Arya Stark: The Orphan Master (Part 3)

(So, as Arya is a little young, I cut the ending short to avoid offending anyone. If you want the EXTENDED ENDING, just send me a message with the email you want me to send it to. Enjoy!)

When the caravan arrived at Riverrun, Arya sat with the others on the floor of the cage, hugging her knees to her chest and burying her face in her thighs. Sitting still made her backside ache and sting, while the wooden floor itself felt like it was made of sandpaper, but it wasn’t as bad as the shame and humiliation stinging her heart. She almost welcomed the pain, feeling like she deserved it for winding up in her current straits.

She lifted her eyes when the wagon bumped over cobbled stones and she heard the calls of hawkers. The markets of Riverrun were generally colorful, selling bright clothing and shiny jewelry, as well as other curios and more practical necessities. Street vendors offered treats and snacks to the shoppers, filling the air with the sweet smells and crackling sounds of food being cooked. Compared to the lives of the slaves in the cage, the market was a festival.

The urchins in the cages perked up as they passed this part of the market, placing their faces against the bars to try to see the cooking food or shiny toys.

Arya was the only one who stayed where she was, downcast and bitter. She looked around once or twice, then buried her face back into her knees, thinking dark thoughts.

The next section of the market was for horses and livestock, mostly just a sampling of a farmer’s stock and a few prize horses.

Then came their destination: the slave section of the market.

Right next to the docks, Riverrun’s slave markets were the largest of their kind in Westoros. Brought in by boat and by wagon, there were almost five thousand slaves there at any one time, and this day was no different. Hundreds of vendors, most with much more stock than Liram, jockeyed for position on the different auction blocks or set up stakes and tents to create little shops for interested customers. It was almost a city in itself.

The wagons rumbled past the docks, where slaves were even now being unloaded from boats in various levels of dress. The most common garb was the sack cloth garment shared by the occupants of Arya’s wagon, but a few wore simple loin cloths or were naked. As the Orphan Master’s caravan passed, a long line of slaves were ushered out of a boat, chained together like a caravan of their own. They looked like foreigners, mostly women, and marched in line with their heads down, one beaten soul after another.

In another section of the market, the atmosphere was almost festive. The higher end slaves were well dressed and smiled cheerily, sometimes put in costumes of various fairy tale creatures or heroes of days past. They twirled and posed, put on feats of strength or danced. Crowds gathered to watch as one pretty slave woman, dressed as an angel, had a mock fight with another dressed as a devil.

“Pay mind to how these behave, little ones!” Hektor turned to grin back at the slaves, “Good slaves get good masters! Smile, be charming and cooperative, and you will be bought by someone gentle and kind!”

Arya swallowed as she noted the faces already looking in on the caged street children as their wagon rumbled past. None of them looked very gentle or kind.

Hektor eventually guided the small caravan into an empty lot. The wagons parked in a horse-shoe formation, with Liram’s carriage at the back, and the guards unstrapped a large, colorful tent, along with stakes, ropes, and various chains. Once everything was unloaded, they got to work.

Liram temporarily came out of his carriage to supervise the construction, but he shouldn’t have bothered; the men had done this so many times, they knew the work by heart. It wasn’t long before the shop was up and ready for customers.

The Orphan Master’s nook of the market was like a tiny circus, a colorful, wide open tent offered areas for customers to observe his stock from the shade, while stakes set up rope dividers to one side. Inside the rope divisions, hitching posts were hammered down with chains and collars attached, several rows of them. By each chain and collar, a roman numeral was carved into the wood, a lot number should one of the customers request to see one of them up close.

Once the shop was set up, it was time for it to be stocked. Hektor and the guards moved to the first wagon and separated the boys from the girls, then had them step down one at a time. Each was led over to one of the roped off sections and collared to a hitching post. In their twos and threes, they were led out and walked obediently to a section, then locked in place in single lines to wait.

Customers were already coming up to look at the slaves already in position, when the guards got to Arya’s wagon.

