Chapter 11: Iron

The capital was in a furor.

The Master of Whispers - a member of the Small Council - killed! And in broad daylight, no less!

Honestly, leading these people about by the nose was almost hilariously easy. A few careful words here, a suggestion there, and out of nowhere materialised this grand conspiracy against the crown. The suspects were endless. Stannis, Daenerys, the Ironborn, the Vale, the North, the Dornish, anyone.

There were spies in the walls.

Not that much of this bore any fruit, of course. Initially, many people laid accusation against one another, keen to be seen as loyal defenders of the crown. After this, as per my instructions, no accusation could be laid against anyone till anything in the way of substantial evidence could be provided to indicate the identity of Varys's killer.

Naturally, the King was above suspicion.

Well, apart from in Tyrion's mind, anyway. But I wasn't too worried. He knew better than to trust Varys.

Still, this was all a convenient enough excuse to launch a purge. With the Master of Whispers dead, and a mysterious assassin supposedly wandering the Keep at night, an effort would have to be made to force this mysterious figure into the light. As such, at my behest, and with the approval of the rest of the Small Council, the process of locating and opening up almost every secret passageway within the Keep could begin.

I made sure to keep some hidden, just for emergencies, of course. The inhabitants of the passageways, however - Varys's little birds - were all rounded up and locked away till I could figure what to do with them.

No more listening for the pattering of little feet.

It was a glorious feeling.

Not to say I wasn't still going to be cautious, but I was much safer today than I had been just a few days ago. And I would be safer tomorrow than I was today. And that was, as far as I was concerned, a step in the right direction.

And so it was that I enjoyed a nice, quiet dinner with my family - and my soon-to-be family - in this world. Cersei sat at the opposite end of the table to me and Jaime stood guard by the door. Kevan, Tywin and Tyrion were all regrettably absent. On my left was sat Margaery Tyrell, and her father, the Lord Mace Tyrell. The room was dark, with only flickering candles for light and a small hearth in the corner for warmth.

It was comfortable enough for me. With the cut of Margaery's dress, however...

"Are you not cold, Lady Margaery? Wouldn't you like a cloak?"

"I am touched by your concern, Your Grace, but luckily for us Tyrells our blood runs quite warm."

"Indeed," chimed in Lord Mace.

Cersei gave a stiff smile, and I resisted the urge to break out laughing at the almost palpable tension hanging in the air. Instead, I focused on cutting my meat into small chunks, hiding my smile as I did so, and eating them slowly and deliberately. Ser Boros may have tasted the food, but some poisons worked by accumulation, and I was not one to take a risk.

Margaery made an attempt at peace-making, likely well-aware of my mother's reputation for vitriol, "Father, isn't the Queen's gown magnificent? The fabric, the embroidery, the metalwork - I've never seen anything like it."

"You might find a bit of armour quite useful, once you become Queen - perhaps even before." Margaery looked up at Cersei at her not-so-veiled threats, "I hear you stopped your carriage in Flea Bottom on your way back to the Sept this morning."

Margaery nodded, "Yes." She turned to face me, "I payed a visit to an orphanage the High Septon told me about."

"Margaery does a great deal of work with the poor, back in Highgarden," boasted Mace.

"The lowest among us are no different than the highest, if you give them a chance, and approach them with an open heart."

"An open heart is what you'll get in Flea Bottom if you're not careful, my dear," said Cersei. "Not long ago, we were attacked by a mob there. We had a full compliment of guards, and it still didn't stop them. We barely escaped with our lives."

I nodded, "It is not the healthy man that one should fear, but rather the lean and hungry-looking. Desperate men so rarely have anything to lose, and death by the headsman's axe for treason appears a far better prospect than a slow death by starvation."

Cersei looked indignant, "Joffrey-"

I kept my tone calm and collected, deliberately reminiscent of Tywin, "Joffrey let the people starve, and the half-million sheep finally turned on their shepherd, as they are won't to do."

"Hunger turns men into beasts," Margaery said. "I'm glad House Tyrell has been able to help in this regard. They tell me a hundred wagons arrive daily now from the Reach. Wheat, Barley, Apples; we've had a blessed harvest, and of course, it's our duty to assist the capital in a time of need."

"And the assistance is much-appreciated, Lady Margaery." I chewed on my meat, and continued once I had swallowed it, "But my mother is right. Food only goes so far, and I should ask you to either travel under heavier guard, or to cease this 'charity' of yours, lest you wind up suffering the same fate as poor Lady Lollys. With Varys's killer still uncaptured, it would be unwise to take undue risks, after all."

The ghost of a cruel smile could be seen tugging on Cersei's lips at that.

Did she think my warning was a threat? Knowing her, it was likely.

An uncomfortable silence descended over the table, and Lord Mace in particular looked out of place. I was content to keep eating at my sedate pace, though my mother had long finished her dinner and was now working on her second cup of wine. I was still halfway through my meal, and though I enjoyed the tension, the silence fast became intolerable.

"Let us speak of happier things, then. Tell me, Lord Mace, how fare the preparations for my wedding to your daughter?"

At this Mace brightened considerably, "Very well, Your Grace. As per your request, the celebrations will be kept humble, but I have been assured that many a lord will be in attendance, practically the entirety of the crownlands-"

"Humble?" Cersei questioned, only the thinnest veneer of nicety masking the malice in her tone. She herself had not wanted a grand ceremony, this I knew, but her hatred of the Tyrells was greater than her grief-induced lethargy over Joffrey, "My son is a King-"

I cut her off, my tone still dispassionate, "Who happens to be destitute, mother. And the guests matter more to me than the event itself. If there are three great occasions at which the most work can be done, they are weddings, funerals and tourneys. We lack the gold for a tourney, and we can hardly expect the realm to travel the length of the country on the eve of winter for poor Lord Varys, but a wedding..."

