The one-eared black tom arched his back and hissed at her.

Arya padded down the alley, balanced lightly on the balls of her bare feet, listening to the flutter ofher heart, breathing slow deep breaths. Quiet as a shadow, she told herself, light as a feather. Thetomcat watched her come, his eyes wary.

Catching cats was hard. Her hands were covered with half-healed scratches, and both knees werescabbed over where she had scraped them raw in tumbles. At first even the cook’s huge fat kitchen cathad been able to elude her, but Syrio had kept her at it day and night. When she’d run to him with herhands bleeding, he had said, “So slow? Be quicker, girl. Your enemies will give you more thanscratches.” He had dabbed her wounds with Myrish fire, which burned so bad she had had to bite herlip to keep from screaming. Then he sent her out after more cats.

The Red Keep was full of cats: lazy old cats dozing in the sun, cold-eyed mousers twitching theirtails, quick little kittens with claws like needles, ladies’ cats all combed and trusting, ragged shadowsprowling the midden heaps. One by one Arya had chased them down and snatched them up andbrought them proudly to Syrio Forel … all but this one, this one-eared black devil of a tomcat.

“That’s the real king of this castle right there,” one of the gold cloaks had told her. “Older than sinand twice as mean. One time, the king was feasting the queen’s father, and that black bastard hoppedup on the table and snatched a roast quail right out of Lord Tywin’s fingers. Robert laughed so hardhe like to burst. You stay away from that one, child.”

He had run her halfway across the castle; twice around the Tower of the Hand, across the innerbailey, through the stables, down the serpentine steps, past the small kitchen and the pig yard and thebarracks of the gold cloaks, along the base of the river wall and up more steps and back and forth overTraitor’s Walk, and then down again and through a gate and around a well and in and out of strangebuildings until Arya didn’t know where she was.

Now at last she had him. High walls pressed close on either side, and ahead was a blankwindowless mass of stone. Quiet as a shadow, she repeated, sliding forward, light as a feather.

When she was three steps away from him, the tomcat bolted. Left, then right, he went; and right,then left, went Arya, cutting off his escape. He hissed again and tried to dart between her legs. Quickas a snake, she thought. Her hands closed around him. She hugged him to her chest, whirling andlaughing aloud as his claws raked at the front of her leather jerkin. Ever so fast, she kissed him rightbetween the eyes, and jerked her head back an instant before his claws would have found her face.

The tomcat yowled and spit.

“What’s he doing to that cat?”

Startled, Arya dropped the cat and whirled toward the voice. The tom bounded off in the blink ofan eye. At the end of the alley stood a girl with a mass of golden curls, dressed as pretty as a doll inblue satin. Beside her was a plump little blond boy with a prancing stag sewn in pearls across thefront of his doublet and a miniature sword at his belt. Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen, Aryathought. A septa as large as a draft horse hovered over them, and behind her two big men in crimsoncloaks, Lannister house guards.

“What were you doing to that cat, boy?” Myrcella asked again, sternly. To her brother she said,“He’s a ragged boy, isn’t he? Look at him.” She giggled.

“A ragged dirty smelly boy,” Tommen agreed.

They don’t know me, Arya realized. They don’t even know I’m a girl. Small wonder; she wasbarefoot and dirty, her hair tangled from the long run through the castle, clad in a jerkin ripped by catclaws and brown roughspun pants hacked off above her scabby knees. You don’t wear skirts and silkswhen you’re catching cats. Quickly she lowered her head and dropped to one knee. Maybe theywouldn’t recognize her. If they did, she would never hear the end of it. Septa Mordane would bemortified, and Sansa would never speak to her again from the shame.

’t know me, Arya realized. They don’t even know I’m a girl. Small wonder; she wasbarefoot and dirty, her hair tangled from the long run through the castle, clad in a jerkin ripped by catclaws and brown roughspun pants hacked off above her scabby knees. You don’t wear skirts and silkswhen you’re catching cats. Quickly she lowered her head and dropped to one knee. Maybe theywouldn’t recognize her. If they did, she would never hear the end of it. Septa Mordane would bemortified, and Sansa would never speak to her again from the shame.