“All right, it’s time to show off for the nice people,” Hektor smiled as he unlocked the door, “Girls first.” He pointed, “You, little one. Come on.”

The girl he indicated, a bit older than Arya, got up and came forward, stepping down carefully from the cart so her sack cloth skirts didn’t fly up. A guard took her by the arm and led her away to an open post, while Hektor picked out another.

After four or five other girls, he got to Arya.

“All right, mouse.” He smiled, “Your turn.”

Still sitting in the floor, Arya bit her lip and stared at the waiting guards. She drew her knees closer to her chest, hesitating.

The guards were grinning at her, waiting with sinister glints in their eyes, seeing if she’d obey. Hektor stood there was well, wearing a knowing smile, hands on his hips. They were ready for her to run. Arya had no doubt that if she tried it, she’d be in for another stern punishment.

She unconsciously tugged her shirt down a little lower over her rear.

“Come on, mouse.” Hektor said patiently, “We’ll find you a nice master. Come.”

Brow wrinkled, big eyes still haunted and wary, Arya haltingly rose and made her way towards the doorway.

The guards were grinning broader now, a few even chuckling as they noticed the nervous, anxiety-filled change in her demeanor.

Arya blushed and lowered her eyes, pulling her shirt down firmly over her bottom.

Once she hopped down, Hektor himself took her by the arm and led her to the roped off section.

“I have the perfect section for you,” he told her, “It’s the best, most comfortable one, where we put all the special girls.”

Arya was too embarrassed to look at him as he led her to a post, then fitted an iron collar around her neck. It was a bit too big for her and laid almost on her shoulders, but it wasn’t so big that she could consider pulling it over her head.

Hektor locked it with a click, then ruffled her hair and stepped away to get the next slave.

He left Arya at the post with her head hanging, forlorn and hollow. She looked at her lot number. It was 13.

* * *

The day wore on long for the young Stark. There was nothing to do but stand in place while customers gawked at her and the others, listening to their conversations. They discussed their needs with Hektor and Liram, “three to clean out chimneys” or “one that can climb gutters”, mostly a dirty task in some cranny where an adult couldn’t easily fit. They discussed where he found them, their general temperament, and if Liram would offer a deal on a bulk purchase. Arya was glad she wasn’t chosen by one of those men.

Others wanted to have a closer look at the merchandise. Liram would walk with them through the posts, discussing the qualities of each slave they passed, allowing them to squeeze a shoulder or a thigh or open a mouth when they wished.

“This one is quite strong,” Liram would say, “I’ve seen him easily lift his body weight. Fine in the eye too, quite lively. Ah, that one is one of my favorites. Spry little thing, she is, nimble and learns very quickly. I’ve kept her on a regimen to improve those skills, of course. Note the golden hair. Ah, that one is an excellent choice! Good teeth, surprisingly strong hands, clever but very submissive in nature…”

Every now and then one would stop beside Arya.

“This one is dressed differently.” The customer said.

“Yes, she’s a surprise acquisition, actually,” Liram explained, “Caught her living in the woods, believe it or not. Yet not a blemish on her, a little skinny but not famished.”

The man took Arya’s chin and lifted it up, squinting into her eyes first.

Arya stared back, weary and compliant.

“Big, lively gray eyes,” Liram said, lively being one of his favorite descriptors, “No boils or infections and if you open the mouth…”

He placed his hand on Arya’s forehead and drew it back to open the girl’s jaw.

“All her teeth!” the slaver grinned, “Not a single one rotted or broken! Very, very rare with these urchins. Indicates longevity!”

Arya waited for them to finish, not even flinching at the treatment, letting her mouth hang open. She’d grown used to it by now.

The man grunted, looking into her mouth, then drawing back to look her up and down.

“She’s dirty.” He simply said.

“She was… acquired recently enough that we haven’t had the opportunity to bathe her,” Liram chuckled, wringing his hands, “A bath is easy, such a pristine find is much more difficult to come by. You won’t find many like her at the market.”

The man grunted again, either in accession of the point or general apathy, then turned to the girl next to Arya.

