The room was as Arya remembered, though messier than her last visit. The smell of sex hung in the air. It had been a pleasant one when it was between her and Gendry, but brothel sex was putrid, and Arya needed to get out.
Jon had left to practise warging into Ghost. Arya knew she needed to practise herself, it would be a useful skill. But she wasn't comfortable being exposed, out of control. However, she'd promised Jon she would, if only to help with communications between him and Sansa.
Arya needed to get away from the stench. She made her way downstairs and requested a litter take her to the Red Keep. This would be the first time she would use the mask with people who could catch her out. Sansa gave her extensive training of Littlefinger's traits. The way he would sometimes wiggle his head as he straightened his clothes, and when he would roll his shoulders. How he would speak, and when he would intervene. Arya knew almost everything about the man that could be learned. She understood his slippery methods and schemes.
As Arya's litter traversed the grand gates of the Red Keep, her eyes widened at the sight that greeted her. The castle, crafted from pale red stone, commanded a formidable presence atop the cliffs overlooking the mouth of the Blackwater Rush. Seven massive drum-towers, crowned with iron ramparts, soared into the sky, their imposing stature casting a shadow over the bustling courtyard below.
Curtain walls, towering and imposing, encircled the keep, adorned with nests and crenellations for archers to stand vigilant. Thick stone parapets, some reaching four feet in height, lined the outer edge of the wall ramparts, serving as both protection and a grim reminder of the castle's authority. Iron spikes, between the crenels at the gatehouse, bore the heads of traitors, a macabre display of the Red Keep's uncompromising justice under the reign of King Joffrey.
Bronze gates and portcullises stood sentinel at strategic points along the walls, with narrow postern doors nearby offering discreet passage. Large corner-forts loomed at each corner, their presence a testament to the castle's impregnability.
To her left, the barracks stood tall and imposing, banners of Lannister red with a golden lion, flapped proudly in the breeze. The clang of swords and the shouts of soldiers drilling, a reminder of the castle's constant state of readiness, concurrently, she felt a longing for Gendry, with whom she was still struggling to deal with.
Within the castle's confines, Arya knew a labyrinth of underground passages connected its various chambers and halls. Serpentine steps, winding and treacherous, led from the lower bailey to Maegor's Holdfast and beyond, their ascent a test of endurance.
Below the steps lay the heart of the keep: Maegor's Holdfast, the small council chambers, and the Tower of the Hand. Above, the Great Hall with its magnificent throne room overlooked the courtyard, while the godswood, the river walk, and other chambers dotted the upper levels.
All around the red banners, bearing the golden lion of house Lannister, flapped in the wind, reminding her at every turn, who was in charge. Not for much longer, Arya smiled inwardly. Jon will destroy all of you.
Arya was returning the ledgers to Tyrion, whose solar was in Maegor's Holdfast. She made her way through the halls as best she could remember.
Almost ten years had passed since Arya was last in the Red Keep. Despite her excellent memory, might not be enough for her to remember her way around. And getting lost in the body of Littlefinger was the last thing she needed to do. The secret passageways were an option, for she knew them better than Maegor's Holdfast, but her lack of familiarity with this part of the castle needed rectifying. That was the true purpose of her visit.
Sansa had provided Arya with a map of the Red Keep, down to the rooms each person slept in, which Arya had memorised, but it was not the same as seeing it in the flesh. The last thing Arya needed was to get caught out by such a stupid thing as getting lost.
An interesting idea came to her. Jon had mentioned warging to her. Mayhaps, if she should learn the Red Keep through the eyes of one of the many cats which roamed, then she could learn without being noticed. All she had to do was find one.
Before Arya had the chance to locate a castle cat, she saw Tyrion Lannister approaching. She kept her expression carefully neutral as she observed Tyrion's reaction to Littlefinger's sudden re-emergence. She knew he would be curious about her sudden reappearance in King's Landing, about the missing ledgers that had caused such a stir in his absence.
