The Way Of Winter | Robb Stark

ARYADNE - XIII

ARYADNE DID NOT RETURN to her room. The gardens were busy with guests. She entered the thick of them, weaving expertly in and out, dodging behind a tree. The glint of armour could be seen over the mass of heads as her guards headed straight onwards. She had lost them.

Her determination did not falter and she kept on until she came to a stone gazebo at the far end of the gardens. Thick vines curtained it off from sight and the sun shone through, casting a green glow over its interior. Aryadne entered. She walked across to the opposite end and pulled the vines back, looking out to the sea beyond. A boat speckled the horizon. She longed to be on it.

"You wished to speak with me, Your Grace?"

Turning, she met Littlefinger's piercing, unreadable gaze. He had let the curtain of leaves fall and stood a metre or so back, his hands clasped behind his back. "Yes. I want your help."

He arched a grey brow. "Whatever for?"

It was too late to turn back now. She drew a deep breath in and stepped towards him, her head held high. "You are a clever man, Lord Baelish. You see the truth in people, especially when they don't want you to. I gather you know the truth."

"The truth about what?" he asked, the picture of innocence.

"You know what," she replied, taking great care to remain calm. "The truth about my mother's affair, about my siblings."

He smiled slyly, the pointed ends of his moustache curling up with it. "Ah, yes. I was hoping you wouldn't find out for some time. After all, you are still so young... and with the business about your uncle..."

"My uncle?"

He pretended to regret it. "I thought you knew. There has been rumour of it for quite some time, that the father of your siblings is none other than your dear Uncle Jaime. I do apologise. Frightfully upsetting, I know."

Her stomach twisted. She wanted to be sick. Then it became clear. He had intended to let it slip, hoping to throw her off and take charge of their secret conversation. She drew herself up tall again and smiled thinly. "See? You are indeed the man for the job."

"And what 'job' would that be?"

She hid her sudden unsteadiness by lowering herself down onto a stone bench at the edge of the gazebo, poised and ready to present her plot. "The King is dead. His sons are bastards and his brothers fight for the throne. The Queen likely planned the whole thing and Joffrey is out for blood — from whom he takes it, he does not care. King's Landing is no longer safe for me. You will help me escape."

Her words did not seem to surprise him one bit. He only smiled more, taking a seat on the opposite end of their secluded spot. "I apologise if it sounds impertinent, but why me? Why trust me with this, not someone else? Surely Lord Varys is far more adept at smuggling and secrecy."

"Surely he is," she said with a shrug. "But I chose you."

"Because..."

Her lips twitched into a faint smirk. "Because you are selfish, my lord."

His eyes narrowed somewhat, but she sensed no offence on his part, only curiosity. "I'm afraid I do not follow your meaning."

Of course he did. She knew that. Still, she answered, "If I am to survive, I fear I cannot rely on pure intentions. They are so easily misled. Whereas selfish men are often happy to do anything, so long as it serves them."

She had caught his attention. Though they had not spoken much in all the time he'd been at court, she had watched him, as she had watched all of the lords, hidden in the shadows of the Small Council's chamber. He was a gambler. Any risk was worth the right reward, and he always played to his strengths. "And will it serve me?" he enquired.