The Song Of Ice and Fire (51 page)

“What would you have me do?” asked the torchbearer, a stout man in a leather half cape. Even in heavy boots, his feet seemed to glide soundlessly over the ground. A round scarred face and a stubble of dark beard showed under his steel cap, and he wore mail over boiled leather, and a dirk and shortsword at his belt. It seemed to Arya there was something oddly familiar about him.

“If one Hand can die, why not a second?” replied the man with the accent and the forked yellow beard. “You have danced the dance before, my friend.” He was no one Arya had ever seen before, she was certain of it. Grossly fat, yet he seemed to walk lightly, carrying his weight on the balls of his feet as a water dancer might. His rings glimmered in the torchlight, red-gold and pale silver, crusted with rubies, sapphires, slitted yellow tiger eyes. Every finger wore a ring; some had two.

“Before is not now, and this Hand is not the other,” the scarred man said as they stepped out into the hall.
Still as stone
, Arya told herself,
quiet as a shadow
. Blinded by the blaze of their own torch, they did not see her pressed flat against the stone, only a few feet away.

“Perhaps so,” the forked beard replied, pausing to catch his breath after the long climb. “Nonetheless, we must have time. The princess is with child. The
khal
will not bestir himself until his son is born. You know how they are, these savages.”

The man with the torch pushed at something. Arya heard a deep rumbling. A huge slab of rock, red in the torchlight, slid down out of the ceiling with a resounding crash that almost made her cry out. Where the entry to the well had been was nothing but stone, solid and unbroken.

“If he does not bestir himself soon, it may be too late,” the stout man in the steel cap said. “This is no longer a game for two players, if ever it was. Stannis Baratheon and Lysa Arryn have fled beyond my reach, and the whispers say they are gathering swords around them. The Knight of Flowers writes Highgarden, urging his lord father to send his sister to court. The girl is a maid of fourteen, sweet and beautiful and tractable, and Lord Renly and Ser Loras intend that Robert should bed her, wed her,
and make a new queen. Littlefinger … the gods only know what game Littlefinger is playing. Yet Lord Stark’s the one who troubles my sleep. He has the bastard, he has the book, and soon enough he’ll have the truth. And now his wife has abducted Tyrion Lannister, thanks to Littlefinger’s meddling. Lord Tywin will take that for an outrage, and Jaime has a queer affection for the Imp. If the Lannisters move north, that will bring the Tullys in as well.
Delay
, you say.
Make haste
, I reply. Even the finest of jugglers cannot keep a hundred balls in the air forever.”

“You are more than a juggler, old friend. You are a true sorcerer. All I ask is that you work your magic awhile longer.” They started down the hall in the direction Arya had come, past the room with the monsters.

“What I can do, I will,” the one with the torch said softly. “I must have gold, and another fifty birds.”

She let them get a long way ahead, then went creeping after them.
Quiet as a shadow
.

“So many?” The voices were fainter as the light dwindled ahead of her. “The ones you need are hard to find … so young, to know their letters … perhaps older … not die so easy …”

“No. The younger are safer … treat them gently …”

“… if they kept their tongues …”

“… the risk …”

Long after their voices had faded away, Arya could still see the light of the torch, a smoking star that bid her follow. Twice it seemed to disappear, but she kept on straight, and both times she found herself at the top of steep, narrow stairs, the torch glimmering far below her. She hurried after it, down and down. Once she stumbled over a rock and fell against the wall, and her hand found raw earth supported by timbers, whereas before the tunnel had been dressed stone.

She must have crept after them for miles. Finally they were gone, but there was no place to go but forward. She found the wall again and followed, blind and lost, pretending that Nymeria was padding along beside her in the darkness. At the end she was knee-deep in foul-smelling water, wishing she could dance upon it as Syrio might have, and wondering if she’d ever see light again. It was full dark when finally Arya emerged into the night air.

