Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, other than my own the original character(s) in this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so don't expect anything worthy of GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful thoughts :) feedback goes a long way to encouraging my writing.
Chapter 21: Curiosity
"Out of the mouth of babes."
– Lord Eddard Stark
The screams had woken him at first, but night by night he'd grown almost used to them – for no matter how brutal it appeared, or how much it tightened his chest to see the blood spilled, Lyarra had assured him that these dead men couldn't hurt him. The King sat atop his twisted metal throne with a crown of steel-and-rubies.
He was tall, broad, and fearsomely strong; inspiring loyalty in his subjects who knelt before him through sheer terror alone.
"Master George," The King spoke, his voice a low grumble of malice with angry suspicious eyes.
The man, a builder, was before the throne and its king. His fellow craftsmen were present too; keeping their silence under the king's watchful gaze and the gazes of his white cloaked sentinels. Bran couldn't make out the sentinels faces no matter how hard he tried, they remained faceless wraiths – clouded in smoke.
"Y- Your Grace?" The man asked, knelt before the twisted throne with his head bowed so low it met the floor of the great hall.
"You have done well," The King praised with the ghost of a smile that quickly faded to a scowl. "And yet…"
Bran knew where this was going. He'd seen it before, many times now; but piece by piece the picture had less blur to it – the voices were clearer – the images crisper; though the surroundings still alluded him, twisting and turning in a smoky darkness as if the hall were the centre of some foul storm.
On all sides of the hall stood yet more faceless wraiths of men, only with gold cloaks; all wielding spears at the ready.
"We did as commanded," The man, George, practically begged; not daring to raise his head.
Somewhere outside the dream, a roar echoed through the very foundations of the great hall.
George and his company of friends cowered at the sound of beating wings flying over the keep.
"You have done the crown a great service," The King declared, leaning forward in his iron throne.
"I-" George dared to raise his head. "We live to serve, Your Grace…"
"Unfortunately," The King sighed and waved his hand. "You cannot be trusted."
The look of terror in George's eyes was palpable.
His gathered friends began to mumble, shifting, panic creeping in.
It was far too late to do anything now.
The King had spoken.
"Your Gra-"
The spear ended his words, and his life too in one flawless thrust through the heart.
Man by man, one by one, Bran watched as the throne room ran red with the blood of builders and stonemason and woodworkers as Goldcloaks drove their spears into unarmed and defenceless servants who had done no wrong. Bran had been horrified the first time he'd seen it, so much so that he awoke screaming… but now…
The blood pooled across the hall as The King watched, expressionless; uncaring – or perhaps even content with the slaughter.
"These dead aren't for dreamers to fear," Lyarra had taught him as she'd watched, all but holding his hand.
He'd become numb to their deaths after enough nights. These men, hundreds and hundreds of years gone, no longer frightened him.
"Look deeper," Lyarra had insisted, smiling sweetly as always. "Don't focus on their fate, but instead – focus on the reason."
It hadn't taken Bran long to see through the mind of the King. It was an angry dark place, filled with fire and blood and somewhere under it all laid regrets too; buried so deep and wholly ignored by the king – giving birth to an unyielding resolve in its place that bordered on the edge of madness. The word "Uncle" echoed somewhere in those forgotten depths, as the features of a young boy with silver-gold hair and amethyst eyes haunted the darkness, lurking, whispering…
As it turns out though, the secrets of the past were secrets of the present. The first door was the easiest; in his own father's bedchamber – while another was in his own chambers; where he'd sneak out under the cover of dark when all thought him abed. Today though, he aimed to explore the stairs instead.
It was very cold within the stairwell, a damp bone-chilling cold that set Bran to shivering; but he was used to the cold – as it was said the Starks had Winter in their veins. He'd taken to exploring these secret hidden tunnels for some days now; and he at least had some notion of where to go from his dreams.
In the dream, he'd first seen a mighty dragon with embers in its mouth, only to be disappointed when said 'dragon' turned out to be an ornate brazier in a small round chamber below the Tower of the Hand. The coals in the dragon's mouth had burnt down to embers, but they still glowed with a sullen orange light.
Dim as it was, the light was welcome after the darkness of the tunnel – as even with his dreams, Bran could not see in the dark.
The chamber had five other doors, each barred in iron, and the floor was a mosaic of a three-headed dragon wrought in red and black tiles.
All the doors were locked except for one that he'd yet to explore, having turned back the previous night from this point.
"I need to find the keys," Bran had told himself as his curiosity grew. He wanted to see further! He NEEDED to see further!
He'd seen through the builders and the tyrant; he'd been dreaming every night, but those doors hid so much from him.
Nobody knew of his adventures. Nobody, except for Summer; who seemed to find no trouble in the dark.
"Use the wolf," Lyarra taught him, and he'd listened and learned well. He was getting better at it too.
She was proud of him, or so Bran liked to think at least. She was hard to read.
He ventured bravely, further into the tunnels with Summer to lead the way.
It was dark and damp, but then Arya supposed pitch-dark cellars were probably all akin to this place…
When they had first come to King's Landing, she used to have bad dreams about getting lost in the castle.
Father said the Red Keep was smaller than Winterfell, but in her dreams, it had been immense, an endless stone maze with walls that seemed to shift and change behind her. She would find herself wandering down gloomy halls past faded tapestries, descending endless circular stairs, darting through courtyards or over bridges, her shouts echoing unanswered. In some of the rooms the red stone walls would seem to drip blood, and nowhere could she find a window. Sometimes she would hear her father's voice, but always from a long way off, and no matter how hard she ran after it, it would grow fainter and fainter, until it faded to nothing and Arya was alone in the dark.
It was very dark right now, just like the dreams. She hugged her bare knees tight against her chest and shivered in the cold dark of the cellar.
She would wait quietly and count to ten thousand. By then it would be safe for her to come creeping back out and find her way home, surely…
"Eighty-five," She counted quietly. "Eighty-six…"
By the time she had reached eighty-seven, the room had begun to lighten as her eyes adjusted to the blackness.
