The scent of hot bread drifting from the shops along the Street of Flour was sweeter than anyperfume Arya had ever smelled. She took a deep breath and stepped closer to the pigeon. It was aplump one, speckled brown, busily pecking at a crust that had fallen between two cobblestones, butwhen Arya’s shadow touched it, it took to the air.

Her stick sword whistled out and caught it two feet off the ground, and it went down in a flurry ofbrown feathers. She was on it in the blink of an eye, grabbing a wing as the pigeon flapped andfluttered. It pecked at her hand. She grabbed its neck and twisted until she felt the bone snap.

Compared with catching cats, pigeons were easy.

A passing septon was looking at her askance. “Here’s the best place to find pigeon,” Arya told himas she brushed herself off and picked up her fallen stick sword. “They come for the crumbs.” Hehurried away.

She tied the pigeon to her belt and started down the street. A man was pushing a load of tarts by ona two-wheeled cart; the smells sang of blueberries and lemons and apricots. Her stomach made ahollow rumbly noise. “Could I have one?” she heard herself say. “A lemon, or … or any kind.”

The pushcart man looked her up and down. Plainly he did not like what he saw. “Three coppers.”

Arya tapped her wooden sword against the side of her boot. “I’ll trade you a fat pigeon,” she said.

“The Others take your pigeon,” the pushcart man said.

The tarts were still warm from the oven. The smells were making her mouth water, but she did nothave three coppers … or one. She gave the pushcart man a look, remembering what Syrio had told herabout seeing. He was short, with a little round belly, and when he moved he seemed to favor his leftleg a little. She was just thinking that if she snatched a tart and ran he would never be able to catch herwhen he said, “You be keepin’ your filthy hands off. The gold cloaks know how to deal with thievinglittle gutter rats, that they do.”

Arya glanced warily behind her. Two of the City Watch were standing at the mouth of an alley.

Their cloaks hung almost to the ground, the heavy wool dyed a rich gold; their mail and boots andgloves were black. One wore a longsword at his hip, the other an iron cudgel. With a last wistfulglance at the tarts, Arya edged back from the cart and hurried off. The gold cloaks had not beenpaying her any special attention, but the sight of them tied her stomach in knots. Arya had beenstaying as far from the castle as she could get, yet even from a distance she could see the heads rottingatop the high red walls. Flocks of crows squabbled noisily over each head, thick as flies. The talk inFlea Bottom was that the gold cloaks had thrown in with the Lannisters, their commander raised to alord, with lands on the Trident and a seat on the king’s council.

She had also heard other things, scary things, things that made no sense to her. Some said her fatherhad murdered King Robert and been slain in turn by Lord Renly. Others insisted that Renly had killedthe king in a drunken quarrel between brothers. Why else should he have fled in the night like acommon thief? One story said the king had been killed by a boar while hunting, another that he’d diedeating a boar, stuffing himself so full that he’d ruptured at the table. No, the king had died at table,others said, but only because Varys the Spider poisoned him. No, it had been the queen who poisonedhim. No, he had died of a pox. No, he had choked on a fish bone.

One thing all the stories agreed on: King Robert was dead. The bells in the seven towers of theGreat Sept of Baelor had tolled for a day and a night, the thunder of their grief rolling across the cityin a bronze tide. They only rang the bells like that for the death of a king, a tanner’s boy told Arya. r’s boy told Arya.

All she wanted was to go home, but leaving King’s Landing was not so easy as she had hoped. Talkof war was on every lip, and gold cloaks were as thick on the city walls as fleas on … well, her, forone. She had been sleeping in Flea Bottom, on rooftops and in stables, wherever she could find aplace to lie down, and it hadn’t taken her long to learn that the district was well named.

