DISCLAIMER: not mine :)

Hiyee, chapter nine is a go! Much love xoxo

By the time they made it back across the river it was lunchtime, and the Cat's stomach was growling, despite the lingering taste of bile in the back of her throat. After her interrupted sparring session, and the harrowing run through the kingswood, she was not in the best of moods- a fact not helped by the feeling of Gendry's eyes on her whenever he thought she wasn't paying attention. Foolish man, she had thought bitterly, the third time she felt his stare. He should know that a faceless assassin never loses focus.

As she ate her lunch alone in her rooms, she wondered if he would tell Aegon about what had happened. She had seen the judgement in his face- and worse, the pity. To see a faceless assassin, the greatest in the known world, reduced to hurling up her guts on trembling knees after a meagre three league run. Though she knew it was to be expected, after a year in the mines, the Cat couldn't help but feel... disappointed in herself. She was not used to not being the best, and to see those twelve champions finish ahead of her, while she struggled for breath, had shamed her more than she cared to admit.

She was just taking a bite of venison stew, served with honey roasted parsnips and cauliflower cooked in goats cheese, when the door opened. She had, of course, heard the approaching footsteps, and guessed from their weight and speed who they belonged to, but it was still an unexpected visit.

"Nothing better to do, Lord Commander?" she asked without looking up.

He pulled out the chair across from her and sat down. "How'd you know it was me?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Footsteps."

He pressed his lips into a thin line. "How did you know they were mine?" he questioned.

She looked up and swallowed her mouthful of parsnips. Truly they were delicious- more than any food had any right to be! "You have a distinctive gait," she said. "Long legs means steps further apart, and you tend to march everywhere like a mammoth from beyond the Wall. And to make up for all that muscle you tend to-"

"Alright, you've made your point," he said, rolling his eyes at her. "Show off."

"So why are you here?" she asked, popping a steaming chunk of venison into her mouth.

"To eat," he said, pulling the stew towards him and eyeing it gratefully. She watched as he piled the stuff onto his plate- an obscene amount if it were anyone smaller.

"Liar," she said, chewing thoughtfully.

He raised a brow. "You can hardly talk, considering your occupation."

The Cat sighed. "And here I was thinking we could have a nice meal," she said, putting down her spoon with a clink. They still were not giving her forks or knives. A shame. She would have so loved to stab his hand with a fork just then. "Former occupation, anyway. Soon to be Kings Champion." She speared a parsnip with the edge of her spoon. It smushed into two pieces with an audible squelch.

He raised a brow at her. "Did no one ever teach you the intricate workings of a spoon?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You'd be surprised at the damage one can do with a spoon, if only you had the imagination."

He snorted and swallowed his stew. "Is that what being an assassin requires? Imagination?" He shovelled in more stew as if he feared it might disappear before he could.

She shot him a wicked smile. "Among other things."

That evening, Gendry strode into the assassin's chambers, to inform her that training would start early the next morning and that she had best not be late again. He had been pleasantly surprised by their conversation at lunch- of course, it may have been about the merits of the dual blade technique over the typical one, and the proper way one should face their target (the girl was adamant that one must stand side face), but for a person supposedly devoid of humanity, the girl had been easier to talk to than he might have speculated.

He stopped short when he found the assassin dangling from the tall bed frame, repeatedly hoisting herself up to touch her chin to the wooden bar. Sweat had already soaked her shirt and he could tell from the quivering in her arms that she must have been exercising for quite some time. She grunted softly as she lifted herself again.

She had informed him at lunch of her plan to stay unnoticed in the middle of the pack, but he supposed that there was no reason for her to train like it. Gendry was familiar enough with training to recognise a person desperately in need of reconditioning, and though he imagined that her pickax in the mines must have become very heavy very quickly, she definitely wasn't the same girl they had captured a year ago.

And with all of her training- at least, he imagined there must be some sort of training programme in order to be a faceless assassin- she already had an edge on her competitors. She just needed it to be a bit sharper.

If the assassin were anyone else he would assume that she hadn't noticed him come in, for she did not turn to look at him, or even pause in her exercising to speak to him. He smiled silently at her back, and unbeknownst to him, she smiled too.

The following day, after training, Gendry permitted the Cat to walk through the gardens with him- followed, of course, by an escort of guards. The Cat had not failed to notice that there were markedly fewer guards than if Gendry had not been present. Perhaps it was a genuine mark of his skill, or maybe it was arrogance. Either way, she took note of it as they strolled through the courtyards and garden walkways. She may comply with her new captors to make her life easier, but that didn't mean she had to squash down any thoughts of escape while she was here. The Cat was not so deluded as to believe that a nice lunch with the commander and teasing conversation with the prince meant they were allies. No, in her life the Cat had learnt many times over that not everyone who spoke to you kindly was your friend, and these people were no different. She may have taken the name Cat, but she must never forget that inside, she was really a wolf- and they were her prey. One day, they would learn that too, to their sorrow.

