Seven Dreams One Kingdom

46-Arya

Lord Varys, that slippery eel of the court, was a man of ever-shifting loyalties, a chameleon who adapted to the hues of those in power. Arya, no stranger to the capricious nature of alliances, had opted to tread the shadowed path alongside him. Yet, it was not trust that bound her to the spider; it was the magnetic pull of Winterfell, the ancestral seat that whispered promises of safety for Jon and Sansa. However, Dillyn held no such allegiances, the food taster would follow out of fear.

Dillyn's steps echoed through the hidden passages of the Red Keep, a place he thought he knew intimately. These secret routes had been Arya Stark's refuge during her time in King's Landing as a child, but under Varys's guidance, the labyrinth revealed its true complexity. Flagstones yielded to concealed staircases, cupboards unfolded into hidden chambers, and tapestries served as veils for unseen corridors. Even the privy, once believed to offer a semblance of privacy, was not immune to the secrets woven into the Red Keep's foundations. Varys, the puppeteer of whispers, moved with a confidence that hinted at years spent navigating these clandestine tunnels, perhaps overhearing conversations never meant for his ears.

The passageways, initially shrouded in darkness and emanating the acrid stench of urine, mirrored the murky alleys of intrigue in which No One thrived. These were her hunting grounds, her playground of shadows. Yet, as they delved deeper into the bowels of the Red Keep, the character of the tunnels morphed. The air shifted from the pungent odour of piss to the distinct scent of fish and shit, a testament to their proximity to the Blackwater Rush. The journey unfolded like a descent into the belly of a mythical beast, the scent of sewage marking their descent into the beast's lair.

Light, a rare commodity in the underbelly of King's Landing, graced the passage but sparingly. No torchlight in sconces to guide their way, just the single beacon carried by Lord Varys to illuminate their path. Dillyn, attuned to the nuances of his surroundings, sensed the impending darkness.

As Dillyn and Varys traversed the winding passages, the distant echoes of Kings Landing above ground faded. The Red Keep's hidden veins, with their secrets and mysteries, embraced them in a cocoon of obscurity.

The winding tunnels eventually relinquished their grasp, spilling Dillyn and Varys into the open embrace of the night. A secret cove, invisible to the world, except themselves, and the waves lapping at the sand beneath their feet. Above them, the moon, a veiled sentinel, cast a fragmented glow as clouds yielded to its pale luminescence. The air, heavy with the scent of salt, sea, shit, and secrets, surrounded them in the open expanse.

The sandy cove, a secluded alcove barely substantial enough to cradle a rowing boat, lay before them. Yet, the impressions in the sand betrayed recent visitors, evidence of another vessel that had rested upon these shores. The tide, a patient scribe, had yet to wash away the clandestine imprints, preserving the traces of unseen comings and goings.

"Hurry, we must leave. The King and Queen in the North have need for your services. We cannot keep them waiting," Varys urged, his voice a whisper carried away by the night breeze. Together, they manoeuvred a small wooden rowing boat into the Blackwater Rush, the dark waters below concealing tales untold. Varys's gaze, a compass navigating the night, pinpointed their destination on the opposite shore—the Iron Fist, a ship anchored in silent anticipation.

Dillyn, now a silent shadow in the night, nodded in acknowledgment. The rhythmic pull of the oars echoed in the quiet, each stroke a heartbeat propelling them toward the Iron Fist. The tiny cove, a secret shared with the night, receded into the obscurity as they charted their course across the Blackwater Rush, guided by the moonlight and the unseen currents of fate.

The Iron Fist, a ship cloaked in darkness, awaited on the other side of the Rush, its silhouette blending seamlessly with the night. Dillyn, felt the weight of Winterfell's legacy on his shoulders. Every step carried him closer to a new beginning for the realm, or so Lord Varys would have him believe.