"Arya, how do you know this place?" Eddard Stark asked, pulling himself up from the sewage-filled ditch, his expression puzzled as he looked at his daughter.
Before Arya could answer, something on the shore caught Eddard's attention. A figure stood there, draped in a heavy brown robe of rough fabric, broad-shouldered, his face concealed beneath a hood.
Eddard tensed immediately, reaching for a weapon he no longer had. Then, slowly, the hood was pulled back, revealing a stubbled face—rougher than before.
It was hard to believe that the last time Eddard had seen him, he had been disguised as a jailer. Before that, he had appeared as a perfumed, powdered eunuch with greasy hair.
"How many faces does this man have?"
"Good morning, my lord," the man greeted in a rough, unfamiliar voice. Gone was the usual sweetness, yet Eddard felt a cold chill crawl up his spine. The man before him did not feel human—he felt like some monstrous, lurking spider.
Varys.
The "Eight-Clawed Spider," Master of Whisperers on the Small Council.
"Varys?" Eddard's frown deepened. "What do you want?"
Cersei's words echoed in his mind: In the game of thrones, you win or you die.
"The girl is quite brave," Varys said lightly. "I only told her where to find the dungeons."
"You shouldn't have involved a child," Eddard said coldly.
"Some things are beyond our control, Lord Stark—just as your eldest son has already led an army south."
Eddard stiffened. "Robb?"
"Who else?" Varys replied smoothly. "The boat is ready for you, my lord. Whether you return to the North or not depends entirely on you—and your daughter."
The air carried the scent of salt and decay. They stood on the shore where the Red Keep's sewage emptied into the sea. A small boat lay overturned among the pebbles. The ground was slick from recent rain, and a faint chill lingered in the air.
It reminded Eddard of home.
But this southern breeze was nothing compared to the biting winds of the North.
Varys did not mention that, just days ago, the Citadel's white ravens had flown across Westeros, bearing a single message: The long summer is ending.
Winter was coming.
A decade-long summer would bring an equally long winter, perhaps even a long night.
"I know what you're capable of, Varys." Eddard's voice was low, desperate. "Help me save Sansa. Please."
The proud Lord of Winterfell, begging.
Varys sighed, almost regretfully. "You ask too much of me. I am but a humble eunuch, unarmed and without influence.
My advice, my lord? Leave King's Landing while you still can. Your eldest daughter is being well cared for by the queen. In fact, Her Grace has been gracious enough to allow her betrothal to continue."
Eddard's eyes darkened. "He is not the king."
Varys smiled faintly. "Ah, but there are many kings in the realm now. I hear even Lord Tywin has a barbarian king under his command."
Eddard ignored the remark, his voice steely. "I'll ask you again, Varys—what is your purpose? You refused to help me in the dungeons. Why free me now?"
The eunuch met his gaze. "Robert spared your life once," Eddard said. "You should not have let Joffrey take the throne."
"I care little for who sits the Iron Throne, my lord," Varys murmured. "Eunuchs have no honor."
He tucked his hands into the deep folds of his rough-spun robe. "Robert was a fool, that much is true. But he brought peace to Westeros. I may have already told you, my lord—in this castle, the king is the only true outsider.
And Robert… he never cared who sat the Iron Throne.
So long as he had his wine and his women."
"I once protected him from harm," Varys said. "But you, my lord—you hurt him. You could have given the Iron Throne to that child and returned safely to the North. Winterfell must be far more comfortable than a dungeon, don't you think?
Oh, forgive me—I hear the hot springs flow through its walls. Perhaps you don't even need to light a fire to stay warm."
Eddard's expression darkened. "Do you have your little birds in Winterfell as well?" he asked coldly.
Varys tilted his head, an amused smile playing on his lips. "Who knows? Crows are everywhere because they have wings. But little birds do not.
And neither do spiders."
Then his voice turned grave. "Winter is coming, my lord. But the enemy is not in front of us. It is across the sea."
With that, he pulled his hood over his head and stepped into the shadows, his movements so light and soundless he seemed to vanish into the night.
Arya looked up at her father. "Are we going to save Sansa?"
Eddard followed her gaze to the towering Red Keep, its dark walls rising high above the cliffs. Then, slowly, he shook his head.
Varys was right. There was no one left to trust here.
With a heavy heart, he pushed the boat into the water. The journey ahead would not be easy—the Lannisters would be hunting them across the realm. If his leg were uninjured, it wouldn't be so dire. But since his fall from the horse, every movement felt like a knife digging into his bones.
He turned as Arya stepped forward and shoved the boat down into the waves.
Guilt gnawed at him.
He should never have brought his children to King's Landing.
As a father, as Robert's oldest friend, as Warden of the North, as Catelyn's husband—he had failed them all.
Under the moonlight, a small boat slipped away from the city, vanishing into the dark waters.
From the shadows, Varys watched them go.
No one knew what thoughts lurked behind the Spider's unreadable gaze. No one knew what he truly wanted.
He was a mystery. A secret, wrapped in whispers.
Arya still remembered the voices she had overheard.
"Those men on horseback have crossed the sea. The little princess has given them a horse king. We need time—time for Aegon. If the Seven Kingdoms keep tearing themselves apart, how will we ever stop the invaders when they come?"
"They won't cross the strait. The lords of Westeros won't welcome outsiders."
"There are enough ships in the east to bring them here, with their horses and their armies. The Free Cities are buying up sellswords and Unsullied.
The slavers and mercenary captains grow fat with gold. If those wildlings with their braided hair conquer Westeros, all our plans will be for nothing. You must hold things together. I know you can. If not, I'll send the Faceless Men of Braavos to deal with it."
"Who do you want dead? Daenerys? Drogo? Joffrey? Stannis?"
"It doesn't matter who. I only hope our efforts won't be wasted. Old friend, we've worked toward this for years. You stand to gain much."
"Titles? Power?" The broad man let out a tired sigh. "I am already in the highest position. A different king won't change that."
"I know what you truly want. Aegon will give it to you. You've seen the boy. At least he's better than the inbred abomination sitting on the throne now."
The man sighed again. "I once believed Aerys would be a wise king."
Then, after a long pause, he spoke again—this time, his voice sharp and alert.
"Oh? It seems we have a little mouse hiding here."
And that was when Arya was discovered.
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