If you guys enjoy this story so far please give it a powerstone & collect. That will help the story!
-
A raven arrived one day, black wings beating hard against a sky the color of cold steel. It bore the crowned stag of Dragonstone.
Robb broke the seal in the solar at Riverrun, Jon standing at his side while Brynden Tully, Edmure, and several northern and river lords gathered close enough to hear. The letter was brief. Blunt. Unadorned.
Stannis Baratheon had secured the Stormlands. Lords who had followed Renly now bent the knee or lay broken. The garrisons of Cape Wrath, Griffin's Roost, and the Rainwood had sworn allegiance. The Narrow Sea lords had joined his fleet. His banners now flew over Storm's End.
He marched on King's Landing. He expected aid. No flattery. No courtesy beyond necessity. No doubt.
He had his 15,000 soldiers made up of the royal fleet, sellswords he hired, some Reach and Crownland Lords, and the Narrow Sea and Clawpoint Lords he won over and ruled.
Now he has gotten another 15,000 soldiers from the Stormlands down from the 20,000 soldiers Renly raised since some would not kneel or fled back to their castles. In total his army stood at 30,000 soldiers equal to their force and the Lannister force in Westerland.
However the man needed more if he was going to besiege the capital of the whole continent. Kinglanding had over half-million souls within its walls, the greatest and largest city within all of Westeros.
Brynden gave a low whistle when Robb finished reading.
"He moves swiftly."
"As he must," Robb replied.
Jon stepped forward and placed both hands on the map table. King's Landing sat pinned beside the Blackwater Rush, small and deceptively fragile.
"Tywin remains in the west," Jon said. "The Lannister host is trapped between us and the capital. If Stannis takes King's Landing quickly, the lions lose their throne and their leverage."
Edmure frowned. "And if he fails?"
Jon did not answer immediately. "He cannot afford to," Robb said instead.
Brynden crossed his arms. "He expects how many men from us?"
"He does not name a number," Robb said. "But the implication is clear. He will not lay siege alone. We will need to show our loyalty."
"We already have, we among all of the kingdoms are the ones to fight," Brynden remarked. "But a King always wants more."
Silence fell. Finally, Robb spoke again. "I can spare ten thousand."
Edmure stiffened. "Ten thousand? That leaves barely twenty here."
"I will make that enough," Robb replied.
"We can get away with having less men then the lion since we are only holding here and this is our land," Brynden agreed.
Robb looked at his great-uncle. "You will command the host."
Brynden's eyes sharpened. "I had assumed as much."
"No man alive understands siege and river warfare as you do," Robb said. "Ten thousand will march under your banner to join Stannis."
Brynden inclined his head. "They will stand firm."
Jon studied the map in silence, memories flickering unbidden. Smoke choking the sky above the Blackwater. Green fire blooming across the river. Men screaming as ships split and burned. Stannis' banners cut down by the thousands. He forced the memory aside.
"You should be careful," Jon said. "The Lannister in the capital are getting desperate. The Green Men say the dwarf is working with the Alchemist. Expect Wildfire."
"Are they mad?" Edmure asked in surprise.
"Well the boy-king is the second mad king incarnate. Also make sure to send the Freys," Jon added.
"All of them?" Robb asked in surprise.
"All two thousand currently under our command," Jon replied.
Brynden studied him carefully. "You distrust them."
"Yes, the Frey have blood connects to the Lannister. So better to have their army far away from the Riverlands to open the door for Tywin to come in."
Robb's gaze sharpened. "And they wished to straddle me with one of their broods. Better to pay the price in blood full if they want this match!"
Brynden leaned forward slightly. "Good I will have them first through the breaches if King's Landing is that desperate. Late Walder can finally be first Walder."
Jon continued, voice steady. "And any lords unhappy with the Green Men. Any who whisper of heresy. Any whose loyalty bends with southern winds."
Edmure shifted uneasily. "You would thin our ranks of dissenters."
"I would place them where their loyalty must be proven," Jon replied.
Robb considered this for a long moment. "If they distinguish themselves, they strengthen our cause," Robb said finally.
"And if they falter," Brynden added, "we learn where we stand."
Robb nodded. "Very well. Two thousand Freys. Any wavering banners. They march under Brynden's command."
The decision settled heavily in the room. Ten thousand men. A third of their combined strength committed to the most dangerous battlefield in the realm.
…
When the council dispersed and only the brothers remained, the air felt thicker somehow. Jon walked to the window overlooking the river. "It's time for me to leave now before the siege starts and the city gates are closed for good."
Robb's jaw tightened. "Yes, I have kept you for too long. Are your plans in order."
"I have contacts," Jon said carefully. "Men who profit from chaos. The capital is a nest of ambition. I can use that."
Robb studied him. "You speak as though you've walked its alleys a hundred times."
Jon held his gaze without blinking. "I have often when I was there with father and learned from someone about the capital."
