Baelor

Hunger.

The kind so terrible that your stomach screams, and you look around at your fellow man like they are an opportunity to eat. He looks fat enough. What harm would come from robbing his gold?

These thoughts have grown louder these past weeks. Lord Stark always taught Arya never to steal. She wondered if he'd say the same to her now, given her circumstances.

She and Vera have survived the streets of King's Landing well enough. The Gold Cloaks still search high and low, but she's managed to stay one step ahead. She doubted they'd even recognize her.

Just another gutter rat.

Hiding Vera was more difficult. Arya could blend in with the gutter rats, sure, but a bloodhound big as a wolf was easy to identify. Many times Vera had to sprint off and give pursuers the slip. She always made her way back to Arya, which never ceased to amaze her.

'How can you still smell my scent in this stink?'

The pair got by well enough. Unlike Arya, Vera enjoyed eating raw pigeons. They slept on rooftops or just about any place they could find, so long as it was far from the Red Keep. Far, far away.

Whenever they weren't searching for food, Arya spent her time picking the fleas from Vera's coat. It made little difference. Flea Bottom earned its name, a flea cornucopia. But the task made Arya feel better, and Vera seemed to appreciate it nonetheless.

Many times did Arya thank the gods Vera was by her side. She could see the eyes of predators whenever she frequented a shop for a pot of brown— undressing her, eying the castle-forged Needle at her side. One time some pervert tried his luck while she slept, after her shoes, she imagined, but Vera tore him to shreds. This was something else even among the screams you hear at night in King's Landing.

She gained street smarts quickly enough. King's Landing will do that to you. Someone lurked at every alley and corner, waiting to snatch up little girls. Vera made it a habit to follow Arya from behind so she could see when it happened. After a while, Arya opted to walk in the middle of the street. Sure, you had to get out of the way of wagons and horses now and then, but better than the alternative. . .

Arya walked the street of flour, the best place to catch pigeons, the fools too occupied by crumbs to notice her approach. Compared to cats, catching pigeons was child's play. If she ever made it back to Winterfell, Arya vowed to have many cats and chase them around. But thoughts like this made her sad, each passing day making it more dream than reality.

She missed her father and mother dearly, her brothers Rickon, Bran, and Robb. She even missed Sansa. Everything was missing, it seemed. From the contents of her stomach to the company of her family. The absence Arya felt the most was her bastard twin brothers. She thought about Jon and cursed her luck for not accompanying Joe to see him off at the Wall. She could have convinced Joe to take her with him. Maybe. . .

Off on one of his adventures.

She found an unsuspecting victim, eating crumbs without a care in the world. By the time the pigeon could react, Arya had already snapped its neck.

The city bells rang, a symphony of copper and tin, and people seemed to gravitate toward a certain way like a ripple at the beach.

Arya held her pigeon close to her chest like it was precious goods. Vera hid around a corner until a pair of Gold Cloaks passed before catching up to Arya. They stumbled upon a bakery, loaves of bread and sweet tarts on display.

"Can I have one?" Arya said with ogling eyes, "A lemon one. Or any of them."

The bald baker gave her a death stare, "Three coppers."

"How about a nice fat pigeon?"

"Oh, piss off now, go on."

Arya thought back to Winterfell, how Joe and Gage would make the kitchen smell so good. She always asked Joe for a taste, no exceptions. He'd smile and say ["Good. If you don't ask, you don't receive."]

"Do you have any stale ones from yesterday? Or any burnt ones?"

The baker was pointing now, stating his words clearly, "Piss. Off!"

She watched him walk off in disbelief. More people were walking towards the bells now. Some children ran past.

"Hey, where's everyone going?" asked Arya, "What's happening?"

One child turned his head, still running, "They're taking him to the Sept of Baelor."

"Who?"

"The Hand of the King!"

Arya dropped her pigeon and followed the crowd. It was a big gathering, and Arya was too short to see. She climbed the statue of Baelor.

Then she saw them — The Queen, Joffrey, Littlefinger, The Hound. . .

She even saw Sansa, and questions flooded Arya's mind.

Out Lord Stark came, his hands bound behind his back, his skin pale and sickly. The mob jeered, shouting their incoherent abuse. Lord Stark looked around. He'd expected this much. But then, something caught his eye — Arya, atop the statue of Baelor.

They walked him through the crowd.

The mob spat and shouted, "Traitor!"

They marched him up black steps to a platform (which looked suspiciously like an executioner platform. . .), and he and Sansa exchanged a knowing glance.

'Tell them you conspired against the crown, father,' thought Sansa, 'And they'll let you live!'

