The chambers within Dragonstone held a haunting familiarity for Jon. A place where the cold and damp clung to the air and the very walls of the castle. A reminder of his time with Daenerys. How she seduced him by keeping him prisoner, while overtly flirting with him. The juxtaposition of him falling for the silver-haired beauty, and loving it, while hating being kept in the place where she made him feel alive for the first time since he died, was not lost on him.
Now, with hindsight, he hated every memory of the damned place, and he couldn't wait to leave. The consolation, was spending a night on solid ground, offering solace after a fortnight of an arduous journey by sea. There were times he wished his dragon was already hatched and full grown. The journey would have been far quicker.
The initial night unfolded in weariness, marked by earnest conversations with Ser Davos and the priestess of R'hllor, Lady Melisandre. In an attempt to garner belief from the duo, tales of past lives were shared by Jon and Arya, putting their faith in the hope Melisandre would see their truth in the flames. Fortune favoured them, as their tale was believed by Melisandre, although Ser Davos still bore an air of scepticism.
Once they had broken their fast, the following morning, the discussion of how to proceed was needed between Jon, Arya, Ser Davos and Melisandre. After Jon and Arya told the tale of their past, it was revealed they would only be prepared to save Shireen. Jon could sense Davos and Melisandre had only agreed, to buy them time, in the hope of Jon changing his mind. However, that wouldn't happen.
The following morning, the four of them gathered in the room of the painted table, the sun shining through the enormous window. It was a glorious, warm sunny day. The sun mirrored against the waves of the sea, a shimmering reflection of diamonds dancing upon the blue waters.
Jon started the meeting. "Tomorrow morning, Arya, Ser Davos, and I will travel to Kings Landing." He turned to Melisandre. "My lady, I wish for you to stay on Dragonstone until two days before the royal wedding, then I wish you to travel to Gulltown. Arya has the details of where you will be staying." Arya had found the location of Littlefinger's Gulltown home. By using the handwriting of Lord Baelish, she had written a letter that morning, warning of the impending arrival of a priestess of R'hllor.
"What am I to occupy myself with in King's Landing?" inquired Lady Melisandre. "I need your magical expertise to devise a disguise for Princess Shireen. Can you weave a glamour, perhaps?" Jon queried. "I'm confident in my ability to cloak the child in secrecy." Melisandre said, her tone hinting at displeasure, leaving no doubt about her reluctance to depart from Stannis and Selyse.
Ser Davos shared a similar sentiment. "I still believe we should attempt to rescue Lord Stannis and Lady Selyse."
"He could prove invaluable to your cause. Stannis is a formidable commander," Melisandre suggested, catching Jon off guard. He had wondered about her feelings for Stannis, given her grief upon his death.
Recalling Melisandre's unsuccessful attempt to seduce him, Jon questioned her sincerity. If she truly loved Stannis, wouldn't she have been more guarded? Perhaps her assessment was genuine. Yet, Jon remained uncertain about Stannis's allegiance and whether Melisandre could sway him. The man's stubbornness and Jon's lack of trust added complexity to the situation.
Whether to rescue Stannis had been a topic of discussion between Jon and Arya during their journey from White Harbor to Dragonstone. They concurred with Melisandre's view, acknowledging Stannis's prowess as a commander, leader, and warrior. However, the crucial question lingered—would Stannis support Jon's claim, and did Melisandre wield enough influence to rally him to their cause? Jon grappled with uncertainty, mindful of Stannis's unyielding nature.
"Shireen remains the priority, but should the opportunity arise to rescue either Stannis or Selyse, or perhaps both, we shall seize it," Arya expressed with a sweet smile. Positioned within the Red Keep, she would assess the rescue plan and have the final say—a decision Jon endorsed.
Davos found the answer satisfactory. "Understood. The princess is, of course, the foremost concern."
"Will you join Arya and me on the journey to King's Landing?"
"Accompany you there, aye, I will. But staying in King's Landing might not be wise for me. My association with Stannis in the eyes of Joffrey and the Lannisters brands me a traitor," Davos explained.
"How would they know what you look like?" Arya asked.
"I'm from Flea Bottom, my lady. They know me all right." Davos replied. "Too many, might recognise me, and would be more than happy to hand me over to the goldcloaks for a few silver stags. Probably best for all if I stay here and meet you at the escape cove near the dungeons of the Red Keep."
"How can we be certain of the right cove?" Jon inquired.
"I'll accompany you to King's Landing, taking you out on a boat to pinpoint its location. There are steps leading back up to the castle cellars; I've smuggled a few prisoners out that way in the past." Davos explained.
"If you guide us there, I'll explore the surroundings, return, and we'll rendezvous outside. That is, if I haven't already figured it out," Arya declared, wearing a confident smile. "I'm already familiar with one route, fairly close to the black cells."