The shapes around her took on form. Huge empty eyes stared at her hungrily through the gloom, and dimly she saw the jagged shadows of long teeth. She had lost the count as she closed her eyes and bit her lip to send the fear away. When she looked again, the monsters would be gone. She pretended that Syrio was beside her in the dark, whispering in her ear. Calm as still water, she told herself. Strong as a bear. Fierce as a wolverine. She opened her eyes again…
The monsters were still there, but the fear was gone. It was… a skull…
They were all around her. She touched one, curious, wondering if it was real. Her fingertips brushed a massive jaw. It felt real enough. The bone was smooth beneath her hand, cold and hard to the touch. She ran her fingers down a tooth, black and sharp, a dagger made of darkness. It made her shiver.
"It's dead," she said aloud. "It's just a skull, it can't hurt me."
Yet somehow the monster seemed to know she was there, watching through the gloom and dark.
She edged away from the skull and backed into a second, larger than the first. For an instant she could feel its teeth digging into her shoulder, as if it wanted a bite of her flesh. Arya whirled, felt leather catch and tear as a huge fang nipped at her jerkin, and then she was running. Another skull loomed ahead, the biggest monster of all, but Arya did not even slow. She leapt over a ridge of black teeth as tall as swords, dashed through hungry jaws, and threw herself against the door.
Her hands found a heavy iron ring set in the wood, and she yanked at it. The door resisted a moment, before it slowly began to swing inward, with a creak so loud she was certain it could be heard all through the city. She opened the door just far enough to slip through, into the hallway beyond.
If the room with the monsters had been dark, the hall was the blackest pit in the seven hells.
"Calm as still water," Arya told herself, mumbling the words of her dancing master. If the last room was dark, then this place was an empty void.
She wiggled her fingers in front of her face, felt the air move, but saw nothing. She was blind. A water dancer sees with all her senses, she reminded herself calmly. She closed her eyes and steadied her breathing, drinking in the quiet, reaching out with her hands to feel her surroundings.
"One, Two, Three," she steadied her breathing, just as Syrio had taught.
Her fingers brushed against rough unfinished stone to her left. She followed the wall, her hand skimming along the surface, taking small gliding steps through the darkness. All halls lead somewhere. Where there is a way in, there is a way out. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Arya would not be afraid. It seemed as if she had been walking forever when the wall ended abruptly, and a draft of cold air blew past her cheek. Loose hairs stirred faintly against her skin.
From somewhere far below her, she heard noises. The scrape of boots, the distant sound of voices. A flickering light brushed the wall ever so faintly, and she saw that she stood at the top of a great black well, a shaft twenty feet across plunging deep into the earth. Huge stones had been set into the curving walls as steps, circling down and down, dark as the steps to hell that Old Nan used to tell them of. And something was coming up out of the darkness, out of the bowels of the earth…
Arya peered over the edge and felt the cold black breath on her face. Far below, she saw the light of a single torch, small as the flame of a candle. Two men, she made out. Their shadows writhed against the sides of the well, tall as giants. She could hear their voices, echoing up the shaft.
"…found one bastard," one said. "The rest will come soon. A day, two days, a fortnight…"
"And when he learns the truth, what will he do?" a second voice asked in the liquid accents of the Free Cities.
"The gods alone know," the first voice said. Arya could see a wisp of grey smoke drifting up off the torch, writhing like a snake as it rose. "The hand is getting closer to the truth. I warn you, the stag and lion will soon be at each other's throats, whether we will it or no."
"Too soon, too soon," the voice with the accent complained. "What good is war now? We are not ready. You must delay."
"As well bid me stop time. Do you take me for a wizard, friend?"
The other chuckled. "No less..."
Their shadows were among on top of her. An instant later the man holding the torch climbed into her sight, his companion beside him. Arya crept back away from the well, dropped to her stomach, and flattened herself against the wall. She held her breath as the men reached the top of the steps.
"What would you have me do?" asked the torchbearer, a stout man in a poor cape. A round scarred face and a stubble of dark beard showed under his steel cap, and he wore mail over boiled leather, with a dirk and shortsword at his belt. It seemed to Arya there was something oddly familiar about him.
"If one Hand can die, why not a second?" replied the man with the accent and the forked yellow beard. "You have danced the dance before, my friend."
He was no one Arya had ever seen before, she was certain of it. Grossly fat, yet he seemed to walk lightly, carrying his weight on the balls of his feet as a water dancer might. His rings glimmered in the torchlight, red-gold and pale silver, crusted with rubies, sapphires, slitted yellow tiger eyes. Not a man one could easily forget.
"This Hand is not the other," the scarred man said as they stepped out into the hall. "And this one is not alone..."
Still as stone, Arya told herself, quiet as a shadow.
Blinded by the blaze of their own torch, they did not see her pressed flat against the stone, only a few feet away.
"Perhaps so," the forked beard replied, pausing to catch his breath after the long climb. "Nonetheless, we must have time. The princess is with child. The khal will not bestir himself until his son is born. You know how they are, these savages, so set in their – well – their savagery!"
The man with the torch pushed at something. Arya heard a deep rumbling. A huge slab of rock, red in the torchlight, slid down out of the ceiling with a resounding crash that almost made her cry out. Where the entry to the well had been was nothing but stone, solid and unbroken.
"If he does not bestir himself soon, it may be too late," the stout man in the steel cap said. "This is no longer a game for two players, if ever it was. Stannis Baratheon and Lysa Arryn have fled beyond my reach, and the whispers say they are gathering swords around them. The Knight of Flowers writes Highgarden, urging his lord father to send his sister to court. The girl is a maid of fourteen, sweet and beautiful and tractable, and Lord Renly and Ser Loras intend that Robert should bed her, wed her, and make a new queen. Littlefinger… the gods only know what game Littlefinger is playing. Yet Lord Stark's the one who troubles my sleep. He has the bastard, he has the book, and soon enough he'll have the truth. Delay, you say. Make haste, I reply. Even the finest of jugglers cannot keep a hundred balls in the air forever…"
"You are more than a juggler, old friend. You are a true sorcerer. All I ask is that you work your magic awhile longer."
They started down the hall in the direction Arya had come, past the room with the monsters and outward.
"What I can do, I will," the one with the torch said softly. "I must have gold, and another fifty birds."
She let them get a long way ahead, then went creeping after them. Quiet as a shadow.
"So many?" The voices were fainter as the light dwindled ahead of her. "The ones you need are hard to find… so young, to know their letters…
The voices faded as the distance grew between them.
….perhaps older… …not die so easy…"
"No. The younger are safer… …treat them gently…"
"…if they kept their tongues…"
"…the risk…"
They were gone, far away now; so that finally Arya could breathe.