"Ah, Lord Baelish, always lurking in the shadows, back from your adventures in Essos, I see." He remarked, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "A good day to you, though I suspect your definition of 'good' might differ from mine."
"My dear Tyrion, absence truly makes the heart grow fonder, does it not? I'm sure you can only imagine the wonders of Westeros seem dull compared to the exotic allure of Essos. But fear not, I've returned, rejuvenated and ready to return our ledgers and enjoy the impending nuptials of our dear King, before I return to the beauty of the east. Tell me, what intrigues have I missed in my absence?"
"Are those the missing accounts you're carrying?" Tyrion asked, ignoring Arya's question and gesturing to the large books tucked under Littlefinger's arm.
Littlefinger nodded, a sly smile playing at his lips. "Indeed, they are, Lord Tyrion. It seems my absence has caused quite the commotion."
Tyrion sighed, his frustration clear as he shook his head. "I've been tearing the Red Keep apart trying to find those blasted ledgers. You could have saved me a lot of trouble, you know."
Littlefinger's smile widened, a glint of mischief dancing in his eyes. "My apologies, Lord Tyrion. One of my idiot servants packed them away in my trunk by mistake."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow, his suspicion clear. "And what happened to this inept servant of yours?"
Littlefinger's smile turned sly as he met Tyrion's gaze. "Oh, he met with an unfortunate accident at sea," he replied cryptically.
Tyrion's eyes narrowed, a knowing smirk playing at his lips. "I suspect you threw him overboard yourself, Lord Baelish."
Littlefinger's smile only grew wider, a silent acknowledgment passing between them as they continued down the corridor and out into the sunlit courtyard as they made their way to the small council chambers.
As Littlefinger and Tyrion entered the chambers, Arya noticed two cats outside. One black and white, the other was a tabby. If they were still there after the meeting, she might try to bond with one.
Arya was hidden behind the face of Littlefinger, followed in Tyrion Lannister's wake. Her heart quickened its rhythm as they entered the small council chamber. At the head of the long oak table, sat Tywin Lannister, instead of the king. Although that was no surprise to Arya. The others sat around the table was the Master of Ships, Mace Tyrell, and Grand Maester Pycelle, their expressions inscrutable.
Aside from the large table, surrounded by the matching ornate oak chairs, the chamber was richly furnished. Myrish carpets covered the floor, a carved screen from the Summer Isles, and tapestries from Lys, Norvos, and Qohor adorned the walls.
The door to the chamber was flanked by two Valyrian sphinxes. As the council was in session, a Ser Meryn Trant stood outside, his white cloak of the kingsguard adorning the ghastly, ornate armour he wore.
"Lord Baelish, Lord Tyrion, welcome," Tywin intoned, his voice a low rumble that echoed off the stone walls. "You are almost late."
"Almost, dear father, but still on time." Tyrion shuffled over to take his seat next to his father, while Arya sat beside Grandmaester Pycelle.
Arya's senses prickled as she was reminded of the absence of Varys. She made a mental note to delve further into his whereabouts. Why was he in the north, she wondered. Her keen eyes scanned the room, lingering on the empty seat opposite her, that belonged to the Master of Whisperers.
"And where might our dear spider be lurking?" Littlefinger queried, his voice dripping with curiosity.
Tywin's gaze remained impassive as he replied, "Varys is in the North, attending to matters of importance. A marriage arrangement for one of my children, if you must know."
Arya's mind raced with possibilities as she absorbed the information. Who would marry a northerner? Tyrion, most likely. Cersei would never accept another marriage, Jaime was a kingsguard, leaving only Tyrion. She resolved to contact Sansa at the earliest opportunity to warn her. Surely Tywin wasn't trying to marry Tyrion to Sansa again. After all, Sansa was already wed. Not that it would stop Tywin, he'd probably try to have Jon killed.
"Lord Baelish." Tywin cast Arya an icy glare. "You have been away for some time. Would you like to inform the council of your findings so far, regarding Daenerys Targaryen?"
