For being the tail end of summer, the day had dawned grey and shrouded, cool damp air settling over the city and providing much-needed rejuvenation before the scourges of the heat to come. All was hazy, a great billowing fog having rushed from the sea to coat the beetling precipices and the venerable bastions. Though it was only temporary, the usual stench of a hundred thousand unwashed bodies was blown away with its coming, and the difference was as night and day. People emerged from their homes, trading their daily idle banter with their fellows as they set to the day's labour, earning bread for themselves and their families. In the Fishmonger's Square, some fishwives had already displayed the catch of the day in their ramshackle stands. They shouted in voices gone rough from a lifetime of use, and yet carried farther than one might think from such often slight women. That too, they learned from a lifetime of use. Rather than mere shit, here the air was given life by the scent of fish guts and sea salt, a pungent odor that clung to any passer-by like a remora to a shark. Life continued as it had for centuries in King's Landing, for most.

Those who hurried about their business almost invariably ignored the men in boiled leather and ringmail, whose cloaks of gold shimmered mutely in the morning light as they hurried back to their barracks for the changing of the guard. Though they were ostensibly the law keepers, their eyes were often blinded by the clinking of coin, and their arms halted by mundane nonchalance. Thus, they went unfeared and unheeded, as they were as much a part of the cities tapestry as the fishmongers and the bakers.

However, the fog could not entirely conceal the changes that had taken hold of King's Landing. Even now, they tramped in tightly knit formation through the city streets, groups of ten with a captain accompanying. Their whole uniform was brightly coloured, rampant alternating patterns of red and blue, a garishly bright feathery hat gracing the hairy head of their captain. Their arms were impeccable, from the tall glittering halberds of the six halberdiers in their segmented half-plate, to the well-oiled handguns of the four handgunners in their fine leather hauberks and embroidered pantaloons, to the glorious longsword sheathed at the side of their captain. His duty was two-fold, for in his hands he also bore their sacred standard, suspended on a long pole of lovingly fashioned hardwood. It was as ornate and proud as the men carrying it, a wide banner depicting a shimmering golden skull inside a fat-armed cross of silver, itself suspended on a field of alternating blue and red. Below the cross was an inscription, wrought in cloth-of-gold, that none may mistake what it proclaimed.

"SIGMAR MIT UNS"

All around the party the great masses of folk parted like a sea, or perhaps more like flesh parting before a sword point. Instantly, chatter died, as people cast their faces downwards rather than risk making eye contact with the group. Here and there, were the crowd was thick enough to conceal their identity, a few shouted over the heads of their fellows.

"Away, Imperials!"

"Long live the dragons!"

Those who hurled insults were almost immediately silenced by those around them, for everyone knew the simple fact. Sooner or later, those who speak out against the Empire vanish. Their hand was quiet, yet struck like the warhammers they were so fond of. No matter who claimed dominion over the city, the real power was never really in doubt.

In any case, the more friendly shouts were oft times just as loud, often more insistent to cover up the yelling of detractors.

"Glory to King Robert!"

"Glory to the King, and the Empire!"

"Hail Karl Franz!"

There were even some shouts of "Praise Sigmar!", but those were still few and far between.

All the same, they brought a grimace to the grimy little girl's face as she silently watched the Imperial patrol make its way down the road. She was small and agile, and no one even gave her a second glance as she weaved between the masses of people. However, no amount of agility would save her if the Imperials happened to want to grab her. So, when the crowd began to part in anticipation of their passing, she hurried into a nearby alleyway. Here, it was even darker than in the misty streets, and the air was putrid from the filth that folk dumped. It was strong she felt the bile rise in her throat, and suppressed her urge to retch. Even so, she could not afford to be spotted, and thus squeezed behind a barrel, and waited for the column to pass. Their passing raised quite a clamour, and some of them had begun to sing some Imperial marching song as they walked by, the guttural tones of their native Reikspiel piercing the silence they themselves had created in the frightened crowd.

"Vor der Kaserne, Vor dem grossen Tor, Stand eine Laterne und steht sie noch davor!"

