The Street of Steel

Lyonel was walking briskly through the courtyard of the Red Keep while the morning breeze combed his black locks. He was so excited that he completely missed Ygritte, and the redhead had to run to catch up to him while calling out his name.

The prince looked back and grinned. "Well, well, look he it is. It's been some time I've seen you."

"Indeed," Ygritte grumbled. She had been excited to show off the new word she had learned just yesterday, but Lyonel's brisk and nonchalant attitude has angered her. He had barely slowed down, and with the damned Southern dresses she had to wear, the Wildling had a hard time keeping up with her royal lover.

Lyonel too, noticed this but only gave a cursory glance at the dress, which was a red as deep as her hair, along with a plunging neckline that showed off much of what the northern beauty has to offer. He idly wondered why she was wearing it; was it to escape the stifling heat of the southern city, to shock the more conservative members at court or was it simply by Myrcella's command? Maybe a combination of all three.

"I am serious," Lyonel insisted. "I see you so rarely now. My sister must be driving you hard."

"You don't say," Ygritte murmured, her face getting red at the mere memories of what she had to do these past few weeks. "That sister of yours is insatiable and seems to spend all of her free time on coming up with more and more twisted ideas. I suppose she takes after her brother in that. I had to spend half an hour this morning trying to pick golden hair off my teeth and tongue."

"Didn't you say she was clean shaven down there?" Lyonel asked. That's one of the many little things he got to know about his sister through his newest spy, and even in his distracted mood, he couldn't help but imagining what his sister's cunt was like when he talked about it.

"She does shave, almost every day. And that should give you an idea about all the other places that girl gets me to put my mouth in," the Wildling replied, before shuddering, in equal parts of disgust and pleasure.

"So how did you end up free this morning?"

"Your sister said she wasn't feeling well and had to go see someone. Some great master or something."

"What- you mean the Grand Maester? Pycelle? Lyonel asked in an incredulous tone, and his quick walk stopped for the first time.

"Yes," Ygritte replied. "Why is that so surprising?"

"Cause Cella hates Pycelle," the prince replied, remembering all the times his sister complained about the old, constantly grumbling, moaning maester with his clinking chains. Even in her sicknesses, Myrcella would always seek her septa rather than going to Pycelle. He started his walk again, though this time with a more confused mind. "You should keep a closer eye on her. See what business she has with Pycelle."

"No!" Ygritte finally burst out, stepping in front Lyonel so that he would have to stop and finally look at her properly. "I came down south to this stinking hellhole to fuck you, not to fuck your sister or spy on her! We haven't been able to talk properly for days now, and when you finally have the chance, you don't even spare a glance at me!"

"That is because I'm in a hurry," Lyonel said calmly. "And if that is what you are worried about, you should know that I haven't forgotten about you. I was about to surprise you with this tomorrow, but since you **** my hand, I'll tell it to you now. I've just been talking to my mother and telling her how good it would be if Cella gets to learn more about her soon to be in laws. Mother agreed and is arranging Sansa's morning lessons tomorrow to also include Myrcella. Meaning..."

"... that I'll be free all tomorrow morning," Ygritte finished, grinning wildly as realization slowly dawned on her. She punched the prince in the arm. "Well, maybe you aren't a brute after all."

Lyonel only smiled and stepped around her, resuming his journey.

"So, why are you in such a hurry?" Ygritte asked, once again catching up to him. She was considering much lighter, and her mood has improved drastically.

Instead of replying, Lyonel pointed at a long wooden building, the stables, before going in, followed closely by the young, curious Wildling. At the other end of the stables was Arya Stark, in one of the long drab dresses that the Starks make their women wear, which still fail to hide all their beauty. Her back was turned to them as she saddled her horses. Lyonel grinned suggestively at Ygritte. No words were needed.

"The girl's got an ass like a pumpkin," Ygritte muttered.

"Uh-huh."

"And I bet you can't wait to stick your face in it."

