A/N: next chapter will be newly written
4
Unlike others, Jon had no problems with seasickness. While some were vomiting off the sides of the ship, he was either sitting inside his small compartment, bored, or busy about his duties, scrubbing the deck and helping in the kitchens.
However, he experienced a different type of sickness—the unrelenting panic caused by the violently flowing waters. Since his escapade in the White Knife, he had become terrified of it.
A storm had hit the previous night, and while it hadn't done any near-catastrophic damage to the ship, he spent the night huddled in a cold sweat, sitting on his tiny bunk
Seawater lapped the cleaning equipment stored below—his quarter was in the lower parts of the ship, a hybrid between a cabin and a storage room—and water flowed a steady stream into it. And around then, the darkness gulped him down.
He could never forget that feeling of utter helplessness, the crushing weight of the water swirling around him, the bitter taste in his throat after he had pulled himself onto the riverbank. And the wind keening in the lines reminded him of the terrible thin sucking sound he'd made as he fought to draw in air. After that experience, he could not even imagine going in water any deeper than his waist.
The Bay of Seals was a lot deeper than his waist. Its waters were gray and green and choppy, and the wooded shore they followed was a snarl of rocks and whirlpools. Even if he could kick and crawl that far somehow, the waves were like to smash him up against some stone and break his head to pieces.
For days, in his dreams, he felt the waves bruising him, filling his lungs, swallowing him into its infinite depths.
A day with little to no rest later, the storm subsided, and he returned to his normal lifestyle—half the time being crushingly bored and the other half working a panicked frenzy.
There was a slight downward incline in the wooden planks that made up his floor, brimming with salty water—or otherwise, it was a tiny puddle. He didn't try to dry it but instead spent his hours watching it slowly evaporate, it quivering at every bump in the ocean, threatening to break free of the meager confines of gravity and surface tension.
He was bored. Sooo bored.
The trading vessel he was on, Fat Mary, was bringing goods to King's Landing, purchasing goods there, and then sailing to Pentos and back to White Harbor in a cycle. It was a profitable venture, many of those sailors—or traders—having become reasonably wealthy as there wasn't a third party, like one of those overweight magisters from Pentos, taking the majority of the profits.
Beneath gray skies they sailed, east and south and east again, as the Bay of Seals widened about them.
His journey wasn't all that unpleasant, however. The crewmembers were friendly to him due to his hard-working nature. The trip was also much quicker than his frantic trek through the north; though dreadfully dull, at least it didn't require dying of starvation and disease.
In summary, he made himself very useful, and in turn, received passage without having to pay any coin. He was even offered to join the crew as a permanent member, and for three whole nights he had dared to dream of a life of adventure and freedom.
Then he realized that just like how it was for the past few days, he would be surrounded by an empty expanse and rowdy men playing dice, drinking themselves into oblivion.
But if not that, then what?
Jon hoped to depart from the crew in Pentos, maybe find work somewhere, then later on, when he's old enough, become a sellsword and travel around—see where life takes him. It was not a great nor detailed plan, but for now it'll make do.
After less than two weeks, they turned into Blackwater Bay, and it wasn't much longer before they arrived in King's Landing.
He smelled it when it was not even a dot in his eyes, like something rotten, like food soaked in dung left out for a month to marinate, then burnt to release an all-encompassing odor, but with the process repeated a hundred times over in an enclosed room. His companions wrinkled their noses in distaste, cursing the violent invasion on their senses. It only got worse as the ship sailed closer, as out in the open sea, warm breezes managed to disperse a small fraction of it, while closer, summer winds didn't dare to approach.
Jon had read about it, of course, but only up close could he genuinely comprehend the smell, the all-consuming putrid stink, of shit and piss and who knows what goes on in that accursed city.
High overhead, the far-eyes sang out from the rigging, making the Fat Mary burst into frenetic activity as King's Landing slid into view atop its three high hills.
