DISCLAIMER: Not mine :)
Sooooo, this popped into my head earlier and I just HAD to write it. It is obviously a WIP, but it is based on the story line of Throne of Glass by Sarah J Mass- if you recognise it, it's not mine! This is her story, that I have adapted into our much loved world of ASoIaF, in which Arya Stark (here, Cat) is an assassin who must fight for her chance of freedom from slavery, all the while concealing her true identity from her enemies. Clearly, this is not plot compliant to ASoIaF, and characters and story-lines will be changed up to fit this version. But that's the wonderful thing about make believe- it can be anything you want it to be!
That's all from me, Over and Out xoxo
Summary:
What if Arya Stark never went home? What if Cat, the mysterious and famed Faceless Assassin, was captured after betrayal of the worst kind, and sent to her enemies in Westeros? Dealt a life sentence at the Mines of Lannisport, Cat is given a second chance; to fight for her life to become the King's Champion. All the while, her secret past threatens to surface, and with it, the fate of a once great kingdom. Will Cat succeed? Will she earn her freedom? Will she ever see the North again?
After a year in the Mines of Castamere, the Cat was accustomed to being escorted everywhere in shackles, at sword point. She supposed it was a wise move, really, on their part; after all, she had not been delivered a life sentence here for nothing. Most of the other slaves at the mines received similar treatment, though one set of shackles was all the guards deemed necessary for them- unlike the Cat, who was bound at both wrist, ankle and waist, and required a minimum of an extra dozen guards to always walk her to and from the mines. That was expected by the world's most notorious assassin; her training alone demanded extra caution from her guards, let alone her other... more special gifts. What she did not expect, however, was a hooded man in black at her side- as there was now.
He gripped her bare arm in a gloved hand as he led her through the shining building where the Mine's officials and overseers were housed. It seemed obscenely clean to her now, after a year spent in filth, be it the underground mines or the barns where the slaves slept at night. Barely fit for humans, the barns were every bit as filthy as the mines themselves. At least in the Mines when people died from exhaustion they didn't make a big deal about it. They simply collapsed, and never got back up again. Their bodies were thrown into carts at the end of the day, and transported to the mass graves that the slaves themselves had to dig. All that remained of them were their shackles, and with the never ending supply of prisoners, they never went to waste for long before they were slapped on some other poor soul. When they died in the barns, however, there was always a commotion. Wailing. Crying. Praying- which the Cat had always considered rather stupid. Who were they praying to, exactly? Hadn't they learned yet? There were no gods, other than Death, and He would take what was His no matter how many people prayed.
Sometimes, more often than she liked to think about, the Cat often wished that He would take her too, into the sweet oblivion of the great, unending sleep.
They strode down corridors, up flights of stairs, down flights of stairs, and around and around and around until she hadn't the faintest chance of finding her way out again.
At least, that was he hooded escort's intention, because she hadn't failed to notice when they went up and down the same staircase within a matter of minutes. She had known because the seventh step up had a chipped stone to the left, and there was a scratch on the wall above the banister at the top. Nor had she missed when they zigzagged between levels, even though the building was a standard, blank square grid of hallways and stairwells. As if she'd lose her bearings that easily. She might have been insulted if he wasn't trying so hard. After all, she had been trained most rigorously in such matters. See with your eyes, came the voice in her head. Hear with your ears. The seeing, the true seeing- that is the heart of knowing.
They entered a particularly long hallway, silent save for their footsteps. Though the man grasping her arm was tall and fit, she could see nothing of the features concealed beneath his hood. Another tactic meant to confuse and intimidate her. The black clothes were probably part of it too. Well, he failed, she thought with satisfaction. For he had not succeeded in intimidating her, but she did find herself somewhat amused by the considerable planning that had gone into his efforts, only for them to be entirely wasted. His head shifted in her direction, and the Cat flashed him a grin. He looked forward again as they turned a corner, his iron grip tightening.
