This chapter is not for the fainthearted. If you are squeamish, skip to the third section.
The trial was over, and it was time for Arya to leave King's Landing. She still had a few loose ends to tie up, regarding rescuing Tyrion at Eastwatch. The finer points needed to be worked out with Bran, which was why she was sitting in Littlefinger's brothel, wearing his face, and having a conversation with the bird while she packed Littlefinger's large travel chest.
"He will be sailing north on a ship called the Storm Crow," she told Bran, placing several jewels into one of the smaller chests. "I need him to disappear after he has landed at Eastwatch. It will be announced that his body has been found, killed by rogue Freefolk. She hoped Mance could arrange for some of his men to escort Tyrion to Queenscrown. Once he's there, send a raven to Winterfell and see what Jon and Sansa want to do with him."
"Quork, corn," Bran replied, confirming he understood.
"Will you be in Queenscrown when I return to Winterfell?" she asked, folding one of Littlefinger's tunics and concealing a dagger inside.
"Yes," Bran quorked as Arya pulled some corn from her pocket and gave it to the bird.
"Will you escort me to the Vale?" Arya had asked Bran this question before; she knew the answer but needed the reassurance of her family.
"Yes," Bran replied, then he flew off.
Arya closed the chest and sighed. She was lonely, and her life seemed destined to remain that way. Once upon a time, in her previous life, she had welcomed the idea of the Faceless Men, believing them to be a family. But now Arya knew better. Going back in time had reminded her of what family meant, and she didn't want to leave it behind. However, her course was set, and the Faceless Men had watched her and would continue to do so until it was time to rejoin their ranks.
A knock on the door disturbed her from her morose mood. "Come in," she called out.
Olyvar, the one she was leaving in charge of the brothel, entered the room. "Lord Baelish," the blond-haired man nodded his head.
Arya sat and crossed her legs, giving Olyvar a pensive look. "How can I help?" she asked.
"One of the clients is asking for a certain type of girl, Lord Baelish," Olyvar replied.
"And?" Arya asked, thinking that was the point of a whorehouse.
"We don't have anyone he would find acceptable," Olyvar explained.
Arya stood up. "We cater to every taste. Anything can be supplied, for the right price. Is our client... wealthy?" she asked.
"He's a Kingsguard," Olyvar replied. "Ser Meryn Trant."
Arya's ears pricked up. She had wanted to kill him since she arrived in King's Landing but had not yet had the opportunity. A sly smile crossed her lips. "I have just the girl. I procured her this morning, just in case such a time would arise."
"How do you know what Ser Meryn wants?" Olyvar was puzzled.
Arya stood and picked up her doublet. "If you want to run a successful establishment, then you need to understand your clientele. Ser Meryn has particular... tastes. I am just about to leave, but I will send her to you. Her name is Mercy. She will be with him in about ten minutes."
Olyvar smiled. "Of course, Lord Baelish."
"Has my litter arrived?" she asked.
"It is waiting for you outside, Lord Baelish," the new brothel-keeper replied.
"Good. I want my travel chests loaded onto the litter. You load them while I speak with Ser Meryn," Arya smiled. "Which room is he in?"
"The cold room," Olyvar told her.
How apt and perfect, Arya thought, as she picked up the small chest. "Ser Meryn will be busy all night," Arya told Olyvar. "He must not be interrupted. He is a most prestigious client."
"Of course, Lord Baelish," Olyvar replied, lifting the first chest. Arya opened the door for him to take it downstairs.
Once he'd gone, she rushed to one of the smaller chests and unlocked it. She scanned through the multitudes of vials until she spotted the one she wanted: an antidote. Arya opened the vial and drank it. There was more in the large chest, but she wanted to keep enough on her person, just in case she needed it.
Next, she picked up a glass jug filled with Dornish red and added a few drops of the Binder, the perfect poison for her needs. Made from lotus dust and ghost lily petals, the poison would render the victim weak and speechless. He wouldn't realise it until he tried to speak or fight. If pain was inflicted, he would feel everything but be unable to do much, nor would he be able to scream for help.