"That's the plan, eventually."

"And that's the sister of the woman you are supposed to marry," Ygritte snorted. "How you gained a reputation as a good and honourable man, I have no idea."

"That's a secret no one will ever know," Lyonel replied, winking mysteriously.

Ygritte rolled her eyes. "Keep your secrets then and go your little Stark girl. But remember, tomorrow, you belong to a real Northerner."

With that she walked out, while Lyonel walked on towards Arya, who looked back and saw him.

The Stark girl immediately straightened up. "Good morrow, Lyonel," she said timidly. It had been two days since their heart-to-heart, and her buttocks still painfully remembered the lessons imparted upon them, not soon to be forgotten.

The prince gave her his rakishly charming smile. "Well then... are you ready to go to the city?"

Arya didn't have to answer. The wolfish gleam in her grey eyes was answer enough.

Heat. And the noise. Those were the only things Lyonel could process, as he rode through the city with Arya and his small entourage of guards, in a speed that a snail would scoff at. At least the first he was somewhat used to, though he never grew to like it. But this number of crowds was something he was simply not used. King's Landing was already the most populous city in the continent, but the news of the tourney has attracted warriors, merchants and thrill seekers far and wide. Lyonel remembered characters in the books complaining about all the people that came to the city for the tourney, but this time around, the crowds might be as five times larger. For one, it wasn't just Ned Stark's appointment as Hand of the King being celebrated, but also his own betrothal to Sansa Stark. For another, an additional decade of peace, prosperity and Summer has resulted in a population boom in Westeros, as well as an expansion of the merchant class, signs of which he could see all around. As Lyonel rode his white mare through the streets of the capital, he saw Dornish wines, Northern furs, Reach fruits and Westerland goldworks on display. Not all of them were from Westeros either. He saw swaggering Braavosi with their slender, dangerous swords guarding the stalls of their employers, flamboyant Tyroshi selling yards of brightly coloured and grim faced Qohorik selling their ironworks, the best in the world. And then there were more exotic strangers from even beyond the Free Cities. Groups of ebony skinned Summer Islanders, best seamen in the world, who probably ferried at least half the foreign merchants, now thronged through the city wearing their brightly coloured feathers, and unnaturally pale Qartheen hid in the shadows while their servants sold their wares for them (servants, since they had to leave their slaves behind, slavery being outlawed in Westeros). This last group caught Lyonel's attention in particular, and he tried in vain to glimpse if any of their women were around, who traditionally wear gowns that leave one breast open. Now that's a fashion statement he can get behind! Among all these crowds were the Gold Cloaks, trying to keep the peace to the best of their abilities, but wearing chainmail in the smothering crowds has made their tempers short, and they lashed out at everything, generally making all of it even worse. In short, it was chaos.

And all of it was making Lyonel very, very grumpy. Arya, at least, enjoyed herself, for while the heat affected her more than most, the sight of the crowded city was not like anything she has ever seen before, and even the Winter Town near Winterfell, seemed like an isolated village compared to the show before her, which she enjoyed tremendously.

Eventually they made it to the Street of Steel, home to the city's smiths. The noise immediately worsened as the constant clanging of hammers joined the existing chorus of noises, while hedge knights roamed the streets, equipping themselves for the upcoming tourney. Fortunately, they were going to the shop of Tobho Mott, the best smith in the city (and probably in all of Westeros), whose wealth allowed him to create a mansion like shop some way off from the other smithies, on top of a small hill overlooking the sea. As they rode towards it, the noise lessened, and thankfully so did the crowds, as only a handful of people can afford to employ the master craftsman.

As Lyonel and his entourage stopped in front of the smithy, the man himself came out. Tobho Mott was a Qohorik, a once well-built man who has retained his strength even in his old age, though he has also gotten a pot belly along the way. "Good morrow, my prince! Good day to you!" he shouted jovially, the once strong Qohorik accent all but gone now.

