Arya led Gendry through the winding alley, a secret passage guiding them to the inconspicuous entry of the Steel Inn. They climbed a staircase and emerged into the upper rooms reserved for temporary lodgers. With an abrupt swing, they entered the unadorned chamber previously occupied by Arya and Theon.
Inside, Theon savoured a substantial morning meal, relishing in the combination of bacon, bread, and ale. The delectable scent enveloped Arya, stirring her own hunger and prompting the acknowledgment of her empty stomach. Arya made the introductions.
"Theon, meet Gendry. Gendry, Lord Theon Greyjoy."
"Milord."
"You can call me Theon," Theon said, biting into a piece of bacon with relish.
As Arya filched two bacon pieces from Theon's plate and handed one bacon piece to Gendry, before she inquired about logistics.
"Did you arrange for a mule to carry the chests to the docks?"
Theon nodded, breadcrumbs scattering, "And what's our plan for the ship? Are we sailing on the one I found yesterday?"
"I'm not sure, you found it. What time does it set sail?" Arya asked.
"Early afternoon, I think. I can't remember, I've drunk wine and slept since then. They said to board before noon."
"If that ship is packed, alternatives await us on the docks. So long as it's bound for White Harbor, my coin purse can handle it. Let's convene downstairs and collect our belongings."
Arya hoisted the chest pilfered from Littlefinger. A grunt left her lips, as she wrestled the weight to her waist—burdensome for her twelve-year-old form. Once, the sinewy strength of her eighteen-year-old self would have rendered such exertion effortless.
"I'll take care of that for you, milady," Gendry said, effortlessly lifting the weighty chest from Arya's grip. Typically, Arya would decline, emphasising her independence. Instead, she found herself momentarily silenced by the impressive show of his muscular strength.
Gendry didn't notice of Arya's salacious observations, but Theon did. Knowing Arya's actual age, he spotted her ajar mouth. He tapped her chin, urging her to close it, earning a playful swat from Arya in return.
Theon dipped his head close to Arya's ear. "Is he the one you bedded in the previous life?" Arya blushed. Theon raised his hands in a placating gesture as Gendry vanished from the room, carrying the hefty chest downstairs. "I shall keep mum about it." "Best you do," Arya warned, sliding Needle into her sword-belt with a dramatic flourish.
Theon's expression fell at the sight of her theatrics. He knew well enough that Arya's skill with the little sword far surpassed his own. In a bout with her, he'd be outmatched. Arya swung her saddlebag across her shoulders, as well as the satchel containing the myriad faces within. Beside her, Theon carried their trunk from Queenscrown. Following Gendry, they descended to the side entrance of the inn.
Under the open sky, Steffon, the innkeeper, held the reins of a chestnut mule, while Gendry and Theon loaded the chests onto its sturdy back.
"Handle this one with care," Steffon advised Theon, handing him the reins, paying little attention to Arya. "Mary can be quite obstinate. A real troublemaker."
"I'll keep that in mind," Theon said, pulling three silver stags from his pocket. "You mentioned three, didn't you?"
"Aye, that'll suffice," Steffon accepted the coins from Theon. "When you're done, stow her in the stables. I'll fetch her later." He shifted his attention to Arya, bearing a parcel. "Here's the fare you requested." He handed her an apple. "For Mary, in case she wants to act up. An apple sweetens her disposition."
Arya took the package and the apple, nodding appreciatively. "Thank you," she replied with a sweet smile, understanding the need to embody the facade of an ordinary twelve-year-old girl.
The trio retraced their steps through the shadowed alleyways until the Street of Steel greeted them, its cobbles offering a marginally more forgiving surface beneath their feet. The looming silhouette of the Sept of Baelor cast an imposing presence. Arya's thoughts lingered on its fate, a structure she cared little for, having severed her ties to the worship of the Seven. Instead, she favoured the god of death.