Davos, offering a half-hearted warning, advised, "Just don't find yourself inside one."
"I'll do my best. Once I've mapped the area, we'll return to the ship and dock as planned."
Davos shook his head. "I forget you're older than you appear." Despite Arya's youthful appearance at almost four and ten, she looked two years younger, nowhere near being almost two and twenty. "Indeed, we'll drop you off at the Mud Gate and then sail the ship back to Dragonstone."
Before departing for King's Landing, Jon realised the necessity of concealing his Stark lineage. His striking resemblance to the Northern house could pose a risk. His beard, a clear marker of a Northerner, had to go, as beards were less common in the southern regions. Despite his disappointment, he reluctantly shaved it off, observing a face that now seemed much younger in the mirror. In his nineteen-year-old body, Jon, like Arya, carried a youthful appearance, making the stark change even more noticeable.
Jon would present himself as a servant, aware that his accent might betray his origin. To counter this, he would claim to be a bastard squire of Ser Jorah Mormont, a known Northerner who had been in the presence of Daenerys. Jon would adopt either Essos or southern fashions, proof of his time away from the North while in the employ of Littlefinger, had influenced him. The clothes had been made by Sansa, so Jon was not averse to wearing them, despite his distaste for the style.
The day they approached King's Landing was sweltering. Dropping anchor about a mile from the shoreline, Davos, Jon, and Arya, the latter not wearing Littlefinger's face for a change, rowed to a small cove near the Red Keep.
"What's my task back on Dragonstone?" Davos inquired as they made their way to the cove.
"Watch Melisandre for me. Help the men load the dragonglass onto the boat. Another ship should arrive tomorrow; it set sail two days after we left White Harbor," Jon informed him.
Davos gestured towards a dip in the cliffs. "Over there. That's our destination."
"I've got a fair idea where that leads." Arya grinned.
"When should I meet you here?" Davos questioned.
"The hour of the owl." Jon replied.
"Don't be late." Arya added. Though her tone lacked explicit threat, Jon sensed a subtle hint, and so did Ser Davos.
The trio departed the small cove, rowing back to The Ghost of the Seas in under half an hour. Two hours later, they docked at the Mud Gate and disembarked.
Jon's initial impression of King's Landing wasn't positive. The pervasive smell of fish assaulted his nostrils, and while White Harbor had its share of the ocean's aroma, it carried a different character—salt and sea. Instead, King's Landing exuded the unpleasant blend of fish, faeces, and rotting vegetables. Arya had forewarned him about the local phenomenon known as the 'shit beds,' where some waste found its way into the sea, explaining the distinctive odour that pervaded the air.
The sole instance Arya kept her true appearance was during their scouting of the cove. If there was anything that convinced Ser Davos of the authenticity of their tale, it was the vision of a girl of four and ten, embodying a faceless assassin.
Upon disembarking the ship, Arya assumed the guise of Littlefinger, and as such, they were swiftly granted preferential treatment on the docks. A litter was promptly secured, ferrying them to Littlefinger's brothel.
Jon gazed out of the window with a mixture of awe and disgust. Passing Fishmonger Square, he hoped the odorous atmosphere might improve. Instead, he yearned for the relative freshness of the docks. The pervasive stench of waste assaulted his senses in this neglected and expansive city, an experience foreign to him. The prospect of one day living here, if their plans succeeded, weighed heavily on Jon. It almost deterred him from pursuing the Iron Throne; he harboured no desire to live in this city, a sentiment shared by Sansa, he was certain. Sanitation, Jon resolved, would be a top priority for the city.
Arriving at Littlefinger's brothel on the Street of Silk, the litter brought them to what appeared to be a discreet entrance. Arya alighted first, emanating the unmistakable presence of Littlefinger, creating a discomforting atmosphere for Jon. The last encounter he had with the man involved pinning him against the walls of Winterfell's crypts, hands wrapped around his throat, a stern warning against any harm to Sansa. Reflecting on that moment, Jon acknowledged he had overreacted and should have left it to Sansa. Yet, Sansa remained his vulnerability, even then, prompting Jon to contemplate how long his feelings for her had been evolving.
Jon trailed behind Arya as they entered the brothel. It wasn't his first encounter with such establishments; Robb and Theon had taken him to one in Winter Town to shed his virginity. The name of the whore had been Ros, a beautiful redhead, sparking a realization that Jon seemed to have a penchant for redheads.
Spotting Ros approaching them, Jon instinctively turned away, muttering a curse under his breath. "Fuck. I know her, she's from Winter Town, her name is Ros." he whispered into Arya's ear, uncertain whether Arya was aware of his past encounter with the woman.
"Lord Baelish," Ros greeted with a smile. "We weren't expecting you back so soon, my Lord."
