A few days after the memorable tournament that had caused so much stir, Arthas walked along Steel Street, looking at the even racks of all sorts of arms and armor. The air here hummed with heat and the ringing of hammers; even the crowds of people creating noise could not drown out the incessant clatter and roar. The merciless stench of glowing coal filled his nostrils, and Arthas strongly doubted he would be able to distinguish other smells in the coming days. Barely catching sight of the Crown Prince walking accompanied by guards, shop and Workshop owners rushed into the streets, bowing and inviting the youth to look at their wares. There was plenty to see here; more than once or twice Menethil stopped to look now at a two-handed sword with exquisite chasing on the fuller, now at a market novelty—an armet helmet, which cost so much that only very wealthy gentlemen could afford it.
"This way," Clegane rasped, feeling the gazes of those around him. The whole city knew who had decapitated The Mountain, and now the townspeople did not know how to react to The Hound's presence. On one hand, the septons fiercely condemned those who shed the blood of their kith and kin; on the other, Clegane had protected the Crown Prince, and it seemed his actions could in no way be called sinful. It was not for nothing that King Robert had personally rewarded Sandor with a heavy purse of gold and a title, which, however, Clegane immediately hastened to refuse. He had already gained possession of his family's lands, with which he now did not know what to do. The Hound categorically did not wish to return to his childhood home.
Arthas stepped under the awning that shielded the shop's visitors from the scorching sun and looked around. Tobho Mott, the owner of the shop and the adjacent Workshop, was one of the few masters in Westeros who knew how to work with Valyrian steel, and consequently enjoyed the patronage of many noble lords. In particular, Arthas had learned that Renly Baratheon had ordered a new suit of plate armor from Mott.
"Your Highness!" Master Mott ran out to meet such unexpected visitors. "Allow me to express my delight; I am incredibly happy to see you in my humble shop!"
The prince looked around, noting the curtains of expensive Cloth, small figurines placed in the corners, and other trifles that were by no means cheap. In short, the shop certainly did not look humble, but Arthas did not point that out.
"How may I help you?" Mott inquired, rubbing his hands in anticipation. Having such a client could raise his status and prestige among other smiths to a height unreachable for the rest.
"I am interested in a bastard sword, forged for my hand," Arthas replied, trying to understand what Lord Stark was doing here. The Hand's strange movements did not please him at all. Obscure meetings, walks to brothels, servants running back and forth—all these actions caused the prince serious concern.
"Oh, I shall be more than happy to do whatever is required of me," the armorer was practically glowing with happiness. "This way, please. Gendry, to me, quickly!"
At the very first call, a black-haired youth with blue eyes, a broad chest, and strong arms from constant work in the forge entered the room. Grabbing a tailor's tape from the table, Mott began taking measurements, while the youth carefully recorded everything on a scrap of paper. Judging by how diligently he wrote the numbers, Gendry had only recently learned to write. Sandor Clegane examined the armor with intricate carving that clad a mannequin made of Woodworking darkened by time. At the same time, it seemed to Arthas that he was sizing up how best to cleave them with a single blow, or perhaps with a practiced eye determining the armor's vulnerable spots.
Meanwhile, Tobho Mott was joyfully explaining something to the prince, who was making a great effort to appear as though he were listening intently to the master smith, but in reality, his attention was focused on Gendry. The youth's entire appearance spoke of his true origin, and at that moment Arthas felt a sharp desire to meet his father right now and give him a punch in the teeth with all his heart, though something like this was to be expected anyway. King Robert's licentiousness was known in all the Seven Kingdoms, so was it any surprise to find yet another royal bastard? Probably not, but the prince could only wish that Cersei would never learn of Gendry's existence. Otherwise, one wouldn't give a broken copper for his life.
Of course, Arthas knew that Robert had bastards. Moreover, he had managed to sire one even before his famous rebellion. How many of his offspring there were in Westeros in total, hardly anyone could count, but only one of them, Edric Storm, King Robert had deigned to acknowledge, but no one in the capital had ever seen the boy himself; he lived in Storm's End with his uncle Renly. Arthas had also never seen him and had no desire to meet him; Cersei would have killed Edric with her own hands, but she nonetheless agreed to tolerate his existence as long as the bastard remained as far from the capital as possible. If Storm even tried to mention any rights, he would undoubtedly be immediately drowned in the waters of the bay.
And so the prince, unexpectedly to himself, had met a half-brother and wondered what his existence could give Stark. It was unlikely the Hand was surprised by the presence of a bastard; after all, he knew Robert's character firsthand. Then what could have brought Eddard Stark to Steel Street, what was he really looking for? The number of questions only grew, but so far not a single answer was visible on the horizon.
***
"...reported that Prince Joffrey found a bastard; soon he will find the others. The boy is following Lord Stark's trail."
"What do you intend to do, my friend?" an accent was heard in the man's voice.
"Nothing for now; everything is taking its course. Soon the Lion and the Wolf will be at each other's throats; honor will not allow Stark to remain silent when the truth is revealed. War is inevitable."