“What about this one?”

“Oh, that one is VERY lively!” Liram grinned, “Shoulders are nicely set, natural posture is…”

That was the most excitement Arya had for a while.

Generally, buyers looked at them like cattle or tools, inspecting them to see how long they could work before their use ran out. Their gazes weighed and measured, deciding if the price they would pay was worth it.

However, there were some few that came to Liram with a gleam in their eyes. They almost all seemed to know the Orphan Master by name and he greeted them like old friends. The pair of them would chat, share some pleasantries, and inevitably he would lead the greedily grinning customer towards his stock.

These types took the closest looks of all. They reminded Arya of women in the clothing markets, eager to touch the wares, admiring the colors and flavors. They asked the most questions, some of them very particular, and always stayed the longest. They also always bought one of the girls or paid Liram a few coins for his time.

When one of them seemed to find one they liked, Liram would unlock them from their post and the pair of them would go to the cover of the tent where the customer could watch the girl walk around and move. The slaves seemed to enjoy this, beaming and trying extra hard to curtsy or dance or whatever the prospective buyer asked of them. They would answer questions, would be polite, and more often than not would receive a pat on the head.

Leaning on her spot on the post, Arya watched as the girl that had been posted beside her curtsied clumsily for one of those customers. He smiled and asked her questions, to which she nodded eagerly and replied with equal enthusiasm, though Arya couldn’t make out what they were saying. The man then leaned down to her level and smoothed his hand down her shoulder, then over her leg, stopping to squeeze her thigh.

The girl stared up at him hopefully, staying very still so he could touch.

Arya didn’t hear Hektor approach and didn’t know he was there until he put his hand on her head. She jumped, eyes darting up at the large guard.

“He’s looking for a serving girl, little mouse,” he grinned at her, “Someone to be pretty, entertain guests.”

Arya sniffed, glaring at the post. She blushed just thinking about how the big man had easily handled her and then spanked her into submission. She would never forgive him for that.

“Good for him…” she grumbled, barely audible.

Hektor glanced at her. She tensed, thinking he’d heard her, but then he looked back at the girl and this new customer.

The girl was slowly turning in place, letting the man see her from various angles.

“It’s a comfortable life,” he explained, “Inside, being well fed, coddled, exercised. Safe. That little one probably won’t get it, but they all want it.” He ruffled her hair, “You will too, soon.”

Arya flushed and pulled down on her shirt a little more but said nothing back.

* * *

By the end of the first day, Arya’s back and feet were throbbing painfully. Despite being able to lean on the post, standing up all day in her bare feet created aches and twinges she hadn’t expected. A few of the posts were empty, the slaves that stood there now bought and taken away.

By the end of the second day, she longed for the first day.

The first night she’d slept in the wagons with the others that hadn’t yet been bought, a tarp thrown over the cages to keep them warm and as protected from bugs as possible. So it was that they were woken by the wagon being rolled away, without knowing where they were going.

But a few of the slaves did know. They groaned and lay their heads back down, soaking up all the rest they could.

When the tarp was pulled off and the cages opened, Arya and the others found themselves not at the slave markets, but at a massive blacksmith’s guild on the outskirts of the city. There were numerous smelters, white hot fires, and pillars of black smoke rising towards the sky. The group of slaves could feel the heat even from where they were.

Several guards and smiths covered in soot were waiting for them.

“Try harder to get bought next time.” one of the guards grinned at Arya, “Come on! Out ye get!”

And so began one of the most grueling days of Arya’s life.

It turned out that Liram didn’t only sell his slaves, he rented them for particular jobs that needed doing. And the blacksmiths had many, many kilns to scrub and ore leavings to sweep away.

Arya and the others were lowered into one clay bowl after the other and made to chip and scrape at the offal that was left behind when ore was purified. It was all as hard as rock, requiring hand tools and a great deal of effort to break apart, in areas too tight for a grown man to raise a hammer.