"Ros." Arya replied coolly. "I needed to be back for the wedding. My lack of presence couldn't be gone unnoticed. How are my investments?"
Jon couldn't help but be impressed; Sansa's tutoring had evidently paid off. Arya displayed a keen understanding of how Littlefinger interacted with his associates, especially those in the business.
"They've been as good as ever. The royal wedding is a boon for business." Ros replied.
"Good. My journey has been long and uncomfortable. I need to rest and catch up on my paperwork." Arya stated.
"I'm not sure if you were aware, my Lord, but there have been unofficial goldcloak visits to your solar. They were looking for something." Ros disclosed.
"I'm fully aware of that," Arya responded calmly. "I have what they were looking for on my person. Please tell me nothing has been touched."
"Of course not." Ros assured, her voice betraying a hint of nervousness. "I kept your personal accounts private and away from prying eyes." Jon felt a surge of gratitude; those personal accounts were precisely what they had been searching for.
"Jon, get my things and follow me." Arya ordered. She turned to Ros. "I want them in my chambers. I will need the last five years. Have you kept them all hidden?"
"I have, Lord Baelish." Jon picked up the chest, revealing his face to Ros, who frowned as she watched him. "Do I know you?" She asked.
"Never been with a whore." Jon replied.
Ros cracked a smile. "I know you. You're Ned Stark's bastard. I wouldn't forget such a handsome face like yours." She moved in towards him. "Will I finally get to see that cock of yours? Is it as pretty as your face? I suspect you know how to use it now. I could show you other things, though."
Ros' lip curled up on one side, eyelashes fluttering. Jon could tell how practiced she was in the art of seduction. A few years ago, it might have worked on him, after he and Sansa retook Winterfell. At the time, he felt something inside was missing, and would have tried anything to get it back, which was probably why he fell for Daenerys.
That one time Jon spent at the Winter Town brothel, he had been turned on, despite him not doing anything with her. He'd taken himself to hand later instead. This time, her flirtations did nothing. His cock didn't even twitch. Jon suspected she could stand there naked, fingering herself, and it would do nothing for him.
Nowadays, fucking a whore held little interest for him, especially now that he knew what it was like to make love to Sansa. A different experience from anything he'd ever had in his life. More rewarding, and far more satisfying.
"He is working for me. A favour for Ned Stark. I am not paying him to fuck whores." Arya snapped. "He will not be mixing business with pleasure."
"Of course, Lord Baelish," Ros nodded.
"Ros, I want those accounts by this afternoon. Send someone up to tidy my room while I have a bath. Clear a room for Jon and have a bath drawn for him, too."
"Of course, Lord Baelish," Ros said, twirling her red hair around her finger. Jon knew she was still trying to seduce him.
Arya turned to Jon. "Follow me," she said, and they made their way up the stairs, to Littlefinger's apartment.
The room was a mess. Papers were strewn everywhere. A desk was upturned, a wardrobe on the floor, smashed. Drawers emptied, and the bed stripped.
"Do you think they were looking for the ledgers?" Jon asked.
"Probably," Arya replied, turning to face him. "You went to the Winter Town brothel?" She looked at him in surprise, and mild disgust.
"Blame Robb and Theon. Mainly Theon." Jon said. "It was Robb's name-day."
"Does Sansa know?" Arya asked.
"Nothing happened." Jon rolled his eyes. "You heard what Ros said."
"She said... never mind," Arya dismissed, leaving the unspoken words hanging in the air.
Once they were bathed and Littlefinger's solar had been re-arranged, they needed to go through all of Littlefinger's plans. Ros brought the ledgers, still giving Jon a look which made him feel uncomfortable.
"She fancies you." Arya said, stating the bloody obvious.
"What of it?" Jon asked.
"What did you do to her in Winter Town for her to be so interested in you?" Arya asked.
Jon frowned, he admitted, it was a little strange. "Nothing." Jon shrugged.
"Did you get naked?" Arya asked.
Jon was getting a little frustrated with Arya's line of questioning. "No, but what has that got to do with anything?"
"She might be a spy for someone other than Littlefinger." Arya said. "Probably Pycelle."
"Who is Pycelle?" Jon asked. "Maybe it's Varys."
"Well, he is in White Harbor, or Winterfell, or only the gods know where." Arya shrugged. "I just worry all the Red Keep will know of your presence by nightfall." She shook her head and looked at Jon with sadness. "We can't let that happen. Too much is at stake."
Jon realised what she meant. Arya was going to kill Ros. "No!" Jon stated. "That won't happen."
"It has to." Arya said.
Jon hated what he was about to do, but there were times and places for it. "As your King, I forbid it."
Arya looked at him in shock. "Are you pulling rank on me?"
"Aye, that I am." Jon nodded. "You forgot something." He folded his arms.