Long after their voices had faded away, she could still see the light of the torch, a smoking star that bid her follow.
She kept on straight and both times she found herself at the top of steep, narrow stairs, the torch glimmering far below her. She hurried, down and down. Once she stumbled over a rock and fell against the wall, her hand found raw earth supported by timbers, whereas before the tunnel had been dressed stone.
"Calm as still water," She repeated the words as worry tried to grip a hold on her heart.
She found the wall again and followed, blind and lost, pretending that Nymeria was padding along beside her in the darkness. At the end she was knee-deep in foul-smelling water, wishing she could dance upon it as Syrio might have, and wondering if she'd ever see light again.
There were eyes ahead of her in the darkness. A pair of near glowing golden eyes.
Arya backed away as the eyes grew closer, falling backwards; the monster crept forward slowly.
"B- Back!" She told the beast.
It halted, just for a second to sniff the air.
Arya was covered in foulness, her clothing soiled. The beast didn't seem to like the smell.
"I- I said back!" Arya once again demanded, shuffling backwards.
"Arya?" A voice asked from behind the golden eyes.
It was a boy, equally foul smelling; with a confused look… in… his…
"BRAN!?"
Brandon Stark stared blankly at his sister, as if he'd seen a ghost.
The golden eyed 'beast' stepped close enough that Arya could make out its fur, silvery, though covered in muck; the direwolf made to nudge her playfully as it wags its tail – happy to see her in the most unlikely of places. Bran eyed the scene oddly. "What are you doing here!?"
"I was chasing cats," Arya huffed defiantly. "And then… we need to find father, Bran!"
"Where is Nymeria?" Bran asked his sister, looking behind her as if expecting the wolf to arrive.
"At the keep," She seemed upset by that. "Syrio said catching cats with a wolf wasn't fair."
Bran had completely no clue what his sister was talking about, but she seemed to know… so… that was good enough for him.
A short walk ahead they found themselves standing at the mouth of a sewer where it emptied into the river, both stinking so badly that they stripped right there, dropping their soiled clothing on the riverbank and jumping into the deep black waters. They swam until clean and crawled out shivering. Some riders went past along the river road as they were washing her clothes, but if they saw the scrawny naked girl or her little brother scrubbing their rags in the moonlight, they took no notice.
Summer was too busy enjoying his swim and likewise, if the passers-by saw the wolf; they either didn't care or thought better than to ask questions.
It was apparent that they were miles from the castle now, but from anywhere near King's Landing you needed only to look up to see the Red Keep high on Aegon's Hill, so there was no danger of losing their way. Their clothes were almost dry by the time they reached the gatehouse, but the portcullis was down, and the gates barred, so they turned aside to a postern door. The gold cloaks who had the watch sneered when Arya abruptly told them to let them inside.
Summer hadn't caught up with them, as the wolf lagged behind some – eating a fish it caught in the river.
"Off with you," one said. "The kitchen scraps are gone, and we'll have no begging after dark."
"I'm not a beggar," Arya said. "We live here."
"I said, off with you. Do you need a clout on the ear to help your hearing?"
"I want to see my father!"
"Please," Bran added politely. "Sers…"
The guards exchanged a glance. "I want to fuck the queen myself, for all the good it does me," the younger one said.
The older scowled. "Who's this father of yours, boy, the city ratcatcher?"
"The Hand of the King," Arya told him with a huff.
Both men laughed, but then the older one swung his fist at her, casually, as a man would swat a dog.
Arya saw the blow coming even before it began. She danced back out of the way, untouched. "I'm not a boy," she spat at them. "I'm Arya Stark of Winterfell, and if you lay a hand on me or my brother then my lord father will have both your heads on spikes. If you don't believe me, fetch Jory Cassel or Vayon Poole from the Tower of the Hand."
Summer came casually strolling up behind them at that, licking his lips; having happily devoured his fish. The guards saw only a hungry direwolf though.
Arya put her hands on her hips. "Now are you going to open the gate, or does Summer here need to eat you both?"
"I-" the younger guard muttered.
"You're-"
The two guards seemed ready to give in.
"What's this?" Another voice arrived, dressing his silver-grey steel plate and a grey cloak.
"Ivar!" Arya called out, recognizing the man as one of Willam's men, dressed in his grey cloak and steel plate.
"Lady Stark?" Ivar blinked in disbelief. "Lord Bran? Your father has half the guard out looking for you both!"
With that, Ivar escorted them both straight into the Red Keep; waking up Willam at what he cursed as an "ungodly hour" to tell him that he'd found the two Stark children wandering around looking like common street urchins. Arya was quick to take all the credit for their 'adventure' rather dutifully.
Ned Stark was alone in the solar when Ivar and Willam marched the two children into his study. He was bent over the biggest book Arya had ever seen, a great thick tome with cracked yellow pages of crabbed script, bound between faded leather covers, but he closed it to listen to Ivar's report.
His face was stern as he sent the men away with thanks. Willam remained though, with an amused look on his face; if not a tired one too.
"You realize I had half my guard out searching for you?" Eddard Stark said once Ivar had left them. "Septa Mordane is beside herself with fear. She's in the sept praying for your safe return. Arya, Bran, you know you are never to go beyond the castle gates without my leave..."
"I didn't go out the gates," she blurted. "Well, I didn't mean to. I was down in the dungeons, only they turned into this tunnel. It was all dark, and I didn't have a torch or a candle to see by, so I had to follow. I couldn't go back the way I came on account of the monsters!"
"The monsters…" Ned muttered in disbelief, but his daughter kept on going.
"Father, they were talking about killing you! Not the monsters, the two men. They didn't see me, I was being still as stone and quiet as a shadow, but I heard them. They said you had a book and a bastard and if one Hand could die, why not a second? Is that the book? Jon's the bastard, I bet!"
Willam's face turned from amusement to something wholly else at that.
"Jon? Arya, what are you talking about? Who said this?"
"They did," she told him. "The fat one said they had to delay but the other one told him he couldn't keep juggling and the stag and the lion were going to eat each other!" She hadn't quite understood everything she'd heard, and now it was all mixed up in her head. "The fat one said the princess was with child. I think he was a wizard…"
"A wizard?" Bran broke his silence at that, curious.
"A wizard," said Ned, unsmiling. He noted Bran's reaction too. "Did he have a long white beard and tall pointed hat speckled with stars?"