Margaery pouted, "Will you be working during our wedding, Your Grace?"

I waved my fork in the air in between bites, "The realm never sleeps, my lady. If you have not already learned that, you will, soon enough."

Margaery seemed intent on playing up her innocence, feigning nervousness, "But you will help me learn, won't you?"

I remained indifferent to her advances, "Initially, my lady, but I'm afraid this profession of ours - of ruling - it is not something that one can learn. You are either suited to it, or you are not. From what I hear, you have quite the head on your shoulders, and I should like to see that in use."

Margaery smiled, "I would like that too, Your Grace."

I looked at her for a long moment, and then said, "I'm sure you would."

A silence once again descended over the dinner. Just before I could finish my meal, however, a red cloak arrived at the door to the chamber, "Let him in, Ser Jaime."

The red cloak came and stood before me, and offered me a short bow, "The Lord Hand requests your presence in the Tower of the Hand, Your Grace."

I frowned, "Did he give a reason?"

"No, Your Grace, but he did tell me to inform you of the urgency of the matter."

I nodded, stood from my chair, and said, "Well, then. Lead the way."

We walked through the keep at what felt like a half-jog with my smaller stride, Jaime close behind. The steps leading up the tower of the hand were particularly problematic, but eventually we made it to the chamber in which Lord Tywin was. Opening the door, revealed a half-dozen knights, fully armoured, though they lacked any form of insignia or banner.

And in their company?

What looked like a young boy, with a mud-covered face and matted hair.

A touch of Maisie Williams shone through, but only a little. Otherwise, she looked like she was described, with dark hair, and a long face, and grey eyes. She hung from her arms, each one in the grasp of a different knight, stubbornly refusing to carry her own weight. Her clothes were tattered and worn, and she looked as if she were exhausted. It was clear that she had attempted to escape, and had failed - repeatedly. Still, there was an air of defiance about her, of a childish sort of rebellion present in her eyes as she shot Tywin a murderous glare.

This was Arya Stark, alright.

Lord Tywin looked at me as I came in, and said, "How did you know?"

I quirked an eyebrow, "I believe I already told you that."

"Enough with the games. How?"

I gestured to the girl, "Why? Do you recognise her? Is she the one?"

"She is the girl from Harrenhall, to be sure. As for her being Arya Stark..."

I turned back to Jaime, "Care to weigh in here, Uncle?"

He approached her, lowering himself to his knees to look at her face, and then nodding, "Her hair is shorter, her face more gaunt, but this is Arya Stark."

"Hmm." I turned to the knights, "And Sandor? What did you do to him?"

Two of the knights shared a look, and spoke with a slight stammer, "We caught him as well, Your Grace. We left him in the cells, in the company of the Grandmaester, as he was quite badly wounded. We had to carry him on a stretcher much of the way."

"And their belongings?"

One of the knights raised a finger and pointed at a hessian sack, filled with various odds and ends, sitting on the floor next to the table, "Everything should be in there, Your Grace, apart from their swords."

"Did you find a thin one?" I asked, approaching the sack. "Needle, I believe it was called?"

One of the knights nodded, and Arya raised her head and shot me a venomous look. I hauled the sack up onto a chair, and then loosened the drawstring as I went through their possessions, taking an account of all their things.

"What are you doing?" asked Lord Tywin.

"Looking for something."

"Looking for what?"

I left his question unanswered, as I realised that it was not going to be found in the sack, "This is all?", I asked the knights, "You found nothing else?"

One of the men shook his head, "This is everything, Your Grace."

Immediately, my gaze flicked over to Arya, still hanging from their arms. Though she smothered it well, she could not hide the small upwards twitch that showed on the corners of her mouth, "Hold her still, will you?" I approached her, left hand grasping her jaw, lifting her head, so that I could look into her eyes, "Where did you put it, hmm?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," she spat.

Now it was my turn to smile, "We'll see about that."

Then, I began to pat her down, and immediately, Arya realised what I was looking for, "No!", she cried, writhing in place and trying her best to hurt me. Her foot caught my shin, but save for a small expulsion of air through my nose, I gave no indication that I felt a thing. After less than a minute of searching, it came to be I found it in her breeches.

A small protrusion under her waistband, hidden by the curve of her hips, roughly half the size of my palm and disk-shaped. I reached inside, and the knights had to hold her back by her hair as she tried to lash out at me, screaming, tears leaving tracks down her face. I withdrew my hand, having secured my prize, and said, "Take her to the top cells, if you will, and make sure to have some red cloaks guard her cell, and guard it well. Get her washed and looked at by the Maester, and mind you make sure she has every comfort short of freedom. I'll not have it said that the crown mistreats it's prisoners."

The men looked to Lord Tywin for confirmation, and when he nodded his assent, they hauled Arya off, her feet dragging dejectedly along the floor. Once she was gone, Tywin gave me a long, hard stare, his lips pressed together in displeasure, "What," he asked, his tone dangerously cool, "was that?"

Wordlessly, I walked up the table where he was sat, and gently lay my prize on the top of the table, just out of Tywin's reach. Tywin stared at it, and then looked back up at me, half-angry, half-proud.

Because what I had just placed on that table was a heavy iron coin.

It was the favour of the Faceless Men.

"That," I said, snatching the coin back up off the table, "was me saving your life."

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P.S. May be subject to a rewrite in the future