ARYA

Arya was beginning to hate cats.

There was no shortage of them in King's Landing. Winterfell had had plenty of its own; they were used to keep the mice and rats at bay in the kitchens and towers, but she'd never seen more than a dozen at a time until she'd come to the capital. The Red Keep teemed with them.

At least it made for the easy task of finding them. The hard part was catching them. They were lithe and quick and outmaneuvered her at every turn; even the fat ones that prowled around the kitchens evaded her with little effort. But Syrio had suggested she chase them to improve her dexterity and speed, so that was what she was going to do.

Even if she had yet to capture one.

Her lessons with the Braavosi sword-master were the only things she liked about King's Landing. She enjoyed dinner with her father, too, on the rare occasion he came back to the Tower of the Hand before Septa Mordane ordered her and Sansa to bed. But learning to Water Dance with Syrio Forel was something that was entirely her own, where she didn't have to deal with the Septa's boring lessons on manners and needlework or listen to Sansa complain about how annoying Arya was being—or worse, listen to her sister gush over Prince Joffrey.

Arya crept through the corridor, keeping her footsteps light. Though the roof blocked out the late afternoon sun, the Keep was still uncomfortably warm. Sweat beaded on her forehead and under her arms, but she didn't mind. Dirt and sweat had never bothered her the way they did Sansa. She was too focused, anyway; the tabby she'd been chasing for the last hour was just around the next corner. She could hear its rusty purrs.

Keeping on the balls of her feet, Arya paused just before turning the corner. A drop of sweat slid down her back. And then she lunged.

She tumbled around the corner, hands outstretched, but the cat wasn't there. She stopped, confused, before looking up and realizing that she wasn't alone in the corridor.

A servant woman stood in the corridor, a large pail of water at her feet and the tabby in her arms, purring in contentment. At the sight of Arya, it flicked its tail. She could have sworn it even gave her a smug look as the woman rubbed its ears.

Arya straightened, glaring at the cat, then the servant.

"How did you do that?" she demanded.

The servant raised an eyebrow. "Do what?"

Arya pointed at the cat. "That."

The servant glanced at the cat in her arms. "I picked it up."

"I've been chasing that cat all afternoon," Arya said, crossing her arms. "How come it came to you and not to me?"

"Perhaps because you were chasing it." She set the cat back on the ground. With a last taunting look, the tabby shot down the corridor, gone before Arya could even move. She groaned.

"Now I'll have to find another," she said, disgruntled.

The servant seemed amused. "What are you doing chasing cats?"

Arya brushed past the woman, wondering if she shouldn't just call it a day and take a bath instead. "It's part of my training."

She heard the servant pick up her pail. To her surprise, the woman caught up to her quickly. A pail that large with that much water should've been quite heavy. She gave Arya a quizzical look. "Training for what?"

"My dancing lessons," she mumbled. Her father had told her what to say if anyone inquired about her lessons with Syrio Forel. For some reason, her answer amused the servant more.

"I see," she said. "May I offer you some advice? For your training?"

Arya glanced sidelong at the woman. She was much younger than her father but older than her brothers, Robb and Jon. Arya was terrible at guessing age, but she put the servant somewhere between twenty and twenty-five years. After a moment, Arya nodded.

"Be mindful of your breath," the woman said. At Arya's questioning look, she elaborated. "Your steps are light, but your feet aren't the only things you should worry about when you're sneaking. I could hear you panting the moment you entered that corridor."

"It's hot," Arya said, defensive.

The woman nodded. "So it is. I imagine it's a vast change for a Northern lady like yourself."

Arya shot the woman a suspicious look. "How do you know who I am? And how do you know so much about sneaking?"

"The Starks have been the talk of the capital these last weeks," she said, "especially with the Hand's tourney coming up. The Keep's been busy day and night trying to prepare."

Arya frowned. "You haven't answered my second question."

The woman's lips quirked. "Persistent, m'lady. An admirable quality."

