While dawn had yet to find its first light, Arya was already stirring from her uneasy slumber. The purpose of her journey to Kings Landing led her to find Littlefinger, his name added to her ever-expanding list. A desire to kill the brothel keeper, a puppet master in his own right, was an integral piece of hers and Sansa's plan, yet he had so far eluded her.
Theon's snores harmonised with the rhythm of the night as Arya slipped away from their shared chamber. Her training as a faceless individual proved its mettle, allowing her to navigate the corridors, leaving no trace of her presence. The subtle art of stealth, instilled by faceless mentors, was a cloak that draped her every move.
Asleep in bed, Theon remained oblivious to Arya's nocturnal excursion. His night had left him tired. Littlefinger's brothels, had so far, offered no insight into the whereabouts of their keeper.
The news Theon had brought over the last few days were scarce. His nightly endeavours uncovering only the whispers of a whore summoned to the Red Keep, serving an old man bound in chains. Arya, pieced together the fragments of information, deducing the man to be none other than Grand Maester Pycelle.
Amidst the shadows, Arya emerged from the inn. She had assumed the guise of a northerner, whose dying body she found near Moles Town. Through the murmurings of the locals, she uncovered his identity, Benn Boocher.
The face she now wore bore the weight of fifty years, with thinning long grey hair. It provided a haggard countenance adorned with a grey beard, proof of life's harsh passage, and a missing front tooth.
Arya embraced the persona of Benn Boocher. The ruse of age, bestowed upon her the cloak of anonymity amidst the empty streets. In a realm teeming with vice and secrets, her thirteen-year-old self would have been vulnerable. She would have been mistaken for a sex worker, one of the many child-whores in such establishments. The cloak of Benn Boocher, however, draped her in the guise of a potential client, offering her protection from the city's underworld.
Arya's experiences from her previous life, had taught her the nuances of Littlefinger's strategies. What she hadn't known herself, Sansa had spent months tutoring her.
Littlefinger's actions were executed with meticulous precision. He surfaced when it served his purpose, a masterful display of calculated visibility. However, when engaged in less savoury endeavours, he manoeuvred through the shadows, orchestrating his moves beyond the scrutiny of prying eyes.
Arya knew Littlefinger played a pivotal role in the death of Jon Arryn. He had supplied her aunt with a lethal poison known as the Tears of Lys, a substance she administered to her ailing husband. His passing had been misconstrued as a mere bout of fever.
Given the Hand of the King's advanced age, inquiries into the circumstances of his death were never pursued. The subtlety of the deception allowed Littlefinger's dark machinations to elude suspicion.
Arya's journey to Kings Landing was to purchase supplies and find trading partners. For that reason, seeking Lord Baelish would be sensible. More so, as he had ties to her family. Her true goal was Littlefinger's demise and to utilise his face, before she returned to Queenscrown.
Her plan was created with careful precision. She intended to shadow Littlefinger. Learn of his comings and goings within the city's heart. She would need to mimic him in an environment which was outside the life he had cultivated with Sansa.
She held her dagger close to the body of Ben Boocher. Arya contemplated the moment of his trial in her other life, where justice, swift and silent, was served. However, for now, she required patience. The dagger was just for security. At the end of all this, Benn Boocher would vanish into obscurity once Lord Baelish met his end.
The success of Arya's intricate plan hung between Lord Baelish's presence in King's Landing and his potential departure for the Vale. He left prior to Joffrey's end, that much Arya knew to be true. Yet Arya found herself on uncertain ground; the changes they had carried out, made predicting Littlefinger's movements a puzzle.
In her past life, Littlefinger stayed in Kings Landing for almost a year after King Robert's demise. His eventual retreat to the Vale marked the prelude to his marriage with Arya's aunt, Lysa–the widow of the late Hand of the King, Jon Arryn.
Lord Baelish's intentions loomed over the Vale like an impending storm. The control of the Vale, was under the guardianship of Lady Lysa Arryn, acting as regent for her young son, Lord Robin Arryn, fuelled the machinations of Littlefinger's insidious plot. His designs only taking fruition because of Lysa's infatuation with him.