"No! It wasn't like Old Nan's stories. He didn't look like a wizard, but the fat one said he was."
"I warn you, Arya, if you're spinning this thread of air-"
"No, I told you, it was in the dungeons, by the place with the secret wall. I was chasing cats, and well, I went in this window. That's where I found the monsters."
"Monsters and wizards," her father said. "It would seem you've had quite an adventure. Bran, what say you to all this?"
"I-" Bran's eyes darted to his sister. "I didn't hear anything…"
Lyarra had warned against telling others of his dreams.
"Bran wasn't there, but I-"
"You told Ivar and I that you'd gone off together," Willam pointed out with a smirk as the girl stumbled over her story.
"I-" Arya looked nervously at her brother. "We were, but we got separated – yeah, that's it!"
Ned and Willam shared a glance at that. An obvious a lie as there had ever been.
"These men you heard," Ned asked with a sigh. "You say they spoke of juggling and mummery?"
"Yes," Arya admitted quickly, "only-"
"Arya, they were mummers," Ned told her. "There must be a dozen troupes in King's Landing right now, come to make some coin off the tourney crowds. I'm not certain what these two were doing in the castle, but perhaps the king has asked for a show."
"No." She shook her head stubbornly. "They weren't-"
"You shouldn't be following people about and spying on them in any case. Nor do I cherish the notion of my children climbing in strange windows after stray cats. Look at you both. You're covered with scratches. This has gone on long enough, tell Syrio Forel that I want a word with him about-"
He was interrupted by a short, sudden knock. "Lord Eddard, pardons," Desmond called out, opening the door a crack, "but there's a black brother here begging audience. He says the matter is urgent. I thought you would want to know my lord..."
"My door is always open to the Night's Watch," Father said.
Desmond ushered the man inside. He was stooped and ugly, with unkempt beard and unwashed clothes, yet Ned politely asked his name.
"Yoren, as it please m'lord. My pardons for the hour." He looked at Arya. "And this must be your son? He has your look..."
"I'm a girl," Arya said, exasperated. She pouted.
"I'm a boy," Bran said with an odd pride as he tried to look taller.
If this man was down from the Wall, he must have come by way of Winterfell.
"Do you know my brothers?" she asked excitedly. "Robb and Bran are at Winterfell, and Uncle Benjen's at the wall, he's in the Night's Watch too, you must know him, will he come visit? I'm Arya Stark." The old man in his smelly black clothes was looking at her oddly, but Arya could not seem to stop talking.
"My daughter often forgets her courtesies," Eddard Stark said with a faint smile that softened his words. "I beg your forgiveness, Yoren. Did my brother send you?"
"No one sent me, m'lord, saving old Mormont. I'm here to find men for the Wall and when Robert next holds court, I'll bend the knee and cry our need, see if the king and his Hand have some scum in the cells that they'd be well rid of. I rode here with Lord Tyrion and his company…"
"Tyrion Lannister is in the capital?"
Willam's mind wandered at that. The dwarf wasn't a terrible sort, from what short time they'd spent together on route to the wall.
"As you say," Ned hummed in thought. "You'll have my support for the watch, that much I promise you."
"My thanks Lord Stark," the man bowed. "That was my business – sorry to trouble you, but I thought you may be the one to ask."
"My door is always open to the watch. Will, have a guard see our friend to a good bed for the night, would you?"
"As you wish Ned," Willam ceased leaning against the wall.
"Arya, Bran," he turned to his children. "Get to your chambers – and no more sneaking off, understand?"
Arya stood rooted to the spot. "Nothing bad is gonna happen to Jon, is it?"
"No," Ned said firmly. "Jon's perfectly safe, asleep; just as you should be Arya."
Willam took her hand. "Come along, little wolves. You heard your father."
"Goodnight father," Bran said before following Willam out of the room with his sister.
Arya had no choice but to go with him, wishing it had been her father's guards instead. With her father's men she might have been able to linger on some excuse, but Willam was too aware to trick. He'd said how he had many nieces that made him immune to children's tricks.
"How many guards does my father have?" she asked him as they descended the towers stairs.
"Here at King's Landing?" He had to think briefly. "Fifty guardsmen, I believe. A hundred or so in the whole household…"
"You wouldn't let anyone kill him, would you?" she asked, worry etched on her face.
Anything was possible, but Willam knew better than to answer with that truth. These were still children.
He mustered his best smile. "No fear on that count. Your father is guarded night and day."
"The Lannisters have more than fifty men," Arya pointed out.
"You brought more though," Bran added. "On your ship, didn't you?"
The younger pup was strangely informed. "Aye, some hundred or so; not counting the sailors."
"What if a wizard was sent to kill him?" Arya asked the important question.
"Well, as to that," Willam replied, stifling a laugh. "Wizards die same as other men, once you cut their heads off."
It was only a short walk from dropping the Stark pups off to reach his own chambers for the night. The story Arya spun seemed like the ramblings of a child – as most would dismiss it as – but it nagged at Willam's paranoia something fierce. He made a mental note to have extra men brought over from the Wanderer.
The sound of clashing steel echoed in the morning air as two men fought. After the initial clash they stepped around an imaginary circle. One, with golden hair that shun in the sunlight, stepped the opposite way, maintaining his distance and prepared to defend against any blow. The second, with hair as black as raven wings, lunged forward with a centuries old war cry and a sword of fine castle-forged steel. The two knights clashed swords, clashing fiercely together.
A crowd had gathered to watch them fight, of guards and knights and squires and even the castle servants too.
"Is this all you've got Kingslayer?!" Willam was grinning like a madman, holding back his opponent with all his strength.
"Hardly," Jaime denied, using his strength to push himself free. He swung with all his might and smirked as he seemed to gain the upper hand, pushing his opponent further and further. He swung forward and his opponent ducked under the blade, failing to land the blow.
"Ha!" Willam chuckled, having easily dodged the strike.
"It seems you're tiring Stark!" Jaime mocked, standing idle as his opponent swung his sword through the air for show.
Willam lunched wide without a retort, his longsword cutting the air where his foe once stood, having quickly moved to parry and taken a step closer to swing at the Kingslayer's neck. Ducking backwards he avoided the blow easily and took the opening to stab upwards, towards Willam's head, forcing a swift step back.
In the opening Jaime swung wildly, a flurry of swings so fast they seemed a blur to the onlookers. He dodged and lunged for the joints in his foes armour like a man possessed. They were moves that would best most men, but to Jaime's frustration his opponent was proving rather annoyingly capable.