Robb did not press further. "When will you leave?"
"Tomorrow."
"Fine, I expect you to come back in tow with our younger siblings."
"I won't disappoint," Jon smiled.
-
The city stank of fear long before Jon saw its walls. From the deck of the small river galley that bore him south, he watched smoke hang over the horizon like a bruise against the sky. As they rounded the bend toward Blackwater Bay, the great sprawl of King's Landing came into view vast, swollen, restless.
It was not merely a city now but a hive struck with a stick. Ships clogged the harbor; fishing boats, merchant cogs, pleasure barges pressed into service as transport. Some tried to flee. Others tried desperately to enter before the blockade everyone whispered about became real. Gold cloaks lined the docks in doubled ranks. Carts creaked beneath sacks of grain that looked pitifully small against the hunger they were meant to stave off.
The banners of Joffrey Baratheon flew from the Red Keep, lion and stag intertwined but they looked brittle in the salt wind. Jon kept his head down as they disembarked. He wore no wolf. No sigil.
Only plain leathers beneath a travel-stained cloak, hair tied back, sword common and unremarkable. At his belt hung a purse heavy with coin and a small oilskin packet containing contracts made by Baelish years ago.
The city roared around him. Bread riots had already begun. He saw it in the gaunt faces, the tight fists, the muttered curses against the crown. Bakers had shuttered shops. Fishmongers argued with soldiers over confiscated catches. A woman screamed at a gold cloak who had taken her last sack of barley "for the king."
Everywhere, men spoke of siege. "Stannis is marching."
"They say he burns men alive."
"They say the Stormlords have bent the knee."
"They say the North rides with him."
Jon moved through it like smoke. He had been here in his father's shadow. Back then he had walked these streets under the directive of Littlefinger.
The first contract opened the Mud Gate. The man waiting in the shadow of a wine warehouse was older, heavier, and far less sober than Jon remembered but gold still sharpened memory.
"You're no Lannister," the man muttered, eyeing him.
"I'm no one," Jon replied calmly, pressing the signet-stamped parchment into his hand.
The man squinted at the seal. Baelish's mockingbird. He grunted. "Times have changed. This is a name not loved by anyone."
"I still pay the same prices," Jon said quietly, handing him some coin.
The gate was not opened for him outright into the Red Keep, that would draw attention but a shift change was adjusted. A patrol delayed. A ledger altered. By dusk, Jon wore the black-and-gold surcoat of a city watchman. He did not wear it proudly. He wore it like armor.
The streets grew cleaner as he ascended Aegon's High Hill, but the tension thickened. More gold cloaks. More whispers. More eyes. He kept his pace steady, head bowed slightly as though burdened by routine.
Inside the outer yard, chaos simmered beneath discipline. Servants hurried with crates of grain. Smiths hammered at spearheads. A dozen carpenters reinforced scorpions along the walls. The sound of argument carried from an open balcony above.
He passed beneath the shadow of Maegor's Holdfast without being challenged. The second contract worked better than he had hoped. A captain of the gold cloaks; greedy and nervous had plenty of loans which Baelish always paid. Now with the man dead for a couple years, his debt added up and needed help from anyone.
Jon did not reveal himself fully. He did not need to. All he had to do was show Baelish's cipher and a phrase that unlocked old obligation and plenty of coin to get the sharks off his back.
Within the hour, Jon was assigned to a rotating watch near the inner yard. He was inside. The Red Keep pulsed like a living thing preparing for slaughter. Servants whispered in corners. Knights sharpened blades obsessively.
And everywhere, rumors spread like rot. He heard one while standing post beside two bored guards near the armory. "They say Ser Barristan's gone."
Jon stilled. "Gone?" the other guard scoffed.
"Escaped. Him and his squire. Slipped out two weeks ago. Headed for a ship bound east."
Jon's pulse quickened. Barristan Selmy. If the old knight had fled, the realm was truly unraveling.
"Good riddance," the second guard muttered. "Old men don't win wars."
Jon kept his face blank. Barristan would not have fled lightly. The Lannisters must have done something. There arrogance knew no bound and now they lost a key kings guard.
Still those word struck him like a blade. He had come for three. Sansa. Arya. Bran. Now one was gone beyond reach.
He forced his breathing to steady. Bran had always been quiet, observant. If Barristan had taken him, perhaps it was protection rather than betrayal.
Nonetheless he could not chase a ghost across the Narrow Sea. Not now. He turned his focus inward. Arya. Sansa.
…
Arya proved the harder trail. She had not been seen at court in weeks. A kitchen girl whispered that the queen had confined her after "an incident."
Jon pressed. "What incident?"
The girl crossed herself and Jon gave her a gold coin for her to continue talking. "She tried to kill the king."
His blood ran cold. "How?"
"She pushed him. Off the parapet near the Maidenvault. He didn't fall far enough. Broke his arm, they say. Queen locked her away after."
