There was a girl sitting on the statue.
Barristan Selmy could not say how long she had been there, crouched beneath the legs of Blessed Baelor, but the view she had was near unrivalled.
The plinth she knelt on was painted marble, a wide base of stone that supported the carved likeness of the king the Great Sept was named for. A trail of blood smears snaked up the side of the stone leading to where the girl was, and he wondered if she had been forced to defend such a prized place. The crowd was as unruly as Selmy had seen in all his years in King's Landing, it was no great leap to imagine them fighting a child just for the chance of a better spot.
The smallfolk were oft quick to turn to savagery when tensions arose within the noble class, doubly so when such tensions were made public. News of the Lannister coup had trickled down to the rest of the city quickly, and all manner of rumour surrounding King Robert's death and the Lord Hand's fall had emerged soon after.
Some blamed Lord Stark, others Lord Renly given his midnight flight from the city. Ser Barristan heard men claim the king had been poisoned, though by Lord Varys or Her Grace Queen Cersei, none could be certain.
There had been some truth mixed in, as there always was when rumours abound. News of Janos Slynt's promotion and details of the hunting mishap had reached the commons, but whether Robert had been killed by a boar or killed whilst eating boar was still being hotly debated in pot-shops and winesinks all across King's Landing.
One fact that had eluded the stories thus far was that of the Kingsguard knight who'd borne witness to the death of his third king. A man just as culpable for the tragedy as the boar was.
Outlived by three kings and dismissed by the fourth. It was bitter knowledge. The fifth shall be my last, he vowed, and, if the gods are good, my greatest.
He took what comfort he could from the thought. Rhaegar would have bested them all had he taken his father's crown, Ser Barristan knew. He could only hope his old friend's heir was half so worthy.
Selmy had made the choice whilst gathering his belongings from White Sword Tower after his dismissal. He now knew that taking Robert's pardon had been a mistake, and the only way to find his redemption was to fight and die in service to the true king.
Much and more had happened since he'd arrived at that decision. Ser Barristan had fought his way out of the city only to return again, hidden amongst the smallfolk fleeing from the war. His future lay waiting in the harbour, but something in the sound of the Great Sept's bells had drawn him up to the crest of Visenya's Hill.
The girl's face was hidden from where Selmy stood within the crowded plaza. Matted brown hair hung limp in the heat, and a well-made cloak pooled about her where she crouched, a small hand gripping tight to the leg of the Septon King.
Her head had not moved an inch since Ser Barristan had spotted her, eyes seemingly fixed on the congregation gathered outside the doors of the Great Sept of Baelor. The girl was a beacon of calm above a roiling sea, as still as the statue she clung to.
KA-DING KA-DING KA-DING! KA-DING KA-DING KA-DING! KA-DING KA-DING KA-DING!
The sound of pealing bells rolled out like thunder from the seven slender towers, echoing across the pale stone plaza. Ser Barristan had to content himself with a place in the crowd, shoulder to shoulder with the rest of the city, crammed into the white marble square like fish in a barrel.
Each head was turned towards the Great Sept, every word passed in excited tones spoke of who and what and why, when and where and how. It was not often that the royal court opened themselves up so willingly to the masses of King's Landing.
Selmy knew their faces well. Flatterers and fools, traitors and turncloaks, cravens and cowards. Each one was more unworthy than the last, stood in a crowd of their own about the doors of the Sept.
The boy stood in the centre, shining in crimson and gold. He was smirking now, just as he had been in the throne room. That same self-satisfied look was a common one upon the marble steps. And why not? Ser Barristan thought ruefully. They've won their damned tilt.
By King Joffrey's side was his mother the queen, resplendent in her mourning blacks. Both mother and son had conspired in Ser Barristan's dismissal, and his replacement lurked behind them, burnt face betraying nothing.
Sandor Clegane was a fearsome fighter, and few men could hope to match his strength or ferocity with a blade, but he had never been knighted. It was not for a lack of skill - Clegane could have earned his spurs half-a-hundred times by now - no, it seemed the man was opposed to the very notion of knighthood.