Their song grew fainter and fainter as they marched down the street, drowned out by the din of the crowd surging in to fill the gulf of their passing. She waited a few moments more, and slipped out of the alleyway, brushing off her ratty clothes of the worst of the filth. Perhaps leaping into an alleyway was a bit paranoid, but you couldn't never be sure. Those thunder-weapons the Imperials wielded had become instantly infamous. They said they could punch clean through plate-armour, that they didn't use bolts or arrows, that they shot a bolt of lightning through their end to slay whoever they were pointed at. Many of the claims were outlandish, but having never seen the effects for herself, she could not truly judge either way.

Currently, she was at the center of the River Row street, directly ahead of her being the Fishmonger's Square. Directly behind her… she look a glare back, towards where the patrol was no doubt headed. It loomed as it had for centuries, dizzying walls of red stone and spires of crimson. There was nowhere in the city that the Red Keep did not impose over all. Even it had changed, some spots of stone scorched black and some shattered masonry, most notably one entire broken watchtower. Also noticeable was the banners. Where before had hung the three headed scarlet dragon of House Targaryen, who had reigned for three centuries, now hung something else entirely. A golden banner, with a black crowned stag in the center. That would be the banner of the Exiled Stag, now Robert of House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the Grace of Sigmar. That last additive was reflected in the other changes on the banner, for now the stag wielded a warhammer, and emblazoned above it was a crimson comet with twin-tails. She glared at it, willing it to burst into flames from the intensity of her gaze. Few dared utter it aloud, but there were still many who whispered "Usurper" into their cups. She should know, she had heard them.

Yet, her heart still ached to see the most jarring and shocking of new decorations, the reason the watchtower had collapsed, suspended as it was over the main gate. In life it had had scales dark as onyx, with horns of scarlet. It had eyes like smoldering coals, and reportedly breath that was as black as night. Everyone whispered about one of the first dragons seen in centuries, Balerion the Dread reborn. The dragon hatched by the princess, ridden by the dragon king himself.

It hung on great hooks like a slaughtered pig, its enchanted flesh picked at by carrion birds. Even from here, she could see the gaping wounds, where an entire wing had been torn off. She had not seen when that had happened, and was rather certain she wouldn't have wanted to. Everyone spoke of it, when the Griffon-Emperor atop his own monster had pounced on it from on high as the king desperately tried to fend off the Imperial invaders when King's Landing fell. How the dragon was too young, unable to defend itself as it was ripped to pieces by a beast that was itself thought to be legend.

How the Griffon slayed the Dragon.

Toppled and wounded, the king was no match for Robert and his hammer. His body had hung from meathooks too, until the birds had picked it into a skeleton. Now it was somewhere at the bottom of Blackwater Bay. As for the two princes… that line of thought was too much for her at the moment, so she forced her gaze away from the ruin. Besides, she had a job to do, and she couldn't afford to be late.

One side of the Fishmonger's Square was taken up by the River Gate, which was apparently called the Mud Gate by everyone who lived there. It was wide open today, to facilitate the flow of commerce between the markets and the docks immediately outside. However, two Imperials lazed on one wall of the gate equipped almost identically to the patrol she had spotted before, gazing over the passing crowd and chatting in their foreign tones. They both had halberds leaning against their shoulders, which glittered wickedly even in the weak glimmer of morning.

The girl swallowed, for she could not hide from them this time. Trying to stick close to the crowd, she pushed against legs and weathered the rough shoves and knees against the side of her head. It helped little, for it seemed that one of the Imperials had noticed her trying to avoid their gaze. He had a ruddy face, with an elaborate moustache that reached all the way around his face where it met his hair. His eyes were squinted at her accusingly, and he gripped his weapon in one hand as he shot a finger her way.

"Du da! Halt!"

She froze instantly, willing her face to appear utterly placid as the two Imperials sauntered over to her. In contrast to his partner, the other Imperial was clean shaven, and eyed the first with amusement as the man growled at her in his native tongue.

"Wohin gehst du?"

She did not speak Reikspiel, and only stared at him blankly in response. The Imperial rolled his eyes, his whiskers quivering in annoyance.

"Dumme Ausländer!" He looked about ready to tear into her with more questions when the clean-shaven Imperial put his hand on the whiskered one's shoulder.