"So, now that you've had the chance to see your competitors in action, what do you think of them?" Gendry asked.

Irritation spiked through her as he interrupted her thoughts. "Why does everyone keep asking me this?" she sighed. "I cannot give you a satisfying answer without enough information. It would all just be conjecture, and utterly useless." What three new things did you learn today, little cat?

Gendry rolled his eyes at her. "You don't have to do that, you know?" he said as they turned down a path lined with flowers that the Cat recognised as Brilliby Blooms. She would have recognised them anywhere- the Waif had drilled ingredients for poisons into her for years, with a sharp stick ready to rap her knuckles whenever she made a mistake. As it was, the Cat had been an excellent student, the heir apparent to the principal elder, but- well, the subtleties and finer points of potion making had never been the most thrilling of her lessons at the temple, and the Cat had paid for that particular belief with many a bruised knuckle. She wondered if the king- or rather, his Hand- was aware that these fatal blooms were thriving in one of his gardens. If they didn't, she certainly wouldn't be the one to inform them.

"Do what?"

"Be so..." he chewed the words in his mouth, debating them. "I don't know, be so... mysterious and wise all the time."

She flashed him a smug smirk. "Would you have me be like you, Lord Commander? Forthright? Lacking in cunning?"

He pressed his lips into a tight line. "It would make life a lot easier if you were."

"Yes, well, things are rarely simple and straightforward, and therefore, not easy." She reached out to stroke the petal of a particularly silky looking rose. Gendry watched her like a hawk, as if she might try to make a weapon out of the blossom. Appear the rose, she thought to herself, but be the thorn beneath. "So you see, Lord Commander- I simply adapt. Perhaps you should try it."

"Try what?"

She sighed. Subtleties, it seemed, were lost on him. "Never mind." She straightened and they followed the path for a few minutes in silence. The sweet scents of the flowers almost blocked out the putrid smell of the city beyond, and the merry chirping of birds and gurgling of the fountain, were almost tranquil enough to make her forget about the small fact that there were arrows behind her waiting to be buried in her back lest she move wrong.

"So," he pressed again, "what do you think of them? Conjecture or no?"

The Cat sighed for the third time in the span of a few minutes. There were some things about the temple that she was glad to be shot of, but intelligent conversation was not one of them. "The Mountain will be the challenge," she speculated. "It depends what these trials will be..."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "You know I can't tell you."

"Can't, or won't?" she challenged.

"Both," he said firmly.

The Cat turned her eyes up to the blue sky in boredom. "Fine. If it comes to a fight, he'll be a challenge. But that is only assuming that he doesn't fail any stealth or agility trials, and frankly, I am doubtful of that. He's too big, too slow, and doesn't have a strategic bone in his body. They called him Tywin Lannister's Mad Dog for a reason."

"And how do you think a quick cat will fare against a mad dog?"

The Cat's steps did not falter as the Crown Prince appeared around the corner. She had heard the footsteps a mile off, though she had not known who they belonged to this time. She barely spared him half a glance, but even that was enough to tell her plenty about where he had been coming from- or rather, running from. His shirt was rumpled, and a lace had been missed out at the neck, and his hair had a ruffled quality to it- as if someone had been recently running their hands through it, repeatedly. He carried about him the self satisfied smugness of a male who had recently proved his veracity in the sheets... or perhaps, the roses. The Cat pitied the girl. She doubted that thorns were a terribly comfortable surface to rut on.

"What is it with you southron men always asking for speculation?" she sniped at him.

He grinned at her and adjusted his collar to sit more comfortably. "It's the habit of a man who can't turn down a bet. What does that tell you, my sweet assassin?" She practically felt Gendry tense behind her at the prince's casual tone when using that word.

"It tells me that you must be a terrible gambler," she bit out.

"How so?" he asked her. He was entirely too smug, even for a man who had just revelled in the delights of the flesh. Oh, how she would like to beat it out of him! "Surely taking a bad bet is a mark of one's bravery?"

"Bravery?" she repeated. "Or stupidity? Prince, when I place my bets, I place them to win. Bravery has nothing to do with it."

He laughed at her, clearly unoffended by her insolence. "And that is why you are the assassin, and I the prince," he said easily. "Or rather more precisely, why you are my champion. My clever cat." She bristled at his repeated use of the word my. He did not seem to pick up on it, and bowed extravagantly. "I am afraid I must leave you, for I hear the sounds of female merriment around the corner, and do not have time to be ensnared."