Ser Barristan grimaced at the thought. How can one such as that serve on the Kingsguard? he asked himself with incredulity. Yet another slight to add to the rest …
The Hound's white cloak was matched by four others on the steps. Selmy watched his former brothers with contempt, recalling their hollow laughter, still. Littlefinger stood smug as ever, he who had started the mockery. Varys glided past him on slippered feet, now dressed in a robe of pale damask.
How long had I stood amongst them, oblivious? he wondered. Only now that I'm cast aside can I see them for what they always were …
A fellow outcast was stood, or rather held, in front of them.
Ser Barristan had never seen him look worse.
Lord Eddard Stark had aged a decade in the dungeons. The cast placed on his broken leg was grey and cracked, his face was gaunt, his eyes were hollow. It pained Selmy to look upon the man. You failed him, just like all the rest.
In his mind, he had played out the events in the throne room countless times, thinking of what he'd do differently if the gods gave him a second chance, but Ser Barristan knew it would never change the truth. At the crucial moment, he had froze, and the consequence of his inaction was now standing in front of the Sept of Baelor, looking haggard as a corpse.
The bells slowed to silence, and the crowd soon followed. Lord Eddard lifted his head to speak, but the man's words were as feeble as he looked, and they did not carry far. The crowd voiced their displeasure, and Slynt prodded the Hand with the butt of his spear, and Stark began again.
"I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King," he said, loud enough to carry across the plaza, "and I come before you to confess my treason in the sight of gods and men."
The crowd erupted around him. Some threw taunts, others obscenities. Ser Barristan's mouth tightened at the noise, and he drew the hood of his cloak up further.
Lord Eddard raised his voice further still, straining to be heard above the din. "I betrayed the faith of my king and the trust of my friend, Robert. I swore to defend and protect his children, yet before his blood was cold, I plotted to depose and murder his son and seize the throne for myself. Let the High Septon and Baelor the Beloved and the Seven bear witness to the truth I have to say: Joffrey Baratheon is the one true heir to the Iron Throne, and by the grace of all the gods, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."
Ser Barristan didn't see who threw the first stone that struck Lord Eddard, his eyes had been on the girl beneath the statue, who had shrieked in horror when Stark was hit. She looked back at the crowd around her, a panicked fear lay deep in her grey eyes. She was a child, no older than ten, with a gaunt face covered in dirt.
For a moment, their eyes met. Recognition came like a hail of stones.
One struck a gold cloak, the other his commander's shield. Blood trickled down Ned Stark's face as tears did the same from the eyes of his daughter.
Arya Stark's hand slid beneath her cloak and found Needle in its sheath. She tightened her fingers around the grip, squeezing as hard as she had ever squeezed anything. Please, gods, keep him safe, she prayed. Don't let them hurt my father.
"She has the look," Selmy muttered beneath his breath. Brown hair, grey eyes, long face. The girl was a Stark, there was no mistaking that.
As Ser Barristan could recall, Lady Arya had disappeared from the Red Keep when the Lannister coup had been underway. Only Ser Meryn Trant had returned from the men Queen Cersei had sent to collect the girl from her lessons. Trant had given the barest details of what had unfolded when Ser Barristan had asked him, his own shame at failing to capture the girl had held his tongue like as not. The guards who'd accompanied him had all been slain, along with the Braavosi swordsman Lord Stark had hired to teach his daughter.
Somehow, Lady Arya had managed to get from the small hall within the Tower of the Hand inside the Red Keep, all the way across the city to the Great Sept of Baelor, all on her own. Queen Cersei had forbade anyone to enter or leave the keep on that dark and bloody day, and yet this child had seemingly evaded gold cloaks and guardsmen alike to make her escape.
The queer similarities in their two stories was enough to give Selmy pause. We are fugitives both, running for our lives from the blades at our backs. He wondered if he'd slept beneath the same pot-shop roof as the girl during his time on the streets, utterly oblivious. King's Landing was teeming with dirt-covered children, it was little surprise the Stark girl had evaded notice for this long.
He caught himself in his wonderings. Fool. You forget yourself. You forget your goals. What part does this girl have in your new purpose? What part does this girl have in your redemption?
Back atop the Sept, the High Septon knelt before Joffrey and his mother. "As we sin, so do we suffer," he intoned, in a deep swelling voice much louder than Lord Stark's. "This man has confessed his crimes in the sight of gods and men, here in this holy place." Rainbows danced about his head as he lifted his hands in entreaty. "The gods are just, yet Blessed Baelor taught us that they are also merciful. What shall be done with this traitor, Your Grace?"