Once wed, Littlefinger would manipulate the trust of Lord Robin, a mere stepping stone on the treacherous path. His ultimate aim, was to the murder of the Lady of the Vale, leaving him as the sole puppeteer and regent of the young Lord.
Yet, the changes wrought by the time travellers cast an uncertain shadow over Littlefinger's grand design. The altered course of events, a consequence of their meddling, could force his hand, compelling him to hasten his journey to the Eyrie.
Benn's eyes lingered over the expanse of the Street of Silk, a dark figure concealed in the shadows. Turquoise hues etched across the heavens heralded the imminent sunrise. Soon, it would transform into a sprawling metropolis, teeming with denizens from diverse backgrounds, engrossed in their pursuits of trade and daily life.
In these predawn moments, the brothels surrendered to a hushed serenity. Despite their continuous operation, the quietude reached its zenith during sunrise. A sanctuary for the most discerning clientele, seeking discretion amidst the early light, and the covert visits of the establishment's proprietor.
Theon had been a stranger to the early twilight hours on the Street of Silk. He concluded his escapades around three in the morning, retreating long before the sun's first glimmer. Arya surmised that this window, in the quiet moments before dawn, presented the likeliest opportunity to encounter Littlefinger.
Benn's vigil was brief, for he soon discerned the unmistakable sound of Lord Petyr Baelish's voice. A moment later, the man materialised from a narrow side street, a mere twenty feet distant.
The streets were aglow with the flickering light of oil lanterns. The cast an illuminating sheen on the dark cascade of hair atop his head, marked by two distinctive silver streaks, one adorning each side.
Littlefinger wore opulent silken robes, their pale colours and patterns indecipherable from Benn's vantage point. In his hands, he held two large, leather-clad books, likely ledgers chronicling the income of his brothels. Yet Benn couldn't discount the possibility that they held the kingdom's accounts, a potential boon for Prince Aegon's aspirations for the Iron Throne.
The sight of the ledgers stirred Benn's curiosity, a relentless itch to uncover the shadowy workings of Westeros' tangled finances. How had the realm plunged into such staggering debt?
Theories swirled in his mind. King Robert's extravagant expenditures, perhaps, or the insidious pocketing of crown funds by Littlefinger. Regardless of the root cause, Benn coveted those ledgers as much as he yearned to extract Littlefinger from the grand chessboard of the game.
Benn lurked in the shadow's. Patient as the first light of dawn painted the sky in hues of orange. Littlefinger's figure vanished inside the confines of his establishment, a signal for Benn to follow him.
Any plans she had made were put to one side. To take possession of the ledgers, dictated her actions. Time was of the essence. Benn, armed not just with a hidden dagger but with a knowledge of Littlefinger's covert dealings, sought a tête-à-tête.
His gaze ascended, discovering a veranda that promised a discreet escape. Benn evaluated its height, deeming it manageable for a descent without injury, as long as Lord Baelish occupied a room above. Minutes crawled by before Benn, navigating the cobblestones of the Street of Silk, arrived at Littlefinger's establishment. He crossed the threshold, and was greeted by a striking brown-haired woman, scantily clad in smallclothes and a translucent orange robe, baring her allure for all eyes.
The whore's gaze swept up and down, registering Benn's unimposing figure with a hint of disdain.
"I'm Belynda. What brings you here?"
"I seek Lord Baelish," Benn replied, with an accent reminiscent of someone who came from the Reach.
"He's not here," Belynda lied.
"I saw him enter just moments ago. I bear an urgent message for him, from a withering rose," Benn said, with cryptic urgency.
"Wait," Belynda said, leaving Benn to wander the confines of the brothel.
The room gleamed with orange-red silks and lace that adorned both walls and ceiling. Glass oil lanterns bathed the smoke-filled space in a warm, crimson glow. The air was rich with the scent of incense, its spicy and woody notes lingering in the atmosphere. Several sturdy wooden doors hinted at discrete chambers, likely reserved for the clientele of the establishment.
Benn, no stranger to brothels, his visits often tied to Arya Stark's list, couldn't help but admit that this was the cleanest and most upscale establishment he had encountered.
