A great escape.

Dillyn/Arya

The torches that lined the stone walls of the Red Keep flickered, casting a subdued glow on the chilly, damp corridor. Dillyn, the royal food taster, weaved through the labyrinthine passageways with an air of practiced nonchalance that masked the underlying tension beneath his cheerful exterior. The evening's festivities, marked by Queen Cersei's opulent, yet wasted supper, had drawn to a close, and now the youthful and slender Dillyn traversed the castle's concealed nooks.

As he neared his chamber, a delicate disturbance of the quiet caught the keen ears of Dillyn. A gentle rustle, a murmur, disturbed the tranquillity of the night. His steps slowed, and his eyes scanned the shadows clinging to the stone walls.

A muffled sound, originating from the other side of the wall, reached his ears. For a moment, he continued on his path toward his chamber. However, Dillyn, renowned for his buoyant demeanour, carried within him a kernel of curiosity that urged him to diverge from his intended route. Seizing a moment of quiet, he slipped into a hidden alcove, his movements masked by the dancing torchlight.

From his hiding spot, he observed the origin of the sound—a hidden passageway woven into the fabric of the Red Keep, built during the reign of King Maegor. Dillyn knew that a covert door lurked behind the nearby tapestry depicting the sombre tale of the Rains of Castamere.

Dillyn attuned his senses to the soft echoes of disappearing footsteps. Seizing the moment, he emerged from his concealed sanctuary and, with stealth befitting a cat, approached the tapestry.

With caution, he drew back the weighty fabric, revealing the concealed entrance to the corridor. The torchlight spilled into the darkness beyond, illuminating a hidden passage. Without a moment's hesitation, Dillyn stepped through the doorway, bidding farewell to the familiar confines of the Red Keep and embracing the intriguing depths that lay ahead.

He moved with silent grace along the concealed passageway, his every step a study in stealth. Further down the labyrinth, the echoes of another presence, a phantom disguised beneath a dark, hooded cloak, resonated through the hidden corridors. Unfazed, Dillyn trailed with a keen interest, his footfalls as muted as the whispers of a breeze.

Through the dark, hidden passages of the Red Keep, Dillyn glided with the subtlety of an enchanted murmur. The only light was from the torch of the stranger ahead of him. The flames weaved ephemeral patterns on the damp stone walls, draped him in a cloak of mystery as he pursued the figure wrapped in a dark, hooded mantle. A silhouette advanced with a distinct sense of purpose, each step enshrouded in an aura of enchanting secrecy.

The large figure navigated the passageways with assured familiarity. Draped in a hood, the figure concealed their features, leaving Dillyn to ponder the motives concealed beneath the mysterious guise.

The air in the secret tunnels carried the aroma of the salty sea and damp stone everywhere. They continued deeper, the hidden passageway growing colder, the footsteps echoed against the walls. A flickering torchlight, akin to a mischievous sprite, divulged nothing about the hooded figure's intent or allegiance.

Twenty minutes had unfolded, as the hooded figure and Dillyn continue along the hidden corridors of the Red Keep. They arrived at the dungeons, where the stone walls merged with metal bars to form the cells. The hooded figure descended the stone steps, Dillyn followed, treading, so not to be heard.

Deeper they tiptoed into the bowels of the Red Keep, where the flickering torchlight pierced the surrounding darkness. The sleeping prisoners, gaunt and clustered in corners, rested on tattered straw mats. Hunger etched lines on their faces, and dirt clung to their emaciated forms. Pitiful cries of dreams and the occasional whimper underscored the eerie stillness of the dungeon.

The stench of human suffering, permeating the air. The acrid tang of piss, the putrid scent of shit, and the sickening sweetness of decay adhered to the damp walls, weaving a tapestry of misery. Dillyn, navigated the cramped spaces with trepidation, unsure what his foot would land on next.

The hooded figure glided with a chilling determination, unmoved by the pitiable sight of the prisoners. As they continued through the gloom, the occasional shuffle of chains and the haunting echoes of despair trailed in their wake. Dillyn's senses, now assailed by the pungent odours, bore witness to a darker side of the Red Keep, concealed from the opulence above.

