Catelyn

The wind howled through the rocky pass, cold and biting as it sliced through Catelyn's tourmaline cloak. Her eyes were fixed on the captive before her, Tyrion the Imp, sitting atop his pony with wrists bound in front of him. His face was a mask of calm, but she had seen the shadow of fear beneath that veneer.

The Inn at the Crossroads was far behind them now, and the road to Winterfell grew shorter by the days. Perhaps in another day or so and they would arrive at the gates, and she could see her sons once more, her Robb, Bran, and Rickon.

Her son Bran laid broken in Winterfell, a boy who had known nothing but warmth and laughter now trapped in a body that could neither move nor feel. His dreams of knighthood stolen from him, and this dwarf, this twisted creature of cunning and deceit, had dared to arm a hired killer with a Valyrian steel blade to finish what had been started at the tower.

She glanced over at him, her mind returning to the moment they had left the inn, where she had stood with the dagger gleaming in the dim light, clutched in her hand like justice itself.

A smile still lingered on Tyrion's lips as they rode, though now it looked more like a grimace. The bindings chafed at his wrists, and she could see the discomfort flicker across his face when the path grew rough. But still, he said nothing of it.

She let the silence stretch between them for a while longer, the only sounds the clinking of armor and the shuffle of hooves as they picked their way through the pass. Her men rode behind them, vigilant, but distant enough to afford them some privacy. Ser Rodrik was ever watchful, and Catelyn knew her loyal bannermen would not let the Imp escape her grasp.

But it was not escape that worried her - it was the truth. That elusive thing that always seemed to slip through her fingers. She had thought she understood what had happened, thought she had known the reasons behind the attempt on Bran's life. Yet the more she looked at Tyrion, the less certain she became.

And so she broke the silence.

"I wonder," she began, her voice low but steady, "if you think me a fool."

Tyrion raised a brow at that, turning his head just enough to meet her gaze. "A fool, my lady? Hardly. I think you a woman of great determination, though I never took you as one of great haste."

"Haste?" Her tone sharpened, the word like a blade between them. "Haste is how you describe the attempted murder of my son? A child, crippled by a coward's hand, and then targeted again with a knife you gifted?"

"I did no such thing," Tyrion replied, his voice calm, measured. "Lady Stark, it seems you prefer to hold fast to your belief. I did not order the death of your son. Only a fool or an imbecile would arm an assassin with a weapon that could be traced back to him. And, I would like to think that I am neither."

"You Lannisters believe yourselves clever," Catelyn's voice grew colder than the mountain air itself. "But I know the truth, Imp. I know why my son was pushed from that tower, and I know that you have kept the lie that covers it."

She watched him closely as she spoke, looking for any sign, any flicker of recognition or guilt. But what she saw instead was confusion.

Genuine confusion.

Tyrion blinked, his head cocking slightly to the side, the same way a dog might when it didn't understand a command. "What in the name of the Seven hells are you talking about? If this is some riddle, my lady, I fear I'm at a loss."

The wind howled again, and Catelyn felt a flicker of doubt. He was too good an actor, surely, too practiced in deception. And yet… there was something in his eyes, something uncertain, that made her pause.

"You truly don't know," she said, more to herself than to him.

"Perhaps you'd care to enlighten me? And please use small words I'm not as clever as you."

She found herself studying him in a different light now, this half-man with all his sharp wit and sharp tongue, but seemingly no understanding of the deeper currents swirling around him. It was as if he had been caught in a web he didn't even know existed, a pawn in a game whose rules had never been explained.

For the first time since they had left the inn, Catelyn felt something other than fury toward him.

She felt pity.

"A shame," she murmured, shaking her head. "I don't think you see how small you truly are. You are no knight, no lord, you hold no power in your family. You are kept in the shadows, and you cannot see what is in front of you."

Tyrion's expression hardened at that, his eyes narrowing. "Oh, I'm well aware of how small I am, my lady. That fact has been driven into me since birth. But I assure you, I'm not so blind as you might think."

"No?" Catelyn's gaze was piercing, cutting through his bravado. "Then tell me, what do you know of the truth behind Bran's fall? Tell me why a child who loved nothing more than to climb was pushed from a tower to his death. And tell me why, when that failed, a knife found its way into his room, a knife linked to your family."

Tyrion hesitated, and for the first time since their journey began, Catelyn saw uncertainty in his eyes.