Arya pressed herself into the black dragon bone, praying to all the gods she knew only that she would not be noticed. She could not see the speakers, and therefore could only listen and guess what exactly they were discussing.
"Too soon, too early. War will give us nothing now; we are not yet ready. We need a respite. And the prince causes some concern."
"He is mortal, like all the rest. I am more concerned about the new Hand."
"So perhaps it would be better to get rid of him? Send him after his predecessor?"
Peeking out from her hiding place for a moment, Arya saw a fat man with a forked yellow beard; the Fatty moved very easily and smoothly. His companion was clad in chainmail, a helmet adorned his head, but his face was not visible.
"His predecessor was old; the sudden death of the new Hand will cause unnecessary questions and attention. Better tell me, how long does Khal Drogo intend to wait?"
"He is in no hurry," the Fatty with the yellow beard replied, approaching a deep well. "The princess is with child, so the Khal will not march until the birth of his son, and young Viserys Targaryen's behavior can hardly be pleasing. With every word, he brings closer the day when Khal Drogo's patience will run out. You know the ways of the savages; unforeseen consequences are possible."
"Bad, my friend, you need to speed up," the man in the helmet pressed something, and a thick slab descended from the ceiling, covering the well. "Events are gaining momentum; we may not make it in time."
"And what about Stark?"
"I have not yet made a final decision regarding him, and the queen does not take her eyes off him. It is difficult to predict events when the number of players has increased. Stannis Baratheon and Lysa Arryn are beyond my power; rumors say they are gathering swords around them. The Knight of Flowers has seen to it that his sister has come to court. The girl is sweet, beautiful, and obedient; I just cannot understand into whose bed they intend to tuck her—Robert's or Joffrey's. Littlefinger... Only the gods know what game Littlefinger is playing. Stark has come almost right up to the truth; he has the book and the bastard; soon the truth will open before him. You say a respite is needed, but I say we must speed up! Even I cannot keep absolutely all events under control; the slightest slip could cost us dearly."
"I am not asking the impossible of you, my friend. I am only asking to delay the conflict between the Starks and the Lannisters at least for a while. Let them go to The Wall, or into the demons' maws... we... time..."
The voices gradually faded; the interlocutors departed down the corridor through which Arya herself had come. There was no other way; she had to go where the men had gone. She had to walk for quite a long time, guided only by the reflections of the torch looming ahead; there was no longer any doubt that the girl had long since left the castle grounds. Eventually, the torch vanished, the footsteps went silent, and the men disappeared. Once Arya tripped and fell, but getting up, she walked forward again, alone in the darkness. At some point, the stone floor was replaced by a foul-smelling mess that stuck to her shoes; walking became much harder. She was saved only by the fact that the corridor was straight, without any branches; otherwise, Arya would have been lost long ago.
Wading almost knee-deep in the filthy, foul-smelling sludge, Arya emerged from the underground when it was already dark and found that she was standing in the mouth of a sewer pipe discharging directly into the river. The stench made it impossible to breathe; her clothes and body smelled mercilessly. Taking off her clothes and throwing them on the bank, the girl plunged into the river and swam until the water washed all the filth off her. After that, she climbed out and began to wash her clothes, shivering from the cold. Several times riders passed nearby, but if they noticed a scrawny naked girl, they paid no heed.
Arya returned to the Red Keep after midnight; the portcullis had been lowered by then and the gates barred, so the girl headed straight for a side door. The Gold Cloaks on guard duty responded with malicious laughter when they heard Arya's request to let her in:
"Get out of here, beggar girl," a guard tried to give her a cuff on the ear, but the girl dodged. "Or should I give you a box on the ear so you can hear better?"
"I'm not a beggar," Arya protested, "I live here! And I want to see my father!"
"And I want to fuck the queen," came the reply, followed by loud laughter.
"Oh, really?" a sarcastic, rasping voice resembled the sound of a saw. "Undoubtedly, she will be only too happy to spread her legs for such a gallant warrior. Or will the queen rather order your head to decorate the fortress wall? What do you think yourself?"
Sandor Clegane, returning from the city, was drunk, but he still stood firmly on his feet. At the sight of his gruesome grin, the guard turned as pale as Canvas; he was afraid even to imagine what might be done to him for such careless words. Clegane cast a drunken gaze over the soldiers standing before him:
"What the hell is going on here?" The Hound asked, then looked at Arya. "And what the hell is the Stark girl doing here?"
"Lord Stark's daughter?" The guards looked at each other; their evening had definitely taken a turn for the worse.
"Yes, you fool!" Arya replied. "Well, do you still want to give me a box on the ear?!"
"Open up, idiots," Clegane commanded. "And you, Midget, come with me, I'll escort you. All I seem to do lately is escort Northerners. Well, why are you standing there, you alley cats?!"
The Hound led Arya to the tower and handed her over to the Stark guards, after which the girl was immediately taken to her father. Lord Stark was sitting in the solar, deep in thought and bent over the largest book Arya had ever seen, but seeing his daughter, he immediately stood up and hugged her tightly:
"Do you even realize that I sent people to look for you all over the city? Septa Mordane has half lost her mind from fright and is now fervently praying for your safe return. Arya, you know I forbade you to leave the castle grounds without my permission."