"I'm not a lady," she retorted.

"As you wish." The servant shifted the pail of water to her other hand, flexing her fingers. Arya stared at her scarred and calloused palm. "As for how I know about sneaking, it's because I've done quite a bit of it myself."

"How so?"

The woman smiled. "Chasing cats."

Arya opened her mouth to press further, but she had to screw her eyes up and shrink back from the blinding sunlight as they emerged from the corridor and into one of the Red Keep's smaller courtyards. Servants and guards rushed about, shouting instructions and demands to each other, all preparing for the Hand's tourney on the morrow as the servant had said.

The servant dipped her chin to Arya. "I must get back to work. Good day, m'lady."

"Wait," Arya said. The woman turned back to her. Arya bit her lip. "I want to know more about sneaking."

The woman glanced over her shoulder, frowning. When she moved her head, her braid shifted against her back. Amongst the black of her hair was a piece that shimmered like silver, twisting like a stream of starlight through a midnight forest. Arya was about to ask about it before the woman turned back with a sigh.

"Another time," she said. "I'm afraid I'm already missed. My apologies, m'lady."

Arya tried not to let her disappointment show. "All right. But can I have your name, so I know how to find you again?"

The woman smiled slightly. "I suppose. I'm Nesrin if it please you."

"I'm—"

"Arya!"

Ned Stark strode toward her on his long legs, escorted by Jory Cassel and another of his guards. Her father's grim face was exasperated when he laid eyes on her. He shook his head when he got closer, the pin of the Hand of the King gleaming against his dull tunic.

"I've been looking for you for over an hour," he said. "Septa Mordane expected you at noon so you could be fitted for the tourney."

"I don't want to wear a dress," Arya said, wrinkling her nose.

Her father grinned, the lines on his face disappearing at the gesture. "And I don't want this tourney to be in my name, but we must do what's expected of us, even if it isn't appealing."

Arya sighed, conceding this point. "All right." She turned back to Nesrin. "I'll find you again."

Nesrin nodded respectfully to her and Ned Stark. "If it please, m'lady. Lord Stark."

Ned looked at the servant, finally noticing her. "Nesrin, was it?" The woman nodded. "You have a peculiar accent. Eastern?"

"Pentoshi, m'lord," she said.

He nodded thoughtfully, his grey eyes sizing her up. "Well, I won't let my daughter or myself keep you from your duties. Good day."

Nesrin dipped her head again before moving away into the bustle of the courtyard. Ned watched her disappear before setting his hand on Arya's shoulder and steering her back into the Keep.

"May I inquire as to what you were doing that's resulted in you being covered in dirt?" he asked her.

"I was chasing cats," she admitted. At her father's skeptical look, she shimmied out from beneath his hand. "It's part of my training with Syrio! And I met Nesrin while I was chasing this one cat. She gave me some advice about sneaking and I asked her if she would help me learn more and—"

"What's all this about sneaking?" said Ned.

Arya puffed out her chest slightly. "Syrio says a Water Dancer has to be quick and cunning. He says cats are one of the best ways to train for that. You have to be sneaky in order to catch a cat." She scowled when her father traded an amused glance with Jory. "You'll see. I'm going to be the best Water Dancer there ever was—as good as Syrio!"

"I believe it," Ned said fondly. "But only after you've allowed the Septa to fit you for your dress."

Arya blanched. Her father just laughed.

JAIME

The sun had just cleared the parapets of the Red Keep, casting bright light upon the stones and making them appear as if they were glowing from within. Though most sought reprieve from the sun's scorching rays at high noon, the grounds of the Keep were alive and teeming with bodies that day.

King's Landing had turned out in droves to watch the Hand's tourney. Knights and freeriders from across the realm were also in attendance, seeking the King's favor and, more importantly, the King's gold. It was a spectacle—the most expensive tournament Jaime Lannister had ever seen.