"I don't know," he said at last, his voice quiet. "I swear to you, I don't know why your son was attacked. If I did, I would tell you. I may be many things, but I am no murderer of children."

For a moment, Catelyn almost believed him. Almost. But the image of Bran lying broken in his bed, pale and still, burned in her mind, and she could not let go of the anger that had driven her this far.

"You claim ignorance," she said softly, "but that does not absolve you of guilt. You are a Lannister, and you are complicit in their lies. Even if you did not push Bran, even if you did not send the assassin, you are still part of the deceit. And for that, you will answer."

Tyrion's lips curled into a sardonic smile. "Ah, guilt by association. How very Northern of you."

She ignored the jibe. "I have no desire to harm you. I know that killing you would endanger my husband and my daughters in King's Landing. But I need answers. And I will have them."

"You will have nothing from me that I do not know," Tyrion snapped, his voice rising with a rare note of frustration. "I rolled in the bed with many of your wonderful northern whores and drank the sweetest wine that your keep could provide. I enjoyed your Lord's hospitality to the utmost, so what madness would have caused me to repay that kindness with a dagger to your son?"

Catelyn studied him for a long moment, weighing his words. There was a rawness to his tone now, a bitterness that rang true.

"You speak of madness," she said finally. "But it is your family's madness that threatens us all. And I will do what I must to protect my son, to protect my family, from that madness."

Tyrion laughed, a short, bitter sound. "Ah, family. Such a noble cause. And such a dangerous one. You think you can protect your loved ones from the likes of my father? I admire your resolve, my lady, but I fear you will find that truth and justice are as fleeting as summer snow in the capital."

He met her gaze, his eyes suddenly sharp, almost calculating. "But if you truly want to know the truth, perhaps you should let me go. I have a fondness for cripples, bastards, and broken things, and I would gladly help you uncover what lies beneath all this. I may be the lowest of the Lannisters, but that also makes me harder to account for."

Catelyn frowned, considering his words. There was a strange sincerity in his offer, as if he truly believed he could help.

But she could not trust him, not yet.

"I will not harm you," she said again, "but I will not release you either. You will come with me to Winterfell. And perhaps, in time, the truth will come to light."

Tyrion shrugged, "As you wish, my lady. But know this: the longer I am held, the more debt will you shall occur. And the debt shall be paid, in full."

The wind howled once more, carrying with it the cold weight of his words. Catelyn said nothing, but in her heart, she knew he was right.


Eddard

Ned rode slowly through the streets of King's Landing, his grim face set in stony resolve. The scent of smoke and sweat filled the air, mixed with the stench of the river.

A hundred sounds clashed and echoed in the bustling city, from the clanging of hammers on anvils to the shouts of street vendors hawking their wares. His heart was heavy with the weight of Littlefinger's words, and as he guided his horse toward the blacksmith's shop, the narrow alleys and crooked streets felt as though there was no end in sight.

The shop loomed before him now, a modest thing of stone and timber, the sharp tang of iron heavy in the air as a forge roared inside. Ned dismounted, nodding at Jory and the four other city watch guards who accompanied him.

"Wait here," he said quietly. "I won't be long."

The interior of the shop was dim, and a man at the forge pounded rhythmically on a piece of metal, his brow slick with sweat, arms corded with muscle. But it was not the blacksmith that drew Ned's eye.

It was the boy standing nearby, watching the man work. Broad-shouldered, tall for his age, with dark hair cropped short and a face that was far too familiar.

Ned's breath caught in his throat.

It was Robert's face staring back at him. Not just Robert's, but someone else's too. Someone even closer.

Boryn.

Ned stepped closer, studying the boy. He had the same square jaw, the same deep-set blue eyes that carried a fire within them. The resemblance to Robert, to his own trueborn son, was uncanny, yet there was something rougher about this boy, something untamed.

Where Boryn's hair was long and wild, this boy's was short, almost military-like in its simplicity.

"You," Ned said, his voice steady though his heart beat faster. "What's your name?"

The boy looked up, confused at first, then wary. "Gendry," he replied, his voice a low grumble, as if he had spent most of his life unused to speaking much. "I'm one-and-six years old."

Ned stared at him, his mind racing. The boy was the same age as Boryn, and the likeness… Gods. He had to be. "Your mother… who was she?"

