The alleyway behind Magister Illyrio's manse was narrow, choked with shadows, and smelled faintly of rotting fruit and damp earth.
Jon Stark stood at the base of the massive brick wall. It rose fifteen feet into the night sky, its surface smooth and imposing. Along the upper ridge, the jagged, cruel teeth of broken glass and rusted iron shards glittered menacingly in the pale moonlight, designed to rip the hands of any thief foolish enough to attempt a climb.
Arthur Dayne stood a few paces back, enveloped entirely in the gloom. Anna waited near the mouth of the alley, her grey eyes scanning the dark street for any signs of the city watch. Arya stood perfectly still beside Arthur, a dark wool scarf wrapped securely around her lower face, watching her older brother with intense, unblinking focus.
Jon did not carry a rope. He did not ask for a boost.
He closed his eyes and let out a slow, measured breath. The chaotic, overwhelming noise of Pentos—the distant barking of dogs, the muffled shouts from the taverns in the lower city, the shifting of the wind—faded into a dull, manageable hum. He felt the firm, packed earth beneath his boots. He drew the latent, deep power of the world into his center, coiling it tightly into the muscles of his legs like a compressed steel spring.
Jon opened his eyes. They were sharp, clear, and entirely devoid of hesitation.
He didn't run. He took a single, fluid step forward and launched himself upward.
The Force carried him. He sailed silently through the air, clearing the fifteen-foot span with unnatural, terrifying grace. For a fraction of a second, he hovered at the apex of the leap, directly above the lethal, jagged glass embedded in the mortar. He tucked his knees, flipped his body over the razor-sharp edge without snagging a single thread of his dark leather cloak, and dropped into the grounds of the manse.
He landed on the soft soil of the inner gardens. His boots made absolutely no sound. He absorbed the impact perfectly, dropping into a low crouch behind a thick hedge of exotic, sweet-smelling night-blooms.
He remained perfectly still for ten seconds, letting his senses sweep the immediate area.
The gardens were vast, filled with tiered fountains, marble statues, and manicured fruit trees. And just as Cassel had reported, the grounds were guarded.
Footsteps crunched lazily on a gravel path nearby.
Jon shifted his weight, pressing himself deeper into the shadows of the hedge. Through the leaves, he saw two sellswords slowly walking the edge of the gardens. They were not the disciplined, unspeaking Unsullied who guarded the front gates. These were free riders. One was a broad-shouldered Pentoshi with a scarred cheek; the other was a lean Tyroshi with a beard dyed a ridiculous shade of bright green.
They were supposed to be watching the walls for assassins. Instead, they were entirely focused on avoiding work.
"I am telling you, Mero," the green-bearded Tyroshi complained, aggressively peeling a stolen orange with a small dagger. "If the horse lords arrive tomorrow at dawn, I am hiding in the deepest corner of the wine cellar until they ride away."
"Illyrio pays us to guard the grounds, Vario," the scarred Pentoshi grunted, leaning heavily on his spear. "If the Magister finds you hiding with the casks, he will have the Unsullied whip the skin from your back."
"I would rather take a whipping from a eunuch than face a Dothraki bloodrider," Vario retorted, tossing an orange peel onto the pristine marble path. "They say the bloodriders braid bells into their hair. A bell for every man they kill. I do not wish to be a bell, Mero. I am a sellsord, not a martyr."
"Then do not fight them," Mero reasoned, scratching his neck beneath his rusted chainmail. "Just bow low, keep your eyes on the dirt, and offer them wine. The Magister is giving Khal Drogo the silver-haired Targaryen girl. The savages will be far too busy dragging her back to their tents to notice two guards by the fountain."
Jon's jaw tightened at the casual cruelty of the sellswords, but he did not let his anger spike. Anger clouded the mind. He needed them to move past his position so he could reach the heavy cedar doors of the main house.
But the two guards had stopped walking. Vario had decided to sit on the edge of a marble fountain just ten feet from Jon's hiding spot to finish peeling his fruit, while Mero leaned against a statue, looking thoroughly bored.
Jon needed a distraction. He didn't reach for a stone.
He focused his awareness on Vario's heavy leather coin pouch, which dangled loosely from the Tyroshi's belt. With a subtle, precise mental twist, Jon snapped the worn leather cord binding the pouch.