The descent into the bowels of the dungeons unfurled like a macabre ballet, each step reverberating through the narrow stone stairwell. Dillyn, his senses heightened by the oppressive darkness, felt a growing unease that pirouetted beneath his cheerful facade. The hooded figure led the way with an eerie confidence, untouched by the shadows that clung to the cold, damp walls.

As they descended further, Dillyn's noted the conspicuous absence of guards. The dungeons, patrolled by the formidable red-cloaked Lannister soldiers, appeared deserted.

Dillyn glanced around, anticipating the watchful gaze of a vigilant guard at any moment. However, the shadows played tricks on his perception, revealing only the ghostly outlines of the stone walls. A silence, broken only by the echoes of their footsteps, and the occasional cry of a prisoner, hung heavy with tension.

The hooded figure, unfazed by the eerie circumstances, approached the deepest dungeon. A heavy door loomed before them, and as the hooded figure pushed, it creaked open on rusty hinges.

The dungeon was bathed in an eerie half-light. Dillyn's gaze swept the cold, damp chamber. His eyes widened in recognition and unease as two figures emerged, clad in the unmistakable red cloaks of Lannister guards. The hooded figure, an aura of clandestine purpose still about them, approached the guards with a quiet assurance that seemed to resonate in the subterranean silence.

Whispers passed between the trio, the words muffled and obscured by the weight of stone walls that held secrets like echoes in the dark. Dillyn strained to catch even a fragment of the conversation, but the whispered exchange, was too far away to discern anything of use.

In the dim light, items changed hands—a subtle transaction took place. The guards, turned on their heels. A transaction to enable the hooded figure to enter the innermost cells. The air thickened as they made their way back through the dungeon, approaching the area where Dillyn concealed himself.

Panicking, Dillyn pressed himself against the cold, dark wall, his breath held in, hoping to avoid being discovered. The shadows embraced him like an ally, and he watched with bated breath as the guards drew near. The echo of their boots on the stone floor reverberated through the chamber.

Just as the guards reached his concealed location, Dillyn's instincts kicked in with a desperate urgency. He slipped into the deepest shadows, a phantom in the darkness, before the guards' eyes could lock onto him. His heart pounded in his chest like a hummingbird. The guards, oblivious to the near encounter, continued their journey through the dungeons. Dillyn, concealed in the shadows, remained frozen in place, before letting out a sigh of relief.

As the guards marched away, their swishing, red cloaks disappeared into the shadows of the dungeon, the hooded figure turned with a deliberate grace. Dillyn, still concealed in the darkness, could sense the figure's gaze piercing through the gloom, the face shrouded in the enigmatic veil of the hood. Though Dillyn could not discern the features, the figure was that of a man, with a rotund stature.

The man, satisfied that the coast was clear, continued along the desolate corridor. Past four vacant cells, he glided until he reached the fifth—a small, dark space that cradled a solitary prisoner. Dillyn, observing from a nook in the shadows, held his breath in anticipation, wondering who lay within that cell.

With a meticulous sweep, the man ensured that no prying eyes lingered in the dungeons. Confident in the solitude, he lowered the hood, revealing a familiar bald head that gleamed in the dim light. Recognition struck Dillyn like a bolt of lightning.

Lord Varys, stood before the captive prisoner. Dillyn's mind raced, memories from another life flooding back to a time when the former Master of Whisperers, traversed the halls of King's Landing. He now stood, hiding in the shadows, in the deepest, darkest dungeons, reserved for the most dangerous prisoners.

From his hiding place, Dillyn strained to glimpse the prisoner's face, the dim light rendering only the silhouette of Lord Varys visible. Lord Varys, his expression unreadable, focused on the prisoner with a calculating intensity.

"Ellaria Sand. We meet again," Varys said. His voice echoed through the cold chamber.

Dillyn remembered Ellaria Sand. She had been a captive of Euron Greyjoy, an offering to Cersei, who consigned her to the sufferings of the dark, filthy dungeons.

