DAGGERS TO THE HEART Part 1 - GAME OF THRONES

Arya VII

You might be wondering why I've changed the title. I have a new programme which is helping me map out the story. When I had done so, I realised that this story was far too long to remain as 1 story. It needed to be split up. It looks like I will be splitting it into 5 separate parts. The first being this one, the next one will be Daggers to the Heart 2 - Clash of Kings. I'll provide the link when it is time to create the next story.

Arya's world tilted when the face of Jaqen H'ghar emerged before her, a puzzle wrapped in an enigma. Questions danced like shadows in her mind. Did he see through her facade, recognize the wolf beneath the sheepish guise? Was he a silent observer in her game of survival?

The very air seemed to hold these queries, pressing against Arya's senses. But there, amidst the uncertainty, another question stirred, one she had yet to voice. Why did Jaqen choose the crowded streets of King's Landing as his stage? The timing echoed a familiar refrain, reminiscent of days past. Yet, the silence hung thick, leaving the answers to linger in the unsaid.

A flicker of relief danced across Arya's thoughts; her father, at least, was not a pawn in this dangerous game. The absence of Eddard Stark in the capital granted her a momentary reprieve. Still, the elusive query remained—whose name had Jaqen been whispered to remove?

In the city's labyrinth, Arya's mind traced the contours of potential targets. The highborn were unlikely prey; their coin too precious for the likes of the Faceless Men. Her father's stature, a towering figure in Westeros, would have been an exorbitant indulgence for any contract. It wasn't a lord or lady that occupied Jaqen's crosshairs.

The puzzle unfolded like a map in her mind—a merchant, perhaps. Someone navigating the currents of trade, concealed in the bustling sea of anonymity. In this game, the inconspicuous thrived, and the shadows swallowed the not-so-prominent.

Arya pondered, tasting the bitterness of the unspoken, feeling the weight of unanswered questions settle on her shoulders. High-profile targets, she mused, were the realm of the privileged few. Her father's stature, a towering peak, would have required a treasury to rival the wealthiest. Even then, the cost could drown even the mightiest houses in financial ruin. The Iron Bank would probably be the only ones with the wealth for such a contract.

Arya pushed the unsettling image of Jaqen H'ghar to the recesses of her mind as the journey unfolded. The plan was simple yet fraught with the unknown—sail to White Harbor, follow the White Knife to Castle Cerwyn, and then a day's ride to the walls of Winterfell.

The ship's deck beneath her boots, the scent of salt and sea lingering in the air, Arya's thoughts meandered through the twists of their route. Gulltown marked their progress when, against the vast canvas of the sky, a crimson comet ignited. Superstition gripped the sailors like a fever, holding them tethered to the port for what felt like an eternity—a moon and a half of cautious delay.

Gazing at the celestial omen, Arya's mind whispered with echoes of Westerosi lore. The sailors, a superstitious breed, hesitated to brave the waters under the comet's fiery gaze. It cast a shadow over their journey, a spectral hand steering their decisions.

Amidst this cosmic spectacle, Gendry remained an inconspicuous figure. The Vale offered a haven, a place where his name held no echoes and his presence stirred no ripples. A fortunate oversight that played in their favour.

Yet, despite the cosmic ballet above, Arya and her comrades sought passage northward. Their inquiries met stony refusals, ships unwilling to brave the unknown, citing the comet as an ill omen. The celestial wanderer, a silent witness to their struggle, became an unwitting arbiter of their fate.