Arya scowled. "Your grace." She hissed.
"That's more like it." Jon sighed. "I've got a better idea. We take her back north. Offer her a position to run a northern brothel where she doesn't have to engage with the customers. Queenscrown needs one. As much as I hate to say. It might keep some of the Freefolk happy. Offer her triple her current pay, with her own place. She will be able to design it. But I permit you to threaten her, not to divulge of my presence here."
Arya nodded. "If she does, she will become a wedding gift for Joffrey. He killed her last time."
"We can watch over her. Tell her we need her to spy for Littlefinger. See what he was up to." Jon smiled at their plan.
Arya picked up a little brass bell and rang it. Moments later, Ros arrived.
"Yes, Lord Baelish. What would you like?" Ros asked.
"Come, sit." Littlefinger said, patting the chaise lounge where he was sitting. Nervously, Ros sat beside him. "I have a proposal for you. Well, two, if I am being honest. You can choose one or the other, although I have a preference. You are, my most loyal girl."
Ros' face blanched, and Jon knew she was spying for someone else. Jon just hoped it was Varys, as he was a thousand miles away.
"What would you like me to do?" Ros asked.
"A business opportunity has arisen." Littlefinger said. "Lord Whitestark and his wife, Lady Whitestark, have spent the last few years re-building Queenscrown. However, it needs a decent whorehouse. Of course, it would be impossible for me to run such an establishment, but you are of the north. I think it is time our northern counterparts enjoyed the pleasures of the south. Do you not agree, Ros?"
"Yes, Lord Baelish." Ros whispered, clearly not impressed with the assignment.
"It would mean you would be too busy running the establishment to work in any other manner."
Ros looked up and frowned. "Do you mean I wouldn't need to have my own customers?" She asked.
"Only if you want to. I am offering a very generous package. Whatever Pycelle and Varys are paying you, I will triple it. That is on top of your current pay. You will have your own lodgings and will be in charge of designing and finding suitable girls. You will even be able to have a family of your own, Ros. Does that sound good to you?"
"I'm not spying for them." Ros swallowed.
"Oh but you are." Littlefinger smirked. "Don't think I don't know everything. I am offering you this option. Your alternative, is to become a favourite of King Joffrey. I'm sure you understand the fate of his girls." A hint of warning sounded in Littlefinger's voice. Jon was impressed.
Ros nodded. "When do we leave?" She asked.
"I will tell you the day we are to leave. Ensure your meagre belongings are ready to go as soon as I command. I cannot let you know the day of our departure. I wouldn't want anyone, other than myself and Lord Whitestark to know the details."
Ros looked at Jon and smiled. "Is Lord Whitestark returning north?"
Deciding he really should play his part, he smiled back, this time in a more flirtatious manner. "I am." Jon replied. "Without Lord Baelish, may I add. Being in Queenscrown, mixing business and pleasure, will no longer be a problem." Jon stared at her suggestively.
"I'll go north." Ros agreed.
"Good. That is settled." Littlefinger said. "Now, back to work."
Once Ros was gone, Arya turned to Jon. "What in seven hells was that?"
"Persuasion tactics." Jon shrugged.
"And you are going to fuck her?" Arya asked.
Jon laughed. "Gods, no, Arya."
"How will you get yourself out of that one?" She asked.
"Because Lord Whitestark will never return to Queenscrown. The next time I visit, I'll be Aegon Targaryen." He said, trying out the name on his tongue, one that was only familiar in the context of tales of legendary historical figures. "I'll announce my intentions during the council meeting, and Ros will be nowhere in sight." Jon stood.
"Where are you going?" Arya asked.
"I'm going to practice warging into Ghost. I advise you do the same with Nymeria. I want to see Sansa, you can make sure Bran is alright."
Arya nodded. "You stay on the bed, I like it here."
Jon lay down on Littlefinger's soft bed, covered in red silk sheets. He closed his eyes and thought of Ghost.
The smell of earth and trees flooded his nostrils. Jon, or rather Ghost was in the woods, although Jon couldn't be entirely sure where. He sniffed the ground, searching for a familiar scent, Greywind. Jon looked up, the grey wolf approached and looked up to the trees. Jon wasn't sure what the wolf was looking for, but Jon also looked up, but there was nobody there. Greywind whimpered. Something was amiss. Was Bran supposed to be in the tree?
A rustling sound in the distance, and the scent of Sansa filled Jon's nostrils. He set off running towards her. But before he reached her, he heard a muffling sound, and then another voice. One he recognised and hoped never to hear again.
"Now that's a good girl. Don't say a word. We don't want to anyone to hear you, do we?" The sadistic tone of Ramsay Bolton filled his ears.
Anger took over, and Jon ran towards the voice, with Greywind trailing behind him.