From what Jon had gathered from the tomes in the library at Winterfell, these heights had been covered with nothing but trees and wildlife, and only a handful of fisherfolk that had lived on the north shore of the Blackwater Rush where that deep, swift river flowed into the sea. It was in this very spot where Aegon the Conqueror had his army put ashore, and there on the highest hill that he built his first crude redoubt of wood and earth.
Now the city covered the shore as far as Jon could see; manses and arbors and granaries, brick storehouses and timbered inns and merchant's stalls, taverns and graveyards and brothels, all piled one on another.
A hundred quays lined the waterfront, and the harbor was crowded with ships like a flock of birds. Deepwater fishing boats and river runners came and went, ferrymen poled back and forth across the Blackwater Rush, trading galleys unloaded goods from Braavos and Pentos and Lys, while upriver, a dozen lean golden warships rested in their cribs, sails furled and cruel iron rams lapping at the water.
And above it all, frowning down from Aegon's high hill, was the Red Keep; seven huge drum-towers crowned with iron ramparts, an immense grim barbican, vaulted halls and covered bridges, barracks and dungeons and granaries, massive curtain walls studded with archers' nests, all fashioned of pale red stone.
Jon broke out of his terrified awe as the Fat Mary thumped against the dock, with seamen leaping down to tie the ship up. On the dock, he could see the captain heatedly arguing with one of the staff members, trying to negotiate lower fees for mooring.
Surprisingly, he had quickly gotten used to the stench. By the second hour, he no longer felt the overwhelming urge to vomit and was just left with a constant sense of supreme discomfort.
The ship was going to leave in less than two days. None of the sailors wanted to stay in King's Landing for long, preferring to depart immediately after goods were exchanged and supplies restocked.
With no duties, as Jon was too small to help unload cargo, the captain generously tossed him a few silver coins and told him to explore the city and buy a trinket or two, but explicitly warned him to stay away from the slums or anywhere without patrolling city guards.
It was mid-afternoon, and the sun glared from above, threatening to roast them all alive.
River Row began at the market square beside the River Gate, as it was named on maps, or the Mud Gate, as it was commonly called. He walked through a fish market, the raw pungent smell of raw fish acted as a perfume to the surrounding stench. It was early afternoon, and merchants and fishermen lined the streets, loudly boasting about the quality of their produce from stalls hastily constructed with wooden planks and mud-colored cloth.
The market was loud with conversation, arguments, and laughter. Shoppers browsed the items, from excited kids skipping around to old ladies stumbling with hunched backs, bringing home produce for their families to eat. Some vendors vehemently haggled over the price of their goods, and others were in delight after selling out and making a good profit.
It wasn't just seafood being sold. Peddlers approached passerbys, enthusiastically proclaiming the brilliancy of one item or another. None approached Jon, for he had long mastered being inconspicuous, looking almost like a servant boy, so of course, no one would waste time pitching their sale to him.
Elsewhere a pair of cyvasse players waged war outside a tavern. Jon could also make out a woman singing, the words were strange, and the tune was sad. Closer to hand, a crowd, gathering around a pair of jugglers throwing flaming torches at each other, oohed and ahhed in appreciation at their talent, occasionally tossing coppers into a tin jar.
Jon, entranced by the vibrant colors and the loud noises, almost missed the spectacle that took place a mere few feet away from him. In the blink of an eye, a frail old man with a gaunt face, crooked teeth, and scrappy hair, snatched a passer-by's purse with practiced ease. Unfortunately for him, a thread got caught on the belt, not coming loose on the first tug but arriving soundly in the thief's hands on the second. The victim stumbled, angrily turning around, having felt the pull and the missing weight from his waist a moment later, but was a second too late. He lunged, shouting, at the offender, who had already bolted like a frightened rat.
A pair of city guards, dressed in billowing gold cloaks and black ringmails, gave chase. For all the experience and the knowledge that the old man possessed, he simply could not outrun the younger, faster soldiers, one of whom leaped onto the thief's back, bringing the pair tumbling into the mud right beside the spot Jon was standing upon. The purse dropped and hundreds of coins, both rusted and glistening, sprang out. The rest of the guards were upon him in seconds, violently beating him with the pommel of their swords and iron cudgels.
