CHAOS IS A LADDER

Cover image: http://i.imgur.com/S8EuGH4.jpg

I

She had made a terrible mistake.

Staring at the ground, Ros dragged along the sunset-lit streets of King’s Landing, accompanied by two knights of the Kingsguard. A few steps ahead, a tall, well-groomed man in a long embroidered costume with a mockingbird pin was leading the procession – Lord Petyr Baelish, her employer. One of the most dangerous men in all Seven Kingdoms, as some people rightfully described him. Coincidentally, the man she had betrayed.

When the knights, one of whom Ros recognized as Meryn Trant, a known degenerate, had broken into her room at Baelish’s pleasure house, he had been remarkably silent – yet his eyes had been glowing with hatred, a sight fairly rare for the always composed and rational man that Petyr had a reputation of being. The only words he had said to her in his chilling, menacing voice as she had been shoved out into the street were “You are working tonight.”

And there she was, escorted along the streets of the capital in clothes far too transparent and revealing, left to wonder anxiously where she was being taken to and why. Though, admittedly, Baelish’s apparent fury answered the second question fairly well – Ros could think of only one reason in the world for him to be this mad at her. How foolish she had been to think that playing double games with him and that scheming eunuch Varys would bring her anything but trouble, she scolded herself. Varys, that sly master of whisperers, was nowhere around to save her now, despite all of his assurances of protection. In retrospect, standing between two of the greatest plotters of the realm and playing spy games had to be one of the worst decisions she had made during her stay in the capital.

Ros lifted her head and quietly gasped, suddenly realizing that the winding path they were taking was slowly but inevitably bringing them closer to the Red Keep, the ugly tall structure that looked like it was painted with blood way too often at sunsets. “My Lord,” she spoke sheepishly, her voice breaking nervously. Baelish didn’t respond, continuing down the paved street. “Lord Baelish!” Ros raised her voice, her step slowing. “Where are you taking me? Please. I deserve to know at least this much.”

Baelish stopped and turned around with a sigh, giving a sign to the guards to stop as well. “Allow me to remind you of something,” he spoke softly. “It is unbecoming of a whore to ask questions. Whores do what they are told, they serve their client and they make sure the client is satisfied. Do not ever forget that.”

“I am not a whore!” Ros objected, stressing every word. “Not anymore. I’m your assistant. My Lord, please… Have you forgotten?”

A subtle, almost unnoticeable smirk appeared on Petyr’s lips as he approached her. “Oh, but you are.”

A look of disgust and fear crossed Ros’ face. Biting her lip, she looked him in the eye, feeling her chin tremble. After observing her reaction for a couple more seconds with that same hint of a smirk on his face, Baelish turned around, clicked his fingers and marched on. The guards obeyed, following him.

Ros, however, did not. After a second of hesitation, she turned around, lifted the skirts of her peach-colored tunic and took off in the opposite direction, her face blushing from anxiety, tears welling up in her eyes and warm wind running through her curly hair.

A few moments later, a heavy armored glove suddenly reached from behind and squeezed her shoulder, and Ros gasped as she was whirled around, almost tripping over the hem of her tunic. Towering above her, Meryn Trant raised his free hand and slapped her hard across her face. Ros exhaled loudly and immediately pressed a hand against her terribly burning cheek, feeling scratches from the metal glove on her left cheekbone and lower lip. She instinctively raised her shoulders, as if that could save her from another hit, looking up at the knight in fear.

“Ser Meryn!” Baelish was quick to intervene. “I’ll have to ask you to refrain from that. I’m afraid that’s excessive.”

Trant scoffed, turning around. “I take orders from the King, Littlefinger. Not from you,” he spat back.

Ros saw a brief glimpse of a barely contained emotion flash on Baelish’s face. She knew he couldn’t stand that nickname.

“Of course!” Petyr grinned, clasping his hands together. “You are right. But I’ve heard His Grace likes them pretty. Makes me wonder, really… What would he have to say if he learned that someone abused his present before him? Let us not make this unnecessarily complicated.”

Ros felt all color drain from her face as she heard the words. So that’s what it was… His Grace. Of course. Everything clicked into place. The Kingsguard, the secrecy, the back streets. Of all the high lords dwelling in the Red Keep who could ask for her company, of course, it just had to be him. She would choose anyone over him. Anyone, even that old fart Pycelle, or even the greasy beggar up the street watching them now, but not him.

