The words broke apart as distance swallowed them. Still Arya followed, guided by the dwindling glow ahead. The torch was a star in the dark, flickering and shrinking. Twice she thought it lost, only to glimpse it again around some bend or stair.
She crept for what felt like hours. The stone beneath her feet changed from smooth to rough to damp. Once her hand brushed a spiderweb and she nearly cried out. Another time she stumbled on a step she had not seen and caught herself with a hand against slimy wall.
At last the light vanished entirely. Arya stopped. The darkness pressed close as a cloak. There was nowhere to go but forward. She found the wall again and kept one hand upon it, inching along. In her mind Nymeria padded beside her, silent and watchful. She imagined the direwolf's warm fur against her leg and drew courage from it.
The passage sloped downward. Soon the stone floor grew wet beneath her toes, then slick, then flooded. She waded slowly, water creeping from ankle to shin to knee, cold and foul-smelling. She wrinkled her nose but did not stop. A water dancer moves where he must, Syrio would say.
At length a faint breath of air touched her face. She pressed onward and found steps, climbed them carefully, one hand on the wall. Ahead was a dim grey hint, not light, not yet, but less dark than before.
She pushed through a narrow opening and stumbled out beneath the open sky. Night had fallen over the Red Keep. She came out where the black tunnels spat their filth into the river. The water moved slow beneath the night, thick and shining faintly under the stars. The smell clung to her like a second skin.
Arya wrinkled her nose and pulled off her clothes at once. They were stiff with muck and stank worse than the stables at Winterfell after thaw. She left them in a heap upon the bank and plunged into the river.
The cold took her breath. She kicked and struck out hard, teeth clenched, swimming until the foul taste left her mouth and the stink no longer rose from her own skin. When she climbed out again she was shivering, but cleaner than she had been since the tunnels swallowed her.
She knelt to scrub her things against a stone. The current tugged at her sleeves while she worked.
Hooves sounded on the river road behind her. Riders passed, cloaks stirring in the wind, but none spared her more than a glance. To them she was only another ragged child washing rags in the dark.
The Red Keep rose above the city, black against the stars, its towers sharp as spears on Aegon's Hill. Wherever she went, it watched. Arya fixed her eyes on it and began the long walk back.
By the time she reached the castle her clothes were only damp at the hems. The portcullis was down and the great gates shut tight. She turned instead to a small postern door where two gold cloaks kept watch beneath a lantern. They looked her over and laughed.
"Off with you," said one. "No scraps tonight. Beg somewhere else."
"I'm not a beggar," Arya said. "I live here."
The younger guard smirked. "Hear that? The castle breeds them now."
"I said off," the older snapped. "Or I'll help your feet remember the road."
"I want to see my father."
They exchanged a look, amused.
"Aye, and I wanna fuck the queen for all the good it does me," said the younger. "We all want things, we can't have."
"Who's this father then?" asked the older. "Some ratcatcher? One of the dung sweepers?"
Arya lifted her chin. "The Hand of the King."
Both men barked laughter. The older swung a lazy fist toward her ear as though to cuff a dog from a doorstep. The blow never landed. A larger hand caught his wrist mid-swing and held it fast. The gold cloak winced as the grip tightened.
"Do you fancy losing that hand?" growled Ser Donnel Locke.
Arya looked up. The northman loomed above them, broad as a door, beard bristling beneath his helm.
"That is the Lord Hand's daughter."
The guard went pale. "Ser… I didn't know—"
"No," said Donnel, releasing him with a shove. "You did not think. A poor habit in a city such as this."
He turned to Arya, his voice gentler. "Come, my lady, your lord father has been looking all over for you. He'll sleep easier once he sees you whole."
Arya fell in beside him. Her legs felt heavy after the long walk and the river's cold, and she tried not to limp.
"Hold there," Donnel said after a few steps. "You're shaking like a leaf."
Before she could protest, he drew off his cloak and set it round her shoulders. It smelled of wool, horse, and the north. The cloak's warmth felt good against her skin.
He gave a short laugh. "What did you do, tumble into the Blackwater?"
Arya hugged the cloak tight and stared at him in surprise. "How did you know?!"
Donnel stopped walking. "What?" He peered down at her. "You did? Gods save us, girl, how far were you roaming?"
