Arya Stark woke up in a cramped, dimly lit room.
The draft from the leaky window sent a chill through her, making her skin prickle with goosebumps. Fumbling in the dark, she quickly dressed, the noise rousing her sister Sansa from their shared bed.
"What were you dreaming about this time? Kicking and shouting all night again," Sansa complained sleepily, stifling a yawn.
Arya sat cross-legged on the bed, suppressing her own yawn, tilting her head as she tried to recall the dream.
"I dreamed I turned into a wolf."
"You dreamed of a wolf," Sansa corrected, rolling her eyes.
"No! I was the wolf," Arya insisted. "I remember it so clearly—running through the woods, hunting, smelling the damp earth and the blood of prey. It felt so real, as if I actually became a wolf."
In truth, Arya had also dreamed something else, something far more terrifying.
In that dream, the sky wept a ceaseless downpour as she stumbled through muddy swamps, through blood and fire, haunted by the echoes of her mother's screams and her father's roars of anger. She had woken up crying.
But Arya didn't tell Sansa about that nightmare.
Between being a tearful child or a fierce, swift direwolf, she far preferred the latter.
"You're not going to turn into a wolf," Sansa said dismissively, though Arya's words reminded her of her own direwolf, Lady, long gone now.
And of their father, the Warden of the North, and their mother and brothers.
The memories brought an ache to her heart, and Sansa buried her face in the blankets, muffling a soft sob.
"Why are you crying now?" Arya asked, noticing her sister's trembling shoulders. "Don't be scared. The Lannisters won't stay in power much longer. I heard someone say that Samwell's army has already begun marching north. Once he takes King's Landing and becomes king, we can ask him to pardon Father and Robb so they can return from the Wall…"
"You idiot!" Sansa snapped, turning on her sister. "The king can't free the Night's Watch from their vows. Once sworn, Father and Robb are bound to the Wall for life!"
"Those vows are worthless!" Arya retorted. "They were forced to swear them. It doesn't count!"
"Even if that's true, if they break their vows and return, the North would never respect them! You don't understand anything!"
"You don't understand anything!"
"You!"
"You!"
The sharp knock on the door interrupted their argument.
Arya turned her head to see Madame Sha'taya stepping inside with a knowing smile.
"Fighting again?" Madame Sha'taya asked, amused but unsurprised. "You two argue every single day. Now hurry up. Breakfast is ready, and after that, it's back to selling oysters."
"Fine," Arya said, swinging her legs off the bed.
Sansa climbed out as well. At sixteen, she had grown into a graceful, shapely young woman.
As the eldest Stark daughter, Sansa had inherited the Tully family's striking features from their mother, Catelyn—delicate cheekbones, bright blue eyes, and thick auburn hair. Her gentle and demure demeanor made her naturally endearing to anyone who saw her.
By contrast, Arya's appearance was plainer. From their father, Eddard Stark, she had inherited the Stark family's long face, gray eyes, and dark brown hair. Her lively and mischievous nature didn't align with the era's ideals for noble ladies, either.
Now, Arya deliberately tousled her hair and slipped into coarse, baggy linen clothes, easily passing for a scrappy boy.
Sansa began smearing dirt-colored makeup over her pale, delicate face. Their true identities were a dangerous secret. If the Lannisters discovered them, their fate would surely be grim.
"Hurry up!" Arya urged, growing impatient.
"Almost done," Sansa muttered as she completed her disguise—adding a large, ugly, dark red birthmark to her face, draping her auburn hair messily over her shoulders, and concealing her figure with loose, rough clothing.
Satisfied, she looked entirely unrecognizable.
But Arya, unable to resist teasing, smeared her sister's face with her dirty hands, leaving streaks of black grime.
"There! Now no one will recognize you," she crowed with laughter.
"Arya! You… you idiot!"
Laughing and shouting, the sisters dashed out of the room, only stopping when they nearly collided with Madame Sha'taya in the courtyard.
After a simple breakfast, the two pushed a cart of fresh oysters onto the streets.
The weather was clear, and the streets were bustling, though most people seemed hurried and anxious.
With the war looming, food prices in King's Landing had skyrocketed, leaving many citizens grumbling in frustration. Rumors spread that in the city's poorest district, Flea Bottom, people were starving to death every day.
At the Great Sept of Baelor, the square overflowed with the homeless, desperate to receive the meager bowls of thin gruel distributed by the church.
For now, the army stationed outside the city maintained order, but as tensions mounted, that fragile peace might shatter when war reached King's Landing's gates.
The sisters, recalling the last time a riot had engulfed the city, fell silent as they pushed their cart through the market.
When they reached the fish market, it was already crowded with merchants selling their goods and housekeepers, cooks, and servants haggling over the day's catch.
"Fresh oysters! Three for a copper!" the sisters shouted.
Sansa wrinkled her nose at the fishy stench, but she knew she had no right to complain. Living under someone else's roof meant they had to earn their keep.
"Fresh oysters! Three for a—" Sansa froze as a shadow loomed over her stall.
Looking up, she saw several drunken soldiers leering at her with unpleasant smiles.
"Oysters this expensive?" one of them slurred.
"Y-yes…" Sansa stammered, her face pale.
Despite her disguise, her natural grace and softness still drew the wrong kind of attention.
"Hah! At that price, you must be selling the oysters on yourself!" one soldier sneered, prompting crude laughter from the others.
"Don't buy if you think it's expensive!" Arya stepped forward, her hands on her hips, unafraid.
"Oh, now I really want to buy," the soldier said, drawing his sword.
Sansa tried to pull Arya back, but her sister suddenly kicked the basket of oysters, sending the seafood and briny water splattering onto the soldiers.
Enraged, the soldiers shouted and lunged forward, but the sisters were already running.
"Don't run!"
Arya, quick as a weasel, led Sansa through the maze of market stalls.
Finally catching her breath, Sansa scolded, "Why did you provoke them?!"
"What's there to be afraid of?" Arya said confidently. "They won't dare cause trouble in the city. Look, there's a group of Gold Cloaks!"
Indeed, a patrol of City Watch soldiers was nearby. Pulling her sister along, Arya darted toward them.
"Murder!" Arya screamed dramatically. "Someone's causing trouble and killing someone!"
The Gold Cloaks stopped in their tracks.
Only then did Sansa notice the man they were escorting—a dwarf with striking blonde hair.
She immediately recognized him.
Tyrion Lannister. The "imp".
(End of Chapter)