The Sept of Baelor held no allure; the memories of clinging to the statue of Baelor the Blessed, witnessing her father's march towards the executioner's block, haunted her thoughts. Yoren of the Night's Watch, a guardian in that dire moment, had whisked her away just before the fatal swing of the executioner's blade.
The visual horror of her father's fate remained shielded from her; she hadn't witnessed the separation of his head from his body. However, the palpable silence of the onlookers conveyed the harsh reality—Eddard Stark was gone.
The chain of events leading to his demise had been rewritten; Ned Stark now thrived in the heart of Winterfell. Still, echoes of those traumatic recollections lingered—a distant nightmare in an alternate life.
The sun had ascended to its zenith, casting a blistering heat upon the city. The oppressive air of late summer in Kings Landing hung heavy, enveloping the street in a stifling embrace. Progress was hindered by the bustling activity that defined the thoroughfare. A multitude of individuals traversed the path, embarking upon their daily pursuits.
This was the hub where squires bore the battered armour of their knights for mending, where the clatter of sword forging resonated for armies preparing for battle. Amidst the clangour, the blacksmiths toiled at the essential yet less glamorous tasks—crafting screws, hinges, and gates, all requiring the relentless labour of iron.
The Street of Steel bore the scars of its industry—soot and grime clung to every corner, and the air was heavy with the acrid tang of smoke. In this cacophony of industry, Arya found a peculiar solace in the pungent scent of the forges, a fragrance reminiscent of the night she shared with Gendry before her demise.
Amidst the journey to the docks, Arya maintained a vigilant lookout for any presence of Lannister soldiers. A particular figure sparked her concern—a man, distinguished by long red hair with a striking streak of white. Secrecy surrounded Jaqen H'ghar's intended target in Kings Landing, which kept Arya in suspense.
The mystery lingered, with the possibility that even Ned Stark might have been Jaqen's quarry, a potential role thwarted by Joffrey's impulsive act of beheading her father. The intricacies of Jaqen's perception remained uncertain to Arya.
Entering Fishmongers Square, Arya hesitated, unsure if a faceless assassin possessed the keen sense to detect another of their ilk. Her consequent, vigilant watch extended all the way to the Mud Gate. Her vigilant watch extended all the way to the Mud Gate.
Their descent to the Mud Gate unfolded at a measured pace. They navigated their way through Fishmongers Square—a locale that could contend for the title of the most pungent in all of Kings Landing.
The odorous ambiance of the square accompanied them as they passed the vacant gallows and traversed the formidable red-brick gate. On either side, city watch guards, draped in their distinctive gold cloaks, maintained a vigilant stance, their garments fluttering in the brisk sea breeze.
Arya took the reins of Mary the mule, guiding her down the steps and onto the gate itself. The chestnut molly displayed a commendable composure, acclimated to the rigours of the journey to the docks. Perhaps the soft murmur of endearments from Arya's lips, coupled with gentle strokes along her white snout, likely contributed towards fostering the creature's cooperative disposition.
Navigating the labyrinth of warehouses and creaking wooden cranes, which toiled ceaselessly, loading and unloading of cargo from the ships, Arya observed Theon's discerning gaze scanning the various vessels. Inquiring about the specific ship from the day before, Arya's tone held a note of incredulity.
"Which one is it?" Arya queried.
Theon gestured toward a ship moored at the easternmost dock. "That one, I believe."
"You believe?" Arya's voice betrayed a measure of incredulity, her patience tested by Theon's apparent lack of meticulous planning. "What is the name of the ship?"
Theon, who was suddenly preoccupied with his own boots, admitted, "I can't recall."
Arya, hands on her hips, regarded Theon with a look of frustration. "Theon, you are a man of the sea, an Ironborn. Destined to command the Royal Fleet. How can you be entrusted with such responsibility if you can't even remember the name of a single fucking ship, let alone a fucking armada?" Her exasperation resonated in the echoing docks, questioning the competence of Theon Greyjoy.
Gendry, visibly taken aback, beheld Arya with an expression of astonishment, unaccustomed to such forthright language emanating from the lips of a highborn lady. "Shall I make my way to the Sept of the Crone and offer prayers for our journey, milady?"