"Good day to you too, Master Mott!" Lyonel said as he got off the horse, before going towards Arya. While the younger Stark was an expert horseman, for propriety's sake she had to wear a dress instead of her usual riding leathers and wasn't as nearly mobile as she wishes to be. As such, Lyonel had to put his arms around her waist and lift her off the saddle and into the ground, causing her to blush deeply, something that the prince didn't fail to notice.

Neither did the smith, for that matter. "And may I assume that the fair lady is your betrothed, the lady Sansa Stark, my prince?"

"She is a Stark, but the younger one."

"Of course!" Mott said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, even though he wondered what a young woman would do going around with her sister's betrothed, though the infatuation in her looks provided an obvious answer. He quickly cast off those thoughts; he became a rich man by serving these foreign nobles instead of trying to understand them. "The Lord Hand's younger daughter! I am honoured by your presence!"

"A pleasure," Arya replied, distracted by what just happened. Normally, the idea of being mistaken for Sansa would make her ill, but being mistaken as Lyonel's betrothed made butterflies fly in her tummy.

"Am I to assume that you are here to pick up your armour before the tourney, my prince?"

"Among other things. Shall we go in?"

"Of course!"

Tobho Mott's smithy was a large place, divided in two. The back half was more of a conventional smithy, where even now one can feel the heat and hammering noises emanating outwards. The front half that they entered into was much more of an artists' workplace, which was needed at the smithy because the nobility uses their armour to show off as well. Even as Lyonel looked on, he saw a focused young man with spindly arms drawing sketches of roses to a set of armour that no doubt belongs to a Tyrell, while further away, two boys were arguing exactly what hue of purple should be used for Lord Dondarrion's armour.

"We have your armour finished and hung right here, my prince," Mott said, reclaiming Lyonel's attention. "Right next to your Uncle Renly's. Easier to make the two together because they look much the same, at least in their shape."

With that, Lyonel beheld the two sets of armour, side by side. As Mott said, their shape was similar, two plate-in-plate sets of armour, one quite bigger than the other, but still of the same shape, and two full faced helms, completed with mighty, long stag antlers that resembled the beast in the Baratheon heraldry. Despite the similarity in their shapes, the other features of the armour could not be more different from one another. Renly's armour was inlaid with various hues of green, with intricate designs of stags intertwined with roses. If asked, he would say that the roses were there to honour his lady wife Margaery, though all would know that they were there for Loras' sake. The helm, too, was shaded with green, and the antlers gold, and it wouldn't surprise Lyonel one bit if the proud man had used real gold for the entire antler set. Lyonel's armour, on the other hand, was quite simple in contrast. While he would be wearing a surcoat over the armour during the tourney, it now stood bear, bright, dark steel gleaming dangerously, from plates to antlers, with only a thing line of gold in the corners of the helm and armour giving it colour. Renly's armour was beautiful, in the way a piece of art is beautiful. Lyonel's armour was beautiful in the brutal, simplistic way of a weapon. Its beauty lay in the silent promise of danger it delivers.

"It's beautiful," Arya said while looking at Lyonel's armour, which appealed to her martial yearnings.

"Indeed, it is," Lyonel said. "You have outdone yourself, Master Mott."

The old man blushed like a virgin and bowed his head in pleasure.

"I'll have my men collect the armour and pay you what you are owed," Lyonel said.

"My thanks, my prince."

"However, me and the Lady Arya are here for some other matters as well. Can we go to your forges, good smith?"

"Of course, your grace," the curious smith replied, before leading the couple to the back of the building, not commenting on the fact that the prince's arm now lay wrapped around Lady Stark's waist as they strolled.

The back of the smithy was... well an actual smithy. Hammering noises assaulted their ears as the heat encompassed them, and beads of sweat immediately began to form on the Northern girl's pale skin.

The smith working near the biggest anvil saw them, dropped his hammer (CLANG!) and walked over to them. "Good morrow your grace!"