He despised it.

Gone were the days of his youth when he was a squire and a knight, praying for a tourney and every opportunity that arose with it to showcase his skill. The excitement and exhilaration of it all used to awe him. Now, it felt tedious. Any tourney would be a bore compared to a battle—just boys with sticks playing at war rather than the real thing. Perhaps that was why they held no interest for him anymore: he'd fought and killed before, and no tourney would ever come close to the thrill of battle.

Gods, he was beginning to sound like Robert.

The boar of a king himself walked a few steps ahead of Jaime, his mouth moving faster than his feet. He jabbered on about one thing or another; Jaime didn't quite know what the topic of conversation was anymore. He'd stopped listening a while ago.

Ser Mandon and Ser Arys walked beside their king, white cloaks gleaming in the sun. The other members of the Kingsguard trailed behind Jaime, their scaled armor shimmering and clacking with every step. The Queen followed in King Robert's wake, her pink skirts stirring in the fair breeze and her golden hair shining as brightly as any star. Jaime was so captivated by it that he didn't register her beside him until she spoke, keeping her voice soft as their entourage continued through the tourney grounds.

"I wish you wouldn't ride today," Cersei said. His sister's lips curled at the mention of the joust. "There are plenty of knights and freeriders already; I'm sure you won't be missed."

"Every knight of the Kingsguard is slated to tilt," he said. He glanced at Robert's wide back, grimacing when the King's booming laugh echoed across the grounds. "Do you really expect Robert to not notice if I don't go out there?" He slouched his shoulders and shuffled his feet, imitating Robert's slurred, drunken voice as he said, "'Kingslayer! Why aren't you out there? I took you for a poor excuse of a knight, not some pansy twat hiding behind his sister's skirts!'"

Cersei didn't smile. "I don't know what possessed Robert to host a tourney. And all of it for Ned Stark." She snorted lightly. "I suppose any excuse for him to get drunk and squander all our money away would suffice, though."

"Now, Sister, is that any way to talk about our beloved king?" Jaime said, frowning in mock disapproval at the Queen.

She rolled her eyes. "Don't joust today," she said, ignoring his teasing. "Remain by your king's side." She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. "By my side."

Jaime's fingers clenched unconsciously upon the pommel of his sword. "Would that I could. But an order is an order. King Robert has ordered all of us to participate."

Her features settled into disappointment. He longed to reach out and touch her, to wipe the expression from her face and see her smile, but he kept his hand on his sword. Such thoughts would not do. Cersei would kill him if he even tried with so many eyes watching them.

He lowered his voice to a whisper. "I'll come to you tonight," he said. "After the feast when Robert stumbles drunk into his chambers with all his whores. I'll come to you."

Cersei's face pinched. "You shouldn't. Not after what happened the last time."

Jaime scoffed. "The Red Keep isn't Winterfell. At least here we know where the rats hide."

"Enough," she said as they approached the jousting grounds. "We will speak more later."

Jaime acquiesced, watching as Robert and Cersei ascended the wooden stairs of the platform where the king and queen's chairs were. Below them sat most of the Small Council members and various ladies and lords of stature, Ned Stark and his daughters among them. He scowled at the Hand's back. Eddard fucking Stark and his nosy miscreants he called offspring. After all, it was Brandon Stark's fault that Cersei was too paranoid to even be alone in the same room as Jaime. And that feral daughter of his, Arya, was just as bad.

Oh, well, Jaime thought. They'll learn soon enough. The Capital is nothing like the North.

He gripped the pommel of his sword and prepared to ascend the stairs after King Robert and his sister when a servant appeared at the top, carrying several extra cushions that he guessed Robert didn't want for his chair. When the servant glimpsed Jaime waiting at the bottom, she ducked her head and scuttled down the steps with a hasty, "Apologies, m'lord."

She skirted around him once she reached the bottom step, his armored form taking up most of the space, but she glanced up at his face for a brief second.

