Jon brought the shadowmere to an alcove some two miles away from the jousting arena, beneath a stone bridge, where darkness was more common than sunlight. Tying his new steeds reins to a cracked post, he moved further beneath the bridge, to a section with which no light at all could be seen.
And then he melted into the darkness, became one with it.
To shadowstalk was to be one with the darkness that the Nocturnal did prey. It was to travel between the realms of man and the Evergloam, home to the creatures of eternal twilight, and in the in between, go farther than any other. Through this connection, of being both in one realm and in another, Jon could escape the senses of man and mer, and never be found, should he so wish.
And it was so. In his peripherals, Westeros was always there. And yet, through the rest of his sight, Oblivion was his to take in. The purple skies, fogged clearings, and blue-lit grasses of the night-wrought plains of his Mistresses home his to see, as did the winding mountains and carved plains wrought of her image.
In his past life, his usage of shadowstalking was often done in order to evade capture or conflict in some capacity. He'd avoided Miraak's attempt to usurp his freedom by way of this, and he'd avoided Harkon's wild magics born from Coldharbor with it. To keep away from Westeros by way of Evergloam would be even more affective, though for reasons unknown, each foray into this magic brought him into a depression in this second life. It was the magic of this world's gods, and it need be treated as sacred and rare.
Jon had decided to use this power in times of great need. And in this moment in time, he felt need for one thing quite greatly.
Clarity.
"How could this be?!" Jon cried out, near screaming into the starless sky above. "How could the Mace be here?! How could the Mountain have it?! Nocturnal!"
No immediate answer was given. Instead, a small crow, indistinguishable from the overhead night sky, flew down onto his shoulder, startling Jon. Its eyes were wide and violet, and they pierced into him like a sword to flesh.
"You know how this could be, my Champion." The bird spoke, the hauntingly familiar voice of his Mistress. "How did you come to be here? How did Vaermina's own Champion gain his power?"
"Favor." Jon said softly. Favor of the Princes whose spheres of influence were best represented by said mortals. Though he was a poor representation of Nocturnal, most mortals who wielded their noted weapons were of similar natures to the Daedric Princes they worshipped.
And based on the Mace that he wielded; it was obvious who the Mountain took with.
The crow nodded. "Gregor Clegane, known as the Mountain that Rides, was named Champion of Molag Bal upon his rape and murder of Elia Martel and Rhaenys Targaryen and his slaughter of Aegon Targaryen on a night of pure carnage. He was gifted the Mace and a shadowmere for his unflinching deeds."
"The story goes that he killed Aegon, but a knight named Amory Lorch killed Rhaenys." Jon said, a curling hatred brewing in his gut.
"False. Clegane did to Rhaenys as he did to her mother, and the trauma of his size and the voracity of his actions internally bled her to death. Lorch, angered that he could not have a similar event with Queen Rhaella, who had fled to Dragonstone, stabbed her corpse until he'd run out of energy, leaving a barely recognizable husk where once a child stood."
Jon simmered. Though Aegon and Rhaenys were not his siblings in soul, by the blood he now bore they were his to call family. He'd always thought it horrid that they had been killed in such brutish ways, and he'd always intended to have justice done should it be available. Jon had honestly thought the Martel's of Dorne or some Targaryen loyalists would have killed those vile men.
But the Mountain remained at large, and Amory Lorch rarely left the Westerlands, content in his apparent safety under the heel of Tywin Lannister.
"You were lucky," said his patron. "His helm hid it from view, but the magic he wielded was known to me. Gregor Clegane was more than just a favorite of Molag Bal's, he was made his child."
"A vampire?" Jon asked. It was true, he'd not been able to see much at all of Clegane during their duel to the death, though now that the topic was brought up, he did think he saw the slightest glimmer of orange through those visor holes.
Vampires in this world? Where no magic could fight them off?
It was madness.
"A Vampire Lord." She corrected. "Had he relied on his magic more than his mace, your bout would have been a much more deadly affair, especially with all those fleshy mortals abound."
His skin paled at the revelation. Jon remembered well his battle with Harkon, and too remembered that the Lord of Volkihar had continuously healed himself by draining the life essence of thrall's during their bout. It forced Jon to kill those innocents, just to kill Harkon, and even then it was a near thing.
Harkon only had twelve thralls though. That tourney was host to over a thousand spectators. Had Clegane acted as his vampiric station offered, Jon was unsure that he would have been able to do anything at all. Especially when magic was added to the mix.
