Jon's affection for his little sister, Arya, was undeniable. Throughout their shared years, while Robb and Sansa may have from time to time, found Arya's antics tiresome, Jon never faltered in his love for her. However, in the past three days, something had shifted. Arya, spirited and independent beyond her years, had embraced the whims of her thirteen-year-old self in a manner Jon had never witnessed. Her infatuation with the Red Viper had unleashed a torrent of adoration that left Jon unsettled.
Arya's dilemma lay in her inability to engage with Oberyn Martell as anyone other than the enigmatic Littlefinger—a fact that grated on her nerves. She yearned to spar, to delve into discussions about poisons and combat tactics. If not for their significant age gap, Jon could have mistaken her fervour for love for the Dornish prince. When he broached the subject with her earlier that day, Arya's incessant chatter about Oberyn ceased, much to Jon's relief.
Not that Jon harboured any animosity toward Oberyn. On the contrary, the man served as a tenuous link to Jon's sire, albeit obscurely, yet closer to the siblings Jon had never known. It was only upon meeting Oberyn that Jon considered the fate that befell Rhaenys and Aegon, at the hands of the Mountain, acting under Tywin Lannister's orders and with Robert Baratheon's tacit approval. The mere thought of the atrocities inflicted upon his family by these powers made Jon's stomach churn with revulsion. In that shared outrage, Jon and Oberyn found a common cause: seeking retribution for the lives taken. However, the path to justice remained fraught with uncertainty.
Jon was aware of Arya's clandestine intentions regarding Tywin Lannister, although she had yet to divulge the details of her plan. The unfolding circumstances would dictate both the method and timing of her strike. As for the Mountain, Arya had confided in Jon that poison was the only viable means to end his monstrous existence. She cited Jaqen H'ghar as the inspiration behind the method she intended to employ. However, Jon hesitated to share any of this with Oberyn, knowing full well that the Red Viper was busy planning his schemes.
There were inherent risks associated with eliminating Tywin. These were concerns Jon couldn't voice in Oberyn's presence, ones he had only gleaned from his previous life. The repercussions of Tywin's demise would extend beyond mere political ramifications. It would grant the High Sparrow and his Faith Militant a newfound freedom within the city, presenting a formidable obstacle to seizing the capital. To the common folk, the High Sparrow embodied a symbol of salvation, rendering him an unpredictable variable, unlike the ruthless Tywin Lannister, whose actions were more predictable. As a devout northerner adhering to the old gods, Jon recognized the precarious position he would occupy in the eyes of the Faith Militant, notorious for their violent zealotry towards dissenters.
Gods, taking the Iron Throne was proving to be more stressful than fighting the army of the dead, Jon thought to himself.
Despite Arya's admiration for Oberyn and Jon's concerns regarding Tywin Lannister's potential demise and the rise of the Faith Militant, Jon and Arya did plenty of warging into their new feline familiars so that they could explore the secret tunnels of the Red Keep and Kings Landing.
Controlling the cats proved challenging, as their bond with the animals wasn't as strong as they'd hoped. They maintained enough influence to navigate the labyrinthine passageways unnoticed. Their primary objective lay within the depths of the Red Keep: the notorious black cells, where Stannis, Selyse, and Shireen were held captive.
Finding Stannis in the deepest recesses of the dungeon didn't come as a surprise. His cell, reserved for the most egregious of traitors, also housed Selyse, unwavering in her support for her husband. Positioned above them was Shireen, afforded only a modicum of comfort through a small window in her cell. While guarded, her confinement differed from that of Stannis and Selyse. They each had two guards stationed outside their doors, two more at the entrance to the deepest dungeons, and regular patrols throughout the rest of the cells.
Shireen's surveillance was less stringent, with only the two guards patrolling the upper floor of the dungeons. Jon and Arya faced less of a challenge, only circumventing the normal guards to reach their goal. After three days of meticulous planning, they stood ready to set their plan in motion.
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To ensure Shireen's disappearance went unnoticed until it was too late, Arya had arranged for a decoy to occupy her cell, feigning sleep until the opportune moment for her escape, contingent upon the success of their plan to eliminate Joffrey.
The Baratheons were scheduled for execution on the day of the wedding, a grim offering to the Tyrells, as decreed by the detestable Joffrey. However, with the imminent demise of the sadistic king, the execution was poised to be derailed. The ensuing chaos would postpone the execution, though the exact duration remained uncertain. The Red Keep would descend into turmoil with the regicide and the eventual discovery of Stannis's heir's disappearance.