"Good morrow, Gendry!"

The two men stood in front of each other, and the resemblance was striking. Sure, Gendry was a good deal shorter, and quite a bit stockier, but Mott had seen the boy cleaned of soot once in a while, and the Baratheon features was there, clear as day, but being a wise businessman, he never spoke of it aloud. Lyonel, too, could see that. Even the previous, obliviously naive Lyonel had been able to figure out that connection and had felt quite guilty about a half-brother living that way. While he couldn't do anything to Gendry in public in fear that it might hurt Cersei's feelings, he instead helped his brother out by sponsoring Mott, making sure Gendry would go on from apprentice to smith in the most successful smithy in the continent.

The Lyonel that now inhabited his body remembered this too, which was one of the reasons he brought Arya along specifically to this smithy in the first place, and he kept a close eye as he introduced one to the other. Gendry clearly was stricken. He had never seen such beauty before and was barely able to stumble through a polite greeting through his unconsciously gaping mouth. He bowed to hide his blushing (though the soot did that well enough) and wished that he was noble born so he could kiss her hand.

Arya, meanwhile, was very uncomfortable. Growing up under Sansa's long shadow, she never considered herself a beauty, and when this sweaty man gaped at her like that, all she could remember were the cruel taunts of her unhappy childhood. Arya Horseface! Arya Lumpyface! With the words ringing in her ear, she only gave a small, haughty nod to the smith, before cuddling harder into Lyonel, whose arm still wrapped her face, giving her a sense of security.

Lyonel, meanwhile, was looking at all of this with delight. Seeing Arya, who in another world would have a burning passion for Gendry, who apparently still found Arya attractive, be put off by him now and cuddling with him instead caused him to swell with pride and he had to distract himself before he popped a boner in public. "Show him your problem, dear," he told his student.

Arya put a hand into her pouch and grabbed her notched sword, before passing it to the smith. "I broke it while practicing."

"You train with the sword?" Gendry asked with amazement.

He was probably impressed, but Arya, being ridiculed for her hobby all her life, took it very badly, and gave him a withering look. She was about to give him a comment to go along with it, but Mott got there first. "Stupid boy!" he shouted, slapping Gendry in the back of the head. "How many times have I told you, that we do not question our customers!"

A shame faced Gendry issued out a list of apologies, which Arya accepted with a smug smile.

Looking at Arya's satisfaction at Gendry's misfortune, Lyonel again found himself in need of a distraction. "What do you think of the sword, Master Mott?"

"Simple in design, but very well made," the smith said, redirecting his attention to the small sword in his hand. "And of course, very easily fixed. Give me a week, at best."

"Very good," Lyonel replied. "But I was also hoping for some additional changes as well."

Arya stared at him. They came here to fix the sword, but he didn't mention anything about other changes.

"And what might they be, my prince?" the smith inquired.

"As you said, the sword is quite simple. I was hoping for a new, a bit more complex pommel. A wolf head would be quite apt, would it not?"

"Very apt, your grace."

"Also, the sword was given to lady Arya as a child, and she has grown since then. Adding some metal would help her with her balance, yes?"

"Indeed, your grace."

"Then I want you to add this metal, in particular," Lyonel said, digging out a coin the size of his palm. It was made of Valyrian steel, this particular type of coin the lowest denomination in Valyrian currency... but now of course, it was worth its weight in gold twenty times over.

Throughout the room, a hush took over, and Lyonel could feel Arya's body trembling beside his. She looked up to him. "L-Lyonel... you..."

The prince smiled at her, and dragged a hand through her back, something in between a sensual stroke and a friendly pat. Overwhelmed, Arya shut up.

"Well, can you do it Master Mott?" Lyonel asked, tossing the coin at the old smith.

"I'm the only person in this continent who can rework Valyrian Steel. I am the only one who can make this sword of yours," Mott replied proudly as he snatched the coin out of the air.