Arya picked up two empty goblets and made her way to the cold room.
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The cold room was, as its name suggested, the coolest room in the brothel. Located in the cellar, it was one of the most prized rooms, offering clients respite from the cloying heat outside. In truth, it wasn't cold, just cooler than the rooms above. The blinding sun never shone into the windowless room.
Arya entered the room where Ser Meryn, dressed in his gold-plated Baratheon Kingsguard armour, sat on the luxurious bed. He frowned as Littlefinger entered.
"Lord Baelish," Meryn eyed Littlefinger with contempt. "Do you have what I desire?" he asked.
Arya sat on a nearby chair and poured two goblets of the wine she had just poisoned. She handed one to Ser Meryn and sat down with the other, taking a large drink. "I have, Ser Meryn. However, I don't keep the young ones on the premises. They are in another house. I don't want to draw too much attention to my procuring methods." She took another sip of the wine. This time, Ser Meryn did the same.
The poison took five minutes to work and only lasted for thirty. Arya needed to work fast.
"How old?" Ser Meryn asked.
"Ten, but she looks younger," Arya lied.
"Has she been touched?"
Arya shook her head. "Never. I raised her myself," she said with a sly smile, which Trant returned. "I thought I'd tell you myself. I will leave you to enjoy her. Her name is Mercy." With that, she headed out.
Once upstairs, she took eight gold dragons from her purse and handed them to Olyvar. "Ser Meryn has paid for the room for the night. He will leave by the secret entrance," she told him. "He is not to be disturbed."
"Yes, Lord Baelish," Olyvar nodded. "When will you be returning?" he asked.
"If all goes well within the year," Arya told him. "I am to marry my childhood sweetheart. Then I must travel east on business for the crown. Until then, you will take care of my establishment," she instructed. With that, she turned around, walked out the back of the brothel, and got into her litter.
Once on the street, she told the porters to stop for half an hour, as she had forgotten something. She climbed from the litter and returned to the back courtyard of the brothel. In the outside privy, she removed Littlefinger's clothes and face, leaving on his tunic to act as a dress. On the inside of her right calf, she wore a dagger.
Arya walked through the secret entrance, then to the cold room, remembering to shrink to make Meryn want her more. As soon as she was in the room with him, she noticed he had removed his armour, preparing for his favourite pastime.
"About fucking time," Ser Meryn circled her like she was prey. "Hmm, Littlefinger was right. You are just how I like them," he ran his fingers through Arya's hair. She wanted to be sick.
"Have you ever sucked a man's cock before?" Meryn asked. Arya shook her head and said nothing.
He gripped her shoulder and pushed her down. His grip was weakened. Arya could have resisted but let him believe he had overwhelmed her, and she got to her knees. Meryn unlaced his breeches, and his half-hard cock fell out. Arya blanched at the smell.
Meryn grabbed hold of her hair and pulled it. "Put it in your mouth," his voice was quieter, and Arya knew the poison was working.
Arya took hold of his cock with her right hand and glanced up at him for a moment before staring at his ugly member. Then, like lightning, she pulled the dagger from her calf, and with an efficient swipe, she cut it off.
Blood spurted from the wound, and Meryn tried to scream, but his voice had stopped working. He let go of her hair, his hands flying to where his cock should be. His knees buckled, and he fell to the floor.
"Scum like you shouldn't be allowed to live," Arya hissed. "You disgusting pervert. I should cut out your tongue and chop your hands off and let you live. That would be a more fitting punishment. I could make you suffer even more, maybe take your sight." She sighed. "But I've got too much to do and not enough time to do it."
She looked down at the man, who was blubbering and looking at her in terror. Arya smiled, then slit his neck. The blood flowed all over the rug, but nowhere else—the floor was clean.
Her work on his face was quick. Donning his armour took a little longer. Once she was ready, she wrapped his body in the already bloody rug and hoisted him over her shoulder. Arya found having his strength while wearing his face was useful; otherwise, she wouldn't have been able to carry his weight. She collected Littlefinger's clothes from the shithouse and made her way out of the courtyard and into the empty street.