Willam blocked yet another sword strike with less and less ease as he began to tire, slashing outward at the Kingslayer's chest with a backswing before driving his steel to parry another blow. "Your breathing appears to be laboured, Stark!" Jaime was mocking him, grinning like a cat having caught a mouse.
This thought only drove Willam forward, more determined than ever to best the Lannister man.
He dodged another blow swung at him, dunking under the wide swing and moving instantly to return the blow only to find it parried once more.
"Almost lost your head there, Princeling," Jaime teased happily. "Need a rest perhaps?"
Willam lunged wide in response, as Jaime quickly moved to parry but took a step closer and brought his sword up in a flash.
The Kingslayer's golden sword laid gracefully against his throat in between two hearts of a heart. In a true fight, Will's throat would be cut wide open right now.
"Well shit," He cursed through laboured breaths, carefully with a single finger, moving the steel away with his throat. He didn't entertain the idea that the Kingslayer would dare to truly cut his throat here though, not with the twenty or so greycloaks that stood watching their exchange. "I almost had you Lannister."
No matter a man's skill at arms, twenty to one weren't odds you'd walk away from regardless of ability.
"Not near enough Stark," Jaime was smiling wide, making no effort to hide his amusement.
"Next time," Willam sheathed his steel. "I won't go so easy on you then, eh?"
Jaime scoffed at that. "Any time Stark, but the outcome will be the same."
The spar had gone on for quite some time and the crowd were clapping in approval. Jon and Aedan were present, though the others were who-knows-where.
"Well then," None were clapping so much as Tyrion Lannister. "I've never seen you so taxed before dear brother – except perhaps Ser Barristan..."
"The Bold is finer than most," Jaime admitted easily, shrugging and he sheathed his steel.
"I've never had the honour Lord Tyrion," Willam remarked simply. He'd yet to face the old knight.
Ser Barristan had yet to join them in the yard. It was Ser Jaime to wander here first, alongside his brother and a handful of redcloaks – watching as Jon and Will were sparring, only for the Kingslayer to challenge the latter to a spar. Willam had thought nothing of it, glad to test the Kingslayers steel first-hand.
He wasn't disappointed, to say the least; the Lannister had his respect. Jaime's speed was a thing on par or even beyond Artos Stark.
"You'd do well no doubt," Tyrion wagered. "Few last so long against my brother you know."
"I was going easy on him," Jaime claimed with a smug look.
"Oh, come now brother, don't be so humble…"
The two brothers seemed to wholly ignore the world around them as they sparred with words.
"Jaime got all the swordsmanship you see Prince Willam," Tyrion explained. "I however, got all the good looks!"
"I can see that Lord Tyrion," Willam replied as Jaime scoffed and rolled his eyes.
"None of that Lord business," the dwarf dismissed. "I'm lord of little, I fear…"
Willam could only raise a brow as Jon stifled a laugh from the side.
"What?" Tyrion asked. "Oh- little, I see – how witty of me!"
"With your good looks and wit, you're quite formidable yourself no?"
Tyrion laughed at that, even as Jaime watched like a hawk. "True, you may be onto something…"
"I have my moments," Willam shrugged, rolling one of his shoulders; bruised from a previous bout.
The call came from the keep itself, haggard in a way that suggested the man had run all the way here.
"Will," Jory Cassel said, winded from his sprinting. "Lord Stark calls for you – and you too Jon!"
This wasn't going to be good news, Willam knew. "Very well then…"
"Leaving so soon Stark?" Jaime asked with his usual smug face.
"I'll be back," he promised the lion. "Aedan, entertain Ser Jaime, would you?"
"Gladly," Aedan happily drew the steel from his sheath.
The sound of singing steel echoed as they walked away from the yard.
The day was growing heavy as they crossed the bailey to the Tower of the Hand, with the threat of rain upon the air. When they reached Ned's solar, he wasn't alone, as Vayon Poole exited the room looking in a rush. "Come in," Ned called for them as Poole rushed away.
"Will and Jon for you Lord Hand, as ordered," Jory bowed and took his leave in an instant.
"Hand no longer," Ned said once Jory had left, frowning.
"You've been fired?" Willam asked, surprised. "What's happened?"
Something had to have happened for Robert to have stripped the man he called brother of his position.
"The king and I have quarrelled," Ned explained warily. "We shall be returning to Winterfell."
"Father?" Jon seemed confused at the news.
"How long?" Willam made no effort to ask for the why of the thing. It hardly mattered…
"We may not have a fortnight. We may not have a day. The king mentioned something about seeing my head on a spike." Ned's frown deepened. He did not honestly believe the king would harm him, not Robert. He was angry now, but once Ned was safely out of sight, his rage would cool as it always did…
Always? Suddenly, uncomfortably, he found himself recalling Rhaegar Targaryen. Fifteen years dead, yet Robert hates him as much as ever.
"I'll have the Wanderer readied," Willam decided easily. "You should leave with us Ned, it'll be safer…"
"It might be safest if you went on ahead," he told Willam with a sigh.
"Not without you," he refused quickly enough. Distant kin of not, the man had been good to him. Besides, blood was blood.
Ned went to the window. Robert had left him no choice that he could see. He ought to thank him. It would be good to return to Winterfell. He ought never have left. His sons were waiting there and perhaps he and Catelyn would make a new son together when he returned, they were not so old yet…
And of late he had often found himself dreaming of snow, of the deep quiet of the wolfswood at night. Those dreams had been peaceful.
And yet, the thought of leaving angered him as well. So much was still undone. Robert and his council of cravens and flatterers would beggar the realm if left unchecked, or worse, sell it to the Lannisters. And the truth of Jon Arryn's death still eluded him. Oh, he had found a few pieces of the trial, enough to convince him that Jon Arryn had indeed been murdered, but that was no more than the spoor of an animal on the forest floor.
He had not sighted the beast itself yet, though it was there, lurking, hidden, treacherous…
Willam's presence was a blessing, in this moment; if they took ship he could stop at Dragonstone and speak with Stannis Baratheon. Pycelle had sent a raven off across the water, with a polite letter from Ned requesting Lord Stannis to return. As yet, there had been no reply, but the silence only deepened his suspicions. Lord Stannis shared the secret Jon Arryn had died for; he was certain of it. The truth he sought might very well be waiting for him on the ancient island fortress of House Targaryen.
