Jon:
I gripped Ghost's fur between my fingers, burying my face into his neck, breathing in his familiar scent. He smelled like Winterfell; like fresh fallen snow and burning wood. Like home. For a moment I imagined what it would be like to be back there, before the war, before my stint on the Wall, before I lost everything I had ever held dear to me. But I could never go back to Winterfell, that wasn't my home any longer. I had no home.
Maester Aemon had once told me that the hardest part of being a man of the Night's Watch was the choice. The choice to keep my vows, or to abandon them for the sake of my family. My vows are but a memory now, I can never go back to them. I only wish that I had abandoned them sooner; maybe then I would have still had a family to return to. I had heeded the advice of a man who had allowed his entire family to die without lifting a finger. I should have never trusted a Targaryen.
Daenerys:
I watched the boy and his wolf, sitting quietly together. Jorah had seemed so afraid of the creature, seeing only its ferocity, not its beauty; similar to the way he viewed my dragons. But the beast was fiercely protective; I could see that the ghostly animal would not allow any harm to come to the boy. The tender scene was shattered by footsteps; heavy and quick, moving towards us in the fading light of day. The wolf moved; teeth bared and hackles rising. We were in danger and he could smell it.
Jon:
I tried to tune out everything around me; Ghosts growling, the footsteps approaching in the distance, the steady trickle of water running into the sewers. I froze. I hadn't heard the water before; where was it coming from? Swivelling on my toes I searched the alley for another exit, the source of the quiet drip; and there it was. The opening was no taller than Ghost's back, and certainly no wider, but myself and the silver-haired girl would fit through it no problem; though the same may not have been true for Ser Mormont. Turning, I saw that the pair had snapped back to reality and were already following my train of thought, moving slowly towards the opening. It was no more than a 4x4 gap; but we could not ask for a better escape-route. The gold-cloaks of the Kings Guard would not be able to follow on with their heavy armour. The opening seemed to lead into a lower street; but it resembled a sewer more than anything. A festering smell wafted from the street below, and as I moved closer I could hear the whisper of voices. This was the place they called Flea Bottom.
Jorah:
I had thought all had been lost, but the boy's quick mind had found us a way out. I felt craven running from the swords of the Gold Cloaks, but I had more than myself to think of. My Khaleesi was unprotected without her dragons, so she had to be my first priority, I had to protect her. I ran in order to keep her safe, rather than standing my ground to save face. After all, my honour was long gone.
I lowered my Khaleesi through the exit, releasing her hands only when I felt her weight transfer to the ground below. I shoved myself unceremoniously through the hole, feeling my tunic catch on the ledge. Turning, I wrenched the fabric from the wall. As I struggled I saw the feet of the Gold Cloaks appear at the entrance of the alley. The fabric of my tunic tore with a audible rip, and I saw the feet turn towards the sound. I dropped to the ground, leaving nothing but a strip of fabric fluttering in the wind.
Our surroundings were nothing but desolate. The street was lined with the lowest of the low; the people a grim reminder of the results of the indulgence and excess for which the city was famed. Their sunken eyes followed us as we moved through the street, sizing us up, no doubt wondering how a knight had found himself in this hell. I took the pommel of my sword in one hand, and drew my Khaleesi to my side with the other. I needed to protect her. This was no place for a princess.
Jon:
As we made our way through the dank streets of Flea Bottom I became more and more uneasy. I saw a pot of what looked like some sort of brown stew bubbling on a dwindling fire. The woman who stood behind the pot stared greedily at Ghost, as if he were to be her next meal. I held him by the scruff of the neck, keeping him by my side. I wasn't worried for Ghost's safety; he was more than able to look after himself; which was the cause of my worry. I did not want the blood of these starving people on my hands.