Not that little monster.

“Lord Baelish,” she pleaded as Petyr approached her and looked at her face attentively. “Please, My Lord, please. Don’t give me to him!”

Baelish squinted his eyes and pulled a handkerchief out of the pocket of his costume, then reached to Ros’ face to wipe blood from her lip. “There,” he said quietly, putting the handkerchief away, then nodded to Trant. “I hope we have a mutual understanding.” He turned around and continued down the street.

“Move!” Meryn bellowed, grabbing Ros by the elbow and gesturing to the other guard to do the same. Ros closed her eyes, fighting the panic growing inside her as she was pulled along. The memory of what had happened the last time when she had been in Joffrey Baratheon’s chamber was too fresh.

II

Meryn Trant took one last heavy step down the stairs deep in the bowels of the Red Keep, walked over to the thick wooden door guarded by two more members of the Kingsguard and knocked on it. “My King, Lord Petyr Baelish is here,” he announced loudly. Petyr raised his eyebrows, looking at Trant with a silent question painted on his face. “With a present,” the knight added, giving Baelish a dirty look.

“Let him in,” a young voice answered from behind the door after a brief moment of silence. Trant grabbed the door handle and pulled the door open, then stood aside, letting Petyr and Ros slip inside before following them into the room with the other guard.

“Your Grace,” Baelish bowed low to the golden-haired King sitting on a soft bench in the center of the spacious, richly decorated bedroom.

“Lord Baelish,” Joffrey Baratheon nodded with a smile. “I see you have brought what I asked for?”

“Exactly, Your Grace,” Petyr clasped his hands at the level of his waist and took a step forward. “Just like you asked. Someone well suited for your little… experiment.”

An uneasy feeling filled Ros’ stomach. Without turning around, Baelish clicked his fingers, and she felt Trant push her from behind. With a nervous exhale, she stepped forward as well, feeling her heart racing in her chest as Joffrey eyed her barely dressed body.

“I hope you like her, Your Grace,” Baelish continued with an obsequious smile glued to his lips. “They say those with red hair are the best thing money can buy for these… activities.”

“Uhh, yes, yes.” Joffrey seemed to be too preoccupied with staring at Ros to pay enough attention to Petyr’s words. He moved nervously on his seat, as if the dialogue was making him uncomfortable. “About that, Lord Baelish,” he raised his voice and leaned back on the bench in a pose that seemed a bit too strained. “I do understand that… this… may bring some loss of income to your establishment, even if temporary. You will be paid twice the price we were discussing, to mitigate your losses.” A forced smug smile appeared on his face.

Ros closed her eyes. A sticky, sickening feeling of primal fear was creeping up on her.

“You are too kind, Your Grace,” Baelish bowed respectfully once again. “Though I assure you, that is unnecessary. I have decided she would be a present, actually, and I refuse to take money for presents from friends. And we are friends, aren’t we, Your Grace? Besides, I am sure the Crown could find far better use for money in these troubled times.”

Looking up at Petyr, Joffrey slowly stood up from his seat and ran a hand along the front of his tight-fitting golden costume with streaks of red in it. “I’d like to think we are, Lord Baelish,” he nodded with a respectful smile. “And I appreciate your generosity. I assure you, your loyalty and this expensive present,” he glanced at Ros again, “will not be forgotten. Still, if there is anything within my power to help your pleasure house deal with this inconvenience…”

Baelish smiled timidly, looking at Joffrey. “Believe me, Your Grace, in my establishment we accommodate all inclinations. We have learned to deal with inconveniences like these.”

Ros took a small step back and quietly gasped when she bumped into the armor of Meryn Trant standing behind her.

“Very well,” Joffrey nodded. “I will not waste your time any longer then, I am sure it is very valuable to you these days. You are sailing to the Eyrie tomorrow, I’ve heard?”

Petyr couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “News and rumors of my journey travel so fast that others learn them before me, I have found recently.” He glanced back at Ros. For a brief moment, the smile on his face changed to a cold look of disappointment as his eyes fixed on her. “Though if the weather holds, I set sail tomorrow, indeed.”