"It seems to me that you've already been... ensnared today," Gendry remarked drily. The Cat supposed that even the bull could read the signs on the prince of his recent activities. Perhaps he was not so dull after all.

Aegon simply laughed it off, shot her a jaunty wink, and sauntered off, disappearing around a corner into the cover of the gardens. The Cat did not bother to conceal the small amused smile that ghosted across her lips- about as much as she was willing to give. She wiped it away quickly, as the prince had not been wrong; indeed there was company approaching.

"Care to take a guess?" Gendry asked, jerking his chin down the path towards the oncoming visitors.

"I thought you didn't approve of showing off?" she asked, arching a brow at the commander. When he shrugged, she huffed a silent laugh. "I would say... four women, two some paces ahead. Two guards. No plate though, so likely guests in the castle."

Gendry shook his head in disbelief. "That's not natural," he muttered, as the entourage appeared ahead, rounding the bend- just as the Cat had predicted.

"Rather, Lord Commander, it is entirely natural," she amended. "I simply adhere to my senses- senses that all men possess. Unfortunately, so very few of them remember to utilise them to their full potential."

"Is that something they taught you in Braavos?" he asked, tone slightly spiteful.

The Cat gave him a long, measured look. "No," she said lowly. "It is something I learned many times over before I ever left this accursed, treacherous continent, and it was men like you that were my unwitting teachers."

Something akin to shock- and was that shame?- crossed his face, but before he could say anything further, the two groups came to a stop. The Cat recognised Margaery Tyrell in an instant, her long, softly curling brown hair twisted behind her head to fall in a wave down her back, as her big, doe eyes glinted in the buttery warm sunlight. Behind her stood two ladies- her cousins, the Cat thought, Alla, and another girl, whom she did not recognise, though she had the same rosy cheeks and gentle looks as Margaery. As the Cat had promised, two guards followed behind- but they certainly weren't the castle guard. They wore no armour, and their clothes swathed around them in loose, shifting folds that did little to conceal the wickedly curved blades with jewelled hilts at their sides. And leading them, by half a pace, was the most beautiful woman that the Cat had ever seen- save, perhaps, for her sister.

Not your sister, she thought. Arya Stark's sister. No one has no sister.

She was small, though some inches taller than the Cat herself, with long, flowing dark hair, that ran down her back like some dark, shining river of curls that gleamed in the sun. Her eyes were large and dark and framed with eyelashes so long and thick that they seemed to pull her eyelids down lazily. Her skin was bronze and honey, her lips full and sinful, and though she was draped in flowing silks and satins, they did little to conceal high, voluptuous breasts. All of this the Cat took in, in the space of but one breath, one flickering sweep of her eyes enough to tell her all that she needed to know of this woman; first, she was Dornish, without a doubt. And with those jewels, the exquisite gown, the confidence and self assured aura she exuded- she was high born. Very high born, to have brought her own guards.

The woman before her was a Dornish princess.

"Your Highness," Gendry said politely, bowing at the waist. "Lady Margaery." A princess then, for sure- but who? The Cat ticked over all she knew of Dorne- ruled by Prince Doran, elder brother of the Red Viper, Oberyn Martell. Not a Sand Snake, not for Gendry to have addressed her as highness... Arianne, then, if she remembered Luwin's lessons correctly.

"Lord Commander," Margaery said, dipping into a curtsy, the long, billowing skirts of her teal dress sweeping the ground. "Lady Cat. It's so lovely to see that you have time to enjoy the gardens, with all of that training you must be doing."

Cat bowed her head. "Indeed," she simply said. Sometimes, saying less meant that you heard more. It forced your companions to speak, lest they would rather endure silence- something that seemed to make many uncomfortable, and thus force them to talk.

"May I have the honour of introducing you to Princess Arianne Martell, of Dorne," Margaery said smoothly, her deceptively soft voice gliding through the silence. The Cat allowed a small stroke of her ego- both for her correct deduction and for the trap- however small- that Margaery had unwittingly wandered into, and thus handed the Cat the information- or perhaps, confirmation- that she had needed, putting her on a level playing field. Honestly, the workings of this festering court was child's play.

"A pleasure," Gendry said. "I have not had the honour as of yet, princess. How are you finding the city?"

Arianne tilted her head. "Truly, it makes me long for the Water Gardens," she said with no attempt to conceal her distaste for the place. "Though it has it's own... allures, I am sure." Like an unwed prince? the Cat thought. Arianne's eyes turned to her. "Margaery says you are training. What for?"