The magic of Tamriel, as Jon had discovered early on, was useable on this nameless world. However, because the Aetherius was not wrapped around this world as it was on Nirn, the source of magic came from a different area. It cost life to use even the simplest of magics, life that Jon had little intention on wasting.
But a vampire drew their power from the life essence of other mortals, and thus, had Clegane been knowledgeable of magic, he would have been able to cast it with no worry of personal retaliation.
It had the potential to have been a slaughter.
Jon sat down at that, his mind well and truly boggled. "And the Mace? What will happen to it?"
"Look and see." She said instead.
Jon peered to his side and startled as the Mace of Molag Bal flaked away like feathers from a bird midflight. There was nothing left, and he was worried for that.
"We Princes known when our Champions die, and when our boons are stolen. We also know how it happens. The Prince of Domination knows of you, Jon, for your actions were too bold to be hidden from his view, even with my shadows coating you. He knows your name, he knows your title, he knows your family, and more importantly, he knows of your power; the Thu'um."
"…Shit."
"Indeed." Nocturnal commiserated, her crow avatar actually patting his head in a mocking form of consolidation. "And what one Prince knows, the rest soon too will discover. Though my shadows have hidden your actions from view, my Champion, they can no longer hide you. And the retaliation of my kin will come swiftly."
"Why would they do that?"
"Because it would be interesting, would it not?" Her tone of voice made it sound as if such should be obvious.
Jon held his head within his hands and bit back a scream of frustration. The mockery and machinations of the Princes were known to him, and this entire second life was for their entertainment. And yet, he'd not thought this much would come. Not so soon, not this quickly.
"What should I expect from them?"
"I keep the Night, child. I do not keep Prophecy. What they will do, I do not know. I only know that there is no chance that something will not occur. A mystery, even to me. Fun, do you not think?"
He could no longer hold back that scream, and as he let it loose, the realm of Evergloam twisted away, leaving him back beneath that bridged alcove. Angry and worried and frustrated beyond belief, Jon began to punch at the stone walls all around, his plate gauntlets echoing along the way. Then his stolen steed made a sound of disquiet, and Jon rounded onto it, twisting his magic over shadows onto the shadowmere, binding the dremora to his person. The horse knickered and whined, but then came to accept Jon as its new master, and bled into his own shadow, red eyes visible only to him from beneath the soles of his feet.
It was for this ability that shadowmere's were so well wanted, regardless of their daedric origins. Hardy and tough, they were horses that bound themselves to one master or mistress at a time, held within their shadows, always at the ready, save for those first few moments of binding. The shadowmere need become accustomed to their master's essence, and it took time for the breed to leave the shadows once more.
His new mount disappeared at just the wrong time however, for two score of Lannister guards rode through the pass and surrounded him. Their leader, the only one of the guards to not be wearing a helm, spoke clearly.
"Jon Skruul. By the order of his grace Robert of the House Baratheon, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, you are to be placed under arrest for the murder of a knight of the realm."
"A knight of the realm?" Jon scoffed, turning towards them. "That was no knight, it wasn't even a dog. That was a monster, and I take pride in my actions. I did no wrong."
"It matters not," said the captain. "Give your weapons over and accept punishment. Else we'll need resort to violence."
The adrenaline of before was still pumping through his body, but it had lessened by this point, and with that lessening came a grim understanding for Jon. Though he felt he could defeat these men quite easily, it would be wrong to do so. They were just men doing their duties, nothing more.
Similarly, should he run, he would bring undue difficulty onto his family. His father was not equipped to handle the fallout of Jon's actions, and the less said about Arya or Sansa or Bran, the better.
Rickon Stane would likely get the axe should he make to escape.
He could not do to them what he wished. And so, with a heavy heart, Jon removed his weapon-bearing belt from his waist and handed it over to the guard captain. They covered his head with a sack, tied his hands hand with thick twine, and vaulted his body over the back of the captain's horse.
The trek back was uncomfortable, both in the darkness that the sack forced, and the movement of the horse.
"Let him go Robert," Ned said, his tone icier than the lands he ruled. "Let my son free."
"To do what?" Robert barked, pouring a pitcher of wine to the brim of his cup. They were stood in the king's own chambers, all propriety between them forgotten in this moment. "To murder more of my subjects? To spit on my commands?! I've got a bloody city braying with blood Ned, the whole city! Riots and all! There needs to be some damn order here, and if your son need be jailed to keep it, then so be it."