Seeing Lord Stark in such a sorry state gave Littlefinger a smug smile.

Then the crowd silenced, and they waited for Lord Stark's words.

"I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King."

Lord Stark's lips quivered, and he lost his resolve for a moment. But when he turned to see his daughter Sansa smiling at him, his sweet child, duty overtook him.

"I come before you to confess my treason in the sights of gods and men. I betrayed the faith of my king and the trust of my friend, Robert. I swore to protect and defend his children. But before his blood was cold, I plotted to murder his son and seize the throne for myself."

The mob riled again, throwing food and hurling abusive language.

Arya reached for Needle.

"Let the High Septon and Baelor the Blessed bear witness to what I say. Joffrey Baratheon is the one true heir to the iron throne by the grace of all the Gods, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and protector of the realm.

Grandmaester Pycell used his hands to hush the crowd, and the chains around his neck rattled, "A-. . As we sin, so do we suffer. This man has confessed his crimes in sight of Gods and men. The Gods are just! But beloved Baelor taught us they can also be merciful. What is to be done with this traitor, Your Grace?"

The rabble of the mob was more fierce now. Joffrey had the look of a magnanimous King, truth be told, his smile as gold as his crown.

"My mother wishes me to let Lord Eddard join the Night's Watch. Stripped of all titles and powers, he would serve the realm in permanent exile. And my Lady Sansa has begged mercy for her father."

Queen Cersei smiled thinly, and Sansa could've almost fallen for him again.

Could've.

"But they have the soft hearts of *women*. So long as I am your king, treason shall never go unpunished. Ser Illyn, bring me his head!"

Shock and confusion. Lord Eddard glanced back in disbelief. Queen Cersei tugged at her son's shoulder, "Stop!"

Sansa wailed while Gold Cloaks restrained her, "No! Please! Stop him!"

The mob was in violent ecstasy now. Arya felt knots in her stomach as she watched them call for her father's death. If she was going to do something, now would be the time. But before she moved—

*AWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!*

A black bloodhound howled beside her, and for a moment, everyone thought the statue of Baelor had turned wild.

All heads snapped to the location of the howl. When it was over, and the Bloodhound lowered its head, Cersei saw the white in its eyes, and she knew.

She knew what was coming.

"What's that?"

"A cloud?"

Overhead the statue of Baelor, a mass of white ruffled in the sky.

Cersei gasped, "That's no cloud!"

*CAW!*

*CAW!*

*CAW!*

An avalanche of feathers, beaks and talons dive-bombed, clawing, scratching, and pecking. The crowd panicked and dispersed. One raven dived so perfectly that its beak stabbed Illyne Payne in the eye, sadly not deep enough to kill him. He dropped Ice, and Lord Stark raised his head.

Lord Stark checked the statue of Baelor once again and was relieved not to see Arya. Yoren of the Night's Watch must have snatched her up, thank the gods.

It didn't stop there. Death came at Joffrey and Cersei with the utmost toxicity. V formations dived, shitting a rain of bird poop on them before the second wave swooped down, attacking King Joffrey with rabid feroricty.

"Get your King to safety!" Cersei ordered. The Hound made haste with the swatting of ravens and the escorting of royalty. The Ravens didn't attack him for some reason. "The execution is off. Take Stark to the cells!"

***

Meanwhile, in Blackwater Bay—

Joe sat at the bow of the cog, cross-legged with closed eyes. He opened them to reveal eyes of milk-white before they returned to normal.

"What are you doing?" asked Lucas. He'd never seen someone do this before.

Joe chuckled and thought of Vera, "Just helping out a friend."

He got to his feet, but his balanced wavered. He staggered like a drunk, and Lucas had to catch him.

"Are you alright?" asked a concerned Lucas, "Here, sit down."

"I'm fine," said Joe, his head throbbing with pain, "Pushed myself a little too far, is all."

"Well, you might want to freshen up. We're here."

There in the distance, the dragonsmount of Dragonstone loomed with ash-grey stoicism.

***

Needless to say, the event outside the Sept of Baelor became the talk of King's Landing, becoming an urban legend, if you will.

They dragged Lord Stark to the dungeons and locked the doors, but that didn't matter. Better here than dead.

Then he could hear footsteps coming down the hall, and torchlight seeped through the cracks of the dungeon door.

When the door opened, the light was blinding. After weeks in the cells, Lord Starks eyes quickly adapted to the dark. He couldn't see who it was, only a floating orb of flickering light.

But the voice was all too recognizable.

"Hello, Ned!"