"Excellent."

"Would my prince need anything else?"

"I was thinking about a buckler for the lady as well. But we can choose one by ourselves," Lyonel said, nodding at a wall hung with shields. "But if you go out and show my men what my armour is, they can disassemble and pack it while we choose one."

"Very well, your grace," the old smith replied and walked out, while Gendry, who kept a tight lip since his blunder, walked back to his forge.

Lyonel and Arya, meanwhile, walked over to the wall of shields, but the girl's mind was clearly not in it. "Lyonel?" she asked timidly.

"Hmm?"

"Why did you do it. Valyrian Steel, for gods' sake! For me?"

"Why? Well, I already told you, didn't I? I believe you will be a great warrior one day. And great warriors need legendary weapons, do they not? And who knows, maybe that fancy sword of yours will save my life one day."

The prince was jesting, but Arya was close to tears. Words are wind, but Lyonel had proven himself to her above and beyond, spending so much time, and now a small fortune, on her. The teary, and also by now very sweaty, girl threw herself into his arms, burying her head in his chest. Lyonel wrapped his hands around her tiny waist and smiled fondly at the Wolf Girl. Then he noticed something weird. Looking around, he saw a dejected Gendry staring at them and he realized what he noticed. The hammer, for the first time, blissfully, has gone silent.

Lyonel was happier during the journey back to the keep. Sure, the sun was hotter, and the crowds were thicker, but seeing just how visibly happy Arya was really made it up to him. He had to spend a small fortune to make her this happy, he knew, but he didn't care that much. That coin had belonged to the royal coffers, one of the many artifacts from the Valyrian Freehold that the Targaryens tried desperately to hold on to, but dwindled ever so slowly, before the last of it was sold off during his father's early reign, partially because of Robert's disdain for anything Valyrian and partially because the man seemed to be always lacking cash. That coin Lyonel managed to salvage as a child, but he didn't know what to do with it, being too valuable to throw away, but not having enough of the stuff to reshape it into anything useful. He was glad that because of Arya's small stature it can be remolded to be a sword for her.

The prince's musings were disrupted by the girl he was thinking about, who rode besides him now through the city streets. "Lyonel?" she asked.

"Hmm?"

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Of course!"

"Why were you so casual and open in the smithy?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well," the Stark girl uttered, "you went to all that trouble in the Red Keep to hide the fact that I am learning the sword, but you just told that to Master Mott so casually. Why?"

"Ahh. That's very keen of you Arya," Lyonel said smiling. "You see, I was very open with you in the smithy because what Mott said was right. He's the best damned smith in the whole damned continent, and everyone in the city who's worth something goes to him. So, Mott doesn't play court politics, because if he favours one faction or the other, he'll lose half his clientele. And so, Mott stays neutral over all the politics in the city, and funnily enough, his smithy is one of the few safe places where secrets can be spilled."

"But..." Arya frowned as a quarrel broke out in the open, and the entire group had to veer into the other side of the street before she could continue. "But doesn't that mean Mott knows a lot of secrets about the most important men in the realm?"

"Indeed, he does."

"So, even if he remains true to his secretive nature, what's stopping someone from... say, torturing him for the information that he has?"

"Now you are thinking like a courtier!" Lyonel said with a chuckle. "In most cases, that's what would probably happen. But all the powerful men in the city depends on him, and-"

"He has made himself indispensable for everyone," the clever girl interrupted, realizing the dynamic immediately." Even if someone did take him out, that'll cause an outrage, and all the important men in the city will not rest until they find the culprit."

"You figured it out perfectly," Lyonel said with his dashing smile. "I think-"

Arya would not learn what the prince was thinking at the moment, for, just in that moment, a horde of screaming kids came out running from a nearby building, clogging up the already busy street. The kids surrounded the entourage, especially Lyonel, each trying to outdo the other in saying something, only to end up creating a cacophony of sounds where nothing was discernable. For a moment Arya was very confused, before she recognized a face or two from the crowd as the kids whom Lyonel was talking to before her first lesson. They were from his orphanage.