The old fat septa moved forward. “Boy, how did you come here? You have no business in this partof the castle.”

“You can’t keep this sort out,” one of the red cloaks said. “Like trying to keep out rats.”

“Who do you belong to, boy?” the septa demanded. “Answer me. What’s wrong with you, are youmute?”

Arya’s voice caught in her throat. If she answered, Tommen and Myrcella would know her forcertain.

“Godwyn, bring him here,” the septa said. The taller of the guardsmen started down the alley.

Panic gripped her throat like a giant’s hand. Arya could not have spoken if her life had hung on it.

Calm as still water, she mouthed silently.

As Godwyn reached for her, Arya moved. Quick as a snake. She leaned to her left, letting hisfingers brush her arm, spinning around him. Smooth as summer silk. By the time he got himselfturned, she was sprinting down the alley. Swift as a deer. The septa was screeching at her. Arya slidbetween legs as thick and white as marble columns, bounded to her feet, bowled into Prince Tommenand hopped over him when he sat down hard and said “Oof,” spun away from the second guard, andthen she was past them all, running full out.

She heard shouts, then pounding footsteps, closing behind her. She dropped and rolled. The redcloak went careening past her, stumbling. Arya sprang back to her feet. She saw a window above her,high and narrow, scarcely more than an arrow slit. Arya leapt, caught the sill, pulled herself up. Sheheld her breath as she wriggled through. Slippery as an eel. Dropping to the floor in front of a startledscrubwoman, she hopped up, brushed the rushes off her clothes, and was off again, out the door andalong a long hall, down a stair, across a hidden courtyard, around a corner and over a wall andthrough a low narrow window into a pitch-dark cellar. The sounds grew more and more distant behindher.

Arya was out of breath and quite thoroughly lost. She was in for it now if they had recognized her,but she didn’t think they had. She’d moved too fast. Swift as a deer.

She hunkered down in the dark against a damp stone wall and listened for the pursuit, but the onlysound was the beating of her own heart and a distant drip of water. Quiet as a shadow, she toldherself. She wondered where she was. When they had first come to King’s Landing, she used to havebad dreams about getting lost in the castle. Father said the Red Keep was smaller than Winterfell, butin her dreams it had been immense, an endless stone maze with walls that seemed to shift and changebehind her. She would find herself wandering down gloomy halls past faded tapestries, descendingendless circular stairs, darting through courtyards or over bridges, her shouts echoing unanswered. Insome of the rooms the red stone walls would seem to drip blood, and nowhere could she find awindow. Sometimes she would hear her father’s voice, but always from a long way off, and no matterhow hard she ran after it, it would grow fainter and fainter, until it faded to nothing and Arya wasalone in the dark.

It was very dark right now, she realized. She hugged her bare knees tight against her chest andshivered. She would wait quietly and count to ten thousand. By then it would be safe for her to comecreeping back out and find her way home.

By the time she had reached eighty-seven, the room had begun to lighten as her eyes adjusted to theblackness. Slowly the shapes around her took on form. Huge empty eyes stared at her hungrilythrough the gloom, and dimly she saw the jagged shadows of long teeth. She had lost the count. Sheclosed her eyes and bit her lip and sent the fear away. When she looked again, the monsters would begone. Would never have been. She pretended that Syrio was beside her in the dark, whispering in herear. Calm as still water, she told herself. Strong as a bear. Fierce as a wolverine. She opened her eyesagain.

The monsters were still there, but the fear was gone.

Arya got to her feet, moving warily. The heads were all around her. She touched one, curious,wondering if it was real. Her fingertips brushed a massive jaw. It felt real enough. The bone wassmooth beneath her hand, cold and hard to the touch. She ran her fingers down a tooth, black andsharp, a dagger made of darkness. It made her shiver.

felt real enough. The bone wassmooth beneath her hand, cold and hard to the touch. She ran her fingers down a tooth, black andsharp, a dagger made of darkness. It made her shiver.