In the resulting commotion, Jon, being exceptionally daring, plucked a single golden coin from the ground before the guards could secure the area for the purse to be returned, slipping it into his pocket before discreetly walking away as if nothing had happened.
Poor fool, he thought to himself. Judging from the quality of the victim's clothing and the fullness of his purse, he was likely some minor lord or wealthy merchant, and punishments were usually much harsher when offending someone of status. The crook was most likely going to lose a hand or would be sent to the wall.
When he was well away from the gold cloaks, he brought out the coin that he had taken from the ground. He held it almost reverently in his hands. A whole gold dragon! Jon was ecstatic. That itself was worth several moons of salary for even a well-off worker; it could buy him a thousand loaves of bread or even a suit of armor!
His heart was racing in his chest, adrenaline coursing through his veins. Had he been caught, he would have been in a situation no better than the old man who was caught. No, he wasn't safe yet, someone could still have seen him.
He schooled his expression, calming himself and making himself look hurried, but holding great purpose, resembling a messenger boy bringing important information to this and that lord of that and this.
They lined the walls, with shining swords and crossbows, guarding the cesspit the tall and sturdy stone enveloped. Approaching the River Gate, the gold cloaks didn't bother acknowledging him, and he walked in. Immediately, he felt an oppressive shadow cast onto him.
As Jon walked into the crowded streets, he lamented his decision of stepping into this foul cesspit of a city. Rows upon rows of houses, not at all neatly arranged like the ones in White Harbor, were squished hazardously together in a confused, violent riot. And the reek of excrement only intensified as he went deeper into the city.
He had thought that Wynn was exaggerating about the terrible, deep-running poverty. She was not. Two ragged boys no older than himself were dueling with sticks, to the loud encouragement of some and the furious curses of others. An old woman ended the contest by leaning out of her window and emptying a bucket of slops on the heads of the combatants. A beggar laid in a darkened alley—one of the thousands hidden from casual eyes as they would be forcibly removed by gold cloaks if not—praying with bony arms that someone would save him.
Jon handed two of the silver coins from his little fortune to the beggar. The beggar looked up, shocked that someone had even bothered showing kindness in a selfish and treacherous place like King's Landing.
Jon gave a quick smile, "Spend it wisely," before walking away.
It felt almost good to be one of the only people who cared; although he knew that it was all futile, it was all pointless. He was making next to no impact in the grand scheme of things, the money would feed the man for a few weeks at best, and he would be back to starvation again.
He made a solemn oath that if given the power, he would do everything to fix this goddamn issue, helping Wynn achieve her dreams too.
It was not normally like this, however. King Robert held frequent tourneys and lavish feasts, causing gold to seep into the city but also making the prosperity artificial; no way holding a grand tourney every moon could sustainably stimulate the local economy. Soon, the crown would be beggared. Furthermore, the recent rationing to aid the war effort had dramatically worsened the situation, causing soup kitchens to run out of food and workers to lose their jobs.
Jon carried on, exploring twisted, narrow, little roads and wide, bustling ones. The sense of adventure beckoned; as if nothing could stop him. Not Lady Stark, not Sansa, not Maester Luwin nor his Lord Father, or anybody else for that matter. He felt as if he could even sneak into the Red Keep to get a glimpse of the Kingsguards in their glory, but he held off on that course of action.
But after an hour of strutting through the winding alleyways and streets, he found himself hopelessly lost. His arrogance and pride had led him down a path of certain demise. He had somehow wandered into the darker parts of the town—exactly the kind of places the captain had cautioned him against.
Unlike the raucous and noisy streets that he had been exploring before, this place reeked of a quiet sort of danger. A naked corpse was sprawled in the gutter, being torn at by a pack of feral dogs, yet no one seemed to care. The markets had a few shifty looking men selling their goods for any price they could get… and it was conspicuously empty of farmers selling food.
