ARYA
The Street of Silk was a different contest to Flea Bottom.
In Flea Bottom, Arya had lived for what felt like years catching pigeons and trading them for what food she could get at the pot-shops, strange men chasing her with their eyes and occasionally just chasing her. The children in the street chased her too, and responded to her own attempts to make friends like she was speaking in riddles.
Every day she checked the gates of the city, trying to leave. The city seemed to get even more guarded against people leaving in the days she had escaped the Red Keep. She heard rumours that Robb had won great battles in the Riverlands, near the Trident.
Arya was happy for that at first, and hoped she might even be able to wait out the war until Robb came to rescue her. But every time she heard of the battles, she got sad. The Trident is where I drove Nymeria away, was all she could think, wondering if things might have been better if the direwolves had been there.
On the Street of Silk though, everything was different. It didn't smell so bad. It ran up one of the hills, and on the opposite side to Flea Bottom, away from the bad air made by pigs, horses and men. Instead, it smelled like incense and good food, particularly the higher up the hill she went.
Arya had discovered it when a collection of gold cloaks had emerged onto her usual route between the Dragon Gate and the Iron Gate, forcing her to scramble up a winding stairway cut into the rock towards the Dragonpit. At the top was the street.
She soon learned what went on there too.
Arya had been forced to sit through a lesson once on what men and women did together without clothes. Back in Winterfell, she had accidentally run into a room where two servants had been rolling around with each other. Arya had paid them no heed, just saying to them to be careful. Somehow her mother had found out. The servants went away to work in Wintertown, and Arya was forced to hear the most embarrassing things in her entire life.
So when she had discovered what a brothel was, and that the street was filled with them, her first instinct was to leave. But then Arya had smelled the food coming out of one of the buildings. Proper food, not bowls of brown like the pot-shops.
She had found it very easy to slip inside; the front doors were guarded, but the lower windows were not. The moans and groans made her cheeks burn scarlet, but it was mere play to go to the central room and whisk what was on the table away under her cloak. She had made off with a whole roast chicken and ate it in an alley, not bothered by any other children or strange men.
Arya quickly discovered why she hadn't been interrupted. Armed men kept watch and attempted to drive her away just as she finished eating. Street children were a nuisance that they were paid to deal with, she was told. And she guessed the strange men were too busy with what they could buy inside the buildings to be worried about what was wandering around outside.
Still, she had learned that lesson. She looked for and found some boys clothes to steal on a clothes-line behind one brothel. They fit her well. The next brothel Arya raided, she came away with coin as well as food. It was a simple matter of hooking away spare purse on the point of Needle, then hiding it under a tray of food she had picked up.
Her escape had been a simple matter too; she had been mistaken for a servant by at least two people that had come across her path out in the gloom of the night. She had to scatter the gold and silver coins to escape the guards of the brothel next door, but got away to the stairs in the confusion.
That night, she ate a chicken wing, a quarter loaf of bread, and attempted to wash it down with whatever was in the bottle she had snatched. It was strong liquor, and she spat it out the second it hit her tongue. The next morning, Arya bought her breakfast, two tarts, a lemon one and a blueberry one. She got them from a street cart whose owner had previously refused to barter when all she had to do so was a pigeon. He had remembered her, and how she had thought about stealing from him.
It had cost her double, but food hadn't tasted so good in her life. The feeling of sickness she had gone the second she had finished licking her fingers clean of the last blueberry jam. She bought her food at midday and sundown that day too, keeping to the merchants' quarter near the Mud Gate where the strange men were fewer.
The next night, her stomach aching with hunger again, she was determined to do better. If I can keep a purse's worth, I might have enough to last 'til Robb gets here, she thought as she climbed her way up the hill once again.
This time, she approached from the direction of the Dragon Pit; the steep and rocky slope behind the brothels not guarded at all. She wasn't as good as Bran at climbing, but the way was not as hard as climbing Winterfell's towers either.
She quickly found herself in the walled garden of a brothel she hadn't seen before. Flowering bushes made little corridors in the space, leading to circular spaces. There were all manner of beds and couches laid out under awnings in each, though no one was outside laying on them.
Arya knew why; it was darker and colder than usual, the clouds obscured the moon and stars. The sound of laughter and moaning filtered through the half-closed shutters of the rooms. The only open window was at the second-to-top floor, three floors up. She chewed her lip. The building had smooth walls, covered in plaster painted red. The only place to put her hands and feet were the hinges of the shutters.
