DAGGERS TO THE HEART Part 1 - GAME OF THRONES

Arya V

Dawn had yet to find its first light found Arya Stark already stirred from her uneasy slumber, a cloak of shadows clinging to her like a spectral shroud. The purpose that etched itself onto her journey to Kings Landing now led her to find Littlefinger, his name etched on her ever-expanding list. A desire to erase the brothel keeper, a puppet master in his own right, was an integral piece of her plan, yet he had so far eluded her.

Theon's snores harmonised with the rhythm of the night as Arya, a whisper of shadows, slipped away from their shared chamber. Her training as a faceless individual proved its mettle, allowing her to navigate the quiet corridors without leaving a trace of her presence. The subtle art of stealth, instilled by faceless mentors, was a cloak that draped her every move in the embrace of silence.

In the bed, Theon, caught in the spell of dreams, remained oblivious to Arya's nocturnal excursion. The gentle roll of his slumbering form echoed in the room as Arya tiptoed past, a phantom gliding through the tapestry of darkness. Theon's repose, undisturbed by Arya's departure, unfolded in the symphony of his snoring. The room cradled the sound, and Theon, undisturbed, merely shifted under the covers.

Theon's own quest had left him wearied. The brothels, overseen by the enigmatic Littlefinger, offered no insight into the whereabouts of the elusive keeper. A fruitless pursuit through the clandestine alleys of desire had left Theon grappling with exhaustion.

The tidings Theon had brought over the last few days were scarce. His nightly endeavours uncovering only the whispers of one courtesan summoned to the Red Keep, serving an aged man bound in chains. Arya, pieced together the fragments of information, deducing the enigmatic figure to be none other than Grand Maester Pycelle.

Theon, bearing the weight of these revelations, lay spent in the aftermath of his pursuits. The dalliances with the whores, a means to an end, had extracted their toll, leaving him worn out from his exertions.

Amidst the cloak of shadows, Arya clandestinely emerged from the inn's sanctuary where their secrets whispered in the dark. Her countenance had assumed the guise of a northerner discovered on the edge of life's abyss near Moles Town. Through the murmurings of the locals, she uncovered his identity—Benn Boocher. The face she now wore bore the weight of fifty years, with thinning long grey hair yielding to the relentless grasp of age. It bore a haggard countenance adorned with a grey beard, proof of life's harsh passage, and a vacant front tooth—a testament to the unforgiving march of time.

A veil of deception enveloped Arya as she embraced the persona of Benn Boocher. In the shadows of the Street of Silk, which bore witness to clandestine dealings, her subterfuge was imperative. The ruse of age, embodied by the guise of an older man, bestowed upon her the cloak of anonymity amidst the empty streets. In a realm teeming with vice and secrets, her thirteen-year-old self would have been a vulnerable spectre. Her presence destined to be mistaken for a worker, one of the many child-whores who worked in such establishments. The cloak of Benn Boocher, however, draped her in the guise of a potential client, offering a shroud of protection in the city's underworld.

Fortuitously, Arya's experiences from her previous life, had schooled her in the nuances of Littlefinger's strategies and the intricacies of his dealings within his enterprises. Littlefinger's actions were executed with meticulous precision, a dance performed with deliberate steps. He surfaced when it served his purpose, a masterful display of calculated visibility. However, when engaged in less savoury endeavours, he deftly manoeuvred through the shadows, orchestrating clandestine moves beyond the scrutiny of prying eyes.

Arya knew Littlefinger played a pivotal role in the demise of Jon Arryn. He had supplied her aunt with a lethal poison known as the Tears of Lys, a substance she discreetly administered to her ailing husband. His passing had been misconstrued as a mere bout of fever. Given the Hand of the King's advanced age, inquiries into the circumstances of his death were never pursued. The subtlety of the deception allowed Littlefinger's dark machinations to elude suspicion.