All eyes turned to her, and Arya felt the weight of their scrutiny bearing down upon her. She gathered her resolve to launch into her report, her words measured and precise. "It is true, that Daenerys possesses three baby dragons." She began, her tone unwavering. "However, they are small and pose no immediate threat. It may be decades before they reach maturity."
Tyrion nodded in agreement, his sharp mind already racing ahead to assess the strategic implications. "From the knowledge I have gathered surrounding dragon-growth, they are unlikely to be large enough to ride for perhaps another twenty to thirty years. Of course, this is based on the development of the dragons during the Dance."
"Indeed. They are little more than curiosities for now." Grandmaester Pycelle agreed.
"That is good news." Lord Tywin nodded.
Arya continued. "Daenerys has lost much of her Dothraki horde since the death of Khal Drogo. She lacks both army and fleet. She has hundred Dothraki at the most. No need to concern ourselves yet. Do not hold faith in any reports from Ser Jorah Mormont. He remains steadfastly loyal to her. I am looking for ways to end their friendship."
She paused, allowing her words to sink in before delivering her final assessment. "Daenerys styles herself as the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, a Khaleesi, the Unburnt, and Mother of Dragons. Despite her grandiose titles, there are no signs of her father's madness thus far. Despite all of what I have said, I believe the girl to be more than capable of gaining what she needs to cross the narrow sea. Right now, she is in Astapor, attempting to gain support. I believe it is where the Unsullied are. I was not there myself when she arrived. We parted company in Qarth."
The council fell silent, the weight of Arya's words hanging heavy in the air. Tywin nodded thoughtfully, his mind already turning to the implications of this newfound information.
"Thank you, Lord Baelish." Tywin said, his voice betraying none of his thoughts. "Your insights are invaluable."
With that, the council turned its attention to the impending royal wedding between Joffrey Baratheon and Margaery Tyrell.
An hour later, the meeting was concluded. Arya was glad she wasn't on the small council, and was going to tell Jon she had no interest in joining his. The back of her eyes hurt from the headache caused by the meeting she'd endured. However, the meeting had proven to be informative.
The marriage alliance in the north was for Jaime, who was to be relieved of his kingsguard duties after the royal wedding. Who the unlucky bride-to-be was, Arya daren't speculate. Sansa still seemed the likeliest candidate, although one of the Manderly girls, would be a smart choice. It would prevent Lord Manderly siding with the Starks should war come. And from the tone of the meeting, Tywin suspected some northern resistance. After all, Ned had refused Sansa's hand to Joffrey. Tywin was still insulted.
Upon leaving, Arya noticed one of the Cat's, the black and white one, was still outside the door. She picked it up and looked to see if it was a boy or girl; it was a boy; it was also still a kitten.
"I didn't know you were an animal lover." Tyrion said.
Arya turned her head and looked down on the imp. "I'm not. I've been away a long time, and the rats need clearing from my cellars. This one is looking scrawny. I thought I might borrow him. Feed him up with my own vermin."
"I don't see why not. Fortunately, the Red Keep is awash with cats." Tyrion said, as the kitten pissed in the air, he laughed.
Arya turned her head away and wrinkled her now. A pissing cat didn't truly bother her, but it would bother Littlefinger. Just then a small child ran up to her and bowed his head.
"Lord Baelish, this message came for you." The boy said.
As Arya took the parchment from the boy, an idea came to her. She took a silver stag from her money pouch. "Would you like to earn some coin?" The brown eyes of the scruffy-looking child opened wide, and he nodded eagerly. "Do you know of my establishment on the Street of Silk?"
"I do, Lord Baelish." The child nodded.
"Take this cat to my business, ask for Ros. Tell her to give the kitten some milk and take it to my chambers. Tell her to make sure the items I asked for earlier, to be put on my desk."
"Of course, Lord Baelish." The urchin said. Arya handed over the kitten and the silver stag. The boy ran off towards the gate and disappeared outside.
Arya opened the scroll and read the note.
Meet me in the gardens after breakfast. I would like some advice from a man with taste.