"I think we should listen to their demands," the prince said between laughs, obeying the little, tugging hands by jumping out of the saddle. "We can spend some time in the orphanage until the crowds lessen a bit."

Considering the fact that they had been staying in the same spot, under the sweltering sun, for more than ten minutes now, Arya nodded. With deft hands, he lifted her off her saddle, creating a wave of giggles among the smaller kids, though Arya noticed some of the older girls back staring back from the orphanage giving her envious and sullen looks. Of course, it would be absurd for them to think they can marry the crown prince, but even a sheltered girl like Arya knew that the girls over there at least considered the option of seducing and getting impregnated by Lyonel once their life. The prince had proven himself to be magnanimous and would definitely look after his own children (illegitimate or not) if he already takes care of orphans this much and bearing him a child would mean a life of comfort for these girls.

Children or not, just laying with the prince is privilege enough. The unbidden thought came to Arya, and she shook herself off it by looking ahead, where an elderly woman in Septa's robe greeted them.

"Seven blessings to you my prince... and to you, Lady Stark," the old Septa said, in a motherly voice, noticing the Stark sigil on the young lady's girl. Being in the presence of a Northern pagan unsettled her, but the wise Septa kept that to herself, not wanting to antagonize her benefactor.

They walked into the building, spacious and cool, while the prince carried on the conversation. "I hope you weren't in the middle of a lesson, Septa. The children ambushed me so suddenly!"

"And you have the audacity to act surprised, when they do that every time you pass by," the Septa smiled. "It's because you spoil these children."

When those words were uttered, some of the smallest children looked up at Lyonel expectantly. With a chuckle, he brought out a pouch of sweets he bought earlier that day and quietly passed it over to the children, who gleefully began to pass it around. While their little mouths were full, the prince inquired the Septa of the orphanage, from the studies going on to repairs to the outhouse. But the pouch was quickly depleted, and Lyonel soon found himself listening to the many troubles and quarrels of his young charges, listening attentively to each and every single one of them.

Arya, meanwhile, looked on with amusement and fondness. She remembered those old stories that Sansa used to read, of shining knights and perfect princes, and how she would often mock them, even as a child. Looking at Lyonel though, Arya couldn't help but see the perfect prince; strong and smart and skilled and handsome, yes, but also kind and just and loving to his people. Seeing the dashing young prince play with the small children created a yearning in Arya that she never even thought of before.

All of that was disrupted however with a fresh set of noises from the streets. A child near the window shouted. "It's Lady Margaery!"

Lyonel cursed and walked to the window. Margaery is a frequent visitor to the orphanages, but he didn't think she would be venture into the city at its present unruliness. Looking out of the window though, he could see everything clearly enough. A host of green clothed Tyrell knights, bumbling about in full armour, trying to find a place to maneuver their horses and a large palanquin through the unyielding crowds. After a near full minute of amusing fumbling, a visible annoyed Margaery stepped out into the street... followed by another lady, whose distinct red hair was easily recognizable even from where they were looking.

"Sansa!" Arya breathed out her sister's name.

"Yes. It seems like Margaery is bringing her new friend to her charity work now. What in the world are we going to do now?"

"Let's go and meet them," Arya said with an uncharacteristically cruel smile.

For a small, small second, Lyonel was tempted. What would his betrothed do if she saw him with her hated younger sister. Would she be able to keep on her precious mask of ladyhood, or would it finally fall?

Lyonel quickly dismissed those thoughts. Not only would that be very cruel, but also a very stupid thing to do in front of Margaery. The beautiful girl was a political shark that clung on to every available scrap of information and seeing him out with Arya would be an open buffet for her, a goldmine that can reveal tons of information that he'd rather keep to himself. "Septa. Can you show us the way out back?"