"Beruhige dich, Viktor," He looked down at her and smiled. For the most part, the soldier was extraordinarily unremarkable, so plain and ordinary he was indescribable in any detail, to the point that she thought she might forget what he looked like if she so much as averted her gaze from his face. All but his eyes. His eyes were grey like her own, though they seemed to pierce her being, and for a moment it was like her very soul was being pitilessly examined by some burning consciousness. In a heartbeat the queer feeling passed, and simple good humour poured into his eyes like wine filling a goblet. He opened his mouth, speaking in Common with a very thick accent.

"You should go, Steppke. Viktor is still have a bit of Durchhänger. It make him cranky man!"

Though he snorted, the one apparently named Viktor said nothing more to that than a muttered "Arschloch...".

Slowly the girl nodded, mouthing a thanks before she sprinted off, just in case the Imperials changed their minds. It seemed the Mud Gate was aptly named, for her already dirty bare feet became filthy in a matter of seconds as she trod over the sucking mire that accumulated here next to the mouth of the Blackwater. Even so, traders and fishermen hurried about, some carrying casks and crates and barrels that needed moving. For all else they had done in shattering the order of things in the Seven Kingdoms, the Imperials at least encouraged trade. Some of them had even set up shop here, made obvious by the golden hand that many painted on the fronts of their stalls and shops. No one was certain, but apparently those were symbols of commerce in their mysterious homeland, a sigil of some merchant god. Supposedly the Usurper had signed a treaty with his benefactors, granting them hefty trading privileges. As if they needed them, as the behemoth she could see moored across the river revealed.

Like almost everything else of theirs, the ships of the Imperials were astounding. They came in roughly two types, smaller ships that roved like a wolf pack, and titanic ships that carried entire batteries of large thunder-weapons. One of the latter was tied up to some makeshift docks further down the river past the winch towers, apparently far too large for the moderately shallow water of the regular docks of King's Landing. Even from here, it was goliath, painted wood and and Imperial symbols woven into the massive sails. Most curiously, it had no oars, apparently powered entirely by the wind. One might think them too slow and ponderous, but apparently not. Ships exactly like these had smashed the entire Iron Fleet into kindling, turning that infamous sailor's nightmare into a shattered ruin in one battle. She shivered to imagine what might happen if such horrific killing power was turned against the city.

She was spared having to think more about such matters, for she had arrived at her destination. Even compared to the other ramshackle stands that composed the majority of the fishmarket docks, it was slovenly. Though the storefront was seemingly abandoned, there was a rough-weave cloth tarp covering a hole in the wall. A door, she supposed it could be considered. With a glance on either side to make sure there were no prying eyes upon her, she slipped into the dank darkness of the rundown hut. Here the air was even more vile, coating her throat. There was no furniture, and the source of light were the thin beams of light that cut through the gloom from the poorly spaced planks that the shack was composed of. It was purposefully unpleasant, to deflect attention. On the opposite wall, there stood a true door, carved of solid oak. It had only a iron ring on the front, but she had no interest in that, for she already knew it was locked. Instead, she walked up the door, rapping her knuckles against with two quick taps, and then one stronger knock. She stood back as a rustling began on the other side. Finally, the lock clicked sharply, and she walked forward to push it open. Here was the true heart of the building, a wide storehouse area with empty boxes and barrels strewn all about. Coincidentally, it was also a base of the Brotherhood of Dragons, sworn to repulse the Imperial invaders and topple the Usurper. In the center of the room was a round ironwood table, on which was a whole forest of papers and charts, illuminated by a single lantern in the center. Around it were huddled about a dozen men, variously dressed in shabby suits of armour, elaborate merchants robes, and even one austere septon. They turned to see her, though none of them said anything. Precautions must be taken, especially when dealing with a people as meticulous and efficient as the Empire. She knew for a fact none of them knew who she really was, or even that she was indeed a girl. To be fair though, she knew not who they were either. One of the figures, clad in a long billowing brown robe that concealed his features, left the table to approach her. His feet being covered gave the impression he was gliding over the ground rather than walking. He waved her to one side of the room, where the others could not hear them.

"My lady, I am most pleased to see you made it here unharmed," His voice was soft and cloying, though he smelled of filth, "Please accept my apologies once more for this, children should not be made to do such dirty work. Especially not the daughter of Eddard Stark."

She frowned at that. Arya Stark was no child.