It was flattering, she supposed, even if she didn't know what was happening, or why he'd been waiting for her outside the mine shaft. After a day of cleaving rock salt from the innards of the mountain, finding him standing there with six guards had not improved her mood. Perhaps they had decided to kill her after all. Apparently just waiting for her to die of exhaustion and malnutrition just wasn't entertaining enough. Maybe they had had their fun in her suffering. Now they wanted a swift end. It would send a message, she supposed. Who was safe on this continent, if even the most feared assassin in all the world couldn't save herself?
But her ears had pricked when he'd introduced himself to her overseer as Gendry Waters, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and suddenly, the sky loomed, and the mountains pushed from behind, and even the earth swelled towards her knees. She hadn't tasted fear in a while- hadn't let herself taste fear. Not since she had been a helpless child, running away from her family's murderers. When she awoke every morning, she repeated the same words: I will not be afraid. I will not be afraid. For a year, those words had meant the difference between breaking and bending; they had kept her from shattering in the darkness of the mines. Not that she'd let the Lord Commander know any of that.
The Cat examined the gloved hand holding her arm. The dark leather almost matched the dirt on her skin.
She adjusted her torn and filthy tunic with her free hand and held in her sigh. Entering the mines before sunrise and departing after dusk, she rarely glimpsed the sun. She was frightfully pale beneath the dirt. She had always been pale, much to her sister's disdain, pale in the way that so many Northerner's were. She had been a strange looking child, she recalled bitterly, with a long, solemn face that didn't match her years. She supposed that seriousness had only grown over time, but at least she had grown into it, grown beautiful even, but- well, it didn't matter now, did it?
They turned down another hallway, and she studied the stranger's finely crafted sword. Its shimmering pommel was shaped like an bull, with curving horns. Noticing her stare, his gloved hand descended to rest upon its golden head. Another smile tugged at the corners of her lips.
"You're a long way from Kings Landing, Commander," she said, clearing her throat. "Did you come with the army I heard thumping around earlier?" She peered into the darkness beneath his hood but saw nothing. Still, she felt his eyes upon her face, judging, weighing, testing. She stared right back. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard would be an interesting opponent. Maybe even worthy of some effort on her part.
Finally, the man raised his sword hand, and the folds of his cloak fell to conceal the blade. As his cloak shifted, she spied the red three headed dragon embroidered on his tunic. The royal sigil.
"What do you care for the King's armies?" he replied. How lovely it was to hear a voice like her own—cool and articulate—even if he was a nasty brute.
"Nothing," she said, shrugging. He let out a low growl of annoyance. Dear, dear, such a short temper he had. That would never do. She sighed. Men like him would never make it at the House of Black and White, yet still they sneered down at her- even as they feared her.
Oh, how nice it would be to see his blood spill across the marble. She'd lost her temper once before—once, when her first overseer chose the wrong day to push her too hard. She still remembered the feeling of embedding the pickax into his gut, and the stickiness of his blood on her hands and face. She could disarm two of these guards in a heartbeat. Would the Commander fare better than her late overseer? Contemplating the potential outcomes, she grinned at him again.
"Don't you look at me like that," he warned, and his hand drifted back toward his sword. The Cat hid her smirk this time. They passed a series of wooden doors that she'd seen a few minutes ago- identified them by the slightly uneven edge at the bottom. If she wanted to escape, she simply had to turn left at the next hallway and take the stairs down three flights. The only thing all the intended disorientation had accomplished was to familiarise her with the building. Idiots.
"Where are we going again?" she asked with a bored tone, brushing a strand of her matted hair from her face. When he didn't reply, she clenched her jaw. So rude. Honestly, what was it with men, that the moment they believed they had control, they turned nasty? She wondered if he would treat her the same way if she were dressed not as a slave, but the high born she had once been. Would he grip her hard enough to bruise then? Would he snap and snarl at her, as if she were a rabid dog? Somehow she doubted it. But then, she supposed, filthy and dressed in rags as she was, perhaps she did rather look like the rabid dog he believed her to be. Oh, how she would love to show him how ugly the beast inside really was. Now that- that would give him something to really worry about, the brute.
