As soon as she was brought to the Red Keep, I assigned the head of the Crown's Guard another task—keep the girl under constant surveillance, day and night. Competent and discreet men kept watch on her without pause, and yesterday it bore fruit. The Stark girl had still managed to slip away and reach the harbor.
I had never believed she could be restrained by lawful means alone. Yet throwing Arya into a cell or isolating her outright was clearly not the best solution either. Far better that she not evoke Sansa's pity, but instead—by force of her own character—get under her nerves. And from what I had been told, that was exactly how things were unfolding; the Stark sisters had already quarreled.
"Am I a prisoner or a guest?" Arya Stark, having taken in the room, turned to me. There was a chill in her eyes—and a promise: winter is coming.
"Of course you are a guest. And my men are guarding you for your own safety."
"A year ago, my father died. Was he being guarded for his safety as well?"
"Are you poorly treated here in the castle? Your sister is here, and your cousin Robert. Soon your uncle Edmure Tully will arrive as well. You have everything you need. And where would you even go? The North belongs to the traitorous Boltons, and Winterfell lies in ruins."
"How long is this charade going to continue?" Arya frowned. It seemed she had grown tired of playing games. "We both know you hate me, and I hate you."
Well, she was being bold… and foolish. In her place, I would have tried to soften the situation, on the chance that I might believe her and stop seeing her as an enemy. Of course, my opinion of her would not change—but she didn't know that and could have at least attempted some semblance of it.
"You dream of cutting my throat, Arya? If you want to know—I'm against it."
Herald Orm cast me a sidelong glance, confusion plainly visible in his eyes. In his presence, I had never spoken to anyone like this before.
"You killed my father!" the girl didn't say it so much as spit it out. "You might be able to persuade Sansa, but I will never forget—and I will never forgive!"
"He was a common traitor who rose against the king." The conversation was proceeding exactly along the track I had intended. Now it was Arya's move—and she did not disappoint.
"My father tried to uphold the law, and you are a bastard and a sadist. You have no right to the throne—you are not Robert's son!"
Ragnar Ran and Orm flinched as if struck. Excellent.
"And what proof do you have of that?"
"All of Robert's children have dark hair. I saw Gendry—the king's son!"
"Is such a fragile claim truly enough to call me a bastard? You inherited Lord Eddard's hair. But Robb's was auburn, as was Sansa's—they took after their mother. Shall we then accuse Lady Catelyn of infidelity with her own brother at the moment of their conception?"
"Shut up!" Arya nearly shouted, clenching her fists.
"Why did all this begin to be discussed only after my father died? Why did Robert himself never question whether I was his son? Was he truly so blind that he suspected nothing? Do you not find that strange?" All these arguments from Stannis and Renly—that Joffrey was not Robert's son—were, in essence, unproven, built on mere conjecture. So tenuous that in any proper court, a competent advocate would have torn them apart.
Westeros is full of families where children take after either their mother's coloring or their father's—or else show some altogether different shad. What then? ust every such case give rise to accusations of adultery?
Arya was so predictable… and truth be told, she could hardly behave otherwise. In fact, I had no real need for the conversation itself. What I required was for the guards—and as many people as possible—to see and hear how I was "handling" Arya, , so there would be something to speak of with Edmure Tully later. The longer Stark behaved like a savage, the more she insulted me, the better.
"Everyone respected King Robert, and my father was his friend—that's why they spared his feelings," Arya answered, overall, quite reasonably.
"But I sit the throne. That makes me king—and him a traitor. It's that simple."
"No, it isn't!"
"What do you plan to do if I allow you to leave King's Landing?"
"None of your business!"
Herald Orm gave an indignant cough. I understood exactly what he was thinking—why in the name of the Stranger was I allowing the girl to behave in such a manner?
"Do you still dream of killing me?"
"What makes you think that? You're nothing to me!" Arya lied, to my surprise.
"I have a proposal for you," I said, leaning back in my chair and stretching my legs beneath the table. "Would you swear to abandon your desire for revenge if I return Winterfell to the Starks?"
I spoke calmly and without emotion, watching her reaction closely. And my offer was entirely genuine. I very much wanted to resolve this matter in such a way, without resorting to extreme measures. What would she say?
(End of Chapter)
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