She found herself standing at the mouth of a sewer where it emptied into the river. She stank so badly that she stripped right there, dropping her soiled clothing on the riverbank as she dove into the deep black waters. She swam until she felt clean, and crawled out shivering. Some riders went past along the river road as Arya was washing her clothes, but if they saw the scrawny naked girl scrubbing her rags in the moonlight, they took no notice.

She was miles from the castle, but from anywhere in King’s Landing you needed only to look up to see the Red Keep high on Aegon’s Hill, so there was no danger of losing her way. Her clothes were almost dry by the time she reached the gatehouse. The portcullis was down and the gates barred, so she turned aside to a postern door. The gold cloaks who had the watch sneered when she told them to let her in. “Off with you,” one said. “The kitchen scraps are gone, and we’ll have no begging after dark.”

“I’m not a beggar,” she said. “I live here.”

“I said,
off with you
. Do you need a clout on the ear to help your hearing?”

“I want to see my father.”

The guards exchanged a glance. “I want to fuck the queen myself, for all the good it does me,” the younger one said.

The older scowled. “Who’s this father of yours, boy, the city ratcatcher?”

“The Hand of the King,” Arya told him.

Both men laughed, but then the older one swung his fist at her, casually, as a man would swat a dog. Arya saw the blow coming even before it began. She danced back out of the way, untouched. “I’m not a boy,” she spat at them. “I’m Arya Stark of Winterfell, and if you lay a hand on me my lord father will have both your heads on spikes. If you don’t believe me, fetch Jory Cassel or Vayon Poole from the Tower of the Hand.” She put her hands on her hips. “Now are you going to open the gate, or do you need a clout on the ear to help your hearing?”

Her father was alone in the solar when Harwin and Fat Tom marched her in, an oil lamp glowing softly at his elbow. He was bent over the biggest book Arya had ever seen, a great thick tome with cracked yellow pages of crabbed script, bound between faded leather covers, but
he closed it to listen to Harwin’s report. His face was stern as he sent the men away with thanks.

“You realize I had half my guard out searching for you?” Eddard Stark said when they were alone. “Septa Mordane is beside herself with fear. She’s in the sept praying for your safe return. Arya, you
know
you are never to go beyond the castle gates without my leave.”

“I didn’t go out the gates,” she blurted. “Well, I didn’t mean to. I was down in the dungeons, only they turned into this tunnel. It was all dark, and I didn’t have a torch or a candle to see by, so I had to follow. I couldn’t go back the way I came on account of the monsters. Father, they were talking about
killing
you! Not the monsters, the two men. They didn’t see me, I was being still as stone and quiet as a shadow, but I heard them. They said you had a book and a bastard and if one Hand could die, why not a second? Is that the book? Jon’s the bastard, I bet.”

“Jon? Arya, what are you talking about? Who said this?”

“
They
did,” she told him. “There was a fat one with rings and a forked yellow beard, and another in mail and a steel cap, and the fat one said they had to delay but the other one told him he couldn’t keep juggling and the wolf and the lion were going to eat each other and it was a mummer’s farce.” She tried to remember the rest. She hadn’t quite understood everything she’d heard, and now it was all mixed up in her head. “The fat one said the princess was with child. The one in the steel cap, he had the torch, he said that they had to hurry. I think he was a wizard.”

“A wizard,” said Ned, unsmiling. “Did he have a long white beard and tall pointed hat speckled with stars?”

“No! It wasn’t like Old Nan’s stories. He didn’t
look
like a wizard, but the fat one said he was.”

“I warn you, Arya, if you’re spinning this thread of air—”

“No, I
told
you, it was in the dungeons, by the place with the secret wall. I was chasing cats, and well …” She screwed up her face. If she admitted knocking over Prince Tommen, he would be
really
angry with her. “… well, I went in this window. That’s where I found the monsters.”

“Monsters
and
wizards,” her father said. “It would
seem you’ve had quite an adventure. These men you heard, you say they spoke of juggling and mummery?”

“Yes,” Arya admitted, “only—”

“Arya, they were mummers,” her father told her. “There must be a dozen troupes in King’s Landing right now, come to make some coin off the tourney crowds. I’m not certain what these two were doing in the castle, but perhaps the king has asked for a show.”