"There would never have been any sort of rioting had Clegane been killed when I asked for it in the first place." Ned hissed. He'd wanted the Mountain dead ever since he saw the bodies of the Targaryen babes in the aftermath of the rebellion. To do that sort of thing, regardless of reason, deserved death. There should be no other course of action. Robert did not see it that way though, and instead rewarded the massive knight with only the barest hint of reprimand muddling the service.
And now Jon was being imprisoned for the death that should have been dealt years ago, where the worst offenders of the law were meant to stay. He had been kept in a cell for ten days, well over a week now.
It was not right.
Robert's neck flushed with anger. "You're still on that, are you?"
Ned's fury was plain to see. "What Clegane did was unspeakable."
"Unspeakable!? What happened to your father and brother was unspeakable. What happened to your sister, the love of my life, that was unspeakable. I told myself after I heard it that I'd see all Targaryen's dead, and I meant it. Clegane did me a service."
"Babes are not evil," Ned hissed. "And Jon is not Rhaegar. Do not confuse things. You hold my son unlawfully, and I will see him released."
"Unlawfully?" Robert asked, his voice low and clear. "I am the law, Stark."
They continued to argue with one another, neither giving in. Ned wanted to beat Robert's face in, wanted to bring his son home and never let him go, and it was only that this man was both his king and his greatest friend that stayed his fists. Two years away was enough, and now that Jon was back, he refused to let the south end his happiness.
A knock sounded from the other side of the room, and a servant boy meekly stepped inside.
"What?!" Robert roared, causing the child to shrink down low. The scent of piss quickly wafted through the room.
"Y-y-y-ooou t-t-told us tha-at if we's ev-er saw the W-W-White St-t-tag, that we's t-ta tell you." Stuttered the boy.
"And now you've told me," Robert snarled. "So get!"
The boy did not need to be told any more, and quickly fled from the scene.
Robert breathed heavily, in and out and in and out, and then rounded onto Ned once more. "I'll be needed, it seems."
"Not until my son is free." Ned scowled.
"A hunt will be called." Robert declared, eying the Kingswood from out the window, its high trees and thick woods a green gem against the cesspit that was Kings Landing. "The White Stag, I titled it. The greatest prize of the great game there is. Twice as big as the biggest buck I'd ever seen, with sharp prongs as wide as a horse is long and a pelt as pale as snow. But it's fast Ned, fast and strong and elusive. I've been looking for that damned stag for more than ten years, and each time I hear word of it, it escapes. I'll not lose a chance at it."
Robert shook his head. "When I return, we will have a trial. A week or two stewing will do him good, I say. It gives him time to make his plea, and gives me time to figure out his sentencing."
"I am your Hand, Robert." Ned shot back, slapping a meaty palm against the pin held against his collar.
"Aye, that's a fair point. Hand of the King, the role that allows you to speak with my authority and sit my throne whilst I'm away. You could free your boy the moment I left." Robert said waspishly. Then he approached and snagged both the pin from Ned's collar and the keys his station awarded from his waist, a quicker movement than one would expect from such a large man.
"Hands can be replaced."
A rumbling sounded from his throat, harsh and low. "As can a king."
"Careful, Ned." Warned the king, a growl in his tone. "Careful. Do you not understand? I've got seven bloody kingdoms to run! One king, seven kingdoms! I can't treat your bastard get with favoritism, else the other six shits would bray for their own boons. Were Clegane and Skruul to have battled in honorable combat, it'd have been one thing. Seven Hells, had this happened during the melee, I'd have accepted it. But the boy ignored my orders and killed my goodfather's sworn shield without a shred of remorse, and then rode off with spoils! I can't have your damned bastard overreaching my authority! It had to be done."
"And what of Jon's side? Hm? Let's ignore his past crimes then. Gregor Clegane was only seconds away from murdering the heir to Highgarden and the Reach in broad daylight, and there's nothing to say for that? No, he's dead. Blames need to be lain, it seems. Poor ones."
"Leave off, Ned. I've made up my mind. I'm not executing the boy; he'll have a fair trial, with fair judges. It will occur when I return, so the wait will not be long."
"Fine. And the pin?" Ned asked, shooting it a glare. He was glaring at everything, it felt. "Who will it go to? Who will be Hand?"