That evening, Arya departed, accompanied by the cats. She had tasks to attend to, tasks she insisted Jon remain uninvolved in—indicating disapproval of her methods.
"I don't want you burdened with knowledge of my actions. It would only unsettle you, and I can't bear to see you stained with blood," she explained to him.
Jon found her rationale perplexing. War loomed on the horizon, promising to drench his hands in blood sooner rather than later.
As night cloaked the city, Jon stealthily made his way to one of the concealed entrances to the Red Keep, a discovery he and Arya had made together. The entrance lay hidden within an abandoned warehouse near the Mud Gate. Jon proceeded with caution, aware of the heightened security presence due to the impending royal wedding. He dreaded encountering Janos Slynt above all, knowing that the man's involvement in his father's demise would provoke a visceral response, likely involving Longclaw's blade severing Slynt's head from his body once again—this time with even greater satisfaction.
To evade detection, Jon donned a dark brown oiled leather doublet and practical brown leather breeches. Oiled leather proved more forgiving for wiping away any unwanted mess compared to wool or linen. Secured at his hip was his faithful Longclaw, a constant companion in his clandestine endeavours.
Seizing a fleeting opportunity amidst the patrols, Jon darted towards the warehouse door and slipped inside. Within the expansive darkness of the warehouse, only slivers of moonlight penetrated the gaps between the wooden walls. As expected, the space lay empty. Jon recalled the grate in the far left corner, serving as the gateway to the tunnel below. While navigating this route was straightforward during daylight, the cover of night presented a different challenge altogether to his human eyes.
Guided by touch, Jon navigated the perimeter of the warehouse until he reached his intended destination. With a grunt, he lowered himself onto his hands and knees, locating the weathered metal grate and exerting effort to hoist it open. Though the iron protested with rusted resistance, Jon pried it free. Any inkling that Varys' elusive "little birds" might have utilised this entrance dissipated as Jon grappled with the cumbersome grate cover.
Perched on the edge, Jon swung his legs into the gaping hole before descending into the darkness below. With practised efficiency, he replaced the grate cover, ensuring no trace of his passage remained above. Adopting a crouched position, Jon crawled through the narrow tunnel, the absence of light casting doubt on his progress. A faint glimmer ahead caught his attention, prompting a surge of hope that Arya had indeed kept her promise to illuminate his path with a torch.
Pressing onward, Jon continued his journey on all fours, the promise of the torch beckoned. Though the confined space tempted him to rise to his feet, he resisted, mindful of the potential hazards lurking in the darkness. Grimacing against the discomfort of rough stones biting into his palms and leaving impressions on his knees, Jon persisted in his methodical advance through the expanding tunnel.
As the flickering light grew more pronounced, Jon's ears caught the familiar sound of a cat's meow, signalling his discovery of the torch Arya had left for him. It wasn't until he felt a subtle draft on his right side that he realised the tunnel had reached a junction. To his left, the torch beckoned, mere inches away from a potential collision with his head had he continued forward. Glancing upward, Jon noted the ample height of the tunnel, affording him the luxury of standing upright. Seizing the torch, he reached down to offer Onyx a swift scratch behind the ear, eliciting a contented purr before the feline scampered off.
Surveying his surroundings for orientation, Jon recalled his and Arya's meticulous planning regarding the tunnel's route beneath the warehouse, tracing along the city walls from the Mud Gate to the Goldcloaks Barracks. The tang of salt and moisture in the air, coupled with the distant crashing of waves, hinted at the nearby presence of the Blackwater. Turning away from the shoreline, Jon set off in the opposite direction.
After a few paces, Jon encountered steps descending into darkness. Familiarity washed over him as he recognized the path he had traversed twice earlier that day, albeit while inhabiting Onyx's form. Piecing together his surroundings, Jon deduced he now found himself beneath the Goldcloaks Barracks, on the verge of breaching the walls of the Red Keep.
Having descended the stone steps, Jon pressed onward, bypassing a junction leading to Maegor's Holdfast. Instead, he forged ahead, the tunnel widening as he advanced. The increasing influx of light signalled his proximity to Arya's designated meeting point. As he drew nearer to the luminous glow, Jon's attention was drawn to something lying on the ground ahead. From a distance, it appeared to be two prone figures, though Jon couldn't find out their identities with certainty.