As she was deciding whether or not to risk it, a voice boomed out from the door to the garden. "Come, dear child, let us refresh ourselves in the night air!"
Her heart leaping up to her throat, Arya quickly leapt onto the outside of the ground floor shutter nearest her. Mercifully the thing did not move and made only a small creak as her weight hung off of it. It was a good thing she did. The doors opened and a fat man wearing a loosely tied robe wandered out of the doorway, followed by a blonde girl wearing nothing but a thin silver chain draped over her shoulders and hips.
She'll be cold, Arya mind thought idly, before she snapped out of it and began climbing. Getting to the top of the shutter was easy, and she soon found getting to the next shutter was more difficult. It took some balancing between a drainpipe and the windowsill above her head, and her hands hurt like she had just taken a strap across them, but she got up.
She repeated the process twice more; climb the shutter, stand on its top, use the drainpipe to push off and grab the windowsill, haul herself up. Eventually, she found herself climbing in the window she had spied from below. She was immediately hit with the smell of incense and perfume, and had to blink to get her vision in the even greater darkness.
It was a bedroom, but there was no one inside. The bed had more pillows than seemed like anyone needed. The floor was covered in Myrish carpets. The door was open a crack, and light stole inside the room in a beam, hitting the curtains that seemed to cover all the walls. A little ring of light came from another direction. A small hole in the wall to the next room was visible.
Knowing there was likely nothing in the room itself, Arya crept to the door and peeked out. Beyond was a central room, more of the sounds of the men and women in the other ones filling it. It had more couches and tables arranged in the very middle, wall sconces with candles burning in spaces between the other doors. The stairs were directly opposite. It was empty of men, but the tables had plenty of food. Pastries and spices. Not coins, but good enough.
She tried opening the door a little wider, but a bald head appeared from the floor below. Arya didn't know how she couldn't hear his footsteps on the wooden stairs, but when he came into view, she knew him at once. Bald head, soft face, lavender silk clothes, velvet slippers: It was Lord Varys, the Master of Whisperers.
Arya ducked behind the door, into the shadow. How is he alive? she thought, He must have betrayed Father! A rage boiled up inside her, making her face feel warm and causing her fists to clench so hard they hurt more than they had when she had climbed the shutters.
The man made no noise that she could hear over her anger and the sounds of the brothel, until the door to the room beside opened and closed shut loudly.
A muffled voice cried out in anger, the small hole in the wall admitting the sounds of the next room as well as its light. Curious about what Varys might be doing in a brothel, for Arya knew he was a eunuch and what that meant, she closed the door over further so no one might see her and crept over to the hole.
Inside the room opposite was a little solar, like Father's in the Tower of the Hand but smaller. The room was just as draped in curtains as the others, but instead of a bed there was a large desk, covered with candles and documents. The space was dimly lit by the orange flames, revealing the outlines of bookcases containing many tomes.
Behind the desk sat Littlefinger… Lord Baelish, a writing quill in his hand over a piece of parchment. He was even wearing his doublet with mockingbirds stitched into it. His thin face was curled with anger, his brow creased deeply. Arya couldn't see Lord Varys yet, the peephole was too small.
"I told you to get out," Lord Baelish said.
"And I told you I had business with you, my lord," came a sharp voice in reply. Arya blinked. She hadn't seen anyone else go into the room, and the voice did not sound like that she recalled Lord Varys had used the few times she had heard him speak.
But the eunuch came into view approaching the desk, and continued in the same sharp tone. "Interesting that you came here. It is my understanding that the entire realm believes a merchant of Lyseni origin to own this establishment."
"But of course you knew better," said Lord Baelish with a frustrated sigh, almost throwing his quill into the inkpot.
"Actually, I cannot say that I did," Lord Varys replied, softer this time, "Your previous trips to this establishment I assumed were to take up with one of the whores. The times I made to confirm that, you were for that purpose. This house does have some… unique offerings."
Littlefinger smiled and leaned back in his chair, pinching his forked beard between his forefinger and thumb. "How delightful to know I can trick the all-seeing Master of Whisperers," he said, "But as I said, Spider, get out. Before I have you thrown out."
