Dawn had yet to find its first light found Arya Stark already stirred from her uneasy slumber, a cloak of shadows clinging to her like a spectral shroud. The purpose that etched itself onto her journey to Kings Landing now led her to find Littlefinger, his name etched on her ever-expanding list. A desire to erase the brothel keeper, a puppet master in his own right, was an integral piece of her plan, yet he had so far eluded her.
Theon's snores harmonised with the rhythm of the night as Arya, a whisper of shadows, slipped away from their shared chamber. Her training as a faceless individual proved its mettle, allowing her to navigate the quiet corridors without leaving a trace of her presence. The subtle art of stealth, instilled by faceless mentors, was a cloak that draped her every move in the embrace of silence.
In the bed, Theon, caught in the spell of dreams, remained oblivious to Arya's nocturnal excursion. The gentle roll of his slumbering form echoed in the room as Arya tiptoed past, a phantom gliding through the tapestry of darkness. Theon's repose, undisturbed by Arya's departure, unfolded in the symphony of his snoring. The room cradled the sound, and Theon, undisturbed, merely shifted under the covers.
Theon's own quest had left him wearied. The brothels, overseen by the enigmatic Littlefinger, offered no insight into the whereabouts of the elusive keeper. A fruitless pursuit through the clandestine alleys of desire had left Theon grappling with exhaustion.
The tidings Theon had brought over the last few days were scarce. His nightly endeavours uncovering only the whispers of one courtesan summoned to the Red Keep, serving an aged man bound in chains. Arya, pieced together the fragments of information, deducing the enigmatic figure to be none other than Grand Maester Pycelle.
Theon, bearing the weight of these revelations, lay spent in the aftermath of his pursuits. The dalliances with the whores, a means to an end, had extracted their toll, leaving him worn out from his exertions.
Amidst the cloak of shadows, Arya clandestinely emerged from the inn's sanctuary where their secrets whispered in the dark. Her countenance had assumed the guise of a northerner discovered on the edge of life's abyss near Moles Town. Through the murmurings of the locals, she uncovered his identity—Benn Boocher. The face she now wore bore the weight of fifty years, with thinning long grey hair yielding to the relentless grasp of age. It bore a haggard countenance adorned with a grey beard, proof of life's harsh passage, and a vacant front tooth—a testament to the unforgiving march of time.
A veil of deception enveloped Arya as she embraced the persona of Benn Boocher. In the shadows of the Street of Silk, which bore witness to clandestine dealings, her subterfuge was imperative. The ruse of age, embodied by the guise of an older man, bestowed upon her the cloak of anonymity amidst the empty streets. In a realm teeming with vice and secrets, her thirteen-year-old self would have been a vulnerable spectre. Her presence destined to be mistaken for a worker, one of the many child-whores who worked in such establishments. The cloak of Benn Boocher, however, draped her in the guise of a potential client, offering a shroud of protection in the city's underworld.
Fortuitously, Arya's experiences from her previous life, had schooled her in the nuances of Littlefinger's strategies and the intricacies of his dealings within his enterprises. Littlefinger's actions were executed with meticulous precision, a dance performed with deliberate steps. He surfaced when it served his purpose, a masterful display of calculated visibility. However, when engaged in less savoury endeavours, he deftly manoeuvred through the shadows, orchestrating clandestine moves beyond the scrutiny of prying eyes.
Arya knew Littlefinger played a pivotal role in the demise of Jon Arryn. He had supplied her aunt with a lethal poison known as the Tears of Lys, a substance she discreetly administered to her ailing husband. His passing had been misconstrued as a mere bout of fever. Given the Hand of the King's advanced age, inquiries into the circumstances of his death were never pursued. The subtlety of the deception allowed Littlefinger's dark machinations to elude suspicion.
Arya's journey to Kings Landing bore the weight of an unwavering determination. Her singular goal was etched in the contours of her resolve – Littlefinger's demise before she retraced her steps to Queenscrown. The nuances of her plan unfolded with careful precision. She intended to shadow Littlefinger, unravelling the tapestry of his comings and goings within the city's heart.
