Arya Stark had always been a girl defined by her list. It was a rhythmic prayer of hate she had whispered to the dark since the day her father's head hit the stones of the Great Sept. In the damp cells of Harrenhal and the salt-sprayed streets of Braavos, the names had been her only constant.
Joffrey Baratheon, for the sentence. Cersei Lannister, for the scheme. Gregor Clegane, for the butcher's work. Ser Ilyn Payne, for the blade. Ser Meryn Trant, for Syrio Forel. Sandor Clegane, for Mycah.
But upon her return, Arya found the world had moved faster than her needle. Most of her targets were already ghosts. Joffrey had choked on his own vanity; the Mountain had been dismantled by a Karstark axe. Those who remained - the executioner, the Kingsguard, and the Hound, had traded their colors for the black of the Night's Watch, a vow that theoretically wiped their slates clean. Even Cersei had been spared the gift of death, forced instead into the Silent Sisters to spend her remaining days stitching the shrouds of the dead and draining the fluids of the deceased. For a woman who lived for gold and wine, it was a living hell, yet Arya felt a lingering, cold dissatisfaction.
It was Eddard Karstark, her brother-in-law, who had provided a new focus for her blade: Petyr Baelish.
Littlefinger was the root of the rot. He was the one who had whispered in Catelyn's ear and held the knife to Ned Stark's throat. While the Iron Throne had officially stripped him of his titles, he remained entrenched at the Moon Gate, shielded by Lysa Tully's obsessive infatuation and the power of House Arryn.
Arya arrived at the Moon Gate under a sky of cold, frosting moonlight. Above the towering granite walls, a purple banner fluttered, the black portcullis before a white crescent moon, the sigil of Nestor Royce.
Nestor had been the High Steward of the Vale for fourteen years, a man who valued service but valued reward even more. Littlefinger had bought his soul by granting him the Moon Gate as a hereditary seat. For the sake of his legacy, Nestor would stand with the Baelish "usurper" until the mountains themselves crumbled.
Arya crouched in the tall grass at the base of the cliffs. She pulled her black hood low, her grey eyes tracking the movement of the guards on the battlements. She moved with a fluid, silent grace, not like a soldier, but like a shadow.
The moat was a churning obstacle of mountain runoff, but the cliffs provided pockets of absolute darkness. She launched an iron grappling claw, the rope whistling through the air to catch a jagged rock on the opposite bank. She crossed the water like a water dancer, treading the hemp line with effortless balance before cutting the rope behind her.
The walls of the Moon Gate were high and slick with frost, but Arya had come prepared. She donned a pair of specially made leather gloves, their palms treated with a sticky resin from the House of Black and White. She ascended the steep cliffs flanking the masonry, her movements nimble as a spider's. Minutes later, she slipped over the parapet, dodging a yawning sentry and vanishing behind a stone storehouse.
The courtyard was vast, larger than Winterfell's inner ward. Half the space was bathed in a brilliant, crystalline moonlight; the other was a jagged abyss of shadow. Arya stayed in the dark, creeping toward the High Tower where the Arryns resided.
"When will the whining end?" a voice drifted through the air.
Arya froze. Two maidservants emerged from a side door, carrying flickering oil lamps. One, a girl of barely ten, looked exhausted.
"Lord Robert is screaming for eggs again," the girl complained. "He spilled his oatmeal all over me because the hens aren't laying. It's too cold in the coops! Half the birds are frozen to their perches, and he acts as if I'm hiding the yolks in my pockets."
"War makes everyone heartless," the older woman replied, her voice a weary sigh. "The lords outside have cut the supplies. They still claim to be loyal to the Falcon, yet they starve the boy. I only hope he sleeps tonight. The last maid who let him work himself into a fit was sent to the Eyrie... then she flew from the Moon Door."
Arya followed them at a distance, her steps lighter than the wind. She had two objectives: kill Baelish or secure Robert Arryn. Eddard Karstark had told her that if the boy-lord were removed from Littlefinger's influence, the Vale lords outside would launch their assault within the hour.
She tracked the maids to a sturdy round tower guarded by two men in sky-blue cloaks and silver mail. She waited until a black cat, her silent companion for the night darted up the stonework, its claws scratching the window sills. As the guards turned their heads to investigate the sound, Arya blurred across the open ground and began her climb.
She entered through a high, arched window, slipping into the opulent gloom of the upper floors. Below her, she heard the boy's high-pitched, hysterical shriek.
"GET OUT! I want Mother! If you bother me again, I'll make you fly! FLY!"
The maids fled the room, frantic to find Lysa Tully, who was likely currently occupied with Petyr Baelish. Arya waited for the corridor to clear before slipping into the royal suite.
The room was an offensive display of luxury: silver candelabras, golden drapes, and jewel-encrusted tapestries. For a sick child, the brightness was a sensory assault.
"Who are you?"
Robert Arryn sat up in his bed, his face pale and sickly. He stared at the black-clad girl who had appeared from the shadows.
"I am your sister," Arya said softly, moving closer.
"You're lying!" Robert snapped. "I have no sister. Mother says I'm the only one."
"My mother is Catelyn Tully," Arya countered, offering a small, sad smile. "Your mother's elder sister. I am Arya Stark. I went to Braavos on an adventure, and I've come to tell you about the Titan."
Robert's curiosity flared, his fear forgotten. "Braavos? Is it true they have giants of bronze?"
"It is," Arya whispered, reaching the bedside. "And they have scents you've never smelled. Like this..."
She held out a cloth treated with a potent, floral-scented sleeping draught. The formula was a secret of the House of Black and White, costing more in materials than a knight's ransom, but Eddard Karstark's vaults had provided the coin.
Robert took a single breath of the sweet, cloying aroma. His eyes rolled back, and he slumped into the silks, unconscious.
Arya worked quickly. The boy was unnervingly light, weighing less than a well-fed hound. She wrapped him in a heavy wool blanket and used her climbing rope to hoist him onto a massive oak beam near the vaulted ceiling. In the shadows of the rafters, he was invisible to anyone standing on the floor. She secured him with a series of professional knots, ensuring he wouldn't fall even if he shifted in his sleep.
Once the boy was hidden, Arya disarranged the room, oversetting a chair and scattering some jewelry to create the illusion of a violent struggle and a hasty kidnapping.
She exited the tower through the same window, her cat-familiar following close behind. She climbed to the very peak of the tower, the wind howling around her. She pulled out a small iron tube, a Karstark signal flare and struck the flint.
A brilliant streak of orange-red fire hissed into the night sky, illuminating the Moon Gate for a fleeting, blinding second.
Outside the walls, Eddard Karstark sat his horse, his black-and-gold cloak snapping in the wind. He looked up at the rising light and drew Heartbreaker.
"SIEGE!" Eddard roared.
[System Notification: Infiltration Successful.]
[Target: Robert Arryn (Secured/Hidden).]
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