“It’s dead,” she said aloud. “It’s just a skull, it can’t hurt me.” Yet somehow the monster seemedto know she was there. She could feel its empty eyes watching her through the gloom, and there wassomething in that dim, cavernous room that did not love her. She edged away from the skull andbacked into a second, larger than the first. For an instant she could feel its teeth digging into hershoulder, as if it wanted a bite of her flesh. Arya whirled, felt leather catch and tear as a huge fangnipped at her jerkin, and then she was running. Another skull loomed ahead, the biggest monster ofall, but Arya did not even slow. She leapt over a ridge of black teeth as tall as swords, dashed throughhungry jaws, and threw herself against the door.

Her hands found a heavy iron ring set in the wood, and she yanked at it. The door resisted amoment, before it slowly began to swing inward, with a creak so loud Arya was certain it could beheard all through the city. She opened the door just far enough to slip through, into the hallwaybeyond.

If the room with the monsters had been dark, the hall was the blackest pit in the seven hells. Calmas still water, Arya told herself, but even when she gave her eyes a moment to adjust, there wasnothing to see but the vague grey outline of the door she had come through. She wiggled her fingersin front of her face, felt the air move, saw nothing. She was blind. A water dancer sees with all hersenses, she reminded herself. She closed her eyes and steadied her breathing one two three, drank inthe quiet, reached out with her hands.

Her fingers brushed against rough unfinished stone to her left. She followed the wall, her handskimming along the surface, taking small gliding steps through the darkness. All halls leadsomewhere. Where there is a way in, there is a way out. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Arya wouldnot be afraid. It seemed as if she had been walking a long ways when the wall ended abruptly and adraft of cold air blew past her cheek. Loose hairs stirred faintly against her skin.

From somewhere far below her, she heard noises. The scrape of boots, the distant sound of voices.

A flickering light brushed the wall ever so faintly, and she saw that she stood at the top of a greatblack well, a shaft twenty feet across plunging deep into the earth. Huge stones had been set into thecurving walls as steps, circling down and down, dark as the steps to hell that Old Nan used to tellthem of. And something was coming up out of the darkness, out of the bowels of the earth …Arya peered over the edge and felt the cold black breath on her face. Far below, she saw the light ofa single torch, small as the flame of a candle. Two men, she made out. Their shadows writhed againstthe sides of the well, tall as giants. She could hear their voices, echoing up the shaft.

“… found one bastard,” one said. “The rest will come soon. A day, two days, a fortnight …”

“And when he learns the truth, what will he do?” a second voice asked in the liquid accents of theFree Cities.

“The gods alone know,” the first voice said. Arya could see a wisp of grey smoke drifting up offthe torch, writhing like a snake as it rose. “The fools tried to kill his son, and what’s worse, they madea mummer’s farce of it. He’s not a man to put that aside. I warn you, the wolf and lion will soon be ateach other’s throats, whether we will it or no.”

“Too soon, too soon,” the voice with the accent complained. “What good is war now? We are notready. Delay.”

“As well bid me stop time. Do you take me for a wizard?”

The other chuckled. “No less.” Flames licked at the cold air. The tall shadows were almost on topof her. An instant later the man holding the torch climbed into her sight, his companion beside him.

Arya crept back away from the well, dropped to her stomach, and flattened herself against the wall.

She held her breath as the men reached the top of the steps.

“What would you have me do?” asked the torchbearer, a stout man in a leather half cape. Even inheavy boots, his feet seemed to glide soundlessly over the ground. A round scarred face and a stubbleof dark beard showed under his steel cap, and he wore mail over boiled leather, and a dirk andshortsword at his belt. It seemed to Arya there was something oddly familiar about him.

“If one Hand can die, why not a second?” replied the man with the accent and the forked yellowbeard. “You have danced the dance before, my friend.” He was no one Arya had ever seen before, shewas certain of it. Grossly fat, yet he seemed to walk lightly, carrying his weight on the balls of his feetas a water dancer might. His rin............