Jaime Lannister was dangerously close. Arya could feel the weight of his suspicion, heavy and suffocating. The air left her lungs as she tried to manufacture a believable flicker of confusion on the trader's face.
"Looking, my Lord?" Arya forced a low chuckle, praying her voice didn't crack. "Looking for the way back to my ship, of course! This place—" she waved a jeweled hand dismissively— "is fascinating, but hardly conducive to the health of a profitable man. I assure you, my Lord, I am merely lost."
Jaime's gaze didn't waver. His real hand moved, subtly resting on the pommel of his blade. "Perhaps I will personally ensure you are not lost before dawn. I have a long memory for faces, and a long list of people I thought were dead."
Before Arya could formulate a reply—a feigned cough, perhaps, or a sudden demand for ale—a sharp bell suddenly rang from the monastery's highest tier. It was a clear, urgent chime that immediately shattered the focus of the courtyard.
All eyes, including Jaime's, snapped upward.
A man in a plain grey robe hurried down the stone steps from an administrative building, clutching a thick scroll sealed with black wax. He bypassed the scholars and went straight to Jaime, bowing deeply and speaking quickly in the low, urgent Valyrian dialect they used.
Jaime's suspicion instantly shifted into sharp focus on the scroll.
"What is it, Maester?" he demanded, his voice now purely the general's, the soldier's.
"A raven, My Lord," the man whispered, clearly distressed. "It arrived through the northern channel. The seal is broken, but the message is... concerning. It speaks of a 'Golden Company' movement near Storm's End, and a sudden, unexpected census order from Queen Sansa in Winterfell."
The mention of her sister's name was a jolt of ice water down Arya's spine. The news confirmed it: these were not just scholars; they were actively monitoring and interfering with the politics of Westeros.
The distraction was the only gift the Many-Faced God was offering.
Jaime took the scroll, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Storm's End? That should be secured." He waved dismissively at Arya's escort. "Take the trader to the barracks. Confine him there. He is not to leave before I have personally questioned him after reviewing this."
"Yes, My Lord." The scar-faced guard grabbed Arya's arm with rough strength.
"A pity!" Arya called out, affecting Hascarl's disappointment as she was dragged away. "I was looking forward to a stimulating discussion about shipping manifests! Such a shame!"
She played the part of the disgruntled, wealthy captive perfectly, allowing herself to be marched toward a low, heavy building near the outer wall. As they moved, Arya glanced back one last time. Jaime was already hunched over the scroll, completely absorbed, the memory of her "familiar eyes" temporarily forgotten.
She was now a prisoner, but she was inside. The mission had advanced.