Lady Olenna
Arya carefully rolled the parchment, tucking it away into a concealed pocket nestled within the folds of her blue and silver brocade silk doublet. With a subtle amendment to her posture, she composed herself.
"Anything of note?" Tyrion asked, his curiosity piqued.
"Nothing of significance as yet." Arya replied, her mind racing to concoct a believable response. "Lady Olenna extends her regards. I've made a promise to convene with her upon my return to King's Landing," she offered, recalling Sansa's counsel on the art of deception—every lie holding a kernel of truth. The memory of the clandestine exchanges between Littlefinger and Olenna since Arya's assumption of his guise lingered in her thoughts.
"Her network rivals even the famed spies of Lord Varys," Tyrion remarked with a hint of admiration.
"I had prior knowledge of his presence in the North. One of my informants sighted him at White Harbor," Arya disclosed.
"Likely en route to Winterfell or Queenscrown," Tyrion speculated with a casual shrug.
"Queenscrown? Is he entertaining the notion of a union between Ser Jaime and Lady Sansa?" Arya suppressed a smirk as Tyrion confirmed her suspicion. "I imagine Ser Jaime isn't exactly thrilled. After all, isn't Lady Sansa already wed? To her cousin, if the rumours hold true."
"And unlikely to be bedded. They were raised as siblings." Tyrion assured Arya, who quirked an eyebrow, the urge to mention Cersei and Jaime's incestuous relationship nearly slipping past her lips. Yet, the glint in Tyrion's eyes hinted at his comprehension of Littlefinger's underlying message. "Starks aren't known for their incestuous nature." He added, affirming the stark contrast between the Stark family's values and the twisted dynamics of the Lannister twins.
Arya couldn't help but recognize that Tywin's pursuit was futile. The union between Jon and Sansa had been consummated long ago. At times, she wondered if Jon harboured a secret desire for Sansa to be with him instead, if only for a fleeting moment. Yet, Arya couldn't fault her brother for seeking intimacy with his wife, even if the notion of Jon, Sansa, and passion made her uneasy.
As a litter arrived to escort Arya back to Littlefinger's brothel, she bid Lord Tyrion a seemingly cordial farewell. "I bid you good day, Lord Tyrion," she remarked with her best imitation of Littlefinger's sly smirk, inclining her head before gracefully ascending into the carriage.
"Farewell, Lord Baelish. Might I impose upon your talents while you're in town?" Tyrion inquired as she settled in.
"I'm certain I can spare some time on the morrow," Arya replied smoothly. "After I've met with Lady Olenna?"
"That would be splendid, Lord Baelish. Shall we convene in my solar for lunch?" Tyrion suggested.
"I look forward to it, Lord Tyrion." Arya said, closing the door to the litter behind her. With two firm knocks on the roof, she signalled the driver to depart, setting off towards Littlefinger's establishment.
Upon her return to the brothel, Arya discovered the black and white kitten nestled in Littlefinger's chambers, indulging in a saucer of milk. Ros had left the business ledgers on her desk, but Arya dismissed them for the moment.
Instead, Jon's counsel lingered in her thoughts; mastering the art of warging tugged at her curiosity. Yet, a lingering concern gnawed at her - could she warg while wearing Littlefinger's face?
"What shall we call you?" she inquired of the kitten, whose attention remained fixed on the milk, oblivious to her presence. As Arya observed the creature, its markings evoked memories of the enigmatic House of Black and White. There was but one name that felt apt, a subtle nod to Jaqen H'ghar. "I think Jack is perfect," she decided, a hint of satisfaction gracing her lips as she settled beside the kitten.
Despite her gentle approach, Jack initially hissed in caution as Arya extended her hand. Undeterred, she pondered aloud, "Shall we see if I can be you?" Rising from the floor, she reclined upon the bed, fixing her gaze upon Jack, her concentration unwavering.