And when you have it, what then? Some secrets are safer kept hidden. Some secrets are too dangerous to share, even with those you love and trust.
Could Robert be part of it? He would not have thought so, but once he would not have thought Robert could command the murder of women and children either. Catelyn had tried to warn him. You knew the man, she had said. The king is a stranger to you. The sooner he was quit of King's Landing, the better.
If the Wanderer were to set sail by tomorrow, it would be well to be on it; for his family's sake if nothing else.
"Can you see to it?" He asked the man, though his eyes were firmly on Jon Snow.
"Aye," Willam confirmed gladly. "She's docked at the King's Port; you know the spot I assume?"
Ned did know it, just past the King's Gate that was the ports namesake – both walled and guarded; but so long as nobody knew of his departure such a detail was of little consequences. By his reckoning, Will still had some fifty of his greycloaks protecting that ship. The others were in the Red Keep already.
"Aye," Ned confirmed with a nod. "Tell nobody of this, the castle has ears everywhere..."
"We'll be ready," Willam turned to leave then and there with Jon Snow at his heels.
Ned hadn't involved Willam in his suspicions surrounding Jon Arryn. The fewer who knew, the better; or so Ned had convinced himself – as popular as the man had become, he'd no doubt gained many eyes on him in the capital since his arrival… and yet… in that moment Ned decided to confine in the wayward prince.
"Will," he called out to halt the man's exit. "A moment, alone…"
Ned refused to involve Jon in this however, the lad was too young – and the sooner he was out of the capital the better.
"Jon," Willam turned to the boy, who answered dutifully. "Go and fetch Aedan, tell him to have the crew ready to leave in an instant."
"As you say," Jon Snow obeyed without complaint.
Once the boy was gone it was only the two of them left in Ned's solar.
Ned's hand ran over a great thick tome with cracked yellow pages of crabbed script, bound between faded leather covers. "Take a seat," he offered hesitantly. "Have the wolf stand guard with Tom; would you? Nobody is to enter-"
"M'lord?" Tomard opened the door ever so slightly. "Lord Baelish to see you."
Wraith's ears bent backwards at that, a low growling noise creeping from the wolfs throat.
Ned was half-tempted to turn him away but thought better of it with a sigh. "Show him in, Tom…"
Lord Petyr sauntered into the solar as if nothing had gone amiss that morning. He wore a great thick tome with cracked yellow pages of crabbed script, bound between faded leather covers – halting his stride only upon locking eyes with the large black direwolf that was baring its fangs at him.
"Wraith doesn't like you," is all Willam offered the man, opting to remain standing. He'd always had a dislike of sitting anyway.
Ned greeted him coldly. "Might I ask the reason for this visit, Lord Baelish?"
"I won't detain you long, I'm on my way to dine with Lady Tanda. Lamprey pie and roast suckling pig. She has some thought to wed me to her younger daughter, so her table is always astonishing. If truth be told, I'd sooner marry the pig, but don't tell her. I do love lamprey pie…"
Wraith calmed only at his masters pushing, nudging the beast with his leg – he hushed, but refused to release his stare.
"Don't let me keep you from your eels, my lord," Ned said with icy disdain, noting the wolfs dislike of the man.
"His Grace is most wroth with you. He went on about you at some length after you took your leave of us this morning."
Ned did not honor that with a reply. Nor did he offer this new guest a seat, but Littlefinger took one anyway. "After you stormed out, it was left to me to convince them not to hire the Faceless Men," he continued blithely. "Instead, Varys will quietly let it be known that we'll make a lord of whoever does in the Targaryen girl."
"Killing girls is king's business, is it?" This was the first he'd heard of it, but assumed it was the 'quarrelling' previous referred to…
Ned was disgusted at the notion. "So now we grant titles to assassins?"
Littlefinger shrugged. "Titles are cheap. Faceless Men are expensive."
Ned frowned. "You sit in council and talk of ugly women and steel kisses. How big a fool do you take me for?"
"Well, quite an enormous one, actually," said Littlefinger, laughing.
"Do you always find murder so amusing, Lord Baelish?"
"It's not murder I find amusing, Lord Stark, it's you. You rule like a man dancing on rotten ice. I believe I heard the first crack this morning."
"The first and last," said Ned. "I've had my fill."
"Careful you don't fall in Baelish," Willam cautioned.
"When do you mean to return to Winterfell, my lords?"
"As soon as I can. What concern is that of yours?"
There was no wisdom in sharing that with the man, honestly; Will didn't trust this one in the slightest.
"None, but if perchance you're still here come evenfall, I'd be pleased to take you to this brothel your man Jory has been searching for so ineffectually." Littlefinger smiled his usual smug arrogant grin as he leaned back in the chair comfortably. "And I won't even tell the Lady Catelyn."
The man left with a spring in his step, knowing he'd hooked Ned's interest entirely.
"Slimy bastard," Willam swore when he left.
Ned frowned. "Take a seat, there's things I need to discuss."
They spoke at length of Jon Arryn and Stannis Baratheon's time spent visiting several of Robert's bastard throughout the city and of the 'The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms', which Arryn had been reading before his demise. Asking his opinion, Ned waited for what felt like an eternity for his answer.
"Seed is Strong, eh?" Willam mulled that phrase over and over. "The old falcon died shortly after reading this book and he was visiting bastards…"
It didn't make much sense, honestly – except for the unsurprising news that King Robert had a string of bastards littered around the city.
"Could they have just been visiting whores?"
"No," Ned denied vehemently. "That wasn't Jon; nor Stannis either – it's all-"
"Out of character," Willam hummed in thought. "Enough that it wouldn't be easy to hide their visits?"
"Aye," Ned nodded, having gotten as much from his own thoughts. Someone knew that Jon Arryn and Stannis Baratheon were seeking out these bastard children, they knew Arryn had the book, and for some reason that was enough to poison the old falcon. Ned was convinced of it and Will was inclined to agree.
"How is it all connected then?" Willam asked the important question. "Cersei is – well – Cersei; could be she simply wished the bastards kept hidden?"
To kill over unclaimed bastards was a stretch though, wasn't it? Maybe she was afraid that Robert would legitimize one of them over her own children?
"I'm not sure," Ned frowned in thought.
"This brothel that Baelish found is what then?"