"Yes," the Septa said hesitantly, **** to help the prince sneak around with his betrothed's little sister. But he has a perfect reputation, and her concern was primarily with the children she feed and clothe with the money the prince gives her. "I can. And what about your guards?"

Lyonel nodded appreciatively and nodded over to a kid. "Go outside and tell Jarrick that me and Lady Arya will make our own way back to the castle. Tell him to lead the men and take my armour back the castle and tell them that if anyone asks, they are on their own. Understood? Go now!"

Once the kid scampered away, the Septa led them to the back door, and Arya struggled to keep pace with the prince's long strides. "Wouldn't the Tyrells be suspicious either way once they see your guards here?"

"Not at all," he replied, not slowing down. "As I said, most of guards came from this very own orphanage once. Many people know this. If she sees them, Margaery will assume they are back to see their old home and tutors, which they often do well enough."

With that, they opened the door and stepped out... to immediately being embraced again by the heat and noise.

"Look!" Arya pointed ahead.

On the other end of the street, the Tyrell entourage were making their way towards them. Apparently, not being able to stop at the front, the Tyrells had decided to see if the back of the orphanage has enough space to stop a palanquin.

Cursing, Lyonel tightly gripped Arya's hand, and rammed straight into the crowd. Lyonel's bulk cut them a path through the crowd, but it was still sluggishly slow and suffocating. Vendors who gave them a wide berth on horseback now pestered them, almost throwing their wares at them. Lyonel knew they must look tempting. The rich clothes they wore signify that they can afford almost everything on the markets, and the fact that they were on foot meant that the merchants thought they could pester them with offers a bit without fearing too much of repercussions.

And then there were the whores. Arya didn't even notice them on horseback, but now they were everywhere, women of all ages and sizes, all in various stages of undress, throwing themselves at Lyonel, to exorbitantly low prizes. Some even offered to sleep with the prince free, which Arya assumed must be some clever marketing strategy. After all, who has ever heard of whores peddling their charms for free?

One auburn haired young girl who saw the dashing Lyonel from far away ran towards them, tits swinging wildly under a loose white shift, before slowing down after seeing Arya and her sinful figure, the sweat drenched dress clinging tightly to Arya's massive buttocks, easily three times bigger than her own. "Oh," she said in a dejected voice. "You already found yourself a whore."

Arya was FURIOUS, but before she could say anything, the girl has lost herself amongst the sea of faces.

Eventually, after walking through **** crowds for what felt like an eternity, they reached a street that seemed less crowded. Lyonel leaned against the building and exhaled. "I think we are safe now." He then chuckled at the absurdity of the situation, which quickly grew into a roar of laughter, and soon Arya too was joining in, laughing while clutching her stomach, wondering what the fuck just happened.

Eventually, she wiped the tears off her eyes and looked around. "Where are we anyway?"

Lyonel too looked around, and his heart sank. Buildings covered either side of the street, with women on balconies calling on to travelers. There were tables in the middle of the road, with soldiers lounging around, dicing and drinking, while semi naked women in transcalent clothes (far more professional than those he encountered earlier) wrapped themselves enticingly around the men. The Street of Silk. The section of whorehouses in King's Landing. And this was the more respectable part. Deeper down, Lyonel knew that there would be fucking at plain sight, and further away, there would be sights that would give Arya's sheltered little heart a massive attack.

"Let's go," he said, grabbing her hand again and turning around... only to see a group of Stark men-at-arms exiting a nearby establishment, blocking their way out of the street.

Next to him, Lyonel could hear Arya whimper. Sure, she never cared much for her reputation, but there's a massive difference is neglecting one's social roles to finding oneself in the biggest den of sin in this part of the world, covered in sweat, holding hands with your sister's betrothed.

Lyonel too, looked around hopelessly. How the fuck could he get out of this situation without causing a massive scandal, a major diplomatic breakdown with the North and keeping his friend's honour intact?