The halls echoed too loudly for her to attack him without alerting the whole building. She hadn't seen where he'd put the key to her irons, and the six guards who trailed them would be nuisances. Not to mention the shackles. They bound her wrists in front of her, connected to a chain that went around her waist, and down to the shackles around her feet. They had once tried to force a collar around her neck, too, but the Cat had made sure they learned never to try that again. There were some humiliations that even she would not endure- and she had endured plenty.
They entered a hallway hung with iron chandeliers. Outside the windows lining the wall, night had fallen; lanterns kindled so bright they offered few shadows to hide in. It was inconvenient at best. Impossible at worst. The Cat would know; she had tried it before. Had almost succeeded, too.
From the courtyard, she could hear the other slaves shuffling toward the wooden building where they slept. The moans of agony amongst the clank of chains made a chorus as familiar as the dreary work songs they sang all day. The occasional solo of the whip added to the symphony of brutality Westeros had created for its greatest criminals, poorest citizens, and latest conquests.
While some of the slaves were here for crimes, these days, more and more rebels arrived at the Mines. Most were from the North- her own people. Many were from Dorne, one of the few Kingdom's still fighting the Crown's rule. But when she pestered them for news, most just stared at her with empty eyes. Already broken. She shuddered to consider what they had endured, these brave people who dared to defy a tyrant's rule. Some days, she wondered if they would have been better off dying at the butchering blocks instead. And if she might have been better off dying that night she had been betrayed and captured, too.
But she had other things to think about as they continued their walk. Was she finally to be hanged? Sickness coiled in her stomach. She was important enough to warrant an execution from the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard himself. But why bring her inside this building first? Why not make a spectacle in the yard, for all of her fellow slaves to witness? To break them all a little more? Unless... perhaps they planned to haul her in chains to Kings Landing, to execute her at the Sept of Baelor. A death identical to her father's murder years prior. Shame surged through her, along with horror. Her father had not deserved that death- that was the difference between them. Because, even as she would kick and fight her fate all the way to the headsman, she knew deep down, that she would deserve it. Oh, how her father must be weeping for shame, to see his daughter brought so low- as much by her own twisted, ruined soul as by her enemies chains.
At last, they stopped before a set of red-and-gold glass doors so thick that she couldn't see through them. Lord Commander Waters jerked his chin at the two guards standing on either side of the doors, and they stomped their spears in greeting.
The commander's grip tightened until it hurt. He yanked the Cat closer, but her feet seemed to be made of lead and she pulled against him. "You'd rather stay in the mines?" he asked, sounding faintly amused.
"Perhaps if I were told what this was all about, I wouldn't feel so inclined to resist."
"You'll find out soon enough." Her palms became sweaty. Yes, she was going to die. It had come at last.
The doors groaned open to reveal a throne room. A glass chandelier shaped like a grapevine occupied most of the ceiling, spitting seeds of diamond fire onto the windows along the far side of the room. Compared to the bleakness outside those windows, the opulence felt like a slap to the face. A reminder of how much they profited from her labour. From the labour of so many.
"In here," the Commander of the Kingsguard growled, and shoved her with his free hand, finally releasing her. The Cat stumbled, her calloused feet slipping on the smooth floor as she straightened herself. She looked back to see another six guards appear.
Fourteen guards, plus the commander. The blood red royal sigil embroidered on the breast of black uniforms. These were members of the Royal Family's personal guard: ruthless, lightning-swift soldiers trained from birth to protect and kill. She swallowed tightly.
Lightheaded and immensely heavy all at once, The Cat faced the room. On an ornate redwood throne sat a handsome young man. Her heart stopped as everyone bowed.
She was standing in front of the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.
Okee, so that was the first chapter- clearly, quite a lot shorter than my usual chapters, but hopefully enjoyable all the same! please leave a review and let me know your thoughts- I will carry this on, but it will take the backseat to my main WIP, Speak To Me Softly (another Arya fic!). Again, anything you recognise, probably isn't mine- I am essentially just editing SJM's Throne of Glass, switching the characters, world, and adding my own details and insights- I won't even pretend to be the absolute queen herself! I really hope you enjoyed, please let me know your thoughts!
Over and Out xoxo