"Another of the bastards," Ned confirmed unhappily.
By the evening they'd be off to this brothel in some attempt to find answers.
They found Littlefinger in the brothel's common room, chatting amiably with a tall, elegant woman who wore a feathered gown over skin as black as ink. By the hearth, Heward and a buxom wench were playing at forfeits. From the look of it, he'd lost his belt, his cloak, his mail shirt, and his right boot so far, while the girl had been forced to unbutton her shift to the waist. Jory Cassel stood beside a rain-streaked window with a wry smile on his face, watching Heward turn over tiles and enjoying the view.
Ned paused at the foot of the stair and pulled on his gloves. "It's time we took our leave. My business here is done."
Heward lurched to his feet, hurriedly gathering up his things. "As you will, my lord," Jory said. "I'll help Will bring round the horses."
Littlefinger took his time saying his farewells. He kissed the black woman's hand, whispered some joke that made her laugh aloud, and sauntered over to Ned. "Your business," he said lightly, "or Robert's? They say the Hand dreams the king's dreams and rules with the king's sword. Does that also mean you fuck with the king's-"
"Lord Baelish," Ned interrupted. "You presume too much. I am not ungrateful for your help. It might have taken us years to find this brothel without you, but that does not mean I intend to endure your mockery. And I am no longer the King's Hand…"
"The direwolf must be a prickly beast," said Littlefinger with a sharp twist of his mouth.
A warm rain was pelting down from a starless black sky as they walked to the stables. Ned drew up the hood of his cloak. Jory brought out his horse with Willam right behind him with some ten greycloaks the man had insisted on bringing along – despite Ned's talk of secrecy; he'd refused to budge on the matter.
He'd brought the wolf too, Wraith, as black as midnight; the beast had grown fiercely – but was still leaner than its packmates.
"Will we be going back to the castle now, my lord?" Jory asked. Ned nodded and swung into the saddle.
Willam mounted up alongside his men saying, "let's be rid of this place," all too eagerly.
"Chataya runs a choice establishment," Littlefinger argued as they rode. "I've half a mind to buy it. Brothels are a much sounder investment than ships, I've found. Whores seldom sink, and when they are boarded by pirates, why, the pirates pay good coin like everyone else." Lord Petyr chuckled at his own wit.
"Good ships don't sink so well, or fear piracy neither," Willam countered as rain pelted his hair – forcing up his cloaks hood.
Ned let Baelish prattle on as they rode. After a time though, he quieted, and they rode in silence. The streets of King's Landing were dark and deserted. The rain had driven everyone under their roofs. It beat down on Ned's head, warm as blood and relentless as old guilts. Fat drops of water ran down his face.
"Robert will never keep to one bed," Lyanna had told him at Winterfell, on the night long ago when their father had promised her hand to the young Lord of Storm's End. "I hear he has gotten a child on some girl in the Vale." Ned had held the babe in his arms; he could scarcely deny her, nor would he lie to his sister, but he had assured her that what Robert did before their betrothal was of no matter, that he was a good man and true who would love her with all his heart.
Lyanna had only smiled at them then. "Love is sweet, dearest Ned, but it cannot change a man's nature."
The girl had been so young Ned had not dared to ask her age. No doubt she'd been a virgin; the better brothels could always find a virgin, if the purse were fat enough. She had light red hair and a powdering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and when she slipped free a breast to give her nipple to the babe, he saw that her bosom was freckled as well. "I named her Barra," she said as the child nursed. "She looks so like him, does she not, milord? She has his nose, and his hair… "
"She does." Eddard Stark had touched the baby's fine, dark hair. Robert's firstborn had had the same fine hair, he seemed to recall.
"Tell him that when you see him, milord, as it… as it please you…. please tell him how beautiful she is?"
"I will," Ned had promised her. That was his curse. Robert would swear undying love and forget them before evenfall, but Ned Stark kept his vows. He thought of the promises he'd made Lyanna as she lay dying, and the price he'd paid to keep them. His mind wandered to his family…
"And tell him I've not been with no one else. I swear it, milord, by the old gods and new. Chataya said I could have half a year, for the baby, and for hoping he'd come back. So, you'll tell him I'm waiting, won't you? I don't want no jewels or nothing, just him. He was always good to me, truly."
Good to you, Ned thought hollowly. "I will tell him, child, and I promise you, Barra shall not go wanting."
She had smiled then, a smile so tremulous and sweet that it cut the heart out of him. Riding through the rainy night, Ned saw Jon Snow's face in front of him, so like a younger version of his own. If the gods frowned so on bastards, he thought dully, why did they fill men with such lusts?
"Lord Baelish, what do you know of Robert's bastards?"
"Well, he has more than you, for a start…"
"How many, exactly?"
Littlefinger shrugged. Rivulets of moisture twisted down the back of his cloak. "Does it matter? If you bed enough women, some will give you presents."
Willam rode in silence as the man spoke, bit by bit the man proved exactly why Wraith had been so keen to rip his throat out. He reeked of falsehoods…
"I know he's acknowledged that boy at Storm's End, the one he fathered the night Lord Stannis wed. There's also a pair of twins at Casterly Rock, three years ago when he went west for Lord Tywin's tourney. Cersei had the babes killed and sold the mother to a passing slaver. Too much an affront to Lannister pride, that close to home."
"Lovely woman," Willam managed a scoff at that.
"The sweetest," Baelish agreed, smiling wide.
Ned Stark grimaced. Ugly tales like that were told of every great lord in the realm. He could believe it of Cersei Lannister readily enough, but would the king stand by and let it happen? The Robert he had known would not have, but the Robert he had known had never been so practiced at shutting his eyes to things he did not wish to see.
"You found what you were looking for then Ned?"
"Aye," He confirmed, turning to Baelish. "Why would Jon Arryn take an interest in the king's baseborn children?"
Baelish gave a sodden shrug. "He was the King's Hand. Doubtless Robert asked him to see that they were provided for."
Ned was soaked through to the bone, and his soul had grown cold. "It had to be more than that, or why kill him?"
Littlefinger shook the rain from his hair and laughed. "Now I see. Lord Arryn learned that His Grace had filled the bellies of some whores and fishwives, and for that he had to be silenced. Small wonder. Allow a man like that to live, and next he's like to blurt out that the sun rises in the east."
That was the question. There had to be something they were missing, but there was no answer Ned Stark could give.
