Arya clung to the statue of Baelor, the plinth rocking beneath her as the crowd surged forward. She looked around wildly for an escape route, only seeing rioting smallfolk at every turn. She could see them bringing her father up the steps of the Great Sept, and she looked again in vain, wanting to run to him. Suddenly, an odd movement caught her eye at the edge of the crowd. A lean, dark-haired man was lounging against a wall in an alley off the square, his face in sharp profile, and he was gently guiding a weeping woman to her knees before him. As Arya watched, he cupped her chin with a hand, a golden ring on his forefinger winking in the sun, and leaned down slightly. She could see his lips moving, though she thought she must be imagining their slight blue tint, and the woman shivered as though she were kneeling in foot-deep snow. His other hand went to the laces of his breeches, and Arya looked away then, back to her father, also being forced to kneel.
As her father began to speak, she turned her head away from the pitiful sight of him, and her eyes were drawn again to the man in the alley. The woman had taken his cock in her mouth... Arya knew how this worked now, from her time on the streets. The dark man had a hand on the back of her head, guiding her movements with a laugh, even as she wept. Suddenly, his head turned, and Arya had time to realize he was wearing an eyepatch before she locked gazes with him. His one uncovered eye, the bluest she’d ever seen, was boring into her grey ones, and his lips were turned up in an eerie smile.
She couldn’t look away, even as her father’s treasonous words whipped the crowd into a frothing rage. His words, or the mood they raised in the square, seemed to stir something within the dark man, as well; he was now gripping the woman’s hair and thrusting obscenely against her face, all the while staring into Arya’s eyes, the smile on his face oddly reminding her of Theon Greyjoy, her father’s ward.
“Ser Ilyn, bring me his head!” Arya’s head snapped back to her father upon hearing those words, and watched in horror at the scene unfolding on the steps of the Great Sept. Sansa screamed, fainting dead away, the Queen was pulling at her son’s sleeve, various members of the court were shouting, but Arya’s eyes fixed on her father. Lank, unwashed hair fell into his face, lips moving in a silent prayer, as he knelt waiting for the blow.
Arya looked away, unable to watch, and her eyes found the alley again, almost against her will. The man had finished in the short time she’d looked away, Arya could tell by the way he held his body, though the woman was still working away at him. He touched her cheek, ever so gently, speaking a word, and the woman stopped, rocking back on her heels and staring up at him as he tucked his cock back in his breeches.
The crowd’s noise reached a fever pitch, and Arya knew she should watch her father die, but she couldn’t look away. The dark man drew a dagger from his belt, leaned down and drew it across the woman’s throat slowly and deliberately. As he dropped her head and nudged her lifeless body aside carelessly, he straightened and looked at Arya again. She bared her teeth at him in a feral snarl, but he only winked at her with that impossibly blue eye and sketched a mocking bow, then turned on his heel and strode away.