“No.” She shook her head stubbornly. “They weren’t—”

“You shouldn’t be following people about and spying on them in any case. Nor do I cherish the notion of my daughter climbing in strange windows after stray cats. Look at you, sweetling. Your arms are covered with scratches. This has gone on long enough. Tell Syrio Forel that I want a word with him—”

He was interrupted by a short, sudden knock. “Lord Eddard, pardons,” Desmond called out, opening the door a crack, “but there’s a black brother here begging audience. He says the matter is urgent. I thought you would want to know.”

“My door is always open to the Night’s Watch,” Father said.

Desmond ushered the man inside. He was stooped and ugly, with an unkempt beard and unwashed clothes, yet Father greeted him pleasantly and asked his name.

“Yoren, as it please m’lord. My pardons for the hour.” He bowed to Arya. “And this must be your son. He has your look.”

“I’m a
girl,
” Arya said, exasperated. If the old man was down from the Wall, he must have come by way of Winterfell. “Do you know my brothers?” she asked excitedly. “Robb and Bran are at Winterfell, and Jon’s on the Wall. Jon Snow, he’s in the Night’s Watch too, you must know him, he has a direwolf, a white one with red eyes. Is Jon a ranger yet? I’m Arya Stark.” The old man in his smelly black clothes was looking at her oddly, but Arya could not seem to stop talking. “When you ride back to the Wall, would you bring Jon a letter if I wrote one?” She wished Jon were here right now.
He’d
believe her about the dungeons and the fat man with the forked beard and the wizard in the steel cap.

“My daughter often forgets her courtesies,” Eddard
Stark said with a faint smile that softened his words. “I beg your forgiveness, Yoren. Did my brother Benjen send you?”

“No one
sent
me, m’lord, saving old Mormont. I’m here to find men for the Wall, and when Robert next holds court, I’ll bend the knee and cry our need, see if the king and his Hand have some scum in the dungeons they’d be well rid of. You might say as Benjen Stark is why we’re talking, though. His blood ran black. Made him my brother as much as yours. It’s for his sake I’m come. Rode hard, I did, near killed my horse the way I drove her, but I left the others well behind.”

“The others?”

Yoren spat. “Sellswords and freeriders and like trash. That inn was full o’ them, and I saw them take the scent. The scent of blood or the scent of gold, they smell the same in the end. Not all o’ them made for King’s Landing, either. Some went galloping for Casterly Rock, and the Rock lies closer. Lord Tywin will have gotten the word by now, you can count on it.”

Father frowned. “What word is this?”

Yoren eyed Arya. “One best spoken in private, m’lord, begging your pardons.”

“As you say. Desmond, see my daughter to her chambers.” He kissed her on the brow. “We’ll finish our talk on the morrow.”

Arya stood rooted to the spot. “Nothing bad’s happened to Jon, has it?” she asked Yoren. “Or Uncle Benjen?”

“Well, as to Stark, I can’t say. The Snow boy was well enough when I left the Wall. It’s not them as concerns me.”

Desmond took her hand. “Come along, milady. You heard your lord father.”

Arya had no choice but to go with him, wishing it had been Fat Tom. With Tom, she might have been able to linger at the door on some excuse and hear what Yoren was saying, but Desmond was too single-minded to trick. “How many guards does my father have?” she asked him as they descended to her bedchamber.

“Here at King’s Landing? Fifty.”

“You wouldn’t let anyone kill him, would you?” she asked.

Desmond laughed. “No fear on that count, little lady. Lord Eddard’s guarded night and day. He’ll come to no harm.”

“The Lannisters have more than fifty men,” Arya pointed out.

“So they do, but every northerner is worth ten of these southron swords, so you can sleep easy.”

“What if a wizard was sent to kill him?”

“Well, as to that,” Desmond replied, drawing his longsword, “wizards die the same as other men, once you cut their heads off.”