The city's breath hit me first: rancid fish, horse lime, and cheap perfume struggling to mask the scent of death wafting from the gutters of Flea Bottom. The bitterness of salt settled on my lips before the walls even came into view.
The procession moved. Past the Lion's Gate, the rhythmic clatter of hooves upon the red stone sounded like the steady beat of funeral drums. I looked up; the Great Sept of Baelor shimmered with a false sanctity beneath the midday sun. I did not see the architectural beauty; I saw the executioner's plaza that would soon be stained with Northern blood. In the courtyard of the Red Keep, I dismounted. I touched the stone; it was warm, like a fevered body boiling with conspiracies.
In the center of the yard, the formal reception awaited. I saw Petyr Baelish; his smile did not reach his small, dark eyes, which scanned the procession with a terrifying mechanical air, as if appraising the worth of new merchandise. Beside him stood Varys, smelling of lavender and powdered lime, his hands tucked deep into his voluminous sleeves like sleeping vipers.
Baelish leaned toward Renly Baratheon, whispering something that made the younger man laugh with careless ease, while Varys beckoned to one of his "little birds"—a ragged child who vanished instantly behind the marble columns. I watched. I etched two names into my mind and ignored the gazes that treated me as naught but a wooden piece of furniture or a rusted blade in Ned Stark's retinue.
A massive shadow blotted out the light. Sandor Clegane—the Hound. His burned face was closer to a vision of hell than any description could convey; dry pus, the scent of dead skin, and the dregs of cheap wine.
"Stop staring at the stones, boy," he growled, his voice like the grinding of two rocks. "Stones don't bite, but the people here will rip your throat out while you dream."
I offered no word. I merely inclined my head and clasped my fingers behind my back with a frigid calm. I saw a flicker of confusion in his eyes at my silence before he spat upon the earth and stomped away.
A short while later, I crossed paths with Ser Barristan Selmy. I bowed deeply; this man was the last remnant of chivalry in a dying world. "Ser Barristan, it is a true honor for a man of the North to stand before the greatest knight in the Seven Kingdoms."
The old knight nodded with a weary dignity. "I heard of the willow branch, lad. Courage out of place." He rested his hand slowly upon his pommel. "Swords here rarely leave their scabbards in the light of day, but they always find their way to hearts under the cover of dark. Be wary, Northman."
I retreated, slipping into the side shadows where the wagons were being unladen. And there, I saw her. Sansa stood at the entrance of her designated apartments, admiring the gilded carvings with a childish joy she was trying to reclaim. But when her eyes found me, the smile vanished, replaced by that look I had seen on the road—the look of cold appraisal, of political weight, and the bewilderment that hid a wounded pride.
She approached with measured steps, her silken skirts whispering against the stone. "Alex," she said in a low voice, her eyes fixed upon the stained bandage on my left arm. "My father says you showed rare courage before the King."
I did not bow to her this time. I stood tall, remembering how she had weighed me like a pawn in her carriage. "Courage is the only coin your father understands, Lady Sansa," I said, my voice as dry as autumn leaves. "But in this city, I am told courage is the shortest road to the grave."
Her hand brushed the fabric of her gown, trying to reclaim the "Lady's" composure I had begun to unsettle. "Prince Joffrey is very angry. The Queen will not forget what happened. You have put my father in a difficult position."
I gave a short, hollow laugh, devoid of any feigned warmth. "Put your father? Or did I scratch the perfect portrait you painted of your future king?" I took a step toward her, until I felt a slight tremor in her stance and a clumsy retreat. "I told you once before, I am no wooden stick in your quiver, nor a blade for your father to draw in need and sheathe when I embarrass you. I bled that day for Arya, and for the truth you were too afraid to speak."
Her eyes widened, and a flash of honest pain flickered in their blue depths—a flash that nearly broke her mask. "I... I spoke the truth before the King."
"Only after you saw my blood dripping onto the mud," I said coldly, then turned to leave without leave. "Enjoy your gold and silk, Lady Sansa. But remember, the threads that move this world are made of steel, and steel does not bend for delicate fingers."
I left her standing there, a vision of cold beauty amidst a forest of red stone. I returned to my cramped quarters and touched the bandaged scratch; it was no mere wound, but a grim vow that the capital would not leave me whole. I opened a small parchment hidden in my tunic and drew a single line representing the passage of Varys I had observed by the statue. Baelish smiles at me now as if I were a rustic fool, and Varys writes of the "naïve Northern soldier" in his scrolls. Let them write what they will. A clever rabbit does not fear the hunter who mistakes him for a common stone in the field.