"I wanted to do it. It has to be done."

He gave her a soft smile, eyes glimmering with amusement.

"No doubt. In any case, I have something for you," He gestured at the table, and one of the men hurried over to hand him a small bundle of kindling. With soft white hands, the cloaked man turned it over, and showed Arya a small hidden space in the center where some scrolls of paper were tightly packed.

"This is information of very grave importance. I have acquired it at great cost, and it needs to be brought to the proper hands. Will you do that?" He leaned forward and eyed her warily, a hint of regret flashing in his gaze.

Arya steeled herself. The North Remembers.

"Yes," She said simply, "I'll do it."

He pulled back.

"I am glad to hear it. Go to Flea Bottom, find a pot-shop called the "Finer Eats". Say to the owner 'I have kindling to make the fire rise'. Say those words exactly, please. Anything else and he will turn you away."

Arya nodded emphatically, and he sighed.

"Very good, you make a humble spider proud. Oh, and another thing," He called out to her as she turned to leave, prompting her to face him once more, "I have had word of your father and sister. Your father lives, though apparently the Usurper has had him placed under arrest at the Red Keep. I imagine Robert is still rather displeased that Lord Stark did not follow him when it became known that the Queen went with Rhaegar willingly. Robert never could accept that, it seems. All the same, I doubt very much he will kill the man who was like a brother to him, so you may rest easily. Your sister is safe too, being kept in her chambers as Robert's 'guest'. As for the two princes and your noble little brother the squire or the Queen… I have not heard anything, I'm sorry to admit."

Now she nodded almost imperceptibly, hurrying out of the room with the package. She wanted to leave this place before any saw her shed tears of relief at the news. Arya did not trust the Spider, no one did really, but she wanted so hard for it to be true. So much had already fallen apart when those godsdamned Imperials invaded. At the very least Mother and her other brothers were still safe in Winterfell. But Bran and Jon and Prince Aegon and Queen Lyanna…

She had to hurry, there was no time to waste. Not for her, or anyone else.

Arya found her going to be lamentably slow, and as the heat of the day burned away the morning fog she could no longer rely on the mists to hide her as she ducked between larger crowds so as to avoid notice. Finally, she forced herself to take a deep breath, resolved to merely walk the streets like anyone else. She wasn't certain the Imperials were searching for her, but decided her best course of action was to hide in plain sight. On the trip up the Muddy Way road, she encountered only one more Imperial patrol. There were also a few goldcloaks lounging about, but it seemed they were content to leave the heavy lifting to their more competent and more fashionably dressed counterparts.

She missed Nymeria, with an intensity that was almost painful. At least she was safe too, having escaped with Jon and Aegon when the city had fallen. She knew her wolf was safe, as certain as she was that she herself still lived. It wasn't something that could be put into words.

Arya was pulled out of her contemplation when she realized she had arrived at the great square in the center of the city. It was known as the Dragon Square, so called for the enormous fresco of a three-headed dragon that was carved into the very cobblestones. Time and the elements had worn that away, though the name remained. From here, Arya could see the colossal seven towers of the Great Sept of Baelor. With the emergence of the sun, the crystal of the towers glittered brilliantly. At this point of midday, one of the bells should be ringing, but there were none there do perform the deed. With the cities fall, the Great Sept had been seized by the Imperials, with the blessing of the Usurper. While the worship of the Seven had not been outlawed as some feared, Robert's conversion to the worship of the Imperial man-god Sigmar had caused sweeping changes to effect the faith of the city. Of the Seven Septs of King's Landing, four had been seized, and two were slated to be converted into temples of Sigmar. She did not worship the new gods for all that her mother did, though she still felt for them. Even gods were not safe from the ravages of the Empire, it seemed. It was uncertain what was intended for the other two, but from the scant intelligence garnered from the Imperials, strange names like Verena, Shallya, Morr, and Manaan had been heard.