The sky will darken soon, still bright, but it may become more dangerous as the patrols lessen and the average residents leave the streets. The sun was fleeing from its position directly above him, no longer watching over the city.
But as Jon turned right into an alleyway that, by his calculations, should get him back to River Row, he quickly found himself surrounded. There were four kids — three boys and one girl — each not much older than himself. He felt the cold sting of iron on the back of his neck, with what he suspected to be a sharp metal rod. The rest, from what he could see through the darkness, held a wooden bat, the third held a fork, and the fourth a gray lump of concrete.
A boy sneered. He was skinny, but tall, with a boyish face. His attempt at intimidation looked incredibly forced, and it was, frankly, ridiculous. "Gimme all yer money."
He fingered the dagger that he had hidden in his pocket, he felt confident enough to take out all of them with ease. The one who would prove the highest threat was the girl with the fork, as it was the only weapon that any of them could wield properly without dropping it. He felt some unease, though, as one cut with the fork and he would die within a day due to infection.
"Is this your first time doing this?" Jon asked, showing a confident exterior, amusement lacing his words.
"All ya money. Now. Or we'll take it from ye dead body." Another one barked with a squeaky voice. This one was smaller in stature, not much taller than Jon.
"Your weapons are not going to take out anybody armed with even a small dagger. And, it was a mistake removing the rod from my neck." Jon nimbly took a small step back and extracted his weapon, to the alarm of the attackers. Adopting a fighting stance, he rotated around slowly.
"Also, you don't even have me fully surrounded. Anybody could have fled by now." Jon pointed to his right, indicating to them a narrow alleyway. Though he already knew that it was a dead-end, he just wanted some amusement out of it.
The tall boy, abashed, moved to cover the supposed escape route, his guards up, and looked at his weapon with fear evident in his eyes.
"Jarrack, he's playing with you," the girl sighed. "That's a dead-end and you know it."
Jon continued bluffing. "Moreover, why would a servant boy like me have any money? I'm delivering a message to my lord. Besides, it's not worth it for you to take the risk of dying just to get a total of two coppers."
The girl spoke. She was light-brown skinned, with tangled hair. "You look like a lost lordling—the way you stand and talk, probably have a brimming purse under that skirt."
Jon scanned his surroundings, looking for a way out. While he was slightly itching for a fight, he would prefer not hurting any of these children.
"Same for all of you. Your arrogance is suffocating, much like any spoiled noble heir." Jon retorted.
The girl flushed, indignant. "I'm not!"
"How long have you been waiting to ambush the next poor person who walked through here? An hour? Two? Doesn't really look like anybody of note would pass through here,"
The girl answered, "Nobody patrols here, neither the gold cloaks nor the Emperors' goons."
"The what?" Jon asked, bewildered. As far as he knew, Westeros was a kingdom, not an empire of some sort.
"Oh, the leaders of the street gangs call themselves that. There are a dozen of those, and they have bloody fights at night for control of areas, they then blackmail households in the area for protection."
Jon certainly was not impressed, and displayed some coarse language he picked up from the sailors. "Who the bloody fuck has an ego that large?" He added, "Why are you all not in that group then?"
The tall boy pointed at the girl, "Aemy's a lassie. It's not safe for her to join, so I stuck by her."
The third boy, with a black eye, said, "I recently got kicked out, pissed Gregory off—he's a second in command."
Jon grinned. "Well, all I've got is a silver, you can have it." He tossed it at the girl, who deftly caught it, but still stared at him suspiciously. The kids were skinny, they could use some food. None of them actually looking at him with murderous intent was also an added bonus, if they had wanted, they could have incacipated him before taking the money from his person, instead of demanding it from him.
The tall boy looked grateful. "Well, thanks and… sorry for the hostilities, our rations ran out and we needed food."