Her dagger, a silent accomplice in the dance of death, awaited its role in the unfolding drama. Arya envisioned a moment reminiscent of his trial in another life, a reckoning where justice, swift and silent, would be served. Benn Boocher, the guise she wore, would vanish into the obscurity of the shadows once Lord Baelish met his end. The transformation from an elderly man to a thirteen-year-old girl, with long brown hair and grey eyes, would confound pursuers, leaving them chasing illusions through the city's winding alleys.
The success of Arya's intricate plan hung precariously on the delicate balance of time, a dance between Lord Baelish's presence in King's Landing and his potential departure for the Vale. The intricacies of her knowledge, drawn from a previous life, had already wielded profound consequences in the North, altering the very fabric of events. This cast a ripple effect, reshaping the unfolding narrative in the capital city.
Arya, Jon, and Sansa, bound by the strands of fate, had collectively rewritten the North's destiny. Intentionally setting forth a cascade of changes that echoed even in the distant chambers of Kings Landing. Yet Arya found herself on uncertain ground; the temporal currents, once altered, made predicting Littlefinger's movements an enigmatic puzzle.
In the echoes of her past, Littlefinger's sojourn in Kings Landing persisted for nearly a year after King Robert's demise. His eventual retreat to the Vale marked the prelude to a twisted union with Arya's aunt, Lysa – the widow of the late Hand of the King, Jon Arryn. Littlefinger's sinister involvement in Jon Arryn's demise, through the insidious Tears of Lys, had shrouded the Hand's death in the guise of a fever. The advanced age of the Hand silenced any suspicions, leaving the shadows of deception undisturbed.
Lord Baelish's intentions loomed over the Vale like an impending storm, an undeniable force yearning for dominion. The control of the Vale, presently under the guardianship of Lady Lysa Arryn, acting as regent for her young son, Lord Robin Arryn, fuelled the machinations of Littlefinger's insidious plot. His designs were cast in shadows, a result of Lysa's infatuation with him.
Littlefinger's nefarious stratagem unravelled in the annals of Arya's knowledge, drawn from the intricate dance of events in her previous life. The sinister choreography involved a twisted matrimony with Lady Lysa, positioning her as the unwitting pawn in his intricate game. Once wed, Littlefinger would manipulate the trust of Lord Robin, a mere stepping stone on the treacherous path. His ultimate aim – the murder of the Lady of the Vale, leaving him as the sole puppeteer and regent of the young Lord.
Yet, the temporal fluctuations wrought by the time travellers cast an uncertain shadow over Littlefinger's grand design. The altered course of events, a consequence of their meddling, could force his hand, compelling him to hasten his journey to the Eyrie.
Benn's eyes lingered over the expanse of the Street of Silk, a phantom figure concealed in the shadows, akin to a stealthy predator biding its time for the perfect strike. The turquoise hues etched across the heavens heralded the imminent sunrise, an omen of the city's rebirth with the dawn. A preternatural stillness gripped the air, as the colossal city stirred from its slumber. Soon, it would transform into a sprawling metropolis, teeming with denizens from diverse backgrounds, engrossed in their pursuits of trade and daily life.
In these predawn moments, the brothels surrendered to a hushed serenity. Despite their continuous operation, the quietude reached its zenith during sunrise. A sanctuary for the most discerning clientele, seeking discretion amidst the early light, and the covert visits of the establishment's proprietor.
During his nocturnal visits, Theon, a stranger to the early twilight hours on the Street of Silk. He typically concluded his escapades around three in the morning, retreating long before the sun's first glimmer. Arya, relying on her keen deductions, surmised that this specific window, in the quiet moments before dawn, presented the likeliest opportunity to encounter Littlefinger.
Benn's vigil was brief, for he soon discerned the unmistakable serpentine cadence of Lord Petyr Baelish's voice. A moment later, the man materialised from a narrow side street, a mere twenty feet distant.
The streets were aglow with the flickering light of oil lanterns. The cast an illuminating sheen on the dark cascade of hair atop his head, marked by two distinctive silver streaks—one adorning each side. Littlefinger wore opulent silken robes, their pale colours and patterns indecipherable from Benn's vantage point. In his hands, two large, leather-clad books were cradled, likely ledgers chronicling the sprawling empire of his brothels. Yet Benn couldn't discount the possibility that they held the kingdom's accounts, a potential boon for Prince Aegon's aspirations for the Iron Throne.