Arya scrutinised Gendry with a measured gaze. "I was unaware of your deep religious inclinations, maintaining steadfast devotion to the Faith of the Seven. And I'm not a lady."
"How would you, milady?" Gendry countered. "You don't know me."
"Stop calling me my lady." she sighed, before returning to the topic in hand. "Do you, by chance, adhere to the faith of the Seven-Pointed Star?"
Gendry shook his head. "Not really."
"Then why consider prayer? Uttering a few words in a place with flickering candles won't likely sway the course of our journey, will it?"
"I guess not."
Arya redirected her attention to Theon. "Find out if that's the ship that promised you passage to White Harbor." She retrieved her coin purse, meticulously counting out three gold dragons and handing them to Theon. "If they still have space for us, display the money. But don't hand it over until we're all safely on board."
"Got it," Theon acknowledged, departing in search of their designated vessel.
"And remember to find out the name of the ship," Arya called after him. Theon, his back to her, waved in acknowledgment.
"Shouldn't we go find the stables, milady?" Gendry queried.
"Quit with the milady. I've told you, my name is Arya, and I'm no lady!"
"Alright, then. Shouldn't we find the stables, Lady Arya?" Gendry chuckled.
Arya rolled her eyes in exasperation, a warning that this familiar game was afoot. "Let's hold off until Theon returns. He's quite prone to losing his way. Besides, we'll need his help loading all of this onto the ship."
"Is Theon your brother?" Gendry inquired. Arya shook her head. "Guardian, husband, lover..."
Arya burst into laughter. "He's my father's ward."
"Oh, got it," Gendry nodded. "So, where are we headed?" he asked.
"We're sailing to White Harbor, tracing the path of the White Knife, and then proceeding to Winterfell. My father is arranging a forge for you. He wants you to learn the craft of working with a substance known as dragonglass."
"Never heard of it," Gendry confessed.
"It goes by another name, obsidian," Arya disclosed, yet Gendry remained unconvinced. "Doesn't matter. You'll get the hang of it. These weapons are for the Night's Watch."
"Will your father be sending me to the wall?" Gendry inquired.
Arya shook her head. "You'll stay in Winterfell. The forge at Castle Black is terrible. Father wants you to train with a sword and hammer."
Gendry looked puzzled. "Why would he do that?"
"He takes care baseborns," she remarked, spotting Theon sprinting toward them in the distance. Theon came to a sudden stop, motioning for Arya and Gendry to join him. Arya gently pulled on Mary's reins, and the mule followed suit without resistance.
A still atmosphere enveloped them as they followed Theon to the ship, the Ironborn forging ahead with no intention of waiting. Sensing the ship might depart sooner than later, Arya encouraged the mule to pick up its pace. Mary, initially reluctant, found a renewed enthusiasm when Arya produced the apple Steffon gave to her.
The cobblestones beneath their feet were wet and treacherous, making their hastened pace more precarious. Arya slipped twice, the slickness threatening to send her sprawling. However, each time she lost her footing, Gendry's firm grip on her elbow saved her from a fall, quickening the rhythm of her heartbeat with his touch. If they hadn't been propelled by urgency, she might have succumbed to the slippery stones even more.
As they reached the ship, the trio came to an abrupt halt. Arya gazed upward, taking in the sight of a sizable vessel. Its figurehead depicted a woman with flowing blond hair and a light blue dress, mirroring the colour of the sails. Silky Susan was the name emblazoned on the ship's side.
"It's a carrack," Theon informed her, a term that held little meaning, yet she nodded in a feigned appreciation, as though she comprehended the intricacies of the vessel.
A man approached the trio. He was weathered by the years, likely in his late forties or early fifties. His eyes, dark and piercing, resembled obsidian, while his once-raven hair now bore the markings of time with streaks of grey.