The pouch hit the marble tiles. A dozen silver stags spilled out, clattering loudly against the stone.
Vario cursed loudly, dropping his orange and scrambling to his hands and knees to gather his coin.
Mero barked a harsh, mocking laugh. "You have hands like a drunken bear, Vario. Can't even hold onto your own silver."
"I didn't touch it!" Vario snapped, frantically sweeping the coins together in the dark. "The leather was rotten! Help me find them before they roll into the water, you useless ox!"
"Find your own coin," Mero sneered, though he took a step forward, his greedy eyes scanning the ground to see if he could quietly pocket a stag for himself.
As both guards bent over the stone path, entirely consumed by the spilled silver and their bickering, Jon moved.
He flowed out from behind the hedge like a wisp of smoke. He crossed the open expanse of the gravel path in three long, rapid strides, making less noise than a falling leaf. He slipped past the distracted sellswords and melted into the deep shadows covering the rear entrance of the manse.
He reached the heavy cedar doors. They were locked.
Jon did not pick the lock. He placed his gloved hand flat against the wood, directly over the heavy iron mechanism. He sent a sharp, focused pulse of energy straight into the iron. The heavy tumblers inside the lock shifted and clicked open with a faint, metallic snick.
Jon turned the iron ring, opened the door a fraction of an inch, slipped inside, and pulled it silently shut behind him.
The interior of Magister Illyrio's manse was a staggering display of wealth. The floors were polished white marble, covered by thick, intricate Myrish carpets that muffled the sound of footsteps. The air was warm and smelled of expensive incense and roasted meats lingering from the evening meals. Soft, hooded lanterns provided a dim, golden light along the wide corridors.
Jon closed his eyes.
The house was vast, a labyrinth of guest chambers, servant quarters, and receiving halls. Searching room by room would take hours and inevitably lead to discovery. He needed to find the target immediately.
He extended his awareness, letting his mind drift through the walls and floors.
He felt the heavy, sluggish life-signatures of the sleeping servants on the lower levels. He felt the rigid, unmoving discipline of the Unsullied standing watch at the front gates—their minds were blank, devoid of fear or desire, shaped entirely for obedience.
Then, on the third floor, he found what he was looking for.
It was not a normal life signature. It did not feel like the tired, earthy pulse of the Pentoshi guards. It felt like heat.
He sensed two distinct sources of this heat. One was located in a large suite in the eastern wing. It was a jagged, erratic, and deeply unstable fire. It felt like rotting copper and splintered glass in his mind. It was the exact, unstable frequency of a mind consuming itself—the lingering poison of the Mad King. Viserys. Jon ignored it. Leaving the Beggar King behind was the right choice. He swept his focus to the western wing.
There, in a secluded chamber overlooking the sea, he found the second source. It was a softer, cleaner heat, but it was trembling violently. It radiated absolute, suffocating terror. The signature was small, isolated, and wide awake.
Daenerys.
Jon opened his eyes and moved.
He took the grand, sweeping marble staircase two steps at a time. His dark leather boots made absolutely no sound against the stone. He navigated the second-floor landing, slipping behind a heavy velvet tapestry as a pair of drowsy house servants carried a tray of empty wine goblets down the hall. They walked past him, entirely unaware that the deadliest shadow in the North was standing less than an arm's length away.
Jon reached the third floor. The corridor leading to the western wing was empty.
He found the heavy, ornately carved oak door of the chamber. He didn't bother checking the lock; he simply reached out and released the iron tumblers with a subtle push of the Force. He turned the handle and slipped inside, closing the door behind him.
The chamber was lavish. Thick silk curtains hung from the high windows, and a massive four-poster bed dominated the center of the room.
Daenerys Targaryen was not in the bed.
She was standing near the large, arched window, looking out over the moonlit waters of the Narrow Sea. She wore a simple, pale linen shift. Her silver-blonde hair cascaded down her back like a waterfall of moonlight.
She was weeping.
It was a silent, desperate weeping. Her thin shoulders shook as she stared out at the dark water. She knew the sun would rise in a few short hours. And with the dawn, the horse lords would arrive. She had heard the vicious, mocking whispers of her brother. She knew she was to be traded to the savage Khal. She was a princess of a fallen dynasty, entirely alone in the world, waiting for the monsters to come and claim her.