It could have been worse, truth be told. Septons who spoke out against Robert were publicly flogged, though increasingly the Imperials preferred to send out their own priests to drown out the words of dissent sometimes still shouting in their native tongue due to having not actually learning Common before going out to preach to folk who only spoke it. Still, a few had already converted, some out of mere opportunistic desire to get ahead in the eyes of the new rulers, some out of genuine faith in the gods of the conquerors. A strange phenomenon had even taken hold, where some folk prayed to the Seven in one breath, and then to the new Imperial gods in the next. This was exceedingly uncommon still, but grew by the day. Though they did so quietly, the septons fought tooth and nail against those tendencies, desperate to maintain orthodoxy and singular faith to the Seven who are One. Most bizarrely, the Imperials actually encouraged this, convincing Robert to declare an accord of religious peace, in which the people are free to follow whichever "non-heretical and non-malefic" faith they chose, though Sigmar had clear favoritism. Apparently this last clause applied to worshippers of the Red God of the east, for their small minority of worshippers had been slaughtered and expelled from the city almost as soon as the Imperials learned of the nature of their faith.

Lining the edges of the square were a flock of small shops and stands hawking all manner of goods, who blissfully ignored her when she passed them, no doubt thinking her some penniless urchin. Carrying over the din of the crowd were some of the aforementioned preachers, most of them Sigmarite, though her eye was caught immediately by one who was off by himself. He was dressed markedly different from the rest, clad as he was in a great wolfskin cloak. On his head a wolf skull rested, and his teeth were filed into fangs. His arms were coated in scars that appeared to be self inflicted, and his face was a riot of brands that gave him a ferocious mien.

No wonder nobody is listening to you.

But, she was curious, and he was standing right next to where the square narrowed into Flea Bottom, so Arya chanced a listen. Though his grasp of Common was surprisingly good, his voice erupted from his throat in a low growl that clearly was making a few people uncomfortable. He spoke without pausing, spoke of a long winter and of a wolf god named Ulric, spoke of strength and fury, spoke of endurance and defiance in the face of danger. Frankly, Arya was enthralled. She stood for what felt like only moments, letting his words washing over her. When she finally shook herself out of the trance, the sun had moved a bit, but enough to be noticeable. Embarrassed, Arya hurried away, leaving behind her the wolf-priest's impassioned ravings. He was perhaps the only thing the Imperials had brought that she did not hate thus far. She didn't know what to think about that.

Fortunately, the pot-shop she had been sent was very close to where Flea Bottom began. Thus she would not have to risk navigating the murderously dangerous nightmare of insane alleyways and disgusting streets for long. It was a tad nicer than the buildings around it, which wasn't saying much, because almost every building in Flea Bottom looked to be about ready to collapse on itself. As promised, a sign hung from above the open door, depicting two bowls being held by a monstrously fat man, with the words "Finer Eats" etched below it with charcoal. Arya slipped inside, clutching the bundle so closely to her side that her fingers were turning white. Inside the building was packed with people, bustling and coughing all over each other as they jostled for a seat at the shoddy little benches that lined the walls. Light filtered in from two windows on opposite walls, though a few lanterns hung from the rafters too. At one side a small bar stood, behind which bubbled the infamous pots of brown. In an bit of irony, the owner was actually nothing at all like the sign suggested. He was a mousy little man, slowly stirring the frothy cauldrons of brown with a large wooden spoon, stopping only to dump some small bits of unidentifiable meat along with a few leeks and onions. Looking around nervously, Arya hurried over to him, setting the bundle down upon the bar. Without pausing his stirring, the man glanced at the bundle and then at her, raising an eyebrow. She bit her lip, forcing herself to remember the phrase she had been given exactly.

"I… I have kindling to make the fire rise."

Without a word the shopkeeper ceased his stirring and placed the spoon on the bar, beckoning Arya over to a door that stood rather unintrusively beside the bubbling cauldrons. He opened the door for her, waiting for her to step inside with the bundle, and shutting it behind her, still silent. Inside was another storehouse, by the looks of the garlands of garlic and slabs of meat that hung all around the walls around her.

What is it with bloody storehouses?

It was a bit gloomy, as this room had no windows like the main hall did. Arya stepped forward, eyes darting back forth as she tried to make out any potential attackers hiding among the stacks of foodstuffs. She nearly jumped when a voice came from her right.

"Who's there? Speak up!"

Arya whirled to face the speaker, who stood by a small table in the corner of the storeroom. He had a dirk in one hand and a candle in the other, the corona of which revealed a youth with an aquiline nose and wary blue eyes set in a sharp featured face. She gasped, for she recognized him almost immediately, though apparently he did not know who she was, by the confused furrowing of his brown brow. It was none other than Jon's squire, Ethan Forrester, vanished along with his master.