Jaime was used to the ogling stares and blushes from women, noble and lowborn alike, that he ought not to have thought anything of it. But her eyes…

Jaime whirled, but the servant was gone. He stared across the grounds, unsettled. Those eyes. He'd seen them before, he was sure of it. But where…?

A trumpet blasting broke him from his thoughts. He shook his head and ascended the stairs, the servant already forgotten.

NESRIN

The Hand's tourney was quite possibly one of the worst forms of torture she'd had yet to endure in her miserable life.

She supposed it was nice for the nobles; a chance to dress up, drink, feast, and sneak off into the shadows to get up to all sorts of debauchery otherwise frowned upon. But Nesrin wasn't a servant, even if Varys had instructed her to dress like one and act like one for an interminable amount of time. She was accustomed to being a part of the revelry, not cleaning it up afterward.

Though she'd been posing as a servant in the Red Keep for a fortnight, her tasks had been quite simple: fetch water from the wells, clean the floors, polish the occasional antique, wash this and that. But the night after the first day of the tourney was brutal work spent in the kitchens, scrubbing and drying so many dishes that her arms became sore and her fingers wrinkled like an old crone's. She hated it, and for every plate and piece of cutlery that came her way, she made sure to curse both Illyrio's and Varys's names.

She hadn't even seen the Spider since he'd packed her off to the servants' quarters. Nor had she heard anything from the Magister. Each night, her anger swelled more and more. How dare they? She was the Wraith. Spy, thief, assassin. She was the best at what she did. And instead of doing any of those things, she was stuck washing dishes.

How R'hollor would laugh if he saw how far she'd fallen.

It was well past midnight when the kitchen head told her to fuck off and get some rest. She was all too glad to obey, even if her straw bed scratched her skin to ribbons and made her sneeze all night. She supposed she shouldn't complain; she'd been in much worse conditions before, and usually with shackles on. But she hadn't endured servitude only to return to it again, even if she wasn't bound by chains this time around.

Her feet led her easily through the labyrinthine corridors of the Red Keep with only the moonlight and the occasional torch in its sconce to light her way. She'd memorized the basic structure of the Keep already and could find her way without too much difficulty, though she hadn't had the time to study the secret passages and tunnels Varys had hinted at before he'd abandoned her. She ought to have been at the servants' quarters already, so she was surprised when she looked up and found herself in the throne room.

She'd been avoiding the room for weeks now. She had no interest in court or the throne, so she'd never found an excuse to visit. But now here she was, alone in the room with nothing but the Iron Throne before her.

The torches along the walls were still lit, but they burned low and dull, their light barely enough to illuminate the long room or the high ceiling. Moonlight filtered in uneven shafts through the painted glass window some heads above her, glinting off the iron swords melded together to make the throne, their hilts jutting out like broken bones.

Despite its crude design, the throne was much smaller than she'd expected. "Made from the thousand blades of Aegon the Conqueror's enemies," the stories said. She'd imagined a hulking beast—a dragon with a thousand spikes dominating the room. Not a simple metal chair.

"What are you doing here?"

She turned at the Kingslayer's voice. Though he'd never spoken to her before, she'd watched him; learned him, just like everyone else in the Keep. She could already recognize his arrogant drawl and the way his languid gait sounded in all that ugly white armor.

She lowered her eyes to the grand marbled floor, watching the shadows play at her feet. "I was just on my way back to the servants' quarters, m'lord."

He made no move, but she could feel his gaze on her. "You're not from King's Landing."

She kept her eyes downcast. She'd played the part of the obedient servant before, and would do it again and again for Illyrio. "No, m'lord. Pentos."

"I didn't ask where you were from."

"Forgive me, m'lord." It was an effort not to roll her eyes. How she'd always loathed the nobles. "I'll take my leave now."

"And I didn't tell you that you could go," he said. Her jaw twitched. "Didn't they teach you proper manners in Pentos?" She didn't answer. "Look at me."