There were a few seconds of awkwardness, where the kids seemed to converse silently.
The girl, Aemy, broke it. "You know how to use a weapon," she stated.
"I do spend a lot of time practicing on my own," Jon replied, uncertain where this was going.
"Show me," she demanded loudly.
"Pardon?"
"Show me how to wield your dagger."
"Well… I can show you a move or two," Jon conceded.
For the next hour and a half, Jon led them through a series of moves. He taught them how to disarm stronger opponents with a flick of the wrist, and how to evade thrusts and counterattack while doing so. The tall boy was in awe, while the others were mildly impressed.
Aemy was initially looking at him with suspicion, but soon, her eyes started to soften.
He learned a bit more about them. Jarrack, the tall boy, was the eldest here. His mother forgot to take moon tea, thus birthing him. She died of fever a few moons later.
Followed by Jarrack was Aemy. Her family was killed, and her house burnt to the ground during the Sack of King's Landing a few years ago. She then met Jarrack, and they stuck together ever since.
Byron was the most unfortunate. He was the youngest one here. His mother was raped during the Sack, leaving his dirty golden hair a reminder of her humiliation, hence he was cast out. Many orphans across the city had similar stories, abandoned by their mothers and left in the streets to fend for themselves.
Luthor, however, was the most well-off. His parents worked in the Red Keep, and managed to provide a small income for their son, which he gladly shared with the group. So that while they were often hungry, none of them starved.
Their ambitions were normal for kids their age, though they were also peculiar. Jarrack wanted to be a knight, as evidenced by his profound fascination with the martial arts.
The sun began to fall, and it wouldn't be long before darkness descended.
Jon was a little hesitant to leave, acquiescing, "I have to depart now. The crew of the ship is staying at an inn by Fishmonger's Square, I don't want them to think I've run off, or they'll leave without me."
The four grudgingly nodded and said their goodbyes, Aemy gave a wave, smiling.
He was now back in the narrow, twisting streets. He thought he could find his way back, but before long, he was still hopelessly lost. He forgot to ask them for directions. The sun was descending rapidly, and the sky was a dark, looming gray.
"Hey!" Jon saw small figures, holding gleaming, wicked objects, trying to encircle him. They were far from friendly, Jon did not want to end up dead in a ditch.
"Whatcha' doing on the Iron Emperor's turf?"
The fucking what now? He tried not to snicker at the ridiculous title.
Without further delay, Jon bolted, making a run for it. He sprinted past a gap in their lines, dodging over swimming arms, and barreled his way down the street, twisting and turning to dodge obstructions; he almost flattened himself on a wall.
Luckily, the shouting voices faded, and he soon found his way to a wider street with more people, his clothing was ruffled and he was breathing heavily, he still kept on running.
Pain rocketed up Jon's arm as he came to a sudden stop, the strength of the man holding him much larger than his own weight. It felt as if his arm had been torn out of its socket as he whimpered pathetically on the floor. Looking up, he could make out the distinct ringmail and golden cape of the gold cloaks. He had been caught.
"Where do you think you are going, stole some shit and now fleeing from justice, ain't ya?"
Jon stuttered, nervous and out of breath, "I- I'm not a thief. I got lost and was chased by some kids."
The burly men laughed. "Oh, ye? Ye got coin? Give us two-thirds of your loot, and we'll let you get away with it."
Jon, indignant, but also realizing it was the only way out from the corrupt guards. Brimming with rage, he said calmly, "My father gave me an allowance. I can split some of it with you if you have change." He gave a grin, barely hiding his want for blood.
He reached into his pocket, feeling the coin, and took it out to show to them. To his utter horrified surprise, it was a single copper. "Where did my gold dragon go?!"
The guards were far from amused, glaring at him.
Aemy! That brat! She was eying his pockets earlier, but he had paid it no mind, accounting it for just simple distrust. Obviously, it was more than that.
"I swear I had more!" Jon pleaded.