The sight of the ledgers stirred Benn's curiosity, a relentless itch to uncover the shadowy workings of Westeros' tangled finances. How had the realm plunged into such staggering debt? Theories swirled in his mind—King Robert's extravagant expenditures, perhaps, or the insidious pocketing of crown funds by Littlefinger. Regardless of the root cause, Benn coveted those ledgers as much as he yearned to extract Littlefinger from the grand chessboard of the great game.
Benn lurked in the shadow's embrace, patient as the first light of dawn painted the sky in hues of orange. Littlefinger's sinuous figure vanished within the confines of his establishment, a signal for Benn to emerge from concealment. Plans of a swift, silent dagger strike had unravelled; taking possession of the ledgers dictated his actions. Time pressed upon him, and a clandestine exchange was imperative. Benn, armed not just with a hidden dagger but with a knowledge of Littlefinger's covert dealings, sought a tête-à-tête. A delicate balance of whispers, a ploy spun from the cunning web of information, casting him as a little bird with the voice of the Queen of Thorns.
His gaze ascended, discovering a veranda that promised a discreet escape. Benn evaluated its height, deeming it manageable for a descent without injury, as long as Lord Baelish occupied a room above. Minutes crawled by before Benn, navigating the cobblestones of the Street of Silk, arrived at Littlefinger's establishment. Crossing the threshold, he was greeted by a striking brown-haired woman, scantily clad in smallclothes and a translucent orange robe, baring her allure for all eyes.
The courtesan's gaze swept up and down, registering Benn's unimposing figure with a hint of disdain.
"I'm Belynda. What brings you here?"
"I seek Lord Baelish," Benn replied, with an accent reminiscent of someone who came from the Reach.
"He's not here," Belynda lied.
"I witnessed his entrance just moments ago. I bear an urgent message for him, from a withering rose," Benn said, his words laced with cryptic urgency.
"Wait," Belynda said, leaving Benn to wander the confines of the brothel.
The room gleamed with orange-red silks and lace that adorned both walls and ceiling. Glass oil lanterns bathed the smoke-filled space in a warm, crimson glow. The air was rich with the scent of incense, its spicy and woody notes lingering in the atmosphere. Several sturdy wooden doors hinted at discrete chambers, likely reserved for the clientele of the establishment. Benn, no stranger to brothels, his visits often tied to Arya Stark's list, couldn't help but admit that this was the cleanest and most upscale establishment he had encountered.
Belynda's absence was brief before she reappeared. "Come with me," she said, leading the way through the door she had previously entered. "Your face is unfamiliar in these parts."
"That's because I'm a part of a golden rosebush," Benn said cryptically. Belynda shot him a knowing smile as they ascended a steep staircase.
The walls, constructed of weathered wood, were adorned with sconces containing flickering candles, casting a dim light on their ascent. Upon reaching the top of the stairs, they turned to the right. In Benn's estimation, this path would guide them to a room positioned at the corner of the street, affording him four potential escape routes. An ideal means of evading any unwanted attention.
Belynda's knock resonated, and Lord Baelish's voice invited them in, "Come in."
Pushing through the dark wooden door, Benn found a room resembling the entrance, but now featuring an imposing bed on a raised platform. The windows, equipped with closed shutters to control the light, had one slightly ajar. Benn had mentally charted his exit strategy.
Lord Baelish occupied a chair beside a dark wooden desk, his books neatly closed. He'd removed the silken coat, hanging it up on an ornate coat-hanger in the corner, near the open window. The room seemed poised for the master of chaos to conjure his intricate spells of deceit and financial wizardry.
Littlefinger's forehead creased in puzzlement. "You're new. What is your name, old man."
"Benn Boocher, a simple gardener milord."
"I see, Benn Boocher. What tidings do your bring?"
"They are prickly in their very nature."
"I see. Please, proceed," Baelish said.