“We may not see each other for a while, then,” Joffrey said, and Baelish nodded affirmatively. “Congratulations on your arrangement with Lady Arryn. You are a fortunate man.”

“Same as you, Your Grace,” Petyr was quick to return the courtesy. “Your betrothed Lady Margaery is a rare beauty.”

Joffrey chuckled shyly, looking down at the floor. “She is, indeed. I hope you have a safe journey, Lord Baelish.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Petyr bowed low once again before turning around and heading for the door. As he walked past Ros, the sheer look in his eyes when he looked at her one last time made the knot in her stomach twist tighter.

The heavy door shut with a thud behind the nobleman, and Ros closed her eyes for a couple seconds, inhaling deeply and trying to calm down. The only man who could save her from what was coming was gone now – not that he had been very eager to do so when he had the chance, of course. But, even in the light of the recent events, Petyr Baelish was still someone capable of compassion, Ros had been hoping. The people she was left with now had none of it.

Slowly, Joffrey approached her, his grayish eyes steadily fixed on her pale round face. Looking down at the floor, too scared to look him in the eye, Ros could swear she could feel the boy’s cold stare on her skin as he stood in front of her. After a few seconds of tense silence, Joffrey reached for her chin with his hand, making Ros shudder and lift her head up. The orange flames of the chandeliers in the dimly lit room illuminated her face, bringing the fresh scratches on her cheek into Joffrey’s view. The young King took a step back and looked at the knight standing behind the woman. “Ser Meryn,” he said in a commanding voice, and a faint glimmer of hope shone in Ros’ heart. Whatever torment awaited her, a part of her was glad that this animal would get his own share of the King’s fury.

The realization of the same idea had to be painted on Trant’s face behind her because Joffrey scoffed, observing him. “Do you see that baldaquin frame above my bed?” he asked instead. He walked back to the small table next to the seat he had been sitting on and grabbed a short rope from it, then threw it towards the second guard. “Tie her to it.”

“What?” Ros protested weakly as Trant rudely grabbed her by the arm and pulled her in the direction of the bed. “Y-your Grace,” she pleaded in panic, her heart pounding in her chest. “That is unnecessary!”

Joffrey remained silent, watching the two guards tie her hands together in front of her. Trant reached to the baldaquin hanging from the frame between two bedposts at the feet of the bed and pulled it aside, then yanked Ros’ arms up. “I will do as you please, Your Grace,” the red-haired woman continued, “but this is… Your Grace, please!” She wiggled between the two knights, and the rope that had been thrown over the frame slipped out of their hands.

Meryn Trant sighed and looked at Joffrey, as if seeking permission for something. The King nodded, and the next moment the guard’s armored fist slammed hard into Ros’ stomach right under her breasts, making her wheeze and double over in pain as the air was knocked out of her. Squirming and moaning, she almost slid down to the floor if it hadn’t been for the second guard who held her. Ros closed her eyes, blinking tears of resentment and pain away as her arms were yanked up again. She sobbed, feeling dull pain from the blow spread across her abdomen, and leaned slightly on the bedside with her lower back to support herself. Up above, the rope was digging painfully into her wrists as the two guards were finishing the tight knot.

“Good,” Joffrey commented with a nod of satisfaction, observing the result when the knights stepped away. “Very good. Although… Ser Meryn,” the young King licked his lips, stopping the guards in their tracks as they headed for the door. “I want to see her legs,” he said with a smug smile, and the girl shuddered, seeing Trant step closer to her again. “Undress her.”

As the knight reached for the skirts of her tunic, Ros shut her eyes and hissed quietly, fear and disgust clearly painted on her face. The sound of ripping fabric filled the room, and soon what little was left of the piece of clothing fell to her feet. Trant reached down to pick it up and lay it on the side of the bed next to her hips, and Ros audibly exhaled, almost feeling the gaze of the men in the room on her skin.

“Now leave me,” Joffrey commanded, making a shiver run down her spine. “And Ser Meryn, send those other oafs at the door away. I want you two to guard the door tonight. A-and I am not to be bothered,” he added with a slight hint of nervousness in his voice. “By anyone.”

Trant nodded, giving a sign to the other guard to leave.