"Tywin Lannister." Robert answered with a sigh. "For now, at least. Until this business is behind us. I cannot have you take the seat back before the trial is settled. Tywin knows how to rule, there's no questioning that. Had I not known your boy to have acted all his own, I'd have thought this was planned. Tywin always did wish to be Hand once more."
"And with him as Hand, Jon will already be down a fair vote."
"Would it make you feel better if I forbade him from the trial? That I ask for his brother, Ser Kevan, instead?"
"It would." Anything to keep the Old Lion's jaws away from Jon.
"Fine. I'll write the order before I leave. Is there anything else, Ned?"
"… With Tywin in office, Joffrey will return to court proper. What of him?" Ned didn't trust the boy at all. He'd tried to kill Arya; her depression over these past months a startling thing to see. She was the light of his world, his remembrance of Lyanna personified, and her near death brought back memories he'd buried deep within. Joffrey would never be in the same room as her, nor Sansa, if he could have his way.
"What would you have me do?" Robert asked tiredly.
"Either take your son hunting with you or give me leave to ship my daughters back to Winterfell. I trust Joffrey none."
Robert grumbled, downing his drink with a large swig, and then nodded shortly. "The betrothal is in question anyway. Fine, take your girls back to your frozen hovel. Mayhap some time with their mother will make the difference for you. Now leave me, I've a whore to fuck and a hunt to begin."
Ser Arys and Ser Boros of the Kingsguard stood ready to escort the Stark patriarch away with force if need be, but that was unnecessary. Ned stormed out of the room and roughly made his way back to his apartments, intent on starting his daughters packing. He was stopped however, when Varys came around the corner.
"Lord Stark," said the Spider, bowing. His eyes glanced towards Ned's empty collar. "No longer Hand? How dreadful. For the realm, that is. Though your tenure was short, you were well suited for the office."
"Lord Varys," Ned returned, keeping his courtesies. "Robert has made his choice."
"Lord Tywin, then?"
"Who else?"
"Many would have done better, though none were willing." Varys said. He looked to the sides, and bent closer, speaking quietly. "If you'd like, we could see your bastard. I have been meaning to speak to him this past week, and it is time I do so."
Surprise took on over Ned's features. Robert would not even tell where Jon was being held captive. "And how would you reach him?"
"Spiders can find a great many places over their lifetime, and I have found much during my years in the Red Keep. I know where he is kept, and I was intending to make for him regardless of you being there or not. I merely assumed you wished to speak with him."
"You assumed correctly. If you know where he is, take me to him. It will be a great service."
Nodding, the eunuch twisted around towards the kitchens, and Ned followed. They did not speak on their trek, but there was a comfortable sort of silence that the Stark had missed since his coming to King's Landing.
Many minutes passed, until they reached a stone alcove along a farther section of the castle. Varys knocked on the door with an ordered set of taps, and it opened up into a deep cavern, where the deep below was gloomy and dark. Unlit torches lined the floor, and Varys picked two up, coating them with oil borne from a flask hidden beneath his robe. A match was then lit and struck, and the pair were ready to traverse.
"The catacombs of the Red Keep were legendary in design." Varys said as they walked down the stairs. "Five levels were known to the lords and ladies that came to court, holding different levels of comfort and terror all their own. But you know this, don't you?"
Of course Ned did. It was almost expected of him to know this upon taking office as Hand. Those five floors served a purpose.
The first and second floors were servant housings, barely-there rooms roughly the size of tool sheds expected to hold two at a time. But they were warm, and clean, and filled with feather beds, so the servants of the castle were still much better off than most other castle-keepers.
The third floor was an experiment of sorts, largely derelict now. The story went that King Aenys I Targaryen was an often ill child and grew into a sickly adult, and few things of the world comforted him. One of these few comforts came with the sea, for he loved to swim. But the sea of Blackwater Bay was hard on his body, and he was not to take to it. Thus his father, Aegon the Conqueror, adjusted his initial designs of his castle fortress to create an underground pool for his son.
The project was largely unsuccessful however; there were no natural waterways to build a pool from save for the bay that they made to avoid in the first place, and the alchemists that King Aegon employed could not determine how to make the water pure enough for the then prince. The project was discarded, and though there were attempts over the generations to do something with the space, nothing seemed to work. The floor was now a moldy and largely abandoned ruin, which Robert felt fitting to place the skulls of the Targaryen dragons that once ruled the land. From Balerion to Vhagar, Caraxes to Sunfyre, all the remains of the dragons that once laid claim to Westeros were sat in these halls.