The boy frowned, brow furrowing as he searched his memory. "I don't remember much," Gendry admitted. "She… she was blonde, that I know. A pretty lass, the men said. But I never knew her well." He looked away.

A blonde lass. Ned's stomach twisted with a feeling he could not name. "Take care of him," he said to the blacksmith, who had turned his attention to them now, hammer held loosely in one hand.

"Aye, milord," the man grunted, a trace of wariness in his eyes. "He's a good lad. Strong for his age. Works hard, doesn't cause trouble."

Ned nodded, though his mind was elsewhere, his thoughts dark and troubled. He turned to leave, heading for the door when suddenly the street outside erupted in noise. The clatter of hooves and the shuffle of boots on stone. Lannister men.

He stepped out of the shop and found himself surrounded. Gold cloaks gleamed in the afternoon sun, their swords ready at their sides.

Jory and the four others were already drawing their blades, standing tense in a circle around him.

A knight stepped forward from the Lannister ranks with his helm under his arm, his red cloak swirling around him. He had a deep set of green eyes and a square jaw with a chin round like stone. The mane of gold upon his head was wild and unkempt.

"Lord Stark," the man said with a mocking bow. "I am Ser Daven Lannister, Knight sworn to the Queen's service." His smile was thin, his eyes cold. "I have orders to escort you to the Tower of the Hand. Her Grace and the Prince await you."

The Queen. Ned's blood ran cold. "What is this about?" he demanded, though he knew already.

Daven straightened, his smile not wavering. "Your wife has taken the Queen's brother captive. A matter of great concern to Her Grace, as I'm sure you understand. She wishes to discuss the matter with you, and the Prince has lent me his authority."

Jory stepped forward, his hand on his sword hilt. "Lord Stark is under the protection of the City Watch," he said fiercely.

Ned raised a hand to stop him. "Enough, Jory." His voice was calm, though his heart raced. "I'll go with them."

"But my lord -" Jory began, but Ned cut him off.

"There is no need for bloodshed here. We don't want to start a riot in the streets." His eyes met Jory's, full of unspoken meaning. Jory hesitated, then nodded reluctantly, stepping back with the other men.

"Wise man, Stark," Daven said with a smirk. He gestured to his men, and they closed in around Ned, escorting him through the streets of King's Landing.

As they approached the Tower of the Hand, Ned's unease grew. Robert would not have allowed this to come to pass, meaning that he did not, or could not, protest.

Cersei he knew to be fierce, brash even, and Robert had always been reckless, but his son, Boryn, seemed to have inherited not only his father's strength but a sharper edge, a hunger for control that disturbed Ned.

They led him into the tower and up the winding staircases, through cold stone corridors that seemed to stretch forever. At last, they reached a hall, wide and dimly lit, where Boryn stood beside his mother.

The young prince stood tall with eyes aflame much like Robert's, but his expression was colder, more calculating. He wore a fine princely set of cloths that were darker than a raven's wing.

"My uncle," Boryn said, his voice calm, though there was a weight to the word that made Ned frown.

Cersei stepped forward, her face cold like ice, though her green eyes glittered with something darker. "We know of your wife's actions, Lord Stark," she said, her voice silken and dangerous. "She has taken my brother prisoner. We want him back."

Ned met her gaze, his own cold and unyielding. "My wife has only done what was just and fair. Your brother must answer for his crimes." He kept his voice even, though he felt the tension in the air. "No harm will come to him, I'm sure. He will await the King's justice. Where is Robert?"

"Robert's whereabouts are none of your concern-" Cersei shot back at him, but before she could continue on, Boryn cut her off.

"Father's on a hunt. You know as well as I where he is." He stepped closer, his gaze hard. "And while he's away, he's left me with authority equal to his own. So you will send a raven to Winterfell, and you will order your wife to release my uncle at once."

Ned stared at the boy, this princeling who wore Robert's face but spoke with the sharpness of his mother. "I cannot do that," he said slowly. "Not until justice has been done."

Cersei's smile deepened, dark and full of malice. "We knew you'd say that."

Boryn's gaze flickered with something, a hint of disappointment perhaps, but he said nothing more. He merely gestured to the guards. "Take him back to his chambers. He is to remain confined until the raven is sent."

Ned did not resist as the guards took hold of him, though his jaw clenched. As they led him away, he looked over his shoulder at Boryn. The boy was staring after him, his face unreadable.