"You're under arrest for thievery and obstructing the King's peace. We'll have you lose a hand for your crimes," one of them guffawed, the other smirking at him.
The charge was utterly ridiculous. Jon tried running for it again, but large hands grabbed his shoulders, he felt something heavy slam into his skull, he felt a burst of pain, then he lost consciousness.
The straw on the floor stank of urine. There was no window, no bed, not even a slop bucket. He remembered walls of pale red stone festooned with patches of nitre and metal bars studded with iron spikes. He had seen them, briefly, a quick glimpse as they shoved him inside. Once the door was slammed shut, he had seen no more. The dark was absolute. He had as well been blind… or dead.
"Ah, fuck!" he murmured as his groping hand touched a cold stone wall, his shoulder throbbing painfully.
Boredom gave way to irritation and anger. He damned them all: the gold cloaks, Robert Baratheon, the queen, the children who had cornered him, Catelyn Stark and even his own father, Eddard Stark. Yet in the end he blamed himself for being careless enough to appear like a common criminal. "Fool," he cried to the darkness, "bloody-fool!"
Someone shouted in a wheezy voice, "Shut up!"
Jon went silent.
Things were very bad for him, and that was an understatement. He did not want to lose a hand, as that would probably mean death. Most people die after being amputated.
He settled for going into an uneasy, uncomfortable sleep, it was cold and the ground was unyielding, but he had worse.
Jon awoke the next day. After some thought, he realized that he would be having a short trial before a lord, and if he's desperate enough and no one believes him, he could reveal the name of the father. But that was the worst-case scenario, as it would humiliate both himself and Lord Stark and cause unnecessary troubles.
When he kept very still, his shoulder did not hurt so much, so he did his best to lie unmoving. For how long he could not say, there was no sun and no moon, only the flickering of a torch. Jon closed his eyes and opened them; it made no difference. He slept and woke and slept again. He did not know which was more painful, the waking or the sleeping. When he slept, he dreamed: dark disturbing dreams of blood and broken promises. When he woke, there was nothing to do but think, and his waking thoughts were worse than nightmares. It felt like he had been in that dark cell for days, but deep inside he knew it had only been a few hours. Somehow, that made the wait for the inevitable worse.
Would the captain leave without him? Surely not, he thought to himself. He sat in his cell and waited, and waited. After a time, he began talking to himself, anything to keep himself sane as he plotted a hundred different ways through which he could break himself out.
He waited, and after who knows how long, a guard entered the hallway and escorted a prisoner, two cells from his, in chains, and led him outside. Jon tried calling for the guard but was promptly ignored.
He waited.
The day passed, he was given a rough piece of bread by the Goaler. He tried communicating again, but was ignored.
He soon began to get worried, very worried.
He was worried.
What if they forgot his existence, and he slowly rotted away?
He was worried that the rest of the crew might depart without him if he didn't return tomorrow.
Day turned into dusk and settled into night. Nobody came to get him. His stomach grumbled. He grumbled under his breath too, too. He still had his knife tucked inside his boots, but it wasn't worth being caught escaping, as it could mean certain death.
Jon was half-asleep when the footsteps came down the hall, it was likely the next morning. At first he thought he dreamt them; it had been so long since he had heard anything but the sound of his own voice. The throbbing in his shoulder had reduced to a dull agony, his lips were parched and cracked. When the metal door creaked open, two guards walked in.
One of them heaved him up by his other arm, while the other stood outside the cell, looking utterly bored.
Jon didn't resist as he put his plan into action.
"Good morning, good Sers!" Jon gave a charming smile. The guard looked confused, as he was usually cursed at by angry and violent crooks instead of being greeted by polite words. Jon followed, "How are you on this fine day?"
The guard inspected Jon for sarcasm, finding none, he grunted, "Fine."
"You are scheduled for trial in two hours, and must follow us to wait in the holding room."
Jon made no indication of his statement. "Sers! I believe this is a misunderstanding. My father is Lord Maltith, and he works under Lord Arrryn at the Tower of the Hand." He smiled pleasantly, and extended out his chest pompously. The guards gasped, bewildered.