For a moment, Arya thought Lord Varys might comply, for he turned to the door. But only briefly.
"What I come to say concerns our fortunes in this war," the Spider replied, "The reason you are here and not elsewhere is evident. You are planning to leave." He snatched up one of the documents on the desk, before the other man could stop him. "Elsewise, why would you be selling your businesses? And in secret, no less."
Littlefinger stood up from his desk and snatched the parchment back, before sitting down heavily. "Why should I tell you a thing like that?"
"Because I already know," came the soft answer, "You would be a fool to remain."
"I am no fool. Tywin is having fits. He recovered once or so says Pycelle, he may not recover from another. The Kingslayer is captured, as is the Mountain and a score of others. The hosts of the West are broken. The capital stands bare with barely enough men to defend the keep, never mind the city. The Lannisters have proven weak, a glass sword that shattered on the first strike against true steel."
The Spider tittered. "Northern steel, yes. Or Canadian steel. I quite agree."
Littlefinger put his hands on his desk, one on top of the other. "Steel that will soon be directed upon this city's head, and all those that held to Joffrey's claim," he said flatly, "I am surprised you are not making your own preparations to leave."
"Who says I am not?" the Spider replied, tucking his hands into his sleeves, "But I would prefer to delay the inevitable in this regard."
Arya blinked. They were discussing Robb's victories. The streets were abuzz with rumours of foreigners helping him. She felt like jumping up and down on the spot. If They are leaving, Robb will come soon to save me.
A single laugh erupted from Lord Baelish. "And you come to me to aid you in this? Nay, I shall not be your cats-paw."
Lord Varys tilted his head. "I do wonder if you have pondered properly on your fate should Lord Stark be exchanged," he said, "To most of the realm, your role in his capture in the throne room is mere rumour. If Lord Stark makes it alive to his lords, you shall not find others amenable to allow you into their service."
The Spider turned and inspected the nearest bookshelf, as Littlefinger watched him, mute. "Lord Stannis hates you already, what shall his reaction be when you cannot lie about being coerced into your support for Joffrey, I wonder," the eunuch spoke, "Lord Renly has no doubt already chosen another to sit as Master of Coin. No doubt a lesser role would be out of the question also, such a slight would it be to the North."
Father will cut off his head, Arya promised herself, Both their heads.
"Then I shall go to Braavos," Littlefinger sighed, like a mummer.
"The Vale, you mean," smiled the Spider, "Where your beloved Lysa and the mountains of the Moon can shield you…"
Arya's mouth twitched, wanting to ask the question on her mind. But wasn't Aunt Lysa married to old Jon Arryn? She cupped her hand over her mouth to stop it.
"Only I know not how you could reach the Eyrie," Lord Varys continued, "The Kingsroad will be filled with Stark men for quite some time, and vengeful riverlords after that… And the sea is even less hospitable regardless of where you plan to sail, for Stannis' fleet controls Blackwater Bay."
"And what shall you do should I refuse to help you?" Littlefinger smiled, "Stannis hates you with the same passion as he hates me, my lord of whispers. And while Renly is fool enough to think you useful, his allies of the Reach shall think otherwise. You are a man who has served too many kings to be trusted."
"Wonderful, my lord," Lord Varys said, tittering behind his sleeve, "You agree we have something of the same predicament. All the more reason to agree to aid me."
"As if I would tell you how I plan to leave, Spider," Littlefinger replied with spite, "You would make good use of that information, I am sure."
"I would," Lord Varys admitted, "But only should you find yourself unwilling to understand the truth."
"What truth is that?"
Lord Varys hid his mouth behind a sleeve. "That Eddard Stark is the only man who could bind the brothers Baratheon in a pact for the throne. A pact that shall seal our doom."
Littlefinger laughed haughtily. "Lord Stannis would sooner retire to the pleasure houses of Lys than see Lord Renly placed above him. Though I should say such a path might do that man a great good."
"Lord Stannis is an eminently practical man in most matters," Lord Varys replied, his voice sharper than ever, "Lord Stark will not support the younger man over the older in the succession. His release means delivering the North, the Riverlands and the wildlings to Stannis' cause. And Lord Stannis will not offend his most loyal and puissant Lord Paramount by refusing to negotiate in good faith."