Jon stood in the shadows near the door. He looked at the girl. He noticed a small, frayed cloth bundle sitting on her bed. It contained two thin, patched dresses and a single pair of riding boots. It was the entirety of the dowry her brother had provided for her sale to the Dothraki.
A brief, sharp pang of sympathy struck Jon's chest. She looked so small, so utterly broken by the cruelty of the men who controlled her life.
But Jon was not there to offer comfort. He was not a knight from the songs, arriving to dry a princess's tears and swear his sword to her cause. He was a weapon of the North, trained to execute a flawless rescue.
Arthur Dayne had been absolutely correct: if Jon stepped into the light and tried to explain his presence, her terror would instantly turn to panic. She would scream, the guards would swarm the room, and they would all die.
Jon shoved his sympathy aside, locking his emotions behind the unyielding, cold discipline of his training.
He moved.
He crossed the thick Myrish carpet in a blur of dark leather. He was a silent, lethal shadow closing the distance in less than a heartbeat.
Daenerys sensed a shift in the air. A sudden, terrifying instinct that she was no longer alone in the room. She gasped, turning away from the window, her violet eyes going wide with pure horror as a dark figure materialized right behind her.
She inhaled sharply, her lungs filling with air to let out a piercing, desperate scream for the guards.
She never made a sound.
Before the breath could even reach her vocal cords, Jon struck.
His gloved hand shot forward with absolute precision. He struck the side of her neck, pressing hard against the vital blood vessel, applying a sharp, measured burst of power. It was a technique designed to immediately disrupt the flow of blood to the head without causing permanent damage.
Daenerys's eyes rolled back. The scream died in her throat. Her body instantly went limp.
Jon caught her before her knees could buckle. He wrapped his arms securely around her waist and shoulders, easing her silently to the floor. He checked her pulse. It was steady and strong. She was completely unconscious.
The strike had taken less than two seconds.
Jon did not waste time. He pulled a thick, heavy dark wool cloak from his pack and wrapped it tightly around her, ensuring her striking silver hair and pale shift were completely covered. He lifted her effortlessly, hoisting her over his shoulder. She was light but the dead weight was still substantial.
Jon adjusted her position, ensuring she was balanced perfectly. He drew a deep breath, marshaling the Force to sustain his stamina. He carried the blood of the dragon, and the North was bringing her home.
He slipped back out the heavy oak door.
The descent through the manse was more perilous than the ascent. Carrying a hostage shifted his balance and severely restricted his speed. He could not run. He had to move with slow, deliberate care.
He paused at the top of the grand staircase, waiting for a lone guard to pass through the lower hall. The manse was completely quiet, settling into the deepest, darkest hour of the night.
Jon carried her down the marble steps, sticking to the shadows hugging the walls. He navigated the lower corridors, ignoring the distant, muted snores of the sleeping servants. He reached the rear cedar doors, pushed them open, and stepped back out into the cool, night air of the gardens.
He moved back toward the brick wall, staying low behind the manicured hedges.
As he neared the wall, he heard voices.
Vario and Mero were still there.
"I am telling you, Mero, I didn't drop it!" Vario hissed, his voice echoing loudly in the quiet garden. The green-bearded Tyroshi was currently on his hands and knees, sifting through the dirt with a small lantern. "I was sitting right here! The pouch just snapped!"
"You drank too much of the Magister's wine and fumbled your own purse, you idiot," Mero replied, leaning against the fountain, making absolutely no effort to help his companion look for the lost silver stags. "Just admit your fingers are useless."
"I am missing three stags!" Vario complained bitterly. "Three! If you pocketed them while I was looking under the bench—"
"I didn't touch your miserable silver," Mero snorted. "Maybe a ghost took them."
Jon crouched behind a marble statue of a weeping goddess, Daenerys's unconscious body draped heavily over his shoulder. The two sellswords were standing directly between him and the section of the wall he needed to jump. He could not slip past them this time; the rustle of the heavy wool cloak or the shifting of her weight would give him away.
He needed to move them.
Jon looked around the dark garden. A few yards away from the sellswords, near a heavy iron gate leading to the kitchens, sat a large stack of empty wine casks.