Back in his chambers, Ned sat at the writing desk, the parchment before him stark and white. He picked up the quill, dipping it in ink. He could not give them what they wanted. But he could send a message.

He wrote, choosing his words with care, penning a letter that only Catelyn would understand. The words spoke of releasing Tyrion, but there were subtleties, hidden meanings, a code that she would recognize.

When he finished, he set the quill down and leaned back in his chair. The door opened then, and Boryn entered, his face hard as ever. He held something in his hand that gleamed in the grasp of his dark gauntlet.

Without a word, he tossed it to Ned, who caught it reflexively.

"Only death or the King's Will may release you of your duties," Boryn spoke with finality.

Ned looked down, recognizing that he had been given the pin of the Hand Of The King.

The door closed with a soft thud, leaving him to his den where four lions guarded the entrance.


Jaime

The road to the Golden Tooth wound through valleys and over ridges, flanked on either side by hills as jagged as a broken crown. Jaime rode at the head of a small column of riders, his gilded armor gleaming in the slanting rays of the afternoon sun. The wind carried the scent of pine, and he could hear the distant cry of a hunting hawk high above.

His mind dwelled on the events that swirled around him.

Tyrion captured.

Ned Stark a prisoner.

All of it seemed to him like pieces moving on some grand board, one that his father had mastered long ago. Jaime had never been one for plots and schemes. His life had always been simpler: sword in hand, shield raised, and an enemy to face. But now it was all intrigue, hostages, and promises of war.

His destrier's hooves clattered on the stony path as the Golden Tooth came into view, the castle perched on its high hill keeping watch over the western hills.

His father had established his war camp beneath the castle walls, the banners of House Lannister flapping proudly in the breeze - a field of crimson emblazoned with the golden lion.

The camp was bustling with activity, soldiers sparring, smiths hammering out new swords and spearheads, and messengers darting from tent to tent, carrying orders or letters sealed with the Lannister sigil.

Jaime's arrival caused a stir, heads turning as the Kingslayer rode through the camp. He dismounted in one fluid motion and handed his reins to a stable boy before making his way toward the command tent. The guards outside saluted him, parting to allow him entry.

The tent was dimly lit, save for the pale light that streamed in through the open flap. His father sat at a broad wooden table, his head bent over a letter he was penning.

A map of the Riverlands lay unfurled beside him, dotted with wooden markers representing the forces he had already summoned.

Jaime stood just inside the entrance, waiting. His father made no move to acknowledge him. The silence stretched on, broken only by the scratch of quill on parchment. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, his father set down his quill and pressed his signet ring into the pool of molten wax, sealing the letter with the proud lion of House Lannister.

Only then did he look up.

His pale green eyes, hard as the gold they so resembled, fixed on Jaime's face. "What news do you bring?"

"Tyrion has been taken," Jaime said without preamble. "By Catelyn Stark. She captured him on the Kingsroad and is taking him to back to Winterfell."

Tywin's face did not so much as twitch. "I am well aware," he began. "And what of the Hand of the King?"

"Ned Stark is under guard in the Tower of the Hand. Cersei and Boryn has him confined."

At last, Tywin leaned back in his chair. His fingers steepled before him, and for a long moment he said nothing. Jaime could feel the weight of his father's thoughts, could almost see the calculations whirring behind those cool, impassive eyes.

His father was always thinking, always planning three steps ahead of everyone else. Jaime had long ago given up trying to anticipate him.

"Ned Stark is a valuable hostage," Tywin said at length, his voice low, controlled. "As are his daughters." He rose from his chair with the fluid grace of a man who had worn armor his entire life.

His tunic, richly embroidered in the crimson and gold of Lannister, was partially obscured by the gleaming plate he wore.

"His daughters," Jaime echoed, feeling his father's words wash over him. Power. That was always the crux of it, wasn't it? Power to take, to hold, to crush those who opposed them. It was a language Tywin spoke fluently, as naturally as other men spoke of love or duty.

"Catelyn's insolence cannot go unpunished," Tywin continued, his tone as sharp as the swords hanging on the tent walls. "She dared lay hands on your brother, a Lannister, and for that, the Riverlands will bleed. And if she is foolish enough to march south with the north at her back, then the lives of her dear husband and daughters will be forfeit."

Jaime's lips curved into a crooked smile. "So you mean to raid the Riverlands unopposed. To force her to march, then use the Starks we do have to strike a bargain for Tyrion's release. We gain everything and lose nothing of value in the process."