"And who will he negotiate with?" Littlefinger replied, "Lord Renly is not a practical man, he is a prideful man. He will not…"
"Lord Renly will do what the Tyrells wish of him," the Spider interrupted, "And the Tyrells are many things, but wasteful is not among them. As long as their blood sits the throne eventually and they sit the Small Council, they care not. Stannis alone they could sweep aside with little cost. Stannis with the backing of the northmen and Riverlords? Such an alliance cannot be defeated with ease."
"And the stormlords may waver, for they would face the same alliance they were a part of in the rebellion," Littlefinger admitted with an ugly frown, before it curved upwards into a wicked, uglier grin, "So speak my part in this farce you propose."
Varys made a dramatic gesture with his arm, finishing by pointing to the floor. "We cannot allow such a pact," Varys said, "Nor can we allow the city to fall so soon. Lord Stark is an obstacle."
Lord Baelish stood up and leaned across the table. "That is not asking what you mean. Say it, Spider. I want to hear you say it."
Lord Varys grimaced behind his sleeve, his teeth visible only to Arya. "To stop this, Eddard Stark must die."
Wanting nothing more than to scream, Arya almost shoved her whole fist into her mouth as she bit it to stay quiet. Tears filled her eyes and spilled out over her cheeks. They're going to kill Father. I have to stop them! She shifted her weight looking around, as if to find something to storm the room with. Needle soon leaped into her hand of its own accord… but she found herself frozen to the spot. Every breath became a struggle. She was too afraid.
Littlefinger sat back down, his hands grabbing for the tops of his chair's armrests, where carved birds stood. "You must truly be desperate to come to me. But I fail to see how I can help. The good lord is a prisoner in Maegor's Holdfast, guarded by Crakehall men no less."
Arya sucked in some air, quietly. That's right, they can't get him. He's too valuable.
"Even I cannot touch the Warden of the North there," Varys said airily, "But in truth it suits our purpose better if he is released. If he dies here, the Starks will take the capital, walls be damned. And that may be the worst outcome for both of us."
"Worse for myself," Lord Baelish snapped, "If you don't want him dead in the Red Keep, pray tell how I am to arrange that? The last assassin sent to Winterfell did not fare well, and that was against a crippled boy and his mother."
"And a direwolf," Varys responded haughtily, "'tis good practice not to forget those beasts."
"And if good honourable Eddard reaches his lords, then my reputation is sullied regardless," Littlefinger continued.
"It is Lord Stark that holds the grudge against you, and unlikely others will care to remember as long as he is dead and you are useful. The Northmen may be offended should you take up with Renly somehow or stand alongside Lysa Arryn, but only Eddard Stark has the authority to make something of it. The young heir is too young, and will bend to good sense."
Arya didn't know how her father had been taken, but she simmered and glared at Littlefinger through the peephole. She was sure he was responsible, the way he talked seemed to prove it. I'll get you, and introduce you to the pointy end!
"I know little of Robb Stark," said Littlefinger, "Surely he would be even more biddable to the whims of Stannis."
"Or even more biddable to the whims of the northern lords," Lord Varys sniffed, "I have little birds in Harrenhal. They chirp to me that the Umbers, Mormonts and Karstarks wish to end all involvement with southron affairs. Eddard Stark would never abandon the rightful king for the dream of his own crown, but Robb? Who knows." The eunuch spread his hands in front of him, before they once again disappeared into his sleeves.
Littlefinger shook his head. "I cannot say that notion displeases me, if only as it would keep them from seeking my skin," he said, "You still have not said how I can arrange such a thing, or why you cannot arrange such a thing yourself."
Lord Varys pulled a document of his own from his sleeve, and handed it over. Baelish took it and read quickly. "The Sorrowful Men?" he asked, "You intend to use the assassins the Crown is hiring?"
"You are hiring them on behalf of the Crown," Lord Varys said, "You are aware they shall come to you for their instructions? So said the missive I sent to Lys. I would use my own name, but alas, they still seek mine own life. A contract from the old days back in Essos. They rarely venture as far west as the cities on the coast never mind Westeros… but they are sorrowful men, not forgetful men."
"I wonder how much they would pay for assisting them in that matter," Littlefinger sneered.
"Nothing," Varys replied with absolute calm, "They know I am too well protected. But they also would not come if I was the one who called for them. They are the only group aside from the Faceless Men I would trust to accomplish the death of Lord Stark once he has left the walls of this city, for he goes into the protection of what appears to be the most powerful force since the dragonriders."