Upon closer inspection, Jon discerned one figure to be an empty suit of Lannister armour, likely intended for his use. The other form, a young girl of around ten years old, initially appeared lifeless. However, upon closer scrutiny, Jon detected shallow breaths escaping her lips.
"Seven hells, Arya, what have you done?" Jon muttered to himself, a mixture of concern and frustration swirling within him. He gently shook the girl in a futile attempt to rouse her, but she remained unresponsive. The sight of her emaciated form, coupled with her gaunt, hollowed features, bore a haunting resemblance to the wights of the army of the dead.
Arya had selected a girl bearing a vague resemblance to Shireen, with long, mousy-coloured hair and a petite frame reminiscent of Stannis's daughter. However, it was apparent that this child's fate was sealed; whether by illness or starvation, she wouldn't survive much longer. Though Jon harboured a sense of helplessness, resigning himself to the grim reality that he couldn't alter her inevitable demise, he resolved to prevent others from suffering a similar fate once he ascended to the throne.
Placing the torch in a wall bracket, Jon adorned himself with the oversized Lannister armour, it fit loose but was serviceable. Settling against the wall, he awaited Arya's signal, promised in the form of her cat, Jack. While he waited, Jon glimpsed through Onyx's eyes, hoping for a sign of Arya nearby. However, the cat prowled through a lit tunnel beyond Jon's view, devoid of any sign of Arya's presence.
Returning his focus to the present, Jon found Jack sitting before him, posture rigid as if awaiting instruction like a trained dog.
"Arya, is that you?" Jon murmured.
"Meow," came Jack's response.
Taking the feline's response as affirmation, Jon pushed himself upright, baffled by the prospect of conversing with a cat.
"Do you want me to bring the girl?" Jon queried, shaking his head in disbelief at the surreal exchange.
Jack glanced at the girl and then back at Jon, confirming Arya's presence within the cat's form. "Meow," the reply came, solidifying Arya's silent communication through Jack.
Handling the girl with utmost care, Jon cradled her in his arms, relying on Jack to guide their path through the lit passageway. With natural light filtering in from further ahead, Jon abandoned the need for a torch. After a brief interval, the silhouette of a Lannister soldier emerged, drawing closer to Jon's position. Jon recognized the man approaching—Dannon, tall and robust, with short, dark curly hair, tanned complexion, and bushy eyebrows framing a clean-shaven face. He appeared to be around thirty years old. This was the man Arya had marked as her target, the one whose face she intended to claim. Jon hoped her plan had succeeded.
"Jon, is that you?" Dannon's gruff voice resonated through the passage.
Pulling up his helm, Jon nodded in confirmation. "Arya?"
"It's me, idiot. Follow me, keep quiet. We don't have long," Arya's voice emanated from Dannon's form. "Lay her down over there for a moment," she directed Jon's attention to a large burlap sack nearby.
Jon placed the girl on the ground before rejoining Arya. "Is everything ready?" he inquired.
Arya nodded, assessing him. "You look ridiculous in that armour, Lannister red doesn't suit you. But it might be wise for us to keep it just in case we need another disguise."
"Have the guards changed yet?" Jon probed.
Arya shook her head in response. "We're just on our way now. Roger will inspect the upper cells and ensure all keys are accounted for. Then he'll hand them over to me, and you can join us after I've incapacitated the guard I'm supposed to be on duty with."
"You're not going to kill him?" Jon queried, his brow furrowed with concern.
"No," Arya replied firmly. "We can't arouse any suspicion. If the guard sleeps for a couple of hours and wakes to find the girl still there, no one will raise the alarm. Not until it's too late," she said with a smile. "We'll sign out, and return to our beds as if nothing has happened. When Dannon fails to show up for his shift tomorrow, they'll chalk it up to overindulgence at the feast. He's not slated for any duties," she added, her plan unfolding seamlessly.
"Alright," Jon agreed. "Let's get going."
Arya led him to a door concealed behind a tapestry. "You wait here, I need to find Keth," she instructed. "I'll come find you once he's out cold."
Jon listened from behind the tapestry as Arya located Keth, and they proceeded down the deserted corridors towards the guard's area for the key exchange. As they reached the entrance to the dungeon, Roger and the other guard awaited them.
"Thought you weren't coming," Roger remarked.
"Needed to take a shit," Arya retorted. "Ate some bad brown."