Retreating to the bed, Arya fixated her gaze on Jack, her concentration unwavering. In an instant, she found herself immersed in Jack's perspective, lapping at the creamy milk with a sense of fascination. Pausing, she glanced upward, startled to behold Littlefinger's body lying on the bed, eyes veiled in an eerie white glow.
"Queen. Queen," the sudden quorking of a raven pierced the air, its message cryptic yet compelling.
Arya jolted back to herself, her heart racing, senses alert as a knock resonated against the door.
"Arya, it's me, Jon. Can I come in?" Jon's voice, tinged with urgency, cut through the silence.
"Yeah, you're fine," Arya replied, her gaze lingering on the raven, its words echoing in her mind like an unsettling refrain.
"Bold, bold," the raven cawed.
"What's the matter?" Arya inquired, concern etching her features as Jon entered the room.
Jon cast a wary glance down the corridor before shutting the door behind him, his complexion as pale as Ghost's fur. The terror in his eyes was unmistakable. "It's Ramsay. I think he's taken Sansa." he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Queen, Queen. Flay, flay." The raven interjected with unsettling repetition.
"Shut up!" Arya snapped at the bird, her patience worn thin. "Seven hells..."
"Bold, bold. Flay, flay." The raven persisted, its ominous refrain echoing through the room despite Arya's rebuke.
Jon's gaze lingered on the bird before he approached it. "Who are you?" he questioned, his tone firm.
"Bran, Bran." the raven finally relented, its message clarified.
Jon turned to Arya with a revelation. "It's Bran. He's attempting to communicate with us. Just like Lord Commander Mormont's raven."
Arya stepped forward, eyeing the raven with a mixture of apprehension and determination. "Sit on the shoulder of the one who needs to warg into their direwolf," she instructed, her nerves betraying her as she contemplated the task ahead. Warging into Nymeria from such a distance was uncharted territory for her.
As the raven obediently perched on Arya's shoulder, she met its gaze. "You want me to warg into Nymeria so Bran can speak through me?" she deduced, seeking confirmation from the bird.
"Corn, corn." The raven affirmed.
"Give him some corn. I believe it's a yes." Jon advised, his voice steady with resolve. "Then lie down and focus on Nymeria."
Arya retrieved a pouch of corn from one of the chests she had brought and offered the raven three kernels before it returned to its perch.
"If I succeed." Arya addressed the raven, her determination clear, "I'll signal by pawing your left knee three times."
"Corn, corn." the raven responded, prompting Arya to offer two more kernels.
"Take off Littlefinger's face. It'll make it easier." Jon suggested.
Jon's expertise in warging surpassed Arya's, prompting her to comply with his instructions by removing the unsettling mask of Littlefinger. With a bowl of water nearby, Arya cleansed her face, relishing the cool sensation as it washed away the remnants of her disguise. Finally, free from the facade, she took a moment to savour the return of her own identity.
Once her face was dry and refreshed, Arya returned to the bed and reclined as Jon directed.
"Close your eyes and breathe," Jon instructed. Arya followed his guidance, inhaling deeply through her nose and exhaling through her mouth, grounding herself in the present moment.
"Now picture Nymeria in your mind," Jon prompted, his voice a steady anchor amidst the swirling currents of Arya's thoughts. "Remember the last time you saw her as we boarded the boat to White Harbor. You said goodbye, and she ran off with Ghost to catch up with Bran. Do you remember?"
Arya nodded, the memory vivid in her mind's eye.
The wind whispered through Nymeria's fur as Arya found herself transported into the direwolf's consciousness. Familiar surroundings enveloped her. A tranquil glade nestled beside the Kingsroad. She spotted Bran seated beneath a towering tree, Summer at his side. With purposeful steps, Arya approached, feeling the unfamiliar sensation of grass beneath her paws. Settling before Bran, she pawed his knee thrice, a silent signal of her readiness to receive his guidance.
Bran extended his legs, a gesture of comfort and familiarity. "Arya, if that is truly you," he began, his voice carrying a solemn weight, "lay your head on my lap. Nymeria would never offer such a gesture. I'll tickle your ears as I speak."