"What do you want?" Ellaria spat, her voice etched with a hoarseness caused by a dire thirst. Her distinct Dornish accent, shone through, like a whispered memory of warmer climates.

Varys, still obscured in shadow, answered with a composed assurance, "Why, my dear, I am here to help you."

A dry chuckle escaped Ellaria, the sound echoing off the stone walls. "Has she sent you to come rescue me?"

"I'm afraid not. I came here all by myself. No longer do I act on behalf of Daenerys Targaryen. I am rescuing you on behalf of another," Varys replied, his words hanging in the air like a revelation.

"Who?"

"Someone better. His name is Aegon Targaryen, better known as Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell,"

A surge of anger rippled through Dillyn at the mention of Jon Snow as the bastard of Winterfell. Memories of a curly-haired youth, handing Arya Stark a sword as a parting gift, surged to the forefront of his thoughts. Jon loathed the way people had mocked and dismissed him. Now, it seemed the entire Seven Kingdoms revered Jon Snow after learning of his true lineage.

Ellaria's voice, laced with scepticism, cut through the air. "What does this Aegon Targaryen want with me?"

"Right now, he wants nothing. He doesn't even know I'm here. I'm not sure he knows you are here either," Varys said.

In the dim light, he cast an appraising gaze around the confined space. Varys's observant eyes took in the bare walls, the cold, unyielding floor, and the meager accommodations that painted a picture of discomfort. The air, thick with the stench of confinement, bore witness to the harsh realities of imprisonment.

"It is cramped in here. Very uncomfortable. I can't imagine it being a pleasant experience," Varys said. A subtle acknowledgment of the harshness that defined Ellaria's existence within the confines of the cell. The weight of his gaze lingered, as though measuring the toll of captivity etched into the walls.

Ellaria, her voice revealing both defiance and weariness, broke the silence. "You want me to swear fealty and pledge Dorne as an ally to the bastard?"

"I'm sure his grace would be grateful to have Dorne as an ally."

"What demands shall he lay upon me, should I bind Dorne to his purpose?" Ellaria asked, her voice a blend of apprehension and inquiry that hung in the air like the distant echoes of uncertainty.

Varys, his gaze penetrating the shadows, offered a measured response, "He may seek something in return, or he may content himself with your fealty alone. The intricacies of his desires elude my certainty. The Vale, the Riverlands, the Reach—each has bent the knee to him. Even Yara Greyjoy has cast her lot with him, embracing his claim to the throne."

"How do you know this? Euron has her aboard his vessel as his prisoner," Ellaria said.

"Not anymore. Through stealth and whispers carried by a few loyal birds, the right tune sung into the ear of Euron Greyjoy was served. The distraction sufficient for her brother to liberate her," Varys said.

"And you are certain she has bent the knee to this Aegon Targaryen?"

"I bore witness to Theon Greyjoy promising allegiance to Sansa Stark and Jon Snow. After all, he up alongside them. Yara concurred, and they await our presence aboard the Sea Bitch. If you harbour the desire to be free of your confines and join us, I would advise you to promise your allegiance to Aegon Targaryen." Varys said. "After all, he is Dornish by birth."

"And if my answer is no?"

"You will be left to the whims of fate. Pray that Daenerys Targaryen recognises your value and comes to your aid. Should that not transpire, then alas, you find yourself ensnared in the clutches of Cersei Lannister's mercy," Varys said.

"Very well, I shall come with you."

Varys produced a set of keys from his cloak, with a distinctive jingle that echoed through the air. Dillyn's keen eyes observed as Varys selected a specific key from the bunch, and deftly inserted it into the lock.

"We'll need to be quick," Varys said, his voice carrying an urgency that resonated in the dimly lit surroundings.

Dillyn felt the weight of the decision pressing upon him like an invisible force. The air hummed with the anticipation of departure, but his feet remained rooted to the spot. A conflicting desire tugged at his heart—an inclination to accompany Varys and Ellaria on their clandestine journey. Yet a stronger pull reminded him of his purpose within these stone walls.

In the depths of King's Landing, a small part of Dillyn yearned to venture beyond, to join the enigmatic duo and embrace the allure of the unknown. But a deeper understanding held him back. His duty called him to this place, where shadows whispered secrets and power danced on a precarious edge.