Obviously, the guards were not knights, but likely guards of the lowest rank, but it did the work of flattering, and the two blushed crimson, proud that they were so highly regarded. Also, Lord Maltith, in fact, didn't exist, but most commoners could barely remember a dozen names of the various lords, so Jon wasn't worried he'd get caught on that lie.
"You see, I was assaulted by a pair of corrupt gold cloaks. They had mistaken me for a thief. Seriously. Me—who's both a page for a chivalrous knight and the son of a noble lord? A thief?!" Jon made a wide gesture and barked out a laugh. "How ridiculous! Right?" Jon chuckled, as if he found this utterly ridiculous.
Jon felt relieved that the two were not the brightest, and they laughed and nodded along.
"You have to see the truth, gentlemen. I am afraid that even in our great city, we can trust no one but ourselves and brave knights such as yourselves," Jon exclaimed, gesturing wildly as if incensed by the proceedings.
Jon continued, "Now, I have tea scheduled with Lady Jocelyn in an hour. You see, my father is thinking about a future betrothal, so I'm trying to get to know her well first." Jon grinned again. "My uncle told me that a good marriage needed good mutual understanding," Jon added, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Sers, do you two have spouses of your own?"
The two, who looked not more than six and teen, with barely a few whiskers forming a mustache on their faces, looked flustered. "N- "
Jon interrupted. "Nonsense! For young men as handsome as you two, all the beautiful and pure maidens would be throwing themselves your way!"
They spluttered. The guard outside composed himself first. "You can meet Lord Arryn so he can prove your innocence."
Jon gave a horrified gasp. "That—that would be so embarrassing!"
"You see, if I show up in public dressed like a common criminal, in those rags, it would be the gossip at court for weeks! My father would be so angry!" Jon looked at his clothes with fake disgust, they were actually of decent quality, gifted to him by Lord Wyman, and only slightly dirty.
Jon compromised. "My lords, how about this, I will leave now and not hassle you for your precious time any further, but I promise you a promotion. How would you two like to be Captains? I heard their wages have doubled over the past two years."
The two opened their mouths, shocked. Jon quickly continued, "You know what? Release me from these monstrous shackles and I will ask my father to lavish you with riches. Enough coin to spend the rest of your days in the finest brothels in King's Landing. My lords, may I have your names?"
The guard nudged the other, excited gleams in their eyes.
"Garry, milord, and that's Jace."
"Well noted. Well, I should leave now. Would you mind escorting me out? I'll make my own way to my manse from there."
The two enthusiastically led him to the exit, Jon striding behind. He saw a man in the neighboring cell bordering on hysterics, struggling not to laugh. Jon gave a quick salute for not interrupting nor giving him away.
"Well, Gentlemen. I'll see you then! Expect summons within the next few days. I'll convince father and Lord Arryn of your bravery and hard-work." Jon walked into the open air, turning around for one last wave, leaving behind two men carrying goofy smiles.
It took the two guards nearly a whole moon to realize Jon's ploy.
Heart beating rapidly, Jon walked down the street. How the fuck did that work?
It had been ludicrous… and brilliant. The gods must have been smiling down on him, for he could think of no other reason as to why that plan could work.
After turning a corner, Jon asked a shop owner for directions to the River Gate. He then strode forwards, at a hurried pace, but being careful not to be wrongly identified again.
As he walked, he prayed that his vessel had not already departed. He didn't fancy being stuck in this city.
Walking into the Fisherman's Inn and questioning the innkeeper, he found that the Captain and his crew had left early in the morning hours, when dawn had first arrived.
He sprinted towards the wharf, uncaring about being stopped now. The docks passed as blurs in his eyes, and he only focused on identifying each number, 1… 2… 10… 22… 36… 37…
Number 38 was empty.
The ship had already departed.
Jon cursed loudly, gaining some odd looks his way.