She lifted her head and met his eyes. They were dark and hooded in the shadows, but the faint firelight gave her a glimpse of that famous Lannister green and the gold of his hair. It framed his square jaw and strong features, hanging just shy of his broad, armored shoulders; she'd heard whispers in the Keep that Jaime Lannister was considered the most handsome man in Westeros, and they appeared to have a grain of truth, after all. He was the golden knight in shining armor from all the songs sung about heroes and princesses, but she knew who he really was—the oathbreaker who'd murdered his own king. And, apparently, the true father of the Queen's children.

He studied her for a moment with those green eyes. "You don't look like a Pentoshi."

"I only said my accent was from Pentos. M'lord," she added. She glanced behind him to the entrance of the hall, looking for more Kingsguard, but he appeared to be alone.

"A servant in the Red Keep who speaks like a Pentoshi but doesn't look like one," he mused. His eyes raked her over again as if he were searching for something on her. "How does that come to be?"

"Not all of us have the fortune to be born into wealthy, powerful families," she said, gesturing around her. "We do what we can to survive. M'lord."

"Ah, yes." He looked over her shoulder to the Iron Throne. "When you were looking at it, what did you see?" He stepped closer, his white cloak whispering across the floor, but his gaze remained on the throne. "Did you see yourself up there? Dressed in fine silks and gems with a crown upon your head?" He smirked, his eyes flicking back to her. "There's no shame in admitting it. It's quite a common fantasy."

"Actually," she said, subtly angling herself to flank him in case he should strike, "I was thinking about the day the Mad King died, m'lord."

His smirk widened. "Were you, now?" He looked beyond her again, back to the throne. "I could tell you all about that day, you know. What he was wearing; what he smelled like. The way his blood pooled right there" —he pointed to the throne's dais— "and dripped down those very steps, right at your feet."

"You sound like you enjoyed it." She was no longer alone with the Kingslayer. Instead, she imagined a dark, foul room, the throne gleaming like fire. A man with silver hair and purple eyes sat in it, laughing maniacally before a golden knight shoved his sword through his back and cut his throat. She watched the blood run down the steps, coming to rest at her feet, exactly where the Kingslayer said.

"And if I did?" Jaime Lannister looked down his long nose at her. "Do you think I care what some nameless servant from nothing thinks of me?"

"No," she said. "I don't think you care what I think at all."

He stared at her. "Who are you?"

She met his gaze, unflinching. "A nameless servant from nothing."

And without waiting for dismissal, she turned and left the throne room.

JAIME

"A nameless servant from nothing."

Once Robert had retired to his chambers with three serving girls after the feast, Jaime had left Ser Arys Oakheart to take his watch and sought out Cersei. It had taken much coaxing before she'd accepted him into her bed, and though their coupling had been briefer than he'd wished, it had still been enough to satiate his desire. She'd sent him away after and he'd taken to wandering the halls of the Red Keep as he was wont to do on nights when he couldn't sleep, plagued by too many thoughts.

That was when he'd seen the servant from that afternoon steal into the throne room, her steps light and quick. He'd always prided himself on remembering faces, so when he recognized her, he'd followed her.

She'd been quite unremarkable; short, plain, and otherwise unassuming. Or perhaps that was what she wanted the world to see. But he hadn't been able to shake the feeling that he'd seen her before, especially when he noticed her eyes again—a blue so deep they appeared indigo, the firelight ringing them with red.

"A nameless servant from nothing."

He tossed in his bed in White Sword Tower, the image of those eyes in the dark clinging to him like a bramble. Something about that servant unsettled him. And if he'd learned anything in his life besides swordplay, it was to never trust anybody in King's Landing.

The eyes followed him into his dreams that night, watching as he killed the Mad King. They stared out from the flames, blue and red, as Aerys Targaryen died, his screams still echoing in the throne room.

"Burn them all!"