Viola had been sent to the kitchens to work for the duration of her stay by orders of Queen Cersei, or so she had been told by the kitchen maiden who came to fetch her before sunrise on the morning of Lord Eddard Stark's tournament to announce him as Hand of the King. She had learned of the kind, brown-haired man's name that very morning as well.

Her days were spent kneading dough for bread, peeling and slicing vegetables, and listening to the ever flowing stream of gossip that fluttered throughout the kitchens. The knights, she found, were the greatest gossips within the walls. They would come seeking company from whichever kitchen wench they were bedding that particular week, searching for scraps of bread and cheese between meals, and of course, flagons of mead, wine, and ale, and the only currency they had to pay for these services was, of course, gossip and rumors.

The most frequent visitor to the kitchens was a short, fat, bald man the kitchen staff referred to only as The Spider. He would come in, his fat cheeks rosy and dimpled as he smiled warmly at everyone as he passed by, plucking pieces of cheese or fruit from trays lining the great tables. He would request one to two women to bring him wine to his rooms, then leave as quickly as he had entered. If he could walk down to the kitchens, surely he could carry the wine back with him his damn self, she thought every time she saw him coming. The women, however, would drop everything that they were doing, often leaving the task to Viola, and scamper after him. The often would not return until the following morning.

"Damn Eunuch." The chef would curse under his breath each time a member of his staff would disappear, though he never stopped them, and the women went unpunished.

Once, Viola had accidentally burned a loaf of bread due to being preoccupied with peeling potatoes, and had her knuckles wracked with the handle of a wooden spoon for her stupidity. Another time she had knocked over a bottle of Queen Cersei's favorite wine as she was rushing to grab a platter for the roasted duck coming out of the ovens, and was slapped across the face so hard her teeth rattled. She clutched her fists at her sides and sneered up the head serving girl who had issued the blow, ready to strike in return, when her hand was grabbed from behind and pinned against her side. She whirled around, ready to strike her assailant, only to be met by none other than The Hound.

He was another regular visitor to the kitchens. He was stopping by almost daily, always in complete silence. For such a large man, he was certainly skilled at moving as silently as a mouse, even in his clunky armor, which he wore near constantly. He never said a word to her when he came, only stared a moment before grabbing the nearest bottle of wine and disappearing back from whence he came.

Though passerby's still gawked at her face, the whispers ceased shortly after the was summoned to the kitchens. No doubt they had found something, or someone else to occupy their time. While she still had not been permitted a looking glass, she had caught sight of her new face in pewter pots, buckets of water, and silver goblets. Prince Joffrey, while severely disfiguring her, had spared her the intensity of The Hound's own wounds. Hers was bad, there was no denying that, but most of her ear remained, her nose was not flattened and scared, and she still had her lower lip. Though missing half an eyebrow that would likely never grow back, and an earlobe that certainly wouldn't return, the crevices and divots crawling up her neck towards her cheek were not nearly as deep and brutal as the ones trailing The Hounds. Someone, she had later learned, had doused her body in the kettle of boiling water she had placed upon the hearth, leaving her ribs, right breast, chest, shoulder, and neck scalded and permanently reddened due to scaring. The wound upon her face still aches bone deep, and burned badly when she leaned forward to remove bread from the ovens, or stood too closely to the steam wafting from bots of cooking food. The two missing digits on her left hand had been the hardest to live without. Though it were not her dominant hand, it still make grabbing items and kneading dough difficult. On days that it rained, or early mornings when the sun had not yet warmed the castle, the missing joints throbbed as though they had been hit with a mallet. It was peculiar, how something you no longer had could cause so much pain.

Viola spoke to no one in the kitchens unless absolutely necessary to get her jobs done. She simply listened. She listened to every rumor, every innuendo, and every jest within those walls. Due to her silence, those around her grew to become more relaxed around her. They spoke freely of the things they had seen within the king's chambers as they delivered his wine, the bruises the queen held, and the sounds they had heard coming from her chambers late at night. They spoke of the whispers they had heard from other high lords and ladies, and the word from small folk in the village. She had learned of many bastard born children fathered by the king, had learned of Lord Stark's son's fall from a tower, of the Lady Stark's sister's insistence that her husband, the late Hand of the King's death had been murder, and that it was very strange how each of King Robert's children resembled Ser Jamie Lannister far more than what should be permitted. Near everyone spoke of Prince Joffrey's cruelty; how he had cut open a pregnant cat, killed several dogs with his bare hands, drowned his sister's ducklings in his bath water before placing them in her bed to find later, and later attempted to throw a small child into a roaring fire after losing a game of Come-Into-My-Castle.

The boy prince seemed to go unpunished for every cruelty he had inflicted. Perhaps that is why The Hound had counseled her to lie to the king. He would know, better than anyone else, just what Prince Joffrey was capable of.

Nearly four moons had passed since Viola's arrival in King's Landing, three since Lord Stark had sworn to her that a raven would be sent to her father, and King Robert had told her that he would see her home safely as soon as a party departed towards The Trident became available. She was beginning to doubt that any of this were true. Had she money, or even a horse, she would set out on her own, but she knew better than to even attempt such a feat. While she had not seen Prince Joffrey, Queen Cersei, or King Robert since her audience had been requested in the Throne Room, a messenger came to the her bed chambers, which had since been moved to a communal area closer to the kitchens, shared with three other kitchen maids, to ask whether she had remembered anything since she had first spoken to the king. Her answer remained the same; she remembered nothing.