The fourth and fifth floors were prisons, where murderers and thieves and all manner of criminal were held. There were tunnels cut directly into those levels, known only to the goldcloaks and their lordly masters, and it was there that the peace was kept. By force if necessary.
"What is little known is that there is a sixth floor, deeper still than any other. Why, I might be among only two to know of it. I'm sure you've heard the rumors of them, though you have never received confirmation on its existence. Mayhap you even told the tale to your sons, or were told it when you too were a boy. Do the black cells sound familiar?"
Ned startled and cursed. The black cells were horror stories told to misbehaving children in the south, similar to the Long Night was to the North. It was said that no light bled down there, and their denizens were frightful and twisted things; pale creatures that were blind and hunched over, speaking tongues and stealing women and children for breeding and feeding.
"They are just stories…" Ned muttered.
"They are not, I'm afraid." Varys said, shaking his head. "I found them on the third year of my tenure as Master of Whispers under King Aerys. The things I discovered… Queen Visenya filled those cells with the Dornish of Hellholt, for their murder of Queen Rhaenys and the dragon Maraxes. With dark magic she twisted them and made them slave to their own bodies. By the time I found this, nothing remained save the festering. How she did this, I know not, but that it happened at all was too great a tragedy."
"And how do you know that? That it was Visenya?" It was well noted that the mother of Maegor the Cruel was known to have dabbled in ancient Valyrian magics, but there had never been any proof outside of conjecture and speculation.
"Written word and corpses. I disposed of the bodies, as they should have been many years ago. And of the written word… None could know of what went on down here, I decided. There may have been clues hidden in those words, clues that could lead another to this horrible act."
He could not help but agree.
They descended a seemingly endless stair, arriving at a bottom some twenty minutes later, where another false wall was in place. Varys methodically poked the walls once more, and a stone door opened into a sea of blackness. Were it not for the torches, they would not be able to see, and the stench was rancid beyond anything Ned had ever experienced. It was as if the sack of Kings Landing had been multiplied, that horrible odor of death all encompassing.
"Who's there?" A hoarse voice sounded from far away, echoing through the stones. Jon's voice.
Ned rushed to him, and helplessly made for the bars of his cell. But though much of this place was rotted, the barriers between the two were strong and sturdy.
"Jon," Ned said, holding tight against the metal. His torch did not reach far enough inside for him to see Jon's face, but his legs were visible, held down by heavy chains.
"Father?" Jon sounded; his voice confused. "What are you doing here?"
"To speak with you, to see you. Gods, Jon. You do not deserve this cell."
"Only the most decrepit of souls deserve this place, and even then death would be kinder." Varys said morosely. "I suspect that King Robert genuinely does not know where the boy is, only that he is held captive. And that would be enough for the Crowned Stag. Much as he will not say it, our king enjoyed the spectacle and had always misliked Ser Gregor. During the Greyjoy Rebellion, whilst the king and his goodfather made for war, the Mountain was bade to stay in King's Landing to guard the queen and her children. In the process, he played with the commonfolk, raping and killing and hunting them for sport. That is why the people cheered so boldly over his death, for they feared and hated him greatly."
"How could King Robert condone such a man?" Jon wheezed, his query doubling with Ned's own thoughts. Had he truly fallen so far? thought the Warden of the North.
Varys shook his head. "The details of this never made it to King Robert's ear, by the design of Lord Tywin and his daughter. Robert was placed under the impression that goldcloaks took advantage of their undue freedoms, and he'd punished them greatly. I believe that it was Lord Tywin that had Lord Skruul brought down here. He is one of the few highborn that would know of the black cells."
Ned snarled, palming his torch harshly enough for splinters to dig into his hand. "He goes too far. They all do."
"Indeed." Varys said, reaching into his sleeves. He pulled out a thick water skin tossed it in Jon's lap. His son shuffled from the cell and the cork popped, Jon's gulps audible and echoing.
Jon took a deep breath, and then spoke once more, sounding far better than previous. Ned wished he could see his boys face. "It matters not. This is my punishment, and mine alone. You should not be down here, father."
"I will be with you." He would not leave Jon alone again. Certainly not in such a state of degradation.
"You would be better served with the girls; with Bran. They need their father more than I. I am due for a trial, I suspect. I can hold out till then."
"A prudent course of action." Varys said.