"The acquisition of the noose." Benn referred to a poison called the Strangler, the same deadly substance used to poison Joffrey in Arya Stark's past life. Benn hoped the plan had stayed consistent.
"And the method of concealment?" Littlefinger asked.
"Amethyst-coloured glass. Affixed to a bauble. A necklace would be the favoured option,"
Littlefinger nodded. "Consider it done. Is there anything else you require?"
Benn detected a subtle side-eye toward the door. He sensed they were under scrutiny. Littlefinger's uncharacteristic excessive hospitality and calm acceptance of a stranger's information, intimated something was afoot.
Benn shook his head. "I must take my leave. The gardens demand my attention. Thank you, milord."
As Benn approached the door, he feigned turning the handle, only to swiftly pivot, bolting and locking it.
Littlefinger stood, horror etched on his face. "What in the Seven Hells are you doing?"
Benn turned on his heel, a hidden dagger sliding from his sleeve, and lunged toward Littlefinger.
Littlefinger was caught off guard. Though Benn bore the appearance of a man in his fifties, the figure beneath the mask was a thirteen-year-old girl, possessing the speed and grace of a seasoned assassin. Before Lord Baelish could muster a response, Benn stood behind him, tracing a line of crimson across his throat with his dagger. Benn's hand clamped over Littlefinger's mouth, stifling any potential sound from the lips of the erstwhile brothel keeper.
Benn patiently awaited the cessation of the man's futile struggles within his grasp. The moment the pulse succumbed, Arya discarded the mask of Benn and started delicate work on Littlefinger. In her mind, a new escape plan took shape—she would casually stroll out the front door in the guise of Lord Baelish.
With nimble fingers, Arya skillfully peeled away the layers of Littlefinger's identity. Shedding her own attire, she adorned Lord Baelish in Benn's clothing. In a matter of minutes, Arya assumed the face of Littlefinger, while Lord Baelish lay dead on the ground, clad in the garb and visage of Benn Boocher.
With Littlefinger lying motionless on the floor, Arya resolved not to squander the opportunity to uncover his dubious dealings. Surveying her surroundings, she observed the distinct character of this room compared to the rest of the brothel. Besides a bed, it accommodated a desk, cupboards, and drawers—a likely office for the scheming Lord.
Delving into the drawers and perusing the cupboards, Arya unearthed not only garments suitable for a swift departure but also a trove of scrolls, some showing signs of age. Surely, these held the sinister plots concocted in collusion with other Lords. Arya, unhesitant in her use of any means, procured a satchel from a cupboard and filled it with the letters and the two leather tomes resting on his desk.
The lowest drawer of Littlefinger's desk resisted Arya's initial attempts at exploration. Focused, she employed the pin from his mockingbird brooch, coaxing the drawer to reveal its secrets. Within, she uncovered a small, heavy chest, undoubtedly containing a wealth of coins. Placing it on the table, Arya, now seated, contemplated the unexpected discovery, realising a reevaluation of her strategy was in order.
Drawing on her previous experience of adopting prominent faces, her time spent as Walder Frey came to mind. In that instance, unfamiliarity with the man had prompted her to avoid interaction. However, dealing with Littlefinger demanded a different approach.
Two wooden chests stood in the room's corner, catching Arya's attention. Utilising the keys from the desk's top drawer, she unlocked the larger chest with a small iron key. To her surprise, it held not riches but neatly folded clothes. Arya realised that Littlefinger, anticipating upheaval, maintained a contingency for a swift departure.
Arya's nimble fingers turned the key in the smaller chest's lock. To her dismay, it, too, revealed only clothes, albeit not brimming to capacity. A notion struck her – not only would she stride out the door but enlist Littlefinger's guards to escort her to the Steel Inn. Benn would serve as her unassailable alibi.
The letters, ledgers, and the chest of coins found a new home in the smaller chest. Once secured, she changed into fresh clothes. The blood-stained tunic, a souvenir of her deadly encounter, was packed away, ensuring no evidence lingered. Glancing into the mirror, she found satisfaction in the reflection of Littlefinger smirking back at her.