Jon focused his mind. He extended a solid, heavy pulse of power toward the bottom of the stack.
With a loud, wooden crack, the bottom cask shifted. The entire stack became unbalanced. Three heavy, empty wooden barrels tumbled to the ground, bouncing loudly against the cobblestones and rolling toward the kitchen doors.
Both sellswords jumped, their hands flying to their swords.
"What the hell was that?" Vario gasped, scrambling to his feet and dropping his lantern.
"Someone is at the kitchen gates!" Mero hissed, drawing his blade, his previous boredom vanishing instantly. The fear of Dothraki assassins or rival thieves clearly overriding his laziness. "Come on! If someone steals the Magister's reserves, he'll hang us!"
The two mercenaries ran toward the kitchen courtyard, their chainmail jingling loudly in the night, entirely abandoning their post by the wall.
They reached the courtyard and found the heavy wooden barrels scattered across the cobblestones, but the area was completely empty. There were no thieves, no assassins, and no shadows. Vario, already terrified of the dark, pointed a shaking finger at the empty space.
"I told you!" Vario hissed, backing away toward the main house. "First the coins, now the barrels! This manse is haunted by a Pentoshi ghost!"
Mero let out a long, suffering groan, rubbing his face. "If you don't help me stack these back up before the Magister wakes, I'll make a ghost out of you myself," he threatened, though his own eyes darted nervously around the dark courtyard.
Back by the wall, Jon didn't hesitate.
He moved swiftly to the base of the fifteen-foot brick structure. He looked up at the jagged glass lining the top. Leaping the wall unburdened was simple. Leaping the wall while carrying the dead weight of a seventeen-year-old girl required an immense amount of raw power.
Jon shifted Daenerys firmly onto his left shoulder, wrapping his left arm tightly around her legs to secure her. He bent his knees, dropping his weight deep into the earth. He pulled the Force into his core, letting it flood his legs until his muscles burned with the suppressed energy.
He pushed off the dirt.
The power of the leap was staggering. Jon rocketed upward into the night air. The heavy weight of the girl threatened to pull him backward, throwing off his balance, but Jon's core was made of iron. He adjusted his posture mid-air, clearing the razor-sharp glass by mere inches.
He crested the wall and began to fall toward the dark alleyway on the other side.
The massive surge of power strained his body to its absolute limit. When he landed on the cobblestones, his knees buckled hard against the stone. A sharp, coppery taste flooded the back of his mouth. He stumbled, unable to bear the combined weight as his legs briefly gave out.
Arthur Dayne stepped out of the shadows.
As Jon dropped, Arthur raised his strong arms and caught Daenerys seamlessly. The legendary knight absorbed the weight of the girl without a single grunt of exertion, allowing Jon to fall lightly to one knee and catch his breath.
The moonlight caught the pale, sleeping face and the striking silver hair spilling from beneath the dark wool cloak.
For a fraction of a second, the stoic Sword of the Morning froze. He did not see a stranger in his arms. He saw the ghost of Queen Rhaella and the lingering echoes of his Queen, Rhaegar. A heavy sorrow tightened Arthur's chest. He adjusted his grip, pulling the last Targaryen princess securely against his chest, quietly fulfilling the Kingsguard vow he had failed to uphold at the Trident.
"I have her," Arthur murmured quietly.
The entire rescue, from the moment Jon went over the wall to the moment he returned, had taken less than ten minutes.
Anna stepped out of the gloom, her grey eyes inspecting the bundle in Arthur's arms. She pulled the dark wool cloak back slightly, revealing the incredibly thin, pale arms of the Targaryen princess.
Arya stepped out from behind Arthur, pulling her dark scarf down. Her grey eyes were wide with genuine, unadulterated awe. She had spent the last ten minutes pacing the alleyway, convinced Jon was going to get caught.
"You actually did it," Arya whispered, staring at her brother as he stood back up. "You went into a fortress, stole a princess, and came back without making a sound."
"Quiet, Arya," Anna commanded softly, pulling the girl's scarf back up over her mouth. "The work is not over. We are still in enemy territory."
Arthur adjusted Daenerys in his arms, holding her securely against his chest. "We move to the docks. Fast and quiet. Keep to the shadows."
The small Northