the books, Varys is the architect of the Aegon Blackfyre plot and in the TV show, he gets sidelined as a bit player. The TV show underestimates Varys, only throwing in a failed poisoning plot. It seems clear that both Baelish and Varys are majorly underestimated by everyone, including Tyrion. .

Tyrion makes a big deal about paying back debts like a Lannister should. But he never does anything about Petyr Baelish. That doesn't make much sense but GRRM may have decided early that it would be the Stark children who would kill Littlefinger. That said, his death on the show lacked any drama. If Starks melt below the Neck, then Baelish's brain froze up North.

The Tommen of the books was never really fleshed out, although in the Dance of Dragons, he is still alive. I hope GRRM will dedicate a chapter to his POV before his swan dive. Given the huge cast of characters, it is not surprising some come off as flat but Myrcella and Tommen deserved better. They were killed off to showcase Jaime's redemption path and Cersei's spiral downward.

The reference to knitting at Winterfell with Myrcella and Sansa is the first Arya POV chapter. It begins with "Arya's stitches were crooked again." That's why Jon has her stitch the Tully sigil.

Tyrion gets forced again to sit on his arse and wait for foreign dignitaries. In an earlier chapter of this story, he meets the Tyrells before Joffrey acts out as an idiot. Here, he repeats the scene in the book and TV show when he meets Oberyn Martell. And in the book, GRRM wastes a page on describing the various smaller houses - and none of them are ever mentioned again. Arya knows House Martell's sigil but none of the other ones. After all, no one really gives a crap.

Alleras is Sarella Sand. And Jon is scanning the walls for her and any other watchers. It is the spy watching a spy scene - but because it is still Arya's perspective, I couldn't find the words to describe it properly.

The famous Augustus quote is "I found Rome a city of bricks and left it a city of marble." The first emperor cares more about his glory and Jon is more focused on building a better world. The travelogue of King's Landing comes from Arya's chapters. How many ten year olds could survive weeks in KL with only Needle and a stick sword? I find book Arya and Jon to be quite perceptive but this is Jon before becoming a dummy in the later TV seasons.

Arya is a bit bloodthirsty at the memory of Ned's beheading. Her including the Tyrells is akin to the massacre at Beziers. The pope ordered Arnaud Amalric to eliminate a heretical movement in South France. When Beziers didn't surrender the two hundred heretics, there was a siege and a massacre of the entire town of 20,000! When asked how to differentiate between the faithful and the heretics, Amalric allegedly said "Kill them all. God can sort them out."

For some reason, no one ever discusses Varys cutting out the tongues of his little birds. It is one of these gruesome details that is omitted in the TV show - and it really bothers me. Of course, if Ned Stark had bothered to listen to Arya's tale, Varys would be dead and the Starks would likely head North. It is one of those near things that makes the info dumps delightful in the books. And of course frustrating. In my opinion, Varys deserved a more painful death.

Balerion is Rhaenys' cat. GRRM said "could be" when asked this question.

The wildfire is in clay jars in the books but in glass containers in the TV show. This is to show the liquid easily when Tyrion holds it up. Glass would be likely to be too expensive, and I wonder if medieval glaziers could make a tight fitting lid. This cavern is not the vault of the alchemists' guild. Rather, it is hidden underneath the dragonpit. Remember that Brynden Rivers burned bodies there in a plague. There is a lot of wildfire stored in this cache - more than enough for Jon's needs.

Bald Jon with violet eyes reminds me of Aegon the Unlikely. Of course that makes Arya the hedge knight and not the squire! The Dunc and Egg books are fun, even if they don't have the same weight as a Song of Ice and Fire.