As the door creaked open, Littlefinger was met by two imposing guards. His gaze shifted to the lifeless form of Benn Boocher.
"I require a litter, swift as a raven's flight, to convey me to the Steel Inn, nestled off the Street of Steel. Urgency clings to this matter. Vital information has just reached my ears, demanding my presence away for a brief sojourn," Littlefinger said with a commanding air.
"Yes, my Lord," one guard said.
The other man gestured toward the lifeless form of Benn Boocher. "And what about him?"
Littlefinger's gaze lingered on the disposed figure. "He was a loose end. Loose ends displease me; I prefer everything neatly tied. Now, fetch me that litter swiftly. Once I depart, attend to our departed friend. Erase all remnants of his presence. I desire no trace of his existence in these quarters. Do I make myself clear?"
"Very well," Littlefinger replied, a sly glint in his eyes. "See to it the litter is prepared promptly. We wouldn't want any delays in my departure."
The two men nodded in unison. "We'll have the litter at the front in two minutes," the first guard declared, promptly descending the stairs to ensure Littlefinger's rapid exit.
The second man turned to Littlefinger, ready to assist. "Is there anything you need me to carry?"
Littlefinger's calculating gaze surveyed the room. "The smaller trunk will suffice. I expect only a brief absence, just a few days."
The guard trailed behind Littlefinger, their descent down the stairs marked by the echo of hushed footsteps. Contrary to expectations, the clandestine exit led them to a rear doorway, where a waiting litter stood in silent readiness. Littlefinger stepped inside, and with practised efficiency, the smaller trunk found its place at his feet. The curtains were promptly drawn, enveloping them in a cocoon of secrecy. As the porters raised the litter and set off, Littlefinger mused on the early light—the dawn, his ally. Littlefinger's thoughts shifted to the inn. He needed to change and swiftly locate Gendry, who was doubtless, awaiting his meeting with Arya Stark and Theon outside Tobho Mott's establishment.
The winding streets of Kings Landing teemed with early morning life, an increasing surge of people that threatened to impede the litter's pace. Littlefinger, concealed within, urged them to quicken their steps; he couldn't afford the prying eyes of Varys's little birds to fall upon him. The ride itself, however, offered a brief respite. The jolts and bumps made Littlefinger appreciate the discomfort the porters endured. However, he knew fortune favoured him—swift progress through relatively sparse streets meant a halt in mere ten minutes. Drawing back the curtain, Littlefinger confirmed they were at the intended establishment.
Littlefinger's voice cut through the air as he dismissed the porters, signalling the end of their service. The sturdy men nodded and lifted the litter, preparing to retrace their steps to the brothel. Meanwhile, Littlefinger, clutching the chest, silently ascended the stairs, infiltrating Arya and Theon's chamber with a stealth that would make a cat envious. To his surprise, a knife pressed against his throat, wielded by none other than Theon Greyjoy.
"Who are you, and what have you done with Arya?" Theon said, filled the room, tension coiling like a snake ready to strike.
"Theon, lower the dagger. It's me, Arya."
Theon's eyes widened in disbelief as he confronted the unexpected transformation. The dagger trembled in his grip, unsure whether to strike or retreat. Arya, with a chuckle that echoed through the room like a mischievous melody, revealed her true identity by peeling off the mask of Littlefinger. Theon, bewildered, stumbled over a chair and landed unceremoniously on the floor. Arya, undeterred, dismissed his confusion with a laughter that hinted at the gravity of their impending escape. "Enough games. Gendry awaits, and we must leave this treacherous city before Joffrey kills the Baratheon bastards."
Arya deftly swapped her attire within the confines of the Steel Inn, leaving Theon to stand sentinel over the carefully packed chest. As she emerged into the daylight, the heavy door creaking behind her, she navigated the chaotic streets of King's Landing. At the anvil-lit smithy, Gendry awaited, the weight of his bulls head helm apparent in the satchel slung across his chest. A layer of grime clung to his brown attire, but beneath it, the signs of a recent bath. A grin lit up his face at the sight of Arya.
"My Lady," Gendry said, greeting with a nod.
"Gendry," she replied, mirroring his smile. "Follow me."