Every day since her escape from the Red Keep, Arya had visited each of the seven city gates inturn. The Dragon Gate, the Lion Gate, and the Old Gate were closed and barred. The Mud Gate andthe Gate of the Gods were open, but only to those who wanted to enter the city; the guards let no oneout. Those who were allowed to leave left by the King’s Gate or the Iron Gate, but Lannister men-atarmsin crimson cloaks and lion-crested helms manned the guard posts there. Spying down from theroof of an inn by the King’s Gate, Arya saw them searching wagons and carriages, forcing riders toopen their saddlebags, and questioning everyone who tried to pass on foot.

Sometimes she thought about swimming the river, but the Blackwater Rush was wide and deep,and everyone agreed that its currents were wicked and treacherous. She had no coin to pay a ferrymanor take passage on a ship.

Her lord father had taught her never to steal, but it was growing harder to remember why. If she didnot get out soon, she would have to take her chances with the gold cloaks. She hadn’t gone hungrymuch since she learned to knock down birds with her stick sword, but she feared so much pigeon wasmaking her sick. A couple she’d eaten raw, before she found Flea Bottom.

In the Bottom there were pot-shops along the alleys where huge tubs of stew had been simmeringfor years, and you could trade half your bird for a heel of yesterday’s bread and a “bowl o’ brown,”

and they’d even stick the other half in the fire and crisp it up for you, so long as you plucked thefeathers yourself. Arya would have given anything for a cup of milk and a lemon cake, but the brownwasn’t so bad. It usually had barley in it, and chunks of carrot and onion and turnip, and sometimeseven apple, with a film of grease swimming on top. Mostly she tried not to think about the meat. Onceshe had gotten a piece of fish.

The only thing was, the pot-shops were never empty, and even as she bolted down her food, Aryacould feel them watching. Some of them stared at her boots or her cloak, and she knew what theywere thinking. With others, she could almost feel their eyes crawling under her leathers; she didn’tknow what they were thinking, and that scared her even more. A couple times, she was followed outinto the alleys and chased, but so far no one had been able to catch her.

The silver bracelet she’d hoped to sell had been stolen her first night out of the castle, along withher bundle of good clothes, snatched while she slept in a burnt-out house off Pig Alley. All they lefther was the cloak she had been huddled in, the leathers on her back, her wooden practicesword … and Needle. She’d been lying on top of Needle, or else it would have been gone too; it wasworth more than all the rest together. Since then Arya had taken to walking around with her cloakdraped over her right arm, to conceal the blade at her hip. The wooden sword she carried in her lefthand, out where everybody could see it, to scare off robbers, but there were men in the pot-shops whowouldn’t have been scared off if she’d had a battle-axe. It was enough to make her lose her taste forpigeon and stale bread. Often as not, she went to bed hungry rather than risk the stares.

Once she was outside the city, she would find berries to pick, or orchards she might raid for applesand cherries. Arya remembered seeing some from the kingsroad on the journey south. And she coulddig for roots in the forest, even run down some rabbits. In the city, the only things to run down wererats and cats and scrawny dogs. The pot-shops would give you a fistful of coppers for a litter of pups,she’d heard, but she didn’t like to think about that.

Down below the Street of Flour was a maze of twisting alleys and cross streets. Arya scrambledthrough the crowds, trying to put distance between her and the gold cloaks. She had learned to keep tothe center of the street. Sometimes she had to dodge wagons and horses, but at least you could seethem coming. If you walked near the buildings, people grabbed you. In some alleys you couldn’t helpbut brush against the walls; the buildings leaned in so close they almost met.

A whooping gang of small children went running past, chasing a rolling hoop. Arya stared at themwith resentment, remembering the times she’d played at hoops with Bran and Jon and their babybrother Rickon. She wondered how big Rickon had grown, and whether Bran was sad. She wouldhave given anything if Jon had been here to call her “little sister” and muss her hair. Not that it neededmussing. She’d seen her reflection in puddles, and she didn’t think hair got any more mussed thanhers.