Traitor. The word stuck in his craw. Said the raven to the crow, and you best put yourself amongst the flock, old man. You stood by and watched it all happen.
Ser Barristan looked from Lord Eddard's dull, hollow eyes to his daughter's glassy ones, red and puffy with tears. Did Brandon weep when he watched his father burn? He could not recall, or perhaps did not want to. All men knew of Aerys's madness - the name Mad King was well-used and well-earned - but it could only truly be understood if one had seen it first hand.
Why did you come here, my lord? This city has brought nothing but woe to your family. Two generations of House Stark had been devoured by the red brick walls of the capital. He looked back to where the girl was crouched. Must a third befall such a fate? He had failed Rickard, he had failed Brandon, he had failed Eddard, must he add Arya to that sorry list?
No, he thought, grip tightening on his wooden staff. Foolish old man. No!
A thousand voices were screaming, but Arya never heard them. Prince Joffrey … no, King Joffrey … stepped out from behind the shields of his Kingsguard. "My mother bids me let Lord Eddard take the black, and Lady Sansa has begged mercy for her father." He looked straight at Sansa then, and smiled, and for a moment Arya thought that the gods had heard her prayer, until Joffrey turned back to the crowd and said, "But they have the soft hearts of women. So long as I am your king, treason shall never go unpunished. Ser Ilyn, bring me his head!"
The crowd roared, and Arya felt the statue of Baelor rock as they surged against it. The High Septon clutched at the king's cape, and Varys came rushing over waving his arms, and even the queen was saying something to him, but Joffrey shook his head.
Lords and knights moved aside as he stepped through, tall and fleshless, a skeleton in iron mail, the King's Justice. Dimly, as if from far off, Arya heard her sister scream. Sansa had fallen to her knees, sobbing hysterically. Ser Ilyn Payne climbed the steps of the pulpit.
Arya wriggled between Baelor's feet and threw herself into the crowd, drawing Needle. She landed on a man in a butcher's apron, knocking him to the ground. Immediately, someone slammed into her back, and she almost went down herself. Bodies closed in around her, stumbling and pushing, trampling on the poor butcher. Arya slashed at them with Needle.
High atop the pulpit, Ser Ilyn Payne gestured and the knight in black-and-gold gave a command. The gold cloaks flung Lord Eddard to the marble, with his head and chest out over the edge.
"You there!" an angry voice shouted at Arya, but she bowled past, shoving people aside, squirming between them, slamming into anyone in her way. She saw a man in a black cloak appear and vanish as soon as he came, swallowed whole by the roiling sea of people. A hand fumbled at her leg, and she hacked at it, kicked at shins. A woman stumbled and Arya ran up her back, cutting to both sides, but it was no good, no good, there were too many people, no sooner did she make a hole than it closed again. Someone buffeted her aside. She could still hear Sansa screaming.
Ser Ilyn drew a two-handed greatsword from the scabbard on his back. As he lifted the blade above his head, sunlight seemed to ripple and dance down the dark metal, glinting off an edge sharper than any razor. Ice, she thought, he has Ice! Her tears streamed down her face, blinding her.
Ser Barristan reached out a hand and caught the girl by the arm, pulling her back towards him and knocking the bravo's blade from her grip. She was spun face-to-face with him, and he watched recognition spread across her features. "You're …"
"A foolish old man come to save you, child." She was a scrawny little thing, all limbs and elbows, Ser Barristan held her up with ease. "We're leaving," he said, and began to pull her away, but the girl resisted.
"No!" It was some trick by the queen, Arya knew, perhaps they'd hoped she wouldn't recognise the old knight, but she had. He will take you to Queen Cersei , her panicked thoughts told her. Arya had to get away from him and towards her father. Ser Ilyn has Ice! I must move quick, or else …
The crowd went quiet as they struggled, Arya turned back but the old knight pulled her close, snapping her head away from the Sept.
"That is no sight for you to see," he said, voice strained from effort.
"I … I … I …" Her tears were blurring Ser Barristan's stern features, but his words were clear as day.
"Don't look!"