Arya only shrugged. If she told him about the tunnels, he might send her back to Septa Mordane instead of Father. They found her father in the solar. A great book lay open before him, pages pale in the lamplight. Arthur stood near the window, arms folded, while Fat Tom and Harwin brought her in along with Ser Donnel.
Lord Eddard Stark looked up.
His grey eyes went first to the cloak, then to her face, and finally to the mud still clinging at her boots. He said nothing while Donnel and Harwin spoke over one another, telling how she'd come to the postern out of the dark like some river wraith.
Arya looked to Arthur. He always helped. But tonight his blue-green eyes were weary, his mouth tight. He did not smile at her.
Her father thanked the guards and sent them away. The door shut, leaving only the three of them and the soft hiss of the lamp.
"You realize," Lord Stark said, "that I had near half my household guards and Arthur's own searching for you? Septa Mordane has taken to the sept to pray you back alive." His voice was quiet, but it cut sharper than shouting. "You are never to go beyond the castle walls without my leave. Not now. Not in this city."
"I didn't go beyond the gates," Arya said quickly. "Not at first."
His brow furrowed. "Not at first?"
"I was in the dungeons. Only they weren't dungeons, not truly. There was a well and a tunnel, and it went on and on. I couldn't come back because of the monsters." She hurried on before he could stop her. "Two men were there. They were talking."
Her father's gaze hardened.
"They didn't see me," Arya said. "I stayed still as stone, quiet as a shadow, like Syrio taught. They spoke of you. They said you had a book and a bastard, and that if one Hand could die, why not a second."
She pointed at the great tome on the table. "That's the book, isn't it?" Her eyes flicked back to him. "And Jon's the bastard, I bet."
"Jon?" Lord Stark's voice sharpened. "Arya, what are you saying? Who told you such a thing?"
"They did," Arya insisted excitedly. "A fat one with rings, and a forked yellow beard. The other wore mail and a steel cap and carried the torch. The fat one said they must delay, but the other said he could not keep juggling, that the wolf and the lion would soon fall on each other, and all of it was a mummer's farce."
She chewed her lip, trying to gather the rest. The words had sounded clearer in the dark. Now they slid away from her like fish. "He spoke about a princess, said she was with child. And about a girl too. The one with the torch wanted haste. I think… I think he was a wizard."
"A wizard," Ned said flatly. "Did he have a long white beard and a tall hat sewn with stars?"
"No." Arya scowled. "Not like Old Nan's tales. He didn't look it, but the fat one called him more than a juggler. He feared some monster too. A leviathan." She turned to Arthur. "You heard of such things. Tell him."
Arthur met her eyes. His look was gentle, yet distant, as though part of him listened elsewhere.
"Leave him out of this," her father said. "He will not shield you from a lie. If this is some child's fancy—"
"It isn't!" Her hands balled into fists beneath Donnel's cloak. "I was in the dungeons, near the place with the hidden wall. I was chasing cats, and… well…" She hesitated. Some truths were worse than others. "…I climbed through a window. That's where the monsters were."
"Monsters," Lord Stark repeated incredulously.
"In the room with the skulls. Big ones, with teeth as long as daggers. I didn't stay. I found the well and the tunnel, and that's where I heard them." Arya stepped closer to the table and pointed to the book. "They said you had it. And a bastard. And that soon you would know the truth."
"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," Lord Stark told her, shaking his head softly. "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—"
Her father interrupted, "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."
Lord Eddards' eyes softened, "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," Her father said, standing straight again.
Desmond stepped back and gestured for the man to enter. He was stooped, with a tangled black beard flecked with grey, and the smell of unwashed travel clung to him. Yet her father greeted him as if he were an old friend.
"And your name, brother?" Ned asked, his voice calm but curious.
"Yoren, if it pleases m'lord. My pardons for the hour. M'lord Manderly, I did not expect to see you here." He bowed to Arthur. After rising to his feet, the black brother looked at Arya and added. "And this must be your son. He has your look."
"I'm a girl," Arya blurted, stepping forward, cheeks pink with exasperation. She folded her arms and glared up at him. The man blinked and breathed out a short laugh.
Arya ignored his rude word as she was already talking again, words tumbling out faster than she could catch them. "Do you know my brothers? Robb and Bran they're at Winterfell. Jon's on the Wall! Jon Snow, he has a direwolf, a white one with red eyes. Is he a ranger yet? I'm Arya Stark! You must know him."