She had tried talking to the children she saw in the street, hoping to make a friend who would giveher a place to sleep, but she must have talked wrong or something. The little ones only looked at herwith quick, wary eyes and ran away if she came too close. Their big brothers and sisters askedquestions Arya couldn’t answer, called her names, and tried to steal from her. Only yesterday, ascrawny barefoot girl twice her age had knocked her down and tried to pull the boots off her feet, butArya gave her a crack on her ear with her stick sword that sent her off sobbing and bleeding.

A gull wheeled overhead as she made her way down the hill toward Flea Bottom. Arya glanced at itthoughtfully, but it was well beyond the reach of her stick. It made her think of the sea. Maybe thatwas the way out. Old Nan used to tell stories of boys who stowed away on trading galleys and sailedoff into all kinds of adventures. Maybe Arya could do that too. She decided to visit the riverfront. Itwas on the way to the Mud Gate anyway, and she hadn’t checked that one today.

The wharfs were oddly quiet when Arya got there. She spied another pair of gold cloaks, walkingside by side through the fish market, but they never so much as looked at her. Half the stalls wereempty, and it seemed to her that there were fewer ships at dock than she remembered. Out on theBlackwater, three of the king’s war galleys moved in formation, gold-painted hulls splitting the wateras their oars rose and fell. Arya watched them for a bit, then began to make her way along the river.

When she saw the guardsmen on the third pier, in grey woolen cloaks trimmed with white satin, herheart almost stopped in her chest. The sight of Winterfell's colors brought tears to her eyes. Behindthem, a sleek three-banked trading galley rocked at her moorings. Arya could not read the namepainted on the hull; the words were strange, Myrish, Braavosi, perhaps even High Valyrian. Shegrabbed a passing longshoreman by the sleeve. “Please,” she said, “what ship is this?”

“She’s the Wind Witch, out of Myr,” the man said.

“She’s still here,” Arya blurted. The longshoreman gave her a queer look, shrugged, and walkedaway. Arya ran toward the pier. The Wind Witch was the ship Father had hired to take herhome … still waiting! She’d imagined it had sailed ages ago.

Two of the guardsmen were dicing together while the third walked rounds, his hand on the pommelof his sword. Ashamed to let them see her crying like a baby, she stopped to rub at her eyes. Her eyesher eyes her eyes, why did …Look with your eyes, she heard Syrio whisper.

Arya looked. She knew all of her father’s men. The three in the grey cloaks were strangers. “You,”

the one walking rounds called out. “What do you want here, boy?” The other two looked up fromtheir dice.

It was all Arya could do not to bolt and run, but she knew that if she did, they would be after her atonce. She made herself walk closer. They were looking for a girl, but he thought she was a boy. She’dbe a boy, then. “Want to buy a pigeon?” She showed him the dead bird.

“Get out of here,” the guardsman said.

Arya did as he told her. She did not have to pretend to be frightened. Behind her, the men wentback to their dice.

She could not have said how she got back to Flea Bottom, but she was breathing hard by the timeshe reached the narrow crooked unpaved streets between the hills. The Bottom had a stench to it, astink of pigsties and stables and tanner’s sheds, mixed in with the sour smell of winesinks and cheapwhorehouses. Arya wound her way through the maze dully. It was not until she caught a whiff ofbubbling brown coming through a pot-shop door that she realized her pigeon was gone. It must haveslipped from her belt as she ran, or someone had stolen it and she’d never noticed. For a moment shewanted to cry again. She’d have to walk all the way back to the Street of Flour to find another onethat plump.

Far across the city, bells began to ring.

Arya glanced up, listening, wondering what the ringing meant this time.

“What’s this now?” a fat man called from the pot-shop.

“The bells again, gods ha’mercy,” wailed an old woman.

A red-haired whore in a wisp of painted silk pushed open a second-story window. “Is it the boyking that’s died now?” she shouted down, leaning out over the street. “Ah, that’s a boy for you, theynever last long.” As she laughed, a naked man slid his arms around her from behind, biting her neckand rubbing the heavy white breasts that hung loose beneath her shift.

“Stupid slut,” the fat man shouted up. “The king’............