Arya complied, resting her head upon Bran's lap, a sense of tranquillity washing over her as he gently caressed her ears. The sensation was oddly soothing, lulling her into a state of relaxation she hadn't realised she craved.
As Bran continued, his words cut through the serenity, painting a grim picture of Ramsay's treachery. Arya listened intently, her mind grappling with the gravity of his revelations.
"Ramsay and his men have breached Queenscrown," Bran disclosed, his tone grave with urgency. "They were amongst the last group Father dispatched to Sansa to aid in the construction. Having worked closely with Robb, they had earned his trust. Roose informed Ramsay of Ser Barristan's role in Sansa's protection, making it easy for Ramsay to identify them both."
Arya lifted her head, a mixture of disbelief and frustration clouding her thoughts. She shook off the weight of the news, silently acknowledging the need for a momentary respite. Bran, ever perceptive, sensed her distress.
"Return to your previous position. Take a moment to collect yourself," Bran instructed, his words a gentle reminder of the need for self-care amidst turmoil. "When you're ready, lay your head on my knee once more. But don't tarry too long."
Arya found herself back in the familiar confines of the brothel, her gaze meeting Jon's as he stared down at her with an intensity that mirrored her own apprehension. His grey eyes, tinged with a hint of fear, held her captive, their depths seemingly infinite in their complexity. For a fleeting moment, Arya thought she glimpsed a hint of purple within, a subtle nuance she had never noticed before. Yet, in the uncertain light of the room, she couldn't be certain if it was real or merely a trick of shadows.
"Arya, are you alright?" Jon's voice broke through the haze of Arya's thoughts, laced with a palpable sense of concern.
Arya nodded briskly, her mind racing to convey the urgency of the situation. "Ramsay has breached Queenscrown," she divulged, her words tumbling out in a rush. "When Father dispatched that final contingent of men before your return from Castle Black, some of the Bolton soldiers wormed their way into the group. They had close ties with Robb, enough to discern friend from foe. And they were already aware of Ser Barristan's presence there."
"Seven fucking hells!" Jon swore. "And now he's got her."
"Bran is currently within the raven." Arya clarified, her voice steady despite the urgency of their situation. "If you have any questions, ask him. I'll retrieve the answers when I return."
Jon's concern for Arya was palpable as he offered her a goblet of water, which she accepted with a nod of gratitude. As Jon approached the raven, Arya's heart ached for him, sensing his desperation.
"Bran, what does Ramsay intend to do with Sansa?" Jon's voice trembled with emotion, his fear laid bare before them. "What can we do? How can we help? Will she survive?"
"Jon, come back here." Arya commanded, her tone firm as she called him back to her side. As Jon complied and settled beside her, Arya addressed both him and the raven. "I'm ready to re-enter Nymeria."
Closing her eyes, Arya focused her thoughts on Nymeria, the transition feeling smoother this time as she surrendered herself to the essence of the she-wolf.
Once again, amidst the familiar surroundings of the Kingsroad, Arya approached Bran, resting her head upon his lap. The absence of Summer did not escape her notice.
"I heard Jon's questions," Bran began, his voice a calm reassurance amidst the turmoil. "First, regarding Ser Barristan. He's been injured, ambushed by those he trusted. He lies wounded in a tributary nearby. I've sent Summer to aid him, but I need Nymeria here for the day, just in case we need to communicate with each other."
"To help Sansa, Jon must warg into Ghost," Bran continued, outlining the plan to aid her sister.
Arya felt the weight of exhaustion settling upon her, and Bran sensed her fatigue. "Return to your own body. Nymeria will remain with me, ready for further communication if needed. I love you both." Bran said, pressing a kiss to the top of Nymeria's head.
As Arya opened her eyes, the familiar canopy greeted her. Turning to Jon, she saw the uncertainty etched in his features. He looked like he had been crying. Taking his hand, she spoke with resolve. "Jon, Bran says you need to warg into Ghost..." She started.