Yoren's eyes went wide, and he looked at her as if she had sprouted horns. But Arya could not stop talking, "When you ride back to the Wall, could you bring Jon a letter if I wrote one?"
Her fists clenched at her sides. Arya wished Jon were here right now. She wished she could see him or Robb or Wylla, Margaery even, someone who would understand, someone who would believe her truth. Arthur… he had betrayed her.
Arthur hadn't believed her, didn't defend her. He hadn't even looked shocked or amused. He looked only distant and tired. But she knew Jon'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," her father said, the faintest lift at the corner of his mouth softening the words. "I beg your forgiveness, Yoren. Did my brother Benjen send you?"
Yoren shook his head slowly, eyes dark and steady. "No one sent me, m'lord. Save perhaps old Mormont. I'm come to find men for the Wall. When King Robert next holds court, I'll bend the knee and cry our need. Perhaps the Hand and the king have some scum in the dungeons they'd be well rid of."
Arthur looked at the man intently. Arya was angry, thinking why didn't he listen to her story with the same interest. He still treated her like a little girl.
Yoren paused, and his voice grew grim, "You might say 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. I rode so hard, damn near killed my horse the way I drove her, but I left the others behind."
"The others?" her father asked in concern.
Yoren spat to the side, "Sellswords and freeriders and like trash, m'lord. That inn was full o' them. I saw them take the scent, the scent of blood, or 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. The Rock lies closer. Lord Tywin will have gotten the word by now, you can count on it."
Her father's frown deepened, the grey eyes narrowing. "What word is this?"
Yoren's gaze swept past Arya, slow and deliberate, and his voice dropped. "One best spoken in private, m'lord. Begging your pardons."
"As you say. Desmond, see my daughter to her chambers." His lips brushed her brow in a brief moment of tenderness. "We'll finish our talk on the morrow."
Arya stayed rooted where she stood, her fists clenched at her sides. "Why can Arthur stay, then?" she demanded, voice sharp with frustration.
"Arya!" Her father's grey eyes narrowed, a frown creasing his forehead.
She looked at Arthur, who only gave her a faint smile, calm and easy. Then he finally spoke, voice low. "It's alright, little wolf, Lord Stark would send me to find the monsters. That's why I stay behind."
Arya's eyes went wide. Her heart beat faster than it had in the dungeons, a mix of hope and fear coiling in her chest. She blurted out, "Really? You believe me, then? Can you take me with you? Pleasee!!!"
Her father sighed, the sound long and weary. "Don't encourage her, Arthur," Lord Eddard said, and then he turned to Arya, the shadow of command in his tone. "Arthur and I were in the middle of something important. Now go."
Arya frowned, her brows drawing together. "Nothing bad's happened to Jon, has it?" she asked Yoren, her voice barely more than a whisper, though the worry in it made her words sharper. "Or Uncle Benjen?"
Yoren's eyes flicked to hers. "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," he said.
Desmond stepped forward and took her hand, firm and certain. "Come along, milady. You heard your lord father."
Arya hesitated, casting a longing glance back toward the solar, wishing she could linger, could somehow hear what Yoren had to say. Fat Tom might have let her do it, a wink and a shrug as though mischief were his trade. But Desmond was different, unyielding, all duty and order. She had no choice but to follow, her small hand swallowed in his.
Arya's eyes flicked toward the door where Donnel lingered, a broad smile and a wink sent in her direction before she followed Desmond down the narrow stairs to her bedchamber.
"How many guards does my father have?" Arya asked, her voice low.
"Here at King's Landing? Fifty," Desmond replied, as he guided her along the hall.
Arya's frown deepened. "You wouldn't let anyone kill him, would you?"
Desmond chuckled, the sound rough and warm. "No fear on that count, little lady. Lord Eddard's guarded night and day. He'll come to no harm."
She shook her head, "The Lannisters have more than fifty men," she said.
"So they do," Desmond agreed, his stride unhurried, "but Lord Arthur has men here too, and every northerner is worth ten of these southron swords, so you can sleep easy."
Arya hesitated, the edge of fear still prickling at her. "What if… a wizard were sent to kill him?"
Desmond's hand went to the hilt of his longsword, fingers curling around leather-wrapped steel. "Well, as to that," he said, his voice even but firm, "wizards die the same as other men. Once you cut their heads off."