The work was absolutely miserable. The inside of the bowls had been allowed to cool so they didn’t burn the slaves’ feet, but everything was still hot to the touch, heat radiating off the walls. The slaves were left shining with sweat in minutes, which collected the acrid dust that flew up as they hacked and chipped, making them itch. The dust itself even made them cough, burned their eyes, as well as smelled and tasted foul.

Once they finished in one bowl, they were pulled out with a rope around their waist. They were given water, made to suck on a salt cube, then hoisted up and lowered into the next bowl.

In no time, Arya looked like an imp that had crawled out of an old fireplace. She itched constantly behind her ears, under her arms, between her legs, behind her knees, everywhere the dust caked. The itching, heat, and weariness were her constant companions, along with the occasional cough. Her eyes reddened from the dust until she could barely see through her tears, the grit crunched between her teeth and blackened her tongue, and her body was constantly trembling with fatigue.

When they finally called an end to the day, Arya was taken back to the cage and laid down with the others. They all lay still, blackened from head to toe, but most, including Arya, were somehow too tired to sleep. They slipped into a twilight, dozing state, a part of them still inside one of those bowls, suffering, hungry, and wretched.

The next day, Arya and the others were led out of the cages to a different area, where they were made to work the bellows on the massive central forge.

The central forge was much too large for a traditional two-handled bellows. Instead, a larger one was built into the forge itself, operated by an ingenious mechanism of gears and turning wheels. It was a marvel of engineering, the only thing that could forge the massive gates and metal structures of Westeros’ great fortresses.

Arya found it a lot less marvelous being one of the ones making the wheels turn.

The wheels that ran the bellows were underneath the forge itself, each with several long metal handles. Arya was placed behind one of the handles and chained to it beside another slave. The handles were long enough to for two or three young slaves to each take a spot without getting in each other’s way.

At the crack of a whip, Arya and the others took their part of the handle, leaned, and pushed. It was stubborn at first, the children groaning and gasping with effort, putting all their weight into it and driving with their legs. Gradually it began to get easier as momentum built up, the bellows above them whooshing out, then sucking in, like the deep breaths of a giant.

The thunderous wheezing of the bellows picked up pace as the wheels turned faster, the fires above growing brighter until the occasional spark began to fall. Any slave unfortunate enough to have a spark land on them received a nasty sting on the shoulders, but with their heads lowered and upper halves almost horizontal, there was no danger of it landing in their eyes.

After it got started, the work was a slow trudge, dozens of young legs working in tandem, like they were marching up a very steep hill. Each step was laborious and anyone that slowed down or stopped pushing before being given the order received a smack with the whip. They groaned and ground on, arms and legs quivering, still coated in dust and sweat.

When the order was given to stop, the slaves walked on without pushing, having to wait for the wheel’s momentum to die down before they could stop. Once it did, they all slumped against the handles, panting, taking advantage of the rest until the whip was cracked again. Sometimes the rest was longer than others, sometimes the whip was cracked before the wheels even stopped turning. Regardless, it was always the same slow push and strain that wore them down by inches.

Arya’s arms and legs quaked, her breath coming out in tight rasps, inaudible to anyone but herself over the noise of the bellows. It felt like she’d been staring at the floor for an eternity, always hunched forward, pushing or leaning against the handle. One taste of the whip had been all she’d needed to keep pushing and she could still feel the sting on her shoulders, the sweat and dust making it ache.

The call was given to stop and she let out a gasp of relief, straightening up to hold the metal bar and let it lead her along. Her shoulders heaved, her steps clumsy, head hanging and hair dangling in her face. She was so tired, she was partially asleep as she walked, even letting her eyes drift closed. In some ways, she felt like she’d never really woken up that morning, like maybe it was still the day before or she was having one long, miserable dream.

She was just one of many pairs of slumped shoulders and stumbling legs, another dirty, wretched slave girl. Like all the others, when the wheel finally stopped, she laid her head on it and panted, letting it hold her up. It wasn’t comfortable and she couldn’t entirely relax but compared to the constant strain of turning the wheel it was paradise. She slumped there and fell asleep enough to dream.