As much as the prospect of leaving tempted him, Dillyn knew his role was here, entwined with the currents of intrigue that surged through the Red Keep. Cersei and Daenerys were both contenders for the throne, but Dillyn harboured the conviction that neither should reign. His loyalty belonged to the North, to the King and Queen who sought to guide their people through the storm that loomed over Westeros.

Dillyn raced through the dimly lit dungeons, retracing the labyrinthine path he had recently traversed with Varys. With a sense of urgency, propelled by the agility of youth, his steps echoed through the stone passages. Within mere minutes, he was standing once more outside the tapestry depicting the haunting Rains of Castamere.

Breathless from running, he slipped through the concealed door and made his way back to the modest chambers. Alone in the silence, Dillyn pondered the revelations he had witnessed in the depths below the Red Keep. His thoughts swirled like eddies in a turbulent stream, wrestling with the implications of alliances and clandestine rescues.

An insistent itch scratched at the facade he wore. Dillyn peeled away the mask that concealed his features. The removed, revealed not the freckled face of Dillyn but a grey-eyed, dark-haired young girl—a transformation, playing a dance of deception. A girl named Arya Stark.

Arya paced across the chamber, her lithe frame vibrating with the nervous energy that coursed through her veins. The air within the dimly lit room crackled with tension, mirroring the turmoil that churned within Arya's thoughts. She attempted to unravel the intricate tapestry of events that had just unfolded, each revelation a thread that tugged at the frayed edges of her understanding.

Ellaria had claimed the mantle of Dorne's leadership. Arya attempted to piece together the puzzle of betrayal and bloodshed that marked Ellaria's ascent. The woman teetered on the precipice of madness—a transformation spurred by the death of her lover, Prince Oberyn Martell.

In the wake of Oberyn's demise, Ellaria's descended into darkness. A litany of treacheries unfolded—stabbing Prince Doran, ordering the killing his son Prince Trystane, and poisoning Myrcella Baratheon. It was as if Ellaria harboured her own list, where anyone associated with the wrongs done to Prince Oberyn was condemned to die.

As Ellaria's vendetta unfolded, Arya found herself caught in the undertow of vengeance, a familiar narrative of retribution that echoed the very essence of the Stark girl's own journey. Anyone who wronged a Stark would pay the price. Walder Frey and his family were a testament to her desire for revenge.

Did the ghost of Rhaegar Targaryen's transgressions against Elia Martell, Prince Oberyn's sister, still linger? Arya wondered. Rhaegar's choice to cast aside Elia for Lyanna Stark fuelled the flames of resentment, on behalf of Prince Oberyn, and by extension, Ellaria herself. In the murky depths of Arya's thoughts, a sinister question emerged—had Jon, stumbled into the cross-hairs of Ellaria's own vendetta?

Driven by urgency, Arya tore through her room with a frantic energy, casting garments into a bag. The air crackled with the urgency of impending danger as she snatched her satchel of faces and a jingling moneybag, heavy with the weight of coin. The room bore witness to the chaos, a storm of movement and purpose.

As she prepared to make her hasty departure, a gentle knock echoed through her chamber. She slid her satchel beneath the modest bed, concealing it alongside the bag of clothes. Spotting Dillyn's face, she brought it up to mask her own. In that moment, Arya Stark vanished from the room.

The door swung open, revealing Dillyn standing at the threshold. Before him loomed the enigmatic figure, draped in a hooded cloak—the very embodiment of Lord Varys.

"Who might you be?" Dillyn inquired, his voice betraying a hint of unease before the mysterious presence.

"I am much like yourself—a servant of the realm," said Varys, his words flowing forth in a silky, soft cadence .

"I'm but a mere food taster."

"You are precisely the individual I require. The perfect candidate for the task at hand. No one else is better positioned to aid me on this mission."

A tight knot formed in Dillyn's throat. "Are you... are you planning to kill me?" he asked.

Varys shook his head and chuckled softly. "Now, why on earth would I entertain such a thought, Lady Arya?"