Arya glanced up towards where the litter awaited her a fair way up the road. The porters hadn't moved and were standing with their backs towards her, which was fine by her.
Arya crossed the street and crept into one of the empty warehouses that led to the waterfront. She removed the armour and fitted it onto the body of Meryn Trant. It didn't matter if he was dressed, as long as the armour was heavy enough to weigh him down. She kept his white cloak, afraid it might come undone and float in the water. Instead, she left it in the warehouse with the rug.
Donning Littlefinger's face once more, she pulled him from the warehouse to the docks, where she found a space free of prying eyes.
At the water's edge, she pushed him into the Blackwater. His body was dragged underwater by the heavy armour and the current. Satisfied he would never be seen again, she returned to the warehouse, pulled on the rest of Littlefinger's clothes, set the rug alight, and returned to the litter, which carried her to the harbour she had just left.
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The ship to take Arya north was a galley called the Mockingbird, named after Littlefinger's house sigil. Of course, it would be changed once they reached White Harbor, but for now, it would suffice. She climbed aboard, and her luggage followed. The captain, who had a reassuring northern accent, reminding her these were Manderly men, led her to her cabin.
"Leave now if you can," Arya told the captain, who bowed his head to her.
"Of course, Lord Baelish," he replied.
The air filled with cries, and the acrid scent of smoke filled Arya's nostrils. She made her way out of the cabin to witness the carnage. As the Mockingbird pulled away, the distant warehouse, where she left the rug had caught fire, and men were pouring pails of water over the flames to douse them.
Satisfied that nobody would consider looking for Ser Meryn for a few days, Arya returned to her cabin, removed Littlefinger's face, climbed into bed, and fell fast asleep.
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Arya sailed for ten days aboard the Mockingbird, heading for Baelish's Keep at the Fingers. This was where she was meeting Lysa Arryn. On her person was a letter from Lord Tywin, notifying Lysa of the King's wishes. His desire for her to wed Littlefinger as soon as he returned from his trip to Essos. She just hoped the letter would be enough to get her out of having to perform any intimate acts with her aunt. A kiss on the cheek was the best she could offer.
As the ship pulled in, she saw a woman waving to her. Arya had expected Lysa to be beautiful, like her mother or Sansa, but when she got closer, Lysa was plain by comparison. She had Tully red hair, but it lacked lustre. She looked like a woman who had been fat but had lost a lot of weight. And despite the beautiful, fresh air, her skin was grey and gaunt. Little wonder she had been a vindictive woman and jealous of Sansa, Arya thought.
Once the ship was docked and the gangplank lowered to the shore, Arya walked down to greet her aunt and a little boy with dark hair, whom Arya knew to be Robert Arryn.
"Uncle Petyr," the little boy cried and ran towards her.
Arya crouched down and opened her arms, receiving an enormous hug from the little boy, whom she hugged back with equal enthusiasm. No matter who this child's parents were—she suspected he was Lord Baelish's son—he was kin, and she would look out for him during the few hours she would be on land.
"My Lord," she smiled at the boy. "It is good to see you looking so well."
"As it is you," Lysa said, as Arya stood up, taking Lysa's hand and kissing it.
"You look radiant, my Lady," Arya complimented her aunt, who blushed like a maid. Arya held out her elbow, which Lysa took. With her other hand, Arya held Sweetrobin, who led the way to the small, round flint keep, chatting all the way there.
Once inside, Arya and Lysa sat on chairs near the blazing fire, which had been burning for some time.
"What news from the capital, my love?" Lysa asked.
Arya pulled the letter from Lord Tywin and handed it to Lysa, who read the contents, her initial look of delight fading to disappointment by the end.
"A year?" she was aghast at the suggestion.
"Before the death of King Joffrey, you were to be wed to Lord Tyrion," Arya explained to a shocked-looking Lysa. "I fear that once I am away, Lord Tywin will try to wed you to another."
"What do we do? Should we marry now?" Lysa asked.