In her dream, she was back in the market, in the tent, smiling and curtsying for one of the Orphan Master’s friends. They both remarked what a pretty thing she was, how charming and nimble, how excellent a serving girl she would make. She was looked over thoroughly, touched and tickled, them enjoying her reactions. And she was enjoying it too, being given attention, praised, spoken to gently. It was a wonderful escape from the whips, the ash, the aches, and the exhaustion that was her life now.

“There, that one. Try that one.” Someone said.

In her mind, Arya grinned up at a gentle buyer and he stroked her hair. It made her grin even wider.

“No.” the voice said again, “That one? No. No, she’s a girl.”

The voice and footsteps came closer, but Arya didn’t pay them any mind. She’d heard other adults talking around her before and it didn’t have anything to do with her. All that she listened for was the crack of the whip and the call to start pushing again.

“There, try that one. On the far end.”

Arya didn’t know they were talking about her until someone grabbed a handful of her hair and lifted her head off the handle. Even then she barely cared. Her eyes peeled halfway open when they pulled on her hair, long enough to see one of the guild guards and a skinny, bald man that seemed a bit familiar. Eager to return to her dream, her eyes drifted closed a moment later, her jaw hanging loose and slack.

“Is this the one?”

“Hmm…”

A light slap to her cheek wasn’t enough to make her open her eyes again, so one of the men placed a thumb on her eyelid and drew it up. Through blurred vision, she saw the thin, bald one leaning in close, scrutinizing her.

“Nhhhh…” she mumbled, wishing they would leave her alone. The whip could crack again at any moment.

“Well?”

The bald man stared, beady eyes narrowed, until he found what he was looking for. When he did, his lips slowly spread in a snake-like grin.

“Oh yes,” he said, “This is the one. Impossible to mistake those pretty blue baubles.”

He drew back, letting her eyelid close.

“Switch her out with this one, please. I need her immediately.”

Arya’s head was allowed to lay back down on the bar and she moaned with relief, but she didn’t enjoy it for long before someone began fiddling with her collar. They unlocked it, opened it, then someone took her by the arm. She moaned again as they pulled, trying to make her stand upright. Couldn’t they just leave her be?

“Stand up slave.” Someone told her.

“Unhhh…” she did as she was told. She just wanted to rest. Couldn’t they just let her rest?

Her collar was slipped off, unchaining her from the wheel, then to her surprise, they drew on her arm, leading her away from her place at the handle.

“Nh…?” she opened her eyes to slits, looking around in dream-like confusion.

“Come on.”

They pulled on her arm and she followed, letting her eyes close again. It didn’t matter where they were taking her, probably to another wheel or back to the clay pots. She barely noticed the slave she passed, being moved into the position she’d left vacant, simply tottering along like a blind white walker, halfway in the dream she had been having.

There was no point watching where she was going. The grip remained on her arm, leading her on and she turned when it pulled her in a different direction, hardly caring if she bumped into anything or anyone. She just walked, head lowered, enjoying this momentary reprieve.

Gradually as they walked, the sounds of the bellows, banging metal and shouted orders grew fainter. Soon she could hear her own footsteps and those of the men walking beside her, the jaunty tune the bald man was humming to himself, even the wind. It grew cooler as well, a breeze chilling her sweat-soaked skin. She shivered, opening her eyes.

They were outside the guild. Ahead of them was a luxury carriage, the door opened to show the plush interior. Cushioned seats of cream-colored satin, wide enough to lie down on, with several pillows for added comfort. Windows with drapes, a chest beneath the seats to keep ice cold, even a tray for drinks.

Arya was walked right up to the steps that led up to the interior, then stopped beside the carriage. Only then did the grip release her arm.

“Excellent. I appreciate your cooperation in the matter.”

There was the clinking of a coin purse being passed.

“Not at all. What’s so special about this one, anyway?”

“Oh, turns out to be the daughter of someone I know. Or knew at any rate.”

“Huh. And she wound up on the street?”