All she wished for was to see her father, to know for certain that he knew that she was alive. Most nights she lie awake in her straw bed, sobbing silently to herself and praying to the God's that she would see him again some day. Her father kept no God's that she knew of, yet her mother had worshiped the Old God's, and would spend many nights in the forrest, praying silently to herself with her head pressed against a tree. They had no godswood, no heart trees, but Mother had always said that it did not matter. The God's were in every forrest, always listening should you seek them. Where were they, then, when she became ill and never recovered? Where were those God's when she lost child after child? What God's had allowed her eldest child and only son, Elias, to die of fever after cutting his leg on a blunt scythe when Viola was only six? Viola was unsure whether or not there were truly any God's, old or new, and if there were, they were certainly cruel, fickle God's. She reached out, though, hoping against hope that any of them may be listening to her silent begging and deliver her back to her father.

Late into the night, Viola is the only remaining person in the kitchens. She had stayed on, desperate to get tomorrow's bread kneaded and set to rise to be baked before mornings light. The feeling of being watched surprises her, and slowly she turns to confront her silent intruder.

Behind her, leaning against the wall with his hands clasped before him is the man they call The Spider. He smiles kindly at her, candlelight reflecting off of his large bald head.

"I do not believe we have had the pleasure. Viola, is it?" He asks, his voice higher than any man's she had ever heard before.

"Yes." Viola dunks her hands in a bucket of water to remove the stuck dough, and dries them quickly upon her apron.

"I am Lord Varys, sweet girl. I've seen you here, in the kitchens, though I've never had the pleasure of making your acquaintance. You have been quite the talk about the castle since you arrived."

Lord Varys inches closer to her, studying her face as though it were a map to a treasure island. Viola begins to fidget with her hands, unsure of what to say, or what to do. Lord Varys, though far from intimidating, left her with a hollow, mysterious feeling deep within her chest. He eyes her once more, tisks, and turns around to make his exit. He stops suddenly in the doorway, looks her in the eye for the first time, and drops the cheery smile he usually held, his face taking on a darker, serious tone she had not yet seen from him.

"There are birds in the forrest, little fox." Viola freezes and her blood runs cold. She was certain that no one else had been anywhere near the room the day that The Hound had called her that himself. "These birds have ears, and they report back to me, who in turn, reports to the queen. Be careful who you befriend, sweet girl."

Viola waits several moments after Varys parts, turning over the one-sided conversation in her head. If he had heard The Hound call her by that name, how had he done it? Had it even been him, or had a serving girl been outside of the room and reported the conversation back to him? How much had they heard of the conversation? She hastily covers the dough with cloth to prevent it from drying out, and quickly departs the kitchens for her room.

Halfway there, she is greeted in the hall by none other than Lord Stark, whom she had not seen since the day he had promised to send a raven to her father. She opens her mouth to speak, ready to ask whether word from her father had made it back, when he grips her lightly by the elbow and steers her in the opposite direction.

"I have found myself unable to sleep." Lord Stark tells her, his voice low and gentle for such a large man. "I am on my way to the godswood. Would you care to join me for a late night stroll? I must admit, you have been a hard person to find. No one seemed to know where you had gone. I only just learned that Queen Cersei had sent you down to work in the kitchens."

"I do not keep the Old Gods, m'lord." Viola answers, keeping her tongue pressed tightly against the roof of her mouth in order to prevent herself saying anything bad about the queen, or her son, and allows the man to lead her through the castle, anyway.

"M'lord, is it? You called my 'My Lord' upon our last meeting. Why is that?"

"My father taught me the importance of speaking properly to be respected. He is a bastard, after all."

"Do you no longer wish to be respected?"

"My only wish is to go home." Viola answers truthfully as they enter the gates of the godswood and stand before a large weirwood tree with a face carved upon it.

"I sent a raven to Riverrun, as promised. I received a reply only yesterday that your father had long since departed the castle. It is likely that he had already returned home on the day that I gave you my word."

Viola nods solemnly and allows a single tear to trickle down her cheek before taking a deep breath and lifting her head in the warm wind blowing through the trees. If he had returned home and found the mess in the cottage, he would likely believe her dead. He would then go to the Inn, and learn of Alna's death, likely believing her to have perished with her best friend. He would be devastated.

"The Saltpans are closer to The Trident, on the morrow, I will send a crow to the castle and inform them to send word to your father. You have my word."

"Thank you, my lord."

Viola turns to depart but is caught once more by the elbow by Lord Stark, he turns her gently to face him. She keeps her eyes down, not wishing him to see the tear that no doubt still streaked her face. He lifts her chin gently and studies her face.

"King Robert does not believe the story Prince Joffrey told of finding you in this state. I do not believe it, either. If you truly do not recall the events of that day, that is fine, but I am under the belief that you know more than you are saying. If you are scared, I offer you my protection. If Prince Joffrey was responsible for this, I will see that he, and whomever else helped him to deliver this sentence to you, are punished. You have my word, girl."

"The forrest is full of birds." Viola echoes, her own voice sounding foreign to her ears. She turns on her heel and walks back to her chambers.