"But I didn't go out the gates!" Arya blurted out. "I got lost in the castle and ended up in some underground tunnels; there are dragon skulls there, and they were there too! I had to follow them, and I ended up outside the castle walls! They were talking about some princess, about you and Prince Joffrey! They want to kill you! They said you have a book and a bastard, and that soon you'll understand everything, and then a war will start! And then they left, and I was left alone; I had to go to the castle, and then at the gates they didn't want to let me in, but The Hound came, yelled at the guards, and led me inside. There! Is that the book? And is the bastard Jon Snow?"
"Alright, Arya, calm down," Ned sat down before his daughter and looked her intently in the eyes. "Who said all this?"
"A fat man with a yellow forked beard and another one in chainmail and a helmet! They were in the underground! The Fatty said they needed to delay, but the second one was hurrying him, saying the wolf and the lion would soon be at each other's throats," Arya tried to explain, but she hadn't remembered the conversation perfectly, and now everything in her head was mixed up. "The Fatty said the princess would have a baby, and Prince Joffrey was in their way. The second one said everyone is mortal, and the prince too. And they kept talking about the bastard."
If until this moment Eddard had perceived his daughter's story as a fabrication and an excuse for her long absence, the mention of Prince Joffrey made him wary. He had no doubt that something was being plotted around the king, but the fact that the Crown Prince himself had begun to get in someone's way made him think. Stark assumed that the Lannisters might be behind the conspiracy, if there truly was one, but surely the queen wouldn't plot against her firstborn? It followed that Cersei's family might have nothing to do with it, and Jon Arryn's death was the work of someone else?
Eddard looked at the book he had taken from the Grand Maester—he had learned that Jon Arryn had studied this volume dedicated to the lineages of the great houses of Westeros. What did the late Hand want to find there, and how was it all connected to Robert's bastard? And there was still the brothel to visit, where Arryn had gone in the company of Stannis Baratheon, and where Stark himself had already sent Jory Cassel. True, the captain hadn't been able to find out much, only that the Hand of the King and the Master of Ships had indeed visited the establishment.
"Alright, go to sleep," Ned commanded.
"I want to visit Nymeria," Arya asked. "Since she and the others were moved to the godswood, I hardly see her."
Thinking it over, Stark nodded:
"Only quickly. Vayon Poole will escort you."
Dismissing his daughter, Ned sat in the chair and pondered. Before him was a puzzle that refused to fit together and reveal its secrets to him. On one hand, there was Lysa Arryn's letter, which directly accused the Lannisters and specifically the queen of her husband's death. Eddard himself didn't particularly believe Lysa's words, but he had no right to discard them either. Nor did the actions of the late Jon himself contribute to understanding. What question's answer had cost him his life? Had he found what he was looking for? And if Cersei was indeed involved in his murder, then what did the Crown Prince have to do with it? Who could want his death?
Stark ran a hand tiredly over his face. Tomorrow he would go to the brothel himself and find out what Jon Arryn and Stannis Baratheon were doing there. He would very much like to speak with the Lord of Dragonstone personally, but the man stubbornly ignored the king's order to appear in the capital, which only caused Robert's anger to grow. There was no doubt that very soon his patience would finally run out, and he would personally head to the former Targaryen stronghold to have a heart-to-heart talk with his younger brother. No one could clearly explain Lord Stannis's silence; even Littlefinger allowed himself to remark that Baratheon obviously had something wrong with his head.
Closing the volume, Ned extinguished the candles and went to the bedroom. He was very tired and needed rest, for some reason not doubting that tomorrow he would need all his strength.
***
Arthas examined the casket sitting on the table, which had appeared there from who knows where and who knows how. On the dark wood, the letter "L" was traced in gold.
"Val," he called softly.
"Did you want something?" the girl responded, approaching.
"Where did this come from?"
"How should I know?" the Free Folk girl shrugged. "Better ask the guards. Should I call them?"
"No," the prince said, not taking his eyes off the casket. "You may go."
"As you wish," Val departed, yawning sweetly.
Waiting until the girl had left, Arthas cautiously lifted the lid, made sure there were no poisoned needles or other delights from an assassin's arsenal, and then threw the casket open. Inside, on a Velvet lining, lay a medallion, at the sight of which memories flooded the prince. His entire past life flashed before his eyes: every decision he had made, every life he had cut short. Slowly reaching out, Arthas took the medallion and carefully pressed a barely noticeable protrusion. With a soft click, the medallion sprang open, revealing its contents: a miniature image of a young blonde girl.
A wave of emotion rose in the prince's chest, washing over him. Everything was there: guilt for what he had done; regret for lost opportunities; the pain of loss. But above all of them reigned anger. It seemed to burn in Arthas's veins, making him clench his fists and causing a desire to smash someone's head. Someone was trying to manipulate him again, trying to decide for him which path he should take.
"I don't know who you are," Arthas hissed, addressing the void, "but I swear you will regret this. You should not have stood in my way and reminded me of the past. That was the biggest mistake of your life, you pathetic fool. When we meet, you will beg for mercy."
***
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