Jon closed his eyes briefly. Of course she had. Arya would not bend quietly. "Where?" he asked softly.
The girl swallowed. "Maegor's Holdfast. Upper levels. Guarded day and night."
Maegor's Holdfast was a fortress within a fortress. Even with contracts and coin, breaching it alone would be near impossible without raising alarm.
He shifted strategy. Sansa would be easier. Sansa was valuable. She would be displayed, guarded but not hidden like a criminal. He waited until night fell.
…
He found her beneath torchlight in a balcony chamber overlooking Blackwater Bay. She stood alone, hands folded, hair brushed and bound in southern style. She looked older. Thinner. But still straight-backed.
At the door stood the Hound. Sandor Clegane. Massive. Scarred. Restless.
Jon felt the anger rise seeing the dog but forced it down. He waited for the shift change.
The captain bribed earlier had arranged a brief lapse; two minutes where the Hound would be summoned below to address a complaint among the guards. It was a thin opening. It was dangerous but it had to be enough.
When Sandor descended the stair in a foul mood, Jon moved. He slipped through the half-open door and shut it silently behind him.
Sansa turned at the sound. For a heartbeat, she did not recognize him. Then her hand flew to her mouth. "Jon?"
He pulled back his helm. "It's me."
Tears sprang instantly to her eyes. "You shouldn't be here."
"I know."
She crossed the room in two steps and embraced him fiercely. He felt how light she was. "How?" she whispered.
"No time." He gripped her shoulders gently. "Can you walk?"
"Yes." She nodded.
He handed her a plain cloak. "Put this on. Hood up. Say nothing."
Her hands trembled, but she obeyed. He cracked the door and listened. Voices below. Bootsteps. Closer than he'd hoped.
They slipped into the corridor. Two turns. Down a servants' stair. Almost… then there was a heavy step behind them.
"Oi." The word froze his blood. Jon turned slowly. Sandor Clegane stood at the top of the stair, helmet off, scarred face illuminated by torchlight.
Image: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/AW9d_Wc7XuKge1qDwGbQWc7EXBjDShUst39H723r6YBMlv3bYHD3N5U/
His eyes flicked from Jon to Sansa. Then back. "Well," the Hound rumbled. "That's interesting."
Jon did not reach for his sword. Not yet. "Step aside," Jon said quietly.
The Hound barked a humorless laugh. "You've got stones. I'll give you that."
Sansa trembled behind him. "She's leaving," Jon said.
"Ain't that obvious." Sandor's gaze softened—barely—when it fell on Sansa. "You sure you want to go, little bird?"
"Yes," she whispered.
The Hound exhaled slowly through his nose. "You will soon have half the castle looking for. You think you'll make it to the gate?"
"We don't need to reach the gate," Jon said evenly.
Sandor's eyes sharpened. "You've got another way."
Silence.
Then he heard a maid dropping a plate, "The Stark lady is gone!"
It wasn't long before there was shouting and the rush of feet. Then distant horns sounded. Time was up. They did not even have a chance to make it to Arya.
The Hound's expression changed. He stepped aside not fully yielding, but not blocking. "Run," he growled. "And pray I'm not the one sent after you."
Jon did not hesitate. He seized Sansa's hand and ran.
The Red Keep erupted behind them. Shouts echoed through stone corridors. Bells began to ring. Torches flared brighter as men scrambled.
Jon did not head for the main gate. He cut through kitchens, through a storage hall, down into the lower vaults where Baelish's older contracts had promised access.
A forgotten sally port. Half-bricked. Rarely used. He kicked the loose stone free. "Quickly," he urged.
Sansa squeezed through first, cloak snagging. Jon followed. Behind them, boots thundered.
They emerged onto the rocky slope beneath the outer wall. The city below roared with confusion. "They'll close the gates," Sansa gasped.
"We're not using them." He led her down a narrow path toward the Mud Gate, where a small skiff waited in shadow, paid for in advance.
Arrows whistled overhead. Someone had seen them. They dove into the boat. Jon cut the rope with one swift stroke. The current caught them.
Behind them, torches clustered along the wall. A distant figure stood above the parapet. Sandor Clegane. He did not raise a bow. He did not shout. He simply watched. The boat drifted into darkness.
Sansa sobbed softly as the Red Keep shrank behind them. "Arya," she choked. "We can't leave her."
Jon's jaw clenched. "I know."
"And Bran?"
He hesitated only a fraction. "Gone."
She stared at him in horror. "Gone where?"
"East." Tears streamed down her face.
"We have to go back."
"We can't."
The bells still rang. The city still roared. And somewhere beyond the horizon, Stannis' fleet was coming. Jon gripped the oars and rowed. "I will try to come back for her," he said fiercely. "In the army that sieges this place."
Jon did not look back again. He had saved one wolf from the lion's den. Two still remained. One to the East and another trapped in the capital which would burn soon.