Arya didn’t care to listen to the conversation any more after that. Taking advantage of the lack of attention, she leaned against the carriage and closed her eyes again. Compared to the constant swelter of the forges the open air was freezing, so she hugged herself, shivered a bit and otherwise slumped as much as she could. She would have loved to curl up against the carriage wheel, but settled for dozing where she stood, letting her mind drift again.

She didn’t hear the man from the guild leave. She was barely even aware of being wrapped in a blanket and scooped up. Her eyes drifted open when she realized she was no longer on her feet, instead cradled in someone’s arms.

“There now. This is better, isn’t it? The forges are no place for a special girl like you. Not at all.”

Arya didn’t concern herself with the import of what he was saying. After looking around out of reflex, she gratefully rested her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes again.

The ride became a bit bumpy as she was carried up the steps of the carriage, but she didn’t mind. Then a moment later she was laid down on something so soft, she felt like she’d sink down into it and vanish.

“Ohhh…” the young girl melted into the cushions, her expression softening. She couldn’t remember anything softer in her entire life. It was like she was lying in a cloud, held weightless on nothing but fluff.

The man lifted her head long enough to tuck a pillow underneath her cheek, then patted her head.

He immediately withdrew his hand and wiped it on his handkerchief.

“Hmm. I suppose the very first order of business will be a bath…”

A whip cracked and Arya jumped, her eyes widening. Her head jerked up from the pillow, and she instinctively tried to grab her place on the wheel handle, looking around wildly.

The carriage pulled away, bouncing as it made its way down the road.

“It’s all right, it’s just getting the horses started.” The man told her, “Rest now, little mouse. I need you to be fresh and charming for your prospective buyer.”

That was all the reassurance her tired mind needed. She looked around for another moment, but her eyes began to sink closed even as she did. The tension leaked out of her and she sagged back down to rest her cheek on the pillow with a faint mewl. It was almost involuntary how her body sank into the cushions, finding the most comfortable place and curling up like a kitten.

“Yes…” the man sighed, “A most fortunate find indeed, my little Stark.”

Arya didn’t hear. She was already in a sleep so deep it was almost like death. She barely moved during the entire ride back to the Orphan Master’s manner, nor did she dream or remember.

* * *

On the day her buyer arrived, Arya couldn’t help but be a little excited. Clean, well-rested, and fed, everything seemed much more hopeful to her. She was to be a serving girl, if her buyer decided to purchase, and even if he was a little mean, it would be much better than working in the forges or cleaning latrines.

Dressed in a clean sack cloth, she stood slightly behind Liram Wynch in his manor’s foyer as they waited for the guest of honor. Her hair was brushed and shining, kept in braids so it stayed out of her face, even a touch of blush added to her cheeks and shadow to make her blue eyes stand out.

With her head bowed and her hands clasped in front of her, she kept her eyes humbly on the floor, as she’d been taught. A good slave girl maintained this position until she was directed not to do so, or, of course, if her master gave her different instructions. After being saved from the forges and the market, she’d done her best to learn all the do’s and don’ts of her new life; it was the least she could do for the Orphan Master, and it would only make her life easier.

As another slave opened the door and her buyer strode through, Arya shifted in place, having to remind herself to keep her eyes down. She wanted very much to see who this man was. Was he ugly or handsome, fat or thin? Did he have scars? Was he old? Did she know him? Those questions nagged her like fleas, but she bit her lip and forced herself to wait. Soon enough she’d see, if she was a good girl.

“Welcome, Lord Harkin!” the Orphan Master called, “How was your journey?”

“Liram!” a voice called back, “Liram Wynch, you old snake! Ha! Strange circumstances, eh?!”

Liram chuckled in return, “Most strange, indeed.”

Arya squirmed a bit as the man’s footsteps approached, then clenched her fists and forced herself to remain still. Her buyer had a loud, boisterous voice with a slight wheeze, like he had smoked a lot. It was also vaguely familiar.

“Ha!” the man drew closer, “Liram Wynch! Liram! The Orphan Master himself!”

Liram and the man traded grips, chuckling.

“This is a lovely manor you’ve assembled! Slavery must be paying well!”