Tywin's eyes gleamed with something that might have been approval. "I see my lessons have finally taken root," he said, a rare smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It was a small thing, but to Jaime, it felt like the greatest compliment he had ever received from his father.

Jaime had spent so much of his life in the white cloak of the Kingsguard, guarding a madman, swearing oaths he had long since come to despise. But this - this was the game that mattered, the game of lions and kings, where blood and steel determined the course of history.

"You will take five hundred men," Tywin said, his tone shifting to one of command. "Ride out to Pinkmaiden. Pillage their supplies, plunder their gold, and use it to hire more men. Swell our numbers with mercenaries if need be, but ensure that we have the strength we require. Then return to me with the gold and the men you have gathered."

Jaime nodded. "As you command, Father."

A shadow passed over his thoughts, dark and cold.

The White Cloak.

The Kingsguard.

He had sworn oaths, binding him to the king he served, to the realm he protected.

But here he was, wearing his father's colors, preparing to raid a castle and slaughter innocents if need be all in the name of Lannister glory.

What am I?

He would wrestle with that thought later.

Jaime reached into his tunic and pulled out a folded letter, sealed with the royal crest of King Robert. He handed it to his father, who took it without a word.

"Boryn handed me this before I left," Jaime said, watching as his father broke the seal and began to read. "Said it was only for your eyes."

Tywin's eyes scanned the letter quickly, his expression unchanged. When he finished, he set it down on the table with a deliberate hand. "I'll send a raven to the Red Keep at once," he said, his voice as cold and measured as ever.

Jaime waited, but his father did not look at him. He stood there for a long moment, wondering what his father had read, what Boryn had written.

Finally, his father spoke again. His voice was soft, almost too soft.

"By order of Boryn Baratheon, First of His Name, acting in the name of King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm… Ser Jaime Lannister is hereby relieved of his duties as a member of the Kingsguard. Effective immediately."

The words struck Jaime like a physical blow. He stood there, frozen, staring at his father. He wanted to speak, to argue, but no words came.

The Kingslayer.

A Kingsguard no more.

Jaime's lips twitched into a smile, more grimace than grin. "So, the lion is unchained," he muttered under his breath.

Tywin's eyes met his, and for the first time in years, Jaime saw something there.

Approval.


Arya

The midday sun glared down upon the narrow streets, its heat oppressive and relentless, but Arya barely noticed. Her legs moved with the fluidity of a stream down a rocky path, weaving between market stalls and darting past clusters of smallfolk.

She gripped Needle tight in her hand, the familiar weight of the slender sword a comfort as she danced through the crowd, her eyes always ahead, seeking the next gap, the next turn, the next escape.

Syrio was just behind her, his feet whispering over the uneven stones like they were made of feathers. His voice, so calm, so assured, followed her just as closely.

"Move, little cat! Always forward! A cat of Braavos does not stumble. She flows, yes, through the cracks, through the shadows."

Arya's breath came fast and sharp in her chest, but she forced herself not to slow, not to falter. It was not like their lessons in the Red Keep's practice yard, with its smooth ground and wide open spaces.

Here, in the labyrinth of King's Landing's streets, every step could be treacherous. A misplaced foot, a wrong turn, and she'd find herself face-first in a puddle of muck, or worse, staring down the wrong end of someone's blade.

The city was alive, and Arya was learning to live with it, to move as part of it, rather than against it.

She ducked beneath the outstretched arm of a fishmonger who hadn't noticed her, her feet dancing between the wooden crates piled high with eels.

Syrio had taught her how to see such obstacles not as hazards, but as opportunities. A cat of Braavos could make a mountain out of a molehill, could turn a muddy street into her own battlefield. She felt the thrill of it now, the exhilaration of moving swiftly, darting from shadow to shadow.

"Faster!" Syrio called, and she heard the swish of his wooden sword cutting through the air as he swung at her from behind. Needle was there to meet it with a sharp clang, the vibration of the strike shivering up her arm. She pivoted on her heel, deflecting his next blow as she spun out of his reach, her heart racing.

Syrio grinned as he advanced again, and Arya realized he was driving her toward a corner. The alleyway ahead was narrow, the walls on either side too close for her to move easily. She cursed under her breath, and then a thought struck her.

What would Syrio do?