"Serves you right for fucking whores in Flea Bottom," Roger chuckled, his voice fading away as they likely descended into the dungeons, Arya leading the way while they checked each cell to ensure it was locked.
When Roger departed, handing over the keys and leaving Arya alone with Keth, the wait felt interminable, though it lasted only five minutes before Arya reappeared behind the tapestry.
"Come on, hurry, we don't have long. Put the girl into the sack and bring her along," Arya instructed.
Jon draped the burlap sack over the girl's body and hoisted her over his shoulder for ease, mindful that manoeuvring out from behind the tapestry would be cumbersome with her in his arms. Following Arya down the corridor to the dungeons, Jon discovered a guard slumped in a chair just inside the door, fast asleep.
The dank, fetid atmosphere of the dungeons assaulted Jon's senses. It smelled like a foul mixture of piss, shit, vomit and decay. Evoking memories of the battlefield and his clashes with Ramsay.
Arya guided Jon to Shireen's cell, where the girl sat huddled in a corner, her face obscured by her knees pulled to her chest.
"Princess Shireen," Jon whispered.
"Who are you?" Shireen's voice trembled with uncertainty.
"I'm a friend," Jon reassured her. "I'm here to help you escape."
"What about mother and father?"
"There's only enough room on the boat for one, Princess," Jon explained.
"But the Lannisters are going to execute them tomorrow," Shireen protested, her distress palpable.
"That's the plan, but I'm not confident it will go smoothly. You'll understand soon enough. We can't access the cells below, but we can save you," Arya explained, swinging open the cell door. "I need you to change clothes with this girl and leave her in the corner, appearing as if she's asleep. That should buy us a few days to get you far away from the capital."
Shireen rose to her feet. "Who are you?"
"I can't reveal my name, Princess," Jon replied. "Not until we get you out of here. But you'll encounter a familiar friendly face on the boat. He's here to help rescue you, too."
Shireen's expression brightened. "Ser..." she began, but both Jon and Arya silenced her with a gesture, pressing their fingers to their lips.
"You're correct, but let's keep names out of it," Arya cautioned. "We'll leave you for five minutes to provide some privacy," she added before ushering Jon back into the corridor. "Down there, three doors to the left is where they take prisoners who die in their cells. If anyone questions you, just say one of the prisoners passed away. Jack will be waiting on the grate to guide you through the tunnel to Davos. Remember the way out from inside the grate?"
"Aye," Jon affirmed as they returned to the cells. "What about the other prisoners?" he inquired.
"Darted and sedated," Arya informed Jon, displaying her small tube and an assortment of darts. "None will die; they'll just sleep for the night," she explained, turning to the guard. "Like our friend here, except he'll only be out for half an hour. Just enough time to get you out."
Shireen stood by the cell door as Jon approached to escort her out. The sleeping girl was now clad in Shireen's old clothes, while Shireen herself wore the ragged attire of her counterpart.
"She looks very ill," Shireen remarked, casting a sympathetic glance back at the girl.
"She's dying," Arya stated matter-of-factly. "I should know; it's why I chose her. She might fare better down here than out on the streets, but I doubt she'll last more than a day or two. She'll never wake from her sleep."
"You did nothing to her?" Shireen's concern rang clear in her voice.
"No, I found her unconscious in Flea Bottom," Arya reassured her.
Accepting that the girl was destined for a more comfortable death, Shireen agreed to be placed in the burlap sack, allowing Jon to hoist her over his shoulder.
"See you when you return with the rest of our guests," Jon said, offering a farewell.
"I wish you fortune in the wars to come, brother," Arya smiled.
"You too, little sister," Jon returned the smile, throwing his free arm around Arya's shoulders. With a clap on the back from Arya, Jon was ushered along, ready to carry out their plan.
Passing two guards on the way to the door where dead prisoners were taken for incineration, Jon reflected on the grim fate of the lowborn, denied even a proper burial. Once inside the lit stone room, he set Shireen down and removed the sack.
"Are you going to be walking about in that?" Shireen inquired, eyeing his armour. "Everyone will hear us."
Realising the potential for noise, Jon sought Shireen's help. "Can you help me take it off?"
Shireen nodded and aided him in unbuckling the armour, tackling the harder-to-reach spots. It took them a mere five minutes to divest Jon of the cumbersome attire and bundle it into the sack. Surveying their surroundings, Jon spotted Jack and Onyx waiting for them atop the grate.
"They're cute," Shireen remarked, her tone softening.