She walked over and handed him the bundle, meeting his gaze as he took it from her hands. He felt around before discovering the small compartment, gingerly pulling out the papers it concealed. He turned away from her to read them by the flickering light of the candle. Ethan was silent for a time, his shoulders tense as he leaned over the table, before he exhaled a breath and relaxed a bit, turning back to her. Now he had a slight grin of satisfaction, clasping her on the shoulder.

"Well done, lad," Arya resisted the urge to glare at him after he called her that, as he was himself only ten and three, younger than Robb, "Now we might be able to strike a meaningful blow, finally. It's hard to get word out of the city, but we'll do it, by the gods."

She smiled back at him.

"Anything for the Brotherhood. Fire and Blood."

"Fire and Blood," He intoned back at her, "We've had too much of that lately."

He shook his head and paced in front of her.

"Gods, I'm such a craven. The King died against the Usurper, my prince vanishes while I flee into the city. I'm lucky I met the Spider before I met an Imperial halberd," He murmured quietly, "I miss Ironrath. Do… do you have a home to go back to?"

Arya wanted desperately to grab him and tell him that winter was coming, that they Northmen would stand together, but the less he knew the better. She only sadly shook her head.

Ethan chuckled softly.

"Just as well. Would make this job easier, I suppose. I never quite get used to sleeping on sacks of turnips."

The son of Gregor Forrester sauntered over to another wall, running his hands through his hair as he stared at the masonry. He turned back to her, as though to say something.

He never got the chance, for the very air shimmered all about him, and a knife appeared at his throat as if conjured from nothing, then a hand over his mouth, and then an entire person right behind him. He struggled temporarily, but ceased when the razor sharp dagger pressed close enough to cause him to bleed. Ethan's eyes were wide with fear, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead as he stood still as a statue. The dirk slowly slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor with a clang that made Arya flinch as she stared at the mysterious intruder. His robes were grey as the morning fog, and his face entirely concealed with roughspun wrappings over his mouth and eyes hidden by the darkness.

Before she could even consider saying anything, a clamour erupted from out in the main hall, and the door burst open. Two men rushed in, and through the threshold Arya could see the bleeding corpse of the shop owner. One of the men was an Imperial swordsman like any other, pointing the edge of his blade at her chest and giving her a mean look.

That and him were nothing compared to the other one, who hulked over everyone else in the room. He had an enormous fiery red beard and a shaved head, with small eyes of icy blue that burned with intensity as he too glared at her. The brute was clad in thick plate armour, covering every inch but his head. Over the armour was a white wolf pelt, and in his hands he held what was likely the biggest hammer Arya had ever seen. It would do him no good in such a small space, but was no less intimidating for it. Besides, she got the sense he could crush her with his bare hands if need be.

Neither of the new intruders spoke, the one in grey doing that for them.

"Well, what have we here? A little insurrection in the making!" His voice had a barest hint of an accent, though it sounded somehow familiar to her. "Though that is not the main reason I am here, I must say."

He pulled back his hood with his free hand, and Arya's eyes widened. He was the soldier from the Mud Gate, the one who had let her go. Now his eyes had no trace of good humour, and were sharper than steel. It was like he had become a different person entirely. He chuckled, though it was utterly cheerless.

"No, indeed. Let's see, grey eyes, brown hair, long face. Just who I've been searching for. Arya… Stark was it? What an amusing coincidence, for we just so happen to share a name!"

She grimaced at his identifying of her so easily, and she did not miss how Ethan's eyes widened even more at the revelation.

"In any case, you must come with me, I'm afraid."

Arya narrowed her eyes at him.

"Why?"

Now he laughed with genuine mirth.

"Why, she says! Because I have your friend here, and I will kill him if you disobey me, to put it simply. Now then, Jurgen?"

That brute was faster than he looked, for he rushed forward and grabbed her in a vise-like grip, despite all her kicking and screaming in protest. All the while, the grey-robed stranger laughed, leading her and his men out into the now abandoned pot-shop.

"Relax, my lady. We're going to your father. And then, you have an audience with a king!"