Arya shook her head. "Lord Varys and Cersei Lannister have spies everywhere, including here. Marrying now would arouse too much suspicion. I don't wish to have anything further to do with the Lannisters; they are too much of a risk. If I were Hand, then Tommen would be malleable; however, Lord Tywin has taken up such a role."
"We cannot go against the Lannisters," Lysa looked terrified. "We don't have the men."
Arya gave Lysa a sly smile. "Fear not, I have been working on our future while in King's Landing."
Lysa furrowed her brow. "Who are you working with?" she asked.
"I have been working with Lord Whitestark," Arya told her. When Lysa looked confused, she continued, "Lord Whitestark is the man known as Ned Stark's bastard. He has been working on behalf of Ned and Cat. They are not happy with the Lannister rule, especially as it is known that all of Cersei's children were bastards."
"Are you sure?" Lysa asked.
"Your husband knew. He was going to tell Robert, or so I am now led to believe," Arya took Lysa's hand in hers and did her best to look lovingly at Lysa. "They have a better contender for the Iron Throne. One who has a rightful claim. He has agreed to let us wed and will grant us Harrenhal as a wedding gift."
Lysa looked stunned by the offer. "He wants the Vale men to help."
Arya nodded. "They already have the allegiance of the Riverlands and the Northern Lords. Even the Wildlings have pledged their support for this contender."
Lysa frowned. "Who is this contender?" she asked.
"I need your word," Arya said.
"Of course, my love," Lysa nodded.
"His name is Aegon Targaryen."
Lysa's hand flew to her mouth. "After all these years, fighting against the Targaryens, only then to follow them once more. I don't understand. And... and wasn't Aegon Targaryen killed by The Mountain?" she asked.
"So the rumours say," Arya nodded. "But this boy is different. He has been raised away from Targaryen influence. He does not have the nature of a Targaryen, but he has the name. I have met with him, and he will make a good King," she handed Lysa a number of scrolls. "These are the letters to your bannermen, asking them to march north to Winterfell and offer whatever help they can give. I have written them out; all they require is your signature and seal."
"And our wedding?" she asked.
"Once I have returned from Braavos," Arya replied.
"Braavos?"
"I am to hire the Golden Company. The more soldiers we have, the better. Even Dorne is looking to help."
"If this boy isn't Rhaegar's son, who is he?"
"I never said he wasn't Rhaegar's son. He is Rhaegar's trueborn son. However, his mother wasn't Elia Martell; she was Lyanna Stark." Arya wondered how long it would take for Lysa to work out who she was talking about.
Lysa's eyes widened. "Ned's bastard was Lyanna's son all along? Was he the Lord Whitestark you have been working with?"
Arya nodded. "Not a word to anyone," she unfurled the first letter, which was addressed to Yohn Royce. "I'll get you a quill, and we can send these letters today. I must send them now, as I am sailing for Braavos in a few hours. I hope the men to be in Winterfell when I return to Westeros."
"I wish you didn't need to leave so soon," Lysa complained.
"The sooner I leave, the sooner I return while the winds are fair and the seas are calm. I should make swift progress."
"How long will you be gone?" Lysa's voice sounded panicked.
"Little over three moons, my love. Then, you and I can be wed. And if I am to ensure my hard work goes according to plan, whatever happens, the Vale must support the Starks and Prince Aegon. Will you promise me that?" Lysa nodded. "The House Tully words are Family, Duty, Honour The north and the Riverlands are your family. Should anything happen to me, they are the ones who will keep young Robert safe. The Lannisters will try to wed you to one of their own and take the Vale from Robert. We can't let that happen."
Lysa shook her head. "Gods no. I will do what you ask," she said.
"Thank you," Arya smiled. "Here," she retrieved a quill, ink, and some wax from her desk and handed them to Lysa. "Sign the letters. The sooner the bannermen go north, the better. It is the only way to keep yourself and Robert safe."
Lysa took the quill from Arya, and with a shaking hand, she dipped it into the ink and signed the letters, while Arya stamped the melted wax with the falcon sigil of House Arryn.