Belynda's absence was brief before she reappeared. "Come with me," she said, leading the way through the door she had previously entered. "Your face is unfamiliar in these parts."
"That's because I'm a part of a golden rosebush," Benn said cryptically. Belynda shot him a knowing smile as they ascended a steep staircase.
The walls, constructed of weathered wood, were adorned with sconces containing flickering candles, casting a dim light on their ascent.
Upon reaching the top of the stairs, they turned to the right. In Benn's estimation, this path would guide them to a room positioned at the corner of the street, affording him four potential escape routes. An ideal means of evading any unwanted attention.
Belynda's knocked, and Lord Baelish's voice invited them in, "Come in."
Benn pushed open the dark wooden door and found a room resembling the entrance, but now featuring an imposing bed on a raised platform. The windows, equipped with closed shutters to control the light, had one slightly ajar. Benn had mentally charted his exit strategy.
Lord Baelish sat on a chair beside a dark wooden desk, his books neatly closed. He'd removed the silken coat, hanging it up on an ornate coat-hanger in the corner, near the open window.
Littlefinger's forehead creased in puzzlement. "You're new. What is your name, old man."
"Benn Boocher, a simple gardener milord."
"I see, Benn Boocher. What tidings do your bring?"
"They are prickly in their very nature."
"I see. Please, proceed," Baelish said.
"The acquisition of the noose." Benn referred to a poison called the Strangler, the same deadly substance used to poison Joffrey in Arya Stark's past life. Benn hoped the plan had stayed consistent.
"The method of concealment?" Littlefinger asked.
"Amethyst-coloured glass. Affixed to a bauble. A necklace would be the favoured option,"
Littlefinger nodded. "Consider it done. Is there anything else you require?"
Benn detected a subtle side-eye toward the door. He sensed they were under scrutiny. Littlefinger's uncharacteristic excessive hospitality and calm acceptance of a stranger's information, implied something was afoot.
Benn shook his head. "I must take my leave. The gardens demand my attention. Thank you, milord."
As Benn approached the door, he feigned turning the handle, only to swiftly pivot, bolting and locking it.
Littlefinger stood, horror etched on his face. "What in the Seven Hells are you doing?"
Benn turned on his heel, a hidden dagger sliding from his sleeve, and lunged toward Littlefinger.
Littlefinger was caught off guard. Though Benn bore the appearance of a man in his fifties, the figure beneath the mask was a thirteen-year-old girl, possessing the speed and grace of a seasoned assassin.
Before Lord Baelish could muster a response, Benn stood behind him, tracing a line of crimson across his throat with his dagger. Benn's hand clamped over Littlefinger's mouth, stifling any potential sound from the lips of the brothel keeper.
Benn patiently awaited the cessation of the man's futile struggles within his grasp. The moment the pulse succumbed, Arya discarded the mask of Benn and started delicate work on Littlefinger. In her mind, her escape plan took shape. She would casually stroll out the front door in the guise of Lord Baelish.
Arya peeled away the layers of Littlefinger's identity. Shedding her own attire, she adorned Lord Baelish in Benn's clothing. In a matter of minutes, Arya assumed the face of Littlefinger, while Lord Baelish lay dead on the ground, clad in the garb and visage of Benn Boocher.
With Littlefinger's dead body lying motionless on the floor, Arya surveyed her surroundings, noting the character of the room compared to the rest of the brothel. Besides a bed, there was a desk, cupboards, and drawers. A likely office and bedchamber for the scheming Lord.
Arya searched the drawers and perused the cupboards, where she unearthed not only garments suitable for a swift departure but also a trove of scrolls, some showing signs of age. She hoped these held the sinister plots concocted in collusion with other Lords. Arya discovered a satchel in a cupboard and filled it with the letters and the two leather tomes resting on his desk.
The lowest drawer of Littlefinger's desk resisted Arya's initial attempts at opening. She used the pin from his mockingbird brooch, she opened the drawer, revealing its secrets. Inside was a small, heavy chest, containing a wealth of coins.