“Oh, hardly as well as your mercantile enterprise,” Liram replied, “But it brings such joy to me, you know. Shepherding young ones to new lives, enjoying their charms, finding the occasional rose amongst the thorns…”

The two shared another quick laugh and Arya began to wonder if they had forgotten she was there.

On cue, the conversation found its way back to her.

“Speaking of a rose among thorns…” her buyer chuckled.

“Yes, of course.” Liram cleared his throat, “Step forward, Arya. Say hello.”

Arya skipped a step in her eagerness. She stumbled to the Orphan Master’s side with a blush, then quickly covered her misstep by crossing her ankles and dipping into a curtsy.

“Greetings, my lord! Thank you for coming, my lord!”

She sank low, pinching the bottom of her sack cloth and drawing it out like it was a skirt, then came back upright, smiling as wide as she possibly could. The smile showed her large front teeth and she stared at her buyer with big, hopeful eyes.

The man in front of her was comfortably plump and slightly red in the face, his smile big but his eyes sharp and beady, with a pig-like cleverness. Richly, even gaudily dressed, he had an elaborate golden necklace that dangled onto his swollen belly, his blonde hair standing out like a shock on the top of his head.

He was also familiar, someone she recognized from her father’s court years before.

Lord Harkin didn’t acknowledge her greeting. He took her by the chin and leaned close, looking into her eyes.

Arya tried to smile bigger, even batting her eyelashes at him. She wanted very, very much for him to like her. To help him see her better, she stood up on her tiptoes.

He had been a constant presence around the Stark court years before, she remembered, always smiling at her, looking at her then looking away when she noticed. It had been strange. Then one day he simply wasn’t around anymore and she hadn’t thought anything about it. Now, with him wearing that familiar, coy grin as he looked at her, she wondered where he’d gone.

“My word!” Lord Harkin’s grin broadened, “Arya of House Stark, the missing girl!”

He stroked under her chin and Arya brightened, happy that he seemed pleased.

“It is her indeed!” the chubby merchant laughed, “Where on earth did you find her?”

Liram chuckled. He’d been watching the Lord’s reaction, and now he turned to look at the eager slave girl, regarding her with a smug purse of the lips.

“She found me, actually.” He ran his nails through her hair, “Tried to ambush my caravan by herself. I thought she looked familiar but could never place it, had her for almost a week before I realized.”

Harkin barked a laugh, “Strange, strange circumstances indeed!”

Arya beamed, looking back and forward between them, their excitement making her excited. She was relishing all the attention and hoped she could be good enough to earn more!

“It was the eyes that made me remember,” Liram said, “I was thinking about her bone structure, her coloring, wondering what a girl from so far north was doing down here, when I remembered the eyes. Big, blue jewels, like her mother.”

“Oh, I’d remember them anywhere,” Lord Harkin leaned closer, “Such a pretty little thing, and she’s grown up well,” he tipped her chin up a bit higher, “And now you’ll be much more friendly, won’t you, my lovely little sprite?”

Arya shivered then bobbed her head in a rapid nod, “Yes, my lord! Very friendly! Very, very friendly! Whatever you like, my lord!”

Lord Harkin chuckled, stroking her cheek with the back of his finger.

“Such a sweet girl,” he cooed, “You know, I put in a very generous offer for you with your father. A way to bring our houses together, you could say. He didn’t care for it very much and I was no longer welcome at his court from that moment on. Banished.”

Arya blinked, her smile fading slightly. She didn’t know how to respond to that. She’d been told to smile and agree with everything her buyer said, but she hadn’t expected he would say something like this.

She looked to Liram, her smile fading away entirely, then back to the Lord.

“Oh…” she shifted nervously, “That’s… sad.”

Harkin brightened at that, “It was, wasn’t it? But all’s well now! I’m wealthier than ever and your father met his just desserts! A happy ending!”

Arya tried to smile again, but it was a bit uncertain, her brow crinkling.

“Y-yes, my lord.” She sniffed, “A happy ending.”