Littlefinger nodded. "The Canadians," he said, "There can be little doubt of their power now."
"Indeed so. Ordinary assassins would likely fail or refuse to make an attempt. The Sorrowful Men are not ordinary, and we are already sending them to deal with the foreigners. A simple addition to their instructions to eliminate Lord Stark puts them in no greater danger than they already face, and will not be detected. The Sorrowful Men have never given up the name or commands of someone who has engaged their services."
"I have heard that," Lord Baelish conceded, "Though it makes me curious why the Faceless Men declined such a contract."
To Arya's surprise, the Spider's face fell into a strange twist of emotion. "Their price was too high: They demanded three dragons. And I do not speak of the golden variety that you can spend."
Three dragons? But there are no more dragons?
Littlefinger's brow raised up. "Well, that is certainly not a cost the treasury can cover," he said flatly, "But I cannot trust you not to have proof of my giving such an addition to the assassin's orders."
"Then give the order where I cannot possibly gain proof," Varys snickered, "I am sure you can…"
Arya would have heard more, but heavy footsteps sounded outside to her right. Her heart racing, she quickly bolted behind the curtain nearest the window. The door squeaked open as she stood absolutely still, clutching the fabric around her to cover all that could been seen.
"This will do nicely," said a gruff voice, "It is one of the finest rooms I've yet seen."
More light slid in behind the curtain. Someone was lighting the candles in the room. Arya huddled back, as if she could escape it.
"Of course," said a pleasant womanly voice in reply, "We are happy to serve a brother of the Night's Watch. It is a rare occasion."
Arya's breath caught. Jon was in the Night's Watch. Maybe this man knew him. I can't trust anyone, she decided, I need to wait for Robb, warn him before Father leaves the keep.
"Don't spread that around too much," the gruff voice insisted, "I visit brothels only here and at Mole's Town. And from what I hear, I may receive a very different welcome the next time I arrive back north. The gods favoured me with some luck before my death, it seems. So I would thank you kindly if you would not talk about it, though gods know that may be asking a fish not to swim."
"We are discreet, ser," said the pleasant voice.
"I'm no ser either, just a black brother."
"Someone will be along to attend you soon, ser," the pleasant voice half-laughed, "I will also send ale as you have asked."
"I thank you."
The door shut again, and a mighty sigh sounded. The footsteps seemed to boom off the carpeted floor, circling the space. Arya's breath caught once more as they seemed to stop by her curtain. It was only when a single step further away thumped that she released the air bottled up in her chest.
Just in time for a large hand to reach behind the curtain and pull Needle from its scabbard. Before she could shout an objection or scream, the other hand swept aside the curtain and found its way to her mouth. Arya quickly had her own sword pointed at her throat.
She recognised who was doing the pointing at once. It was Yoren, the wandering crow who Arya had met in her father's solar in the Red Keep, on the day she had seen the wizard down in the tunnels by the dragon skulls. His black clothes and sword were familiar, they were the same he had been wearing then. His eyes were ablaze with anger, at first.
But he soon recognised her too, his thick black beard twitching as his mouth fell open.
Needle was removed from her neck, but Arya's mouth remained covered.
"Listen here," Yoren whispered, "Meet me where the road up to the Dragon Pit meets the road to the Gate of the Gods. Do you know where that is?"
Arya couldn't answer, his fingers were still pressed hard against her mouth. They smelled like grease and wine. So did his breath. She squirmed.
"Do you know where that is?" he pressed, "Nod if you do."
Arya nodded; she had passed that way in order to get onto the cliffs above the Street of Silk.
"Go there, stay out of sight, I will meet you there," Yoren stated, as he turned Needle around and offered it back to her, "I'll get you out of this city. I'm going to let you go now, don't say a word."
Arya grabbed back her sword without hesitation, her mind racing as she thought of the quickest path to where she needed to go. I'm going home. With that, he let go of her and stepped away, almost tripping over the bed behind him.
She didn't waste another second. She half-jumped to the window, and climbed down onto the top of the shutters below.
"Thank you," Arya whispered back to him. Yoren shooed her away, as the door began to open. She quickly ducked and began the climb down. I'm going home, she repeated to herself in her head, I'm going home.