Instead of backing down, she darted forward, straight at the wall on her left. She took two steps up the side of the building, her momentum carrying her just high enough to grab hold of a window ledge. She scrambled up, Needle clenched between her teeth as she hauled herself onto the rooftop above.

Syrio's laughter echoed up from below. "Ah! The little cat learns to leap!"

Arya allowed herself a grin as she hopped from one roof to the next, her feet barely touching the hot shingles before she was moving again. From this height, she could see over the city - its sprawling maze of rooftops, chimneys, and alleyways stretching out beneath her like a sea of jagged stone and thatch.

She spotted a group of guards on patrol, their shiny helms reflecting the sunlight as they marched in formation, oblivious to her presence above them.

They can't see me, Arya thought, her chest swelling with pride. No one can.

For a moment, she let herself believe that she could go anywhere, do anything. She was faster than any of them, quicker on her feet, more clever. Even Syrio, with all his talk of the water dance, couldn't catch her now. The wind tugged at her hair as she ran, her braid coming loose and trailing behind her like the tail of a comet.

A shout rang out from the street below, harsh and urgent. Arya skidded to a halt at the edge of the rooftop, her breath catching in her throat as she peered down. A small crowd had gathered, pushing and jostling to get a better view of something that was happening near the center of the square.

Arya squinted, trying to make sense of the scene. The crowd parted for a moment, and she saw them - guards, six of them, carrying a stretcher between them. On it lay a man, his body motionless, his face obscured by a tattered cloak.

The crowd began to whisper, their voices low and anxious, and Arya's heart leapt into her throat. She could hear the murmur of the smallfolk around her, their words blending together like the hum of bees. One word stood out above the rest, a name spoken in hushed, fearful tones.

"The King…"

Arya's blood ran cold. She craned her neck, trying to get a better look, but the guards were moving too quickly, shoving people aside as they made their way through the throng. The man on the stretcher - was it really King Robert?

Arya strained her eyes, her pulse quickening. She could see a glimpse of his hand, limp and pale, dangling off the edge of the stretcher. And there, protruding from his chest, was the broken shaft of an arrow.

Her breath caught in her throat. It is him… She could barely believe it. King Robert, the great, boisterous man she'd met at Winterfell, the man who had filled every room with his laughter and his booming voice, now lying so still, so silent.

"Arya!" Syrio's voice was sharp, pulling her back to the present. She hadn't even realized that he had caught up to her. He was standing on the rooftop beside her, his eyes scanning the scene below with a look of grim understanding.

"We must go," he said quietly, his tone more serious than she had ever heard it. "This is not for us."

"But… the King…" Arya's voice was barely a whisper. She couldn't tear her eyes away from the sight below, from the arrow that still jutted out of the king's chest. How could this have happened? How could someone have gotten close enough to shoot him? Her mind raced with questions, but none of them had answers.

"We are not the Starks of Winterfell here," Syrio said softly. "We are but shadows in a city full of knives."

Arya wanted to protest, to argue that they had to do something, but she knew he was right. What could she do? She was just a girl, alone in a city that wasn't hers. Whatever had happened to the King, it was beyond her. Beyond them both.

With one last, lingering glance at the stretcher disappearing into the throng, Arya turned away and followed Syrio back across the rooftops.

Her legs felt heavy now, each step more labored than the last. The thrill of their training had vanished, replaced by a gnawing sense of unease that sunk her stomach like a stone in the river.

They moved in silence for a time, the sounds of the city growing fainter as they neared the walls of the Red Keep.

Arya's mind was still racing, replaying the image of the King's body over and over again.

If someone could kill him…

She shivered, despite the heat of the afternoon sun.

Syrio noticed. "You are troubled, little cat," he said as they reached the base of the Keep's walls. "Do not be. The world is full of dangers, but they are not for you to face alone. You have Needle, and you have your wits. That is enough."

Arya nodded, though she wasn't sure she believed him. Could Needle protect her from whatever was happening inside the Red Keep? Could it protect her from lions and wolves and men with arrows?

Syrio seemed to sense her doubt, and he smiled that knowing smile of his. "Remember what I have taught you," he said as they slipped through a side gate into the Keep's gardens. "A cat does not fear the darkness. She moves through it as if it were her home. You will find your way, Arya."

Arya gave a slow nod as Syrio ushered her inside. If the King can be killed, then what of his Hand?