Arya couldn't help but notice a certain similarity in stature to Jon, slight of build, but well toned. Clad in dark blue garments of notable quality, though practical in design, the man exuded a bygone comeliness that age had now touched. His skin, tanned and weathered, spoke of countless years spent navigating the seas. Arya surmised this must be the captain.
"These are your companions?" the captain inquired, with a distinct Braavosi accent.
"Aye," Theon affirmed.
The captain scrutinised Arya with suspicion. "A little girl?"
"Our sister," Theon asserted, casting a quick glare at Gendry, who, catching on to the ruse, nodded in agreement.
"It will be three gold dragons." declared the captain.
Arya, uncharacteristically forward, inquired, "How much for a cabin?"
The captain, taken aback by the directness of a young girl, responded, "An extra gold dragon. But you have to share."
Without hesitation, Arya produced a gold coin from her purse. "Done," she proclaimed, glancing towards Theon. "We ought to unload, Mary. Where are the stables?" she asked the captain.
"There," the captain gestured toward a nearby ramshackle wooden stable, weathered by time and the unforgiving sea breeze.
Mary was swiftly unloaded, and Arya led her to the stables, a modest structure barely a stone's throw away. She affectionately stroked the mule's nose, whispering words of parting.
"I wish we could take you with us," she sighed, securing the reins to a weathered post. As Arya walked away, Mary, clearly agitated, pulled and stamped her feet, a frustrated symphony crescendoing into a hee-haw that echoed through the port.
Arya sprinted back to the ship, where Gendry and Theon laboured loading the chest and trunk onto the gangplank. Arya followed suit, clutching her saddlebag and satchel close. Once aboard, they were greeted by an elderly sailor, a man with sparse hair and a weathered countenance, most of his teeth having long abandoned their posts.
"Follow me," the sailor said, with an accent which sounded like a mixture of northern and Braavosi. He led them to a lower level of the ship, where a modestly appointed cabin awaited. Inside, sparsity reigned, marked only by a solitary cot and a pair of chairs.
Arya cut straight to the chase. "How long does it take to sail to White Harbor?" she inquired.
"If the wind favours us, ten or eleven days. We intended to set sail later today, but it appears the winds are shifting. We aim to ride the northern gusts swiftly," he explained with a grin, revealing a mouth bereft of several teeth.
Arya furrowed her brow. "How do you know?"
"The winds always change when a King dies. Every sailor worth his salt knows that," he declared, tapping his nose and winking, perhaps underestimating Arya's understanding as that of a naïve child.
"Does it?" Arya widened her eyes, blinking exaggeratedly. Theon, stationed behind the sailor, muffled a laugh with his hand.
The sailor's face adopted a serious tone as he whispered into Arya's ear, "Not all storms are literal. There is often a storm of swords when a King dies. It's best for you to leave the capital, and so it is for us."
The old sailor straightened up, offering another smile. "Who are you?" Arya inquired.
"Why, I'm your captain," he grinned, revealing a toothless smile. "Captain Tommo at your service, milady."
"She's not a Lady," Gendry interjected. "You can call her Arya."
"Well, you can call me captain," Captain Tommo insisted with a smile.
Arya frowned. "Who was the man we gave the gold dragons to?"
"Oh, he was no one," Captain Tommo smiled, sending a chill through Arya. She hoped he didn't mean it was Jaqen H'ghar.
"If you want to bid farewell to the capital, we're about to set sail."
The captain interrupted her thoughts by handing Theon the key to their cabin, which he promptly locked. They ascended to the deck.
The trio positioned themselves at the bow as the ship glided away from the docks. As she looked down at the cobbled port, Arya spotted the man referred to as No One by the captain. He stood, watching the ship's departure. The man waved at her, and she reciprocated.
He turned to face the city before looking back up at the ship. His once silver and black hair now flowed long and red, with a prominent white streak. The charming sailor had vanished, replaced by the all-too-familiar figure of Jaqen H'ghar, smiling up at her. For the first time since facing the Night King, Arya felt a genuine sense of fear.