"Who are you, anyway?" Jon asked, his question directed at the eunuch.
Varys giggled girlishly, his torchlight making his smile a ghastly looking thing. "Some call me the Spider, but most call me Varys. To you however, I think a different title should be known, Champion of the Night."
Ned did not know how to put it into words, but it felt as if by that statement, the shadows around his torch danced with both glee and rage. Something changed in the room, and he liked it not. He liked none of this.
"Another follower, hm?" Jon growled a sour, hateful thing. Ned did not think his son was capable of such a tone. "You lot have been popping around more and more as of late, I find. You know more than you should, eunuch. Name your master's title, so that I might know what I face."
"The night and the shadows and the patron of stealth guides you, Jon Skruul. Few are so fortunate to be beloved by such a being. But her grip was too flimsy for me. Just as the night is yours, so too is the ancient darkness is mine own."
"Her?" Jon balked. "I would not think the Master of Whispers would keep to such vulgarity."
"My mistress is many things, but vulgar she is not. And it is because of her that I was able to hold my seat. She is a keeper of the downtrodden, the mother of melancholy, whose loving embrace guides those of the below. Lowborn and beggars, the meek are her people. She is a benevolent mistress, who looks after the disregarded commons."
"Aye, she does that. She also champions cannibals and all things repulsive in this world."
"But all things are repulsive, should you view them in a certain light."
What even do they speak of? Ned thought, lost beyond reason.
"Still…" Jon mused. "You're a eunuch. None of the others would likely treat you fair, I suppose."
"A fair guess," Varys shrugged.
Jon hummed for a moment, as if deliberating something. Then the chains from his cell rattled, and he spoke once more. "Father, I am pleased to see you, as always. But… I need speak with Varys. He has information I need. Private information. Please, visit me again, but for this moment."
"I understand," Ned said, though he truly did not. Too much was happening, too fast, too quick. He turned to Varys. "I trust nothing untoward will happen?"
"Nothing would serve me less," said the Spider. "Your son will be fine, our matters are of a different stock than you need bother with. If you need know something, I will tell you. And now that you know the way, you can visit Lord Skruul at your leisure."
With a slow nod, Ned gave his acceptance, if shakily. "Very well…"
"Oh!" Jon announced, catching Ned's attention once more. "Before you go, a favor, if you would. Tell Rickon Stane to hide our wares. He will know what to do."
That, Ned could do. "I will, Jon. Be strong."
He left the cells then with a blank mind, not truly understanding what had just occurred. But he knew where his son was, and for now, that was enough to settle his mind.
He would visit again later in the night, when the castle was asleep. Mayhap that next visit would be with his siblings; Arya and Sansa and Bran. They would like the discovery of the black cells well, though Sansa might balk for but a moment.
For the first time since the death of Gregor Clegane, Ned felt hopeful.
That hope was quick to be lost the moment he returned to the Tower of the Hand.
His guards were all around, shouting and muttering at one another. A brawl had happened, and there were many a bruised face around. The common room was a proverbial mess, papers and cushions strewn all around, any semblance of decorum lost. Septa Mordane was sat along the window, pale and shaking and comforting a weeping Sansa, and Bran was being held back by Rickon Stane, looking horribly mad and worried.
"What is going on here?" Ned shouted, drawing the attention of the room.
"Father!" Bran exclaimed, rushing towards him. His boy hugged him at the waist, and Ned patted at his head in nervous confusion.
He knelt down, and looked to his son eye to eye. "What has happened Bran?"
"The wolves, they're gone! Summer and Nymeria and Lady, they aren't here! We looked everywhere, but nobody's seen them! Sansa didn't even know, and she was with Princess Myrcella all day. We can't find them!"
"Shh, shh…" Ned soothed, trying to keep his distraught son calm. "They'll turn up, Bran."
"That's not all, m'lord." Jory said. Ned looked up at him, noticing the dark shiner sprouting over his eye.
"What is it?"
"Arya is missing."
Oh, hey there. Been a bit, hasn't it? Well, let's not worry about the details. A new chapter is up! Hurrah!
This is a bit of an interlude chapter, and a lot is happening. I know some people are gonna balk at Jon's current placement, thinking he shouldn't be in prison, but this guys got a conscious and he doesn't want to burden anybody else with his rashness.
We've got some news from Varys, and there's a bit of foreshadowing muddled throughout this chapter for some future events. Here's to hoping it turns out well.
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