Reluctant to leave the little black cat behind, Jon proposed an idea. "We can take the black one. His name is Onyx."
Shireen scooped up the cat, who began to purr in an unusually contented manner. "I think he likes you. He's not this calm," Jon observed as he knelt to uncover the grate. Tossing the sack into the tunnel, he retrieved a torch from the wall to illuminate their path.
The drop was around ten feet, with rungs protruding for use as a ladder. "You go first," Jon instructed Shireen. "I'll take Onyx and toss him down once you're safe. He'll land on his feet. Then step aside so I can drop the torch. I'll need to replace the grate before I follow."
"Alright then," Shireen nodded, passing Onyx to Jon, who ceased purring.
Jon held the torch in one hand and the cat in the other, keeping a watchful eye on Shireen as she descended the steps. He glanced at the door, ensuring no one disturbed them, though the likelihood was slim. If anyone ventured from the dungeons to prepare a corpse for incineration, Arya would stall them, affording Jon and Shireen additional time to escape. Their delay in removing Jon's armour had already eaten up precious minutes.
Once Shireen reached the bottom, Jon tossed Onyx, who landed on all fours, just as Jon expected. Shireen scooped up the cat and cleared the sack from the foot of the stairs. Jon detected voices, one belonging to Dannon. They needed to hasten their departure. With a swift motion, Jon flung the torch to the lower level and descended, far enough to replace the grate over the hole. He just finished in time as he heard the door above creak open.
Scrambling down the ladder, Jon sidestepped the torch at the bottom and gestured to Shireen, placing a finger against his lips and motioning upward. Shireen nodded in comprehension. Jon retrieved the torch and sack and then led the way along the damp tunnel.
Before long, the salty scent of the sea wafted into Jon's nostrils, accompanied by the rhythmic crash of waves outside. The end of the tunnel was illuminated by moonlight, revealing a rope Arya had left behind, secured to a metal hook in the wall. Jon was relieved to see it, as the drop was a daunting forty feet, and there seemed no other viable way down.
Awaiting them at the bottom was a small boat, manned by a solitary figure. The vessel lay on the sandy shore of a diminutive cove, exposed by the receding tide, though it would soon return.
"We'll need to stow Onyx in the sack while I carry you and the sack on my back," Jon suggested, but Shireen laughed.
"I'm capable of climbing down myself," she countered. "My father installed a rope swing in the Godswood on Dragonstone, but all I did was climb it."
"It's not quite the same as descending a forty-foot drop," Jon cautioned.
"Of course it is. It's simple," she insisted.
Jon knew better than to argue against Shireen's determination. Though sweet-natured, she was resolute and independent, just like her father. Against his instincts, he relented.
"Go on then. I'll go first. If you slip, I'll catch you," Jon assured Shireen. It wouldn't be the first time he'd played the role of safety net, recalling the precarious climb up the Wall with the Free Folk, where he and Ygritte had avoided disaster.
"According to the myths, there are footholds in the wall on the way down," she informed him, a detail he had overlooked but one that promised to ease their descent.
With a disgruntled Onyx stowed in the sack, which Jon secured around his waist and up over his neck, he positioned himself over the tunnel exit and began his cautious descent, feeling for the first foothold. It was slick with moisture, but it held.
"You were right, Princess," Jon called out, mindful of their need for quiet. "Just be careful; the footholds are slippery."
Slowly, they descended down the rope. Jon anticipated the blisters that would adorn their hands come morning, a discomfort he could endure but knew Shireen would likely find challenging. Nonetheless, they persevered until they reached the bottom, where Davos stood by the boat, awaiting their arrival. Though darkness cloaked the scene, Jon sensed the tears in Davos's eyes as he beheld the young girl.
"Ser Davos," Shireen greeted the smuggler with a warm smile.
"Princess, it's good to see you alive and well," Davos acknowledged, turning to Jon. "Thank you, Your Grace. I will always be grateful for what you and your sister—sorry, cousin—did for her today," he bowed.
"There's no need for formalities, Ser Davos," Jon responded as they assisted Shireen into the boat. "But we need to return to the ship. You'll need to drop me off at Dragonstone. I'm awaiting some news. You sail straight to White Harbor, and I will follow."
Jon placed the sack in the boat alongside Shireen and helped Davos lower it into the water before they began rowing toward the distant ship.
"Whatever you say, Your Grace," Ser Davos affirmed with a smile as they rowed off into the night.