Two wooden chests stood in the room's corner, caught Arya's attention. Using the keys from the desk's top drawer, she unlocked the larger chest. To her surprise, it held not riches but neatly folded clothes. A suggestion of Littlefinger's permanent, anticipation of a swift departure.
Arya turned the key in the smaller chest's lock. To her dismay, it, too, revealed more clothes, albeit half-full. An idea struck her. She would enlist Littlefinger's guards to escort her to the Steel Inn. Benn's death would serve as her unassailable alibi.
Arya placed the letters, ledgers, and the chest of coins inside the smaller chest. Once secured, she changed into fresh clothes. The blood-stained tunic, was packed away, ensuring no evidence lingered. She glanced at the mirror, finding the reflection of Littlefinger smirking back at her.
As the door creaked open, Littlefinger was met by two imposing guards. His gaze shifted to the lifeless form of Benn Boocher.
"I require a litter, to take me to the Steel Inn, nestled off the Street of Steel. It is most urgent. Vital information has just reached my ears, demanding my presence away for a brief sojourn," Littlefinger said with a commanding air.
"Yes, my Lord," one guard said.
The other man gestured toward the lifeless form of Benn Boocher. "And what about him?"
Littlefinger's gaze lingered on the disposed figure. "He was a loose end. Loose ends displease me; I prefer everything neatly tied. Now, fetch me that litter swiftly. Once I depart, attend to our friend. Erase all remnants of his presence. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, milord."
"Very well," Littlefinger replied. "See to it the litter is prepared promptly. We wouldn't want any delays in my departure."
The two men nodded in unison. "We'll have the litter at the front in two minutes," the first guard declared, promptly descending the stairs to ensure Littlefinger's exit.
The second man turned to Littlefinger, ready to assist. "Is there anything you need me to carry?"
Littlefinger's calculating gaze surveyed the room. "The smaller trunk will suffice. I expect only a brief absence, just a few days."
The guard trailed behind Littlefinger. Contrary to expectations, they exited through a rear doorway, where a waiting litter stood in readiness. Littlefinger stepped inside, the smaller trunk placed at his feet.
The curtains were drawn, enveloping them in a cocoon of secrecy. As the porters raised the litter and set off, Littlefinger's thoughts shifted to the inn. He needed to change and find Gendry, who was, waiting to meet Arya and Theon outside Tobho Mott's establishment.
The winding streets of Kings Landing teemed with early morning life, an increasing surge of people that threatened to impede the litter's pace. Arya wished they would hurry, she couldn't afford the prying eyes of Varys's little birds to fall upon her.
The ride offered a brief respite. The jolts and bumps made Littlefinger appreciate the discomfort the porters endured. Littlefinger drew back the curtain, confirming they had arrived at the Steel Inn.
Littlefinger called for the litter to stop. He dismissed the porters, signalling the end of their service. The men nodded and lifted the litter and retraced their steps to the brothel. Meanwhile, Littlefinger, clutching the chest, ascended the stairs, sneaking into Arya and Theon's chamber with a stealth that would make a cat envious. To his surprise, a knife pressed against his throat, wielded by none other than Theon Greyjoy.
"Who are you, and what have you done with Arya?" Theon hissed.
"Theon, lower the dagger. It's me, Arya."
Theon's eyes widened in disbelief as he confronted the unexpected transformation. The dagger trembled in his grip, unsure whether to strike or retreat. Arya, with a chuckle, revealed her true identity by peeling off the mask of Littlefinger. Theon, bewildered, stumbled over a chair and landed unceremoniously on the floor. Arya, dismissed his confusion with laughter.
"Enough games. Gendry awaits, and we must leave this treacherous city before Joffrey kills the Baratheon bastards."
Arya swapped her clothes, leaving Theon to guard the carefully packed chest. She emerged and left the inn once more. At the anvil-lit smithy, Gendry awaited, the weight of his bulls head helm apparent in the satchel slung across his chest. A layer of grime clung to his brown attire, but beneath it, the signs of a recent bath. A grin lit up his face at the sight of Arya.
"My Lady," Gendry said, greeting with a nod.
"Gendry," she replied, mirroring his smile. "Follow me."