For the first time in years, he found himself remembering Rhaegar Targaryen, wondered if he had frequented brothels; but somehow, he thought not.
The rain was falling harder now, stinging the eyes and drumming against the ground. "What's special about the bastards?" Willam thought with a scowl as they rode back to the keep in relative silence. "Is it just jealousy?" He doubted that, though he couldn't put it past Cersei – it seemed too much; so there had to be something more…
Lord Eddard was bent over the huge leather-bound book of lineages the morning after, his mind running over the last days events – having found little of use from his nights trip to that damn brothel. Willam had only provided more questions, not answers; though it was good at least to have one to confirm his suspicions…
Septa Mordane marched her into the solar then with his daughter at her side.
"Come here, Sansa," he said, not unkindly, when the septa had gone for her sister. "Sit beside me."
Septa Mordane returned with Arya squirming in her grasp and Bran just behind them. Sansa had put on a lovely pale green damask gown and a look of remorse, but her sister was still wearing the ratty leathers and roughspun she'd worn at breakfast. Bran wore his squire's attire, having come from training in the yard.
"Here is the other one," the septa announced as Arya scurried forward, poking her tongue out at the old woman.
"My thanks, Septa Mordane. I would talk to my children alone if you would be so kind."
"Arya started it," Sansa said quickly, anxious to have the first word. "She called me a liar and threw an orange at me and spoiled my dress, the ivory silk, the one Queen Cersei gave me when I was betrothed to Prince Joffrey! She hates that I'm going to marry the prince! She tries to spoil everything, Father!"
"Enough, Sansa." Lord Eddard's voice was sharp with impatience.
Arya raised her eyes. "I'm sorry, Father. I was wrong and I beg my sweet sister's forgiveness…"
Sansa was so startled that for a moment she was speechless. Finally, she found her voice. "What about my dress?"
"Maybe… I could wash it," Arya said doubtfully.
"Washing won't do any good," Sansa said. "Not if you scrubbed all day and all night. The silk is ruined."
"Then I'll… make you a new one?"
Sansa threw back her head in disdain. "You? You couldn't sew a dress fit to clean the pigsties!"
Their father sighed. "I did not call you here to talk of dresses. I'm sending you both back to Winterfell."
For the second time Sansa found herself too stunned for words. She felt her eyes grow moist again.
"You can't," Arya said.
"I'm a squire though," Bran gasped.
"Please, Father," Sansa managed at last. "Please don't."
Eddard Stark favoured his children with a tired smile. "At last, we've found something you all agree on."
"I didn't do anything wrong," Sansa pleaded with him. "I don't want to go back!"
She loved King's Landing; the pageantry of the court, the high lords and ladies in their velvets and silks and gemstones, the great city with all its people. The tournament had been the most magical time of her whole life, and there was so much she had not seen yet, harvest feasts and masked balls and mummer shows.
"Father, I swear it. I'll be good, you'll see!" Sansa begged. "Just let me stay and I promise to be as fine and noble and courteous as the queen!"
Father's mouth twitched strangely. "Sansa, I'm not sending you away for fighting, though the gods know I'm sick of you two squabbling. I want you back in Winterfell for your own safety. Robert spends his days hunting instead of ruling while Lannisters roam the halls, this city is not a save place for us..."
"But-" Bran seemed upset, looking at his feet. "I'm a squire, and Ser Barristan says I've done well – haven't I?"
Ned couldn't help but smile at his boy. "You have Bran, and I'm sorry – I promise we'll find you another knight; how does that sound?"
"There are no knights in the north," he grumbled.
"Not sure," His father countered. "We'll visit White Harbour, perhaps you can ward there and become a knight?"
The boy seemed to perk up a little at that, though his disappointment for losing his position under the famous Barristan the Bold was clear as day.
Arya was chewing at her lip. "Can we take Syrio back with us?"
"Who cares about your stupid dancing master!?" Sansa flared. "Father, I only just now remembered, I can't go away, I'm to marry Prince Joffrey!" She tried to smile bravely for him. "I love him, Father, I truly do, I love him as much as Queen Naerys loved Prince Aemon the Dragonknight. I want to be his queen and have his babies."
"Sweet one," her father said gently, "listen to me. When you're old enough, I will make you a match with a high lord who's worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong. This match with Joffrey was a terrible mistake. That boy is no Prince Aemon, you must believe me."
"He is!" Sansa insisted. "I don't want someone brave and gentle; I want him! We'll be ever so happy, just like in the songs, you'll see! I'll give him a son with golden hair, and one day he'll be the king of all the realm, the greatest king that ever was, as brave as the wolf and as proud as the lion!"
Arya made a face. "Not if Joffrey's his father," she said. "He's a liar and a craven and anyhow he's a stag, not a lion."
"He is not! He's not the least bit like that old drunken king," Sansa screamed at her sister, forgetting herself in her grief.
"She's right," Bran frowned. "He's a Baratheon…"
"He is nothing like that!" Sansa practically screamed at her siblings.
Ned looked at her strangely, as if his daughter had suddenly grown an extra head.
"Gods," he swore softly, "out of the mouth of babes." He shouted for Septa Mordane. To the girls he said, "Prince Willam is preparing his ship to take us home. These days, the sea is safer than the kingsroad. You will sail as soon as he returns from the docks, and yes Arya; with Syrio Forel too, if he agrees to enter my service."
Ned had planned to leave with Willam's ship; but he couldn't now. Robert needed to know the truth, and he had to be here for it.
Arya beamed with happiness at the news. "We get to see Will's ship!?"
"It's in the King's Port," Bran said simply, as if he'd seen it already.
Ned paused but a moment to wonder how his son knew that detail.
"This isn't fair!" Sansa complained loudly, scowling at her father with a fury.
"Say nothing of this," He opted to tell them all sternly. "It's best no one knows of our plans."
My Note(s): Bran's exploring the secrets of the capital with help from his dreams, as Lyarra is teaching him to explore the past. Willam loses a sparring match with Jaime, though he wasn't using Frostbite because he really considers that sword to be a crutch only meant for killing – when I hope it comes across that Will rather enjoys duelling/sparring for fun. Ned isn't attacked by Jaime, because Tyrion wasn't captured; because Bran never fell so Catelyn never captured him etc.
Willam doesn't like Baelish but then Will's pretty paranoid on his best day and doesn't trust anyone outside the family, or inside it; in some cases.