Before the Cat could so much as open her mouth, Gendry stepped forward half a pace, his hand resting on her back once more. It seemed to have become their secret manner of communication- meaning, don't you dare to step out of line, else I'll have a bolt blown through your chest. And her sister had said romance was dead.

"Lady Cat Ashfold is the Crown Prince's Champion for the competition," he explained, a bit too stiffly, the Cat thought. "She will be competing against twenty one others for the title of King's Champion, and will be staying in the city until it is over." Honestly, could he make it sound any more rehearsed? The Lord Commander was undoubtedly many things, but subtle he was not.

Arianne quirked a perfect brow at him. "I see. Intriguing. And will the champion be allowed to speak for herself?" Oh, the Cat liked this princess already- she didn't trust her as far as she could throw her, and didn't doubt that the woman carried a wealth of ambitions, but she liked her.

Gendry's cheeks heated. "Of course. My apologies. I simply wished to-"

"To speak for her?" Arianne asked sweetly. "Well, I do not know this Cat, but she seems perfectly capable of speaking for herself. Perhaps I am wrong; of course, in Dorne we do not discriminate based in gender, so perhaps I have misunderstood the etiquette here- you would tell me if I was wrong, Lord Commander?"

It was a trap, and an obvious one too- designed not to devour him, but to watch him struggle with the cords she had so deftly wrapped around him. The Cat noticed that his blush had spread to his neck.

She decided to spare him, and laughed, laying a hand on his arm. "Do not panic, Ser, I know you meant no harm. I am sure you only wished to spare me the trouble of tripping over my own tongue!"

Arianne cocked her head. "And is that a habit that troubles you often, Lady Champion?"

The Cat flashed her a smile. "Not at all, princess. Though making an exercise of restraint when it comes to my tongue is something I am sure the Lord Commander would endeavour to teach me!"

"Is that so?" Arianne purred, her dark gaze sliding to Gendry. "And is that an exercise you believe all women should pursue, Lord Commander?"

"Not at all," Gendry said, his voice a tad strained. "But restraint is something I would always caution- lord or lady, knight or farmer, septon or criminal." His hand on her back tightened- a warning. Terribly ungrateful of him, really, considering she had just given him a free pass through Arianne's teasing.

"I see," Arianne said, her voice a a husky purr made for candle lit dinners and moonlit bedsheets. "How terribly... boring, of you Lord Commander. I do hope that not all men here are so tedious."

The Cat concealed a grin as Gendry bowed stiffly. "I apologise, princess. We shall leave you then, in the hopes that you might find more stimulating company." He pressed his hand forwards on the Cat's back, urging her to step forwards and around the princess.

"Oh, but we won't see Lady Cat for an age if you take her away now!" Margaery protested, a court trained smile aimed straight at Gendry. "She's so busy with the competition, and you said yourself that she wouldn't have much free time- so why not make the most of this fortuitous meeting now? Come, we shall only walk the gardens a while, and then you can take her off again!" There it was; that perfect guile, a cross between feminine charm and cold cunning- this Margaery Tyrell was a strategist, and wasn't afraid to show it. The Cat wondered if Cersei Lannister had been this way in her youth, before her life turned her bitter and cruel.

Gendry pursed his lips, clearly not one for the intricate workings of political courtesy. "We were just heading back now," he tried.

"Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Lady of Highgarden, Princess of Dorne," Arianne mused, narrowing her eyes. "I wonder which takes precedence. By order of rank, I suppose that would be me." A slow, sly smile. Arrow notched. "I say the Lady Cat walks with us a while. Would you defy a princess?" Arrow shot.

Gendry stood stock still for a moment, taking her measure as if she were a fearsome knight on a battlefield. The Cat supposed it were like that really- a different sort of knight, a different sort of battlefield, and one upon which the two ladies before her were masters in their own right. After all, women had to take something for themselves, when the men claimed so much- and the Cat didn't doubt for a second that the two women had just staked their claim on her.

"Alright," he said rather tersely. "But only until the tower bell chimes the hour." The Cat contented herself with a small inward smile; the next chime could not be longer than some ten and five minutes, but she supposed that it was generous enough for a person who had arrived just some days prior in chains. Hopefully, she would leave this place without them. She just had to win, first.

"Wonderful!" Margaery said, her perfectly constructed smile remaining utterly immaculate as she spoke. She reached out and elbow to the Cat, and Gendry dropped his hand from her back after a pointed look from the assassin, who linked her arm with the lady of Highgarden and turned down the path, the princess leading by half a step. The Cat snorted silently to herself as the commander fell in behind Margaery's cousins, hand surreptitiously falling to that bull's head pommel of his sword.

"So, Cat, how goes the competition?" Margaery asked, squeezing her arm cordially. Whether the gesture was genuine friendliness or a subtle tactic of facade and manipulation, the Cat was not sure, but if she were being honest- which she rarely was- she didn't care for the needless contact. It was bad enough having Gendry constantly dragging her around- she didn't need it from Margaery too. But she kept her face pleasant, her mouth shut, and forced herself to get on with it- after all, this was all just another act, a face of a different kind- and the Cat was, above all, familiar with the process. She could not be the Cat- not to these people. She had to be Cat Ashfold, a criminal of unmarked birth from an isolated island- she would surely be cowed by these two great and noble women, and would aspire to gaining their favour. It was all just another face, and one she would don happily if it earned her freedom.

"It's only been training so far," the Cat said casually. "Endurance, fitness, nothing terribly exciting." Alas, every time Selmy had called for sparring in the ring, for the competitors to see what they were up against, Gendry had held her back. Regardless of his hand grasping her elbow to halt her, the Cat would have likely employed the same strategy; better to watch and learn what she was dealing with than give everyone a demonstration of her abilities- but it rankled all the same. She was itching to get a sword in her hand again- or a knife, a spear, a bow, anything. The need for it crawled under her skin, like a living, itching thing. And oh, how she wanted to scratch!

"Oh dear, how boring!" Maragery said with a laugh, a sound of tinkling bells and wind chimes. "And are you looking forward to the real competition? You must be, to put yourself through all of this tedium!"

The Cat did not doubt for one second that to the beautiful, clever lady of Highgarden, this was tedious- how much could one so pampered really understand of struggle and strife, of the brutal battle for survival that had dominated the Cat's life for so very long? How much did she understand of the real world, the one that lay outside of courtly intrigues and politics? There was no question that Margaery was a master at her field of work, and that she saw far more than she let on- but what did she really know of the world? The ugliness that could not be chased away by beautiful dresses and frivolities, the bitter struggles that were ignored by that very same court? The Cat did not blame her; not one bit. Margaery may have led the easier life, but she had undoubtedly used it to her advantage. She had not known the depths of despair and fear the Cat had; of course she was a different woman, naiive to the reality of their world. That didn't make her weak. It made her lucky.

"I shall be looking forward to when it is over," the Cat replied.

The princess smiled at her, a cat's smile, a predator's smile. "Forgive me, Lady Cat," she said, "but I do not recognise your name. Ashfold, I believe your keeper said?"

"Yes, princess," the Cat said. "Of Bear Island. I am not surprised you have not heard the name before. In truth, I am no lady- the title is merely a courtesy- though everyone seems to insist on calling me such." I'm not a lady! Words she had shouted so many times- in denial, in frustration, in anger, in painful realisation when at last they came true.

"I see," Arianne said. "And you are here by choice?" It was not a question, not with the sly side eyes, the sensuous tilt of her head, the way her tongue playfully flicked her top teeth at the end. Oh, she knew; she had done her research already, it seemed.

"I think you already know that, princess," the Cat said back, concealing an amused smile. "Would it not be easier for you to tell me what you already know, and for me to tell you if it is true or not?"

Arianne laughed, throwing back her head so that her dark curls rippled down her back. "I must admit, I am delighted to have found not one but two worthy opponents," she said. "I expected you northerners to all be dullards and fools. It is pleasant to be wrong sometimes."

"Just not too often, I should think," Margaery said drily.

Arianne smiled at her as they turned into a small yard lined with pennyblooms and sweetsuckle. A fountain tinkled merrily in the centre, a beautiful lady with her hand resting on the head of a fawn. The Cat was surprised Aerys had not had the thing ripped out and replaced with some hideous dragon. She supposed that would not make much sense though- a dragon for a water fountain. Though she had heard tales of great sea drakes near the old freehold of Valyria.

"Alright then," Arianne said. "Your name is Cat Ashfold. Supposedly the daughter of a knight from Bear Island, though no one seems to have heard of you or know your father's name." A sly prod. "He was killed in a raid led by some ironborn at Stoney Shore. You killed them, and travelled to Old Town to find your brother, but ended up finding his murderers instead. So you killed them too, but this time you were not so fortunate, and got caught. The Crown Prince picked you up from the holding cells of Nunns Deep and brought you here to be his champion. So tell me, Lady Cat- how much of that is true?"

"Maybe none of it is true," Margaery laughed. "You seem far too nice to have murdered all those people. Perhaps our crown prince employed the prettiest face he could find, in the hopes of throwing off the other champions, and concocted that fanciful tale to send us on a goose chase!"

Oh, if only you knew the real story, the Cat thought. If she didn't believe that, she certainly wouldn't believe the actual story. Hello, you can call me Cat, but I don't really have a name because I'm actually no one, a faceless assassin from Braavos who was betrayed by the guild and sent to the mines at Castamere, where the prince travelled and plucked me up, but even he doesn't know who I was actually born- the daughter of a noble, sister to a king, and supposed wife of a northern traitor, who has been dead these past eight years! The Cat barely even believed it herself.

"The people I killed certainly didn't think I was far too nice," she said drily.

Arianne arched a brow. "So it is all true then?"

The Cat pushed down her disgust at the outrageous tale Aegon had put together, and nodded. "It is. Now you will not be left wondering why there are so many guards watching us." She shot the princess a small smile. "Are you shocked? Horrified?"

Arianne simply grinned back, dark eyes glinting. "Quite the contrary, lady Cat. I find myself delighted."

"And you, my lady of Highgarden?" the Cat asked. "Will you run away and send your knight of flowers to slay me?"

Margaery laughed, and squeezed her arm once more. "Alas, I care for my brother too much to send him to an early grave."

Oh yes. The Cat liked these women. She liked them very much. Once she might have belittled them, begrudged them their happiness and freedom, envied their beauty and resented their carefree ways. She had treated her sister with similar contempt as children, and lived to regret it. Sansa... she had not made life easy for her younger sister. She had been older, more beautiful, she could sing and dance and sew, play the high harp and make friends with the other girls. She had often subjected the Cat to little cruelties, and allowed her friends to bully her. She had disdained her with every breath, she had blamed her for things that were not her fault, had excluded her and ostracised her... but she had been a child. A spoilt, naiive child, who did not understand the world or how it worked, and perhaps did not fully comprehend the impact she had on her younger sister's self esteem. But she had been a child, and had behaved as all children do. Without thought, without intentional cruelty. Just simple minded ignorance. And for that... the Cat had privately condemned her. Decided that she was foolish and empty headed and shallow. Looking back, the Cat had come to realise that was neither true nor fair. Her sister was a product of her upbringing, a childhood steeped in indulgence and love. The Cat only wished that the rest of her sister's life had been similarly directed. As it was, she did not know where her sister was, or if she was alive at all. But it was not hard to deduce that life had not treated Sansa kindly.

"Then I am glad," the Cat said with a slight tilt of the head. "I should not enjoy killing such an able warrior." She turned to look at Arianne, who had paused to sniff at a flower with bright yellow petals dotted with purple flecks. "May I ask why you are visiting, princess?"

"Oh, it's not so thrilling as being a murderess fighting to become the King's Champion," Arianne teased. "My father sent me here to learn the ways of this court. My cousin, Nymeria, was here awhile, on the small council, but my father pulled her back and sent me in her stead. There are certain doors open to me that are... barred to my cousin."

"I see," the Cat said with a slow and deliberate single nod. "And is one of those doors the entrance to the Crown Prince's bed chamber?"

Arianne whirled, eyes wide. For a moment the Cat wondered if she might have to fight of those dornish guards for her impertinence, but after a tense beat of silence, Arianne threw back her head and howled with unrestrained mirth. Margaery's grip, which had momentarily tightened, loosened, as she chuckled uneasily.

"Perhaps," Arianne said when she was done, wiping a ringed finger under her eye. "But no, that is not my intention. I am simply here to advance the opportunities that Dorne deserves. To pull us up the social ladder, as it were."

"I should think you're already near the top," the Cat said. "How much higher do you hope to go?"

Arianne shot her a wicked smile, equal parts light and dark. The sort of smile that sent men to their knees. "Oh my dear Cat," she purred. "The very top- and then some. I do not plan to stop until I rule the sky itself, and the whole world is but a speck beneath me."

"That sounds terribly lonely to me," the Cat said quietly. She herself knew all about loneliness all too well. As a child, the strange looking, ill behaved younger daughter, with no true friends in the world but an indulgent older brother and a butcher's boy condemned to die for daring to be her friend; as a child on the run, who had to change her identity and leave all of the things that made her who she was at the feet of Baelor's statue, a fugitive who could not risk attachment or trust the rare instances of the kindness of strangers lest they betray her; as a little girl with no family and no friends, alone in all of the world; a hostage to be ransomed, a slave in a burned castle; as no one in a silent, cold temple, far and away across the Narrow Sea from the land of her birth, where no face was true and no person was kind, save for one; as a bereaved lover, left to weep over her love's cold, mutilated corpse as she plotted revenge that would end with her being captured by her enemies and shackled in chains that would not come off for over a year; as a slave, surrounded by masses of other equally broken men and women, yet even more alone than ever, to toil to the tune of her sorrow and heartbreak, her fury and her grief, doomed to die in the darkness from backbreaking labour as a forgotten whisper on the wind, her body tossed into the mass graves she was forced to dig herself, unmourned and unacknowledged, another casualty to the fetid and vengeful land that she had been born in and fought so hard to escape, an exercise in futility.

Yes. The Cat knew all about loneliness.

"That is power," Arianne replied. "To be unrivalled and unequalled. And I will not stop until it is mine."

And before the Cat could reply that that did not sound like power at all, the bell tower began to chime, and Gendry was immediately at her side, hand on her arm.

"I am afraid that it is time for lady Cat to return to her chambers, princess," he said, dipping his head so that his thick black hair gleamed in the sunlight. "I shall be in trouble already for our lateness."

Margaery snorted- and even that was a delicate, pretty sound. "What is so important that you must you get back for in time? Honey roasted partridge?"

The Cat smiled. "I believe it's actually stuffed venison today." The corners of Gendry's mouth tightened, but he said nothing at their teasing.

"I hope to see you again soon, lady Cat," Arianne said, eyes glinting. "Very soon. I believe we three will have much to talk about, and you are the only two ladies at this court who do not bore me to tears." The Cat wondered if the princess would still be so welcoming if she knew who and what the Cat really was- the monster beneath the surface. The two women had been shocked at the thought that she had killed a handful of people; what would they think if they knew the reams of names that she had really taken and delivered to Him of Many Faces, the gluttonous executioner she had served across the sea.

She had never really had female friends before. Had never really had friends. As a child, her bastard older brother had been her dearest friend, and the butcher's boy, Mycah, for those few too short weeks on the road. On the run there had been Hot Pie and Lommy Greenhands, and later on Weasel, but- they hadn't really been her friends at all. She didn't doubt that the two boys would have sold her out the second they were threatened, had they known who she really was, and Weasel had been too young, a burden more than a companion. Sometimes she missed Brusco's daughters, Brea and Talea, though she had only known them a short while. There had been something so reassuring in the fact that two sisters were safe and happy enough to lay in bed too long in the morning, and giggle over supper, and meet with boys on the roof. That they had the security to just be had been older than the Cat, yet they had been children. Innocent and naiive and happy. It had been reassuring at first, to see that the horrors of her life were not universal, and that some people never had to know or endure them- but then it had made her sad to think about, and she had been relieved when her stay with them ended.

Of course, she was not so foolish as to believe that Margaery and Arianne were truly her friends- in a court like this, where everyone jostled and fought for any scrap of power or influence, there was no such thing as real friends. She may enjoy their company, may look forward to seeing them, but she must never forget that she was in a den of vipers, and each and every one of them had sharp fangs filled with venom.

But the Cat was a master at blending in. She had learned not to be, but to exist in the spaces between, the spaces where no one dared to look. She had done it her whole life, had tuned it to a fine point, a weapon with which to defend herself. So if she had to live here, among these snakes, she would become one too. For as surely as the lady of Highgarden and the princess of Dorne planned to use her to their own ends, so too did the Cat intend the same. Let them think she was just an ignorant peasant here to fight for a title. Let them all think that she was here to comply and behave and do what she was told. The Cat had no need of friendship- not when she could use them to her advantage. And she was self aware enough to understand that any edge she could get, was one she must attain. These two women may believe they were using her, but they were wrong.

The Cat had been used before. Had been hurt and controlled before. Now it was her turn. Her turn to use. Her turn to hurt.

And so as Gendry dragged her out of the gardens and back to the palace, the Cat's hand darted out so fast that no one saw as she snagged one of the unassuming blooms, and no one saw as she stashed it up her sleeve.

Aegon had never much liked sweet things. He did not like the way they made his tongue sting and tingle, the way his teeth felt almost fuzzy afterwards. The only sweet he had ever been partial to was candied ginger, and even then he could only enjoy so many at any one time. His aunt, he knew, enjoyed sweet treats, though it had been such a long time since he had seen her, when they had been small children eavesdropping on the adults in that pretty house with the lemon tree outside and the bid red door. He remembered the way her eyes would light up when old Willem Darry would sneak her something, candied figs, lemon cakes, iced tangerines from Sothoryos. Willem would often give him sweets, too, but Aegon had almost always given them to Dany to savour. She had few enough sweet things in her life, with her mother dead, her father mad and her brother cruel. Not that Aegon had been much better off, mind, but at least he had Rhaenys to wipe his tears when he skinned his knees after falling out of the lemon tree, to hold his hand at night when the nightmares left him shaking.

He hadn't ever been able to understand as a child, why his mother could not come with them. If he were being honest, he still didn't. Surely they could have spirited her away at the same time as they did he and his sister, his cousins, his grandfather? They had tried to explain it to him, that Elia had chosen to stay behind to throw their enemies off the scent, and he couldn't help but feel angry at her for it, when she could have come with them. Then he would feel guilty.

He pushed the thought aside as he watched his Lord Commander escort the assassin into the keep from his widow in Maegor's. She was dressed simply, in a plain shirt and brown breeches, her dark hair held back in a loose braid that fell over one shoulder. She never seemed to want to wear the dresses he had had made for her; at least, he had not seen her in one since that day when the champions met in the throne room. He supposed that to a person that could change their face in the way he might his clothes, beauty held little meaning- no more than a useful tactic or clever disguise. Or maybe Cat had never been interested in such things as dresses, before she entered the guild.

As the two disappeared through the arched doorway, Aegon turned away from the window, rolling the candied ginger over his tongue. She was not what he had expected, in truth. He had thought to find someone... well, bigger. Someone crueler, someone who was... no one at all. But she wasn't like that, this strange Cat, or whatever she was in truth. She was sharp witted, and quick, and sometimes he thought he could see something, deep in her flashing silver eyes. Her mask was always immaculate, of course, but somewhere far beneath the surface... there was something more. Something sad and broken and angry. The girl seemed to vibrate with it sometimes, as if whatever it was lurked under her skin, threatening to break free and wreak destruction upon them all. As if it were only a matter of time before she let it. A reckoning, for them all.

He had done his research on her, of course. Before he ever even posed the idea outloud to his grandfather, or his commander, but he had looked into her, this strange and mysterious assassin. He had sent out Varys' little birds, and Magister Illyrio's, even his own, few enough as they were, and all of them had come back empty handed. It seemed Cat had simply appeared out of nowhere. No one seemed to know how long she had been at the temple, though Gendry had told him that she had revealed that she had gone there as a child, but before that- nothing. He had checked the lists and lists of records in the library, detailing all of the gentle born girls of an age with her, who had gone missing at that time, had even checked the boys, too, but anyone who was a match in age was reported dead, and any that were not dead were either too old or too young. Of course, he supposed that there was no way to be sure that she was as old as she said she was; for all he knew she could be a sixty year old man in an eighteen year old's body. Regardless, the only names that had jumped out at him were Jeyne Poole, though she had turned up some years ago, in the North, Sansa Stark, but what he knew of the girl certainly did not fit the assassin across the keep, and Alynne Connington, but while she was the right age, she had never gone missing- and similarly to the Stark girl, was of the wrong temperament, and besides- he had met her some years prior, which was all wrong for the timeline. The only other girl he could think of was the younger Stark girl, but she had been dead for years- and besides, if there was a Stark hiding somewhere in the North, and she were alive, he doubted she would waste any time here.

It was really quite perplexing, and Aegon did not appreciate the thudding in his temple whenever he thought on the matter. He told himself that he was being ridiculous; for every girl of gentle birth there were a hundred low born ones. It was far more likely the assassin was once one of the small folk. Perhaps her father had been some poor grunt serving in some army or another, her mother murdered by raiders or that ridiculous Brotherhood. Maybe she had once had brothers, who either fought for him and died, or fought against him, and never returned home. Either one would explain her resentment and disdain towards him- or, at least, his grandfather and the Lannisters. Aegon did not pretend to be innocent; he most definitely wasn't, and had enough self awareness to realise that. But... he had been a boy when they overthrew Robert Baratheon. At the time, of course, he had considered himself to be a man grown, as any boy of sixteen would, yet even so, he could not think of anything he had done to personally wrong her- other than be a Targaryen. After all, she could hardly blame him for fighting for his family, for their right to rule.

He supposed none of it really mattered, though. He was the Crown Prince, first in line to the Iron Throne now that Viserys was dead, and she was... whatever she was. Faceless Assassin, slave,would be champion, orphan, Cat. Her opinions should not matter to him in the least. But... they did. For whatever reason, they did. He was filled with the urge to do something to impress her, show her that he was not his grandfather, nor his uncle, nor any of the others. He would be his own king, when the day came. He would not hide behind Tywin Lannister or kneel before the Red Priestesses. He would kneel to none but his kingdom, his birthright, his home. And he hoped, however misguided, that when the Cat's service was concluded... she might stay. Not because she was chained or imprisoned or blackmailed, but because she chose to, of her own free will.

There was something in her, that strange humming under her skin despite her perfect stillness and composure, that could raise entire kingdoms to the skies. Yet Aegon did not doubt that that power could also send them all to the seventh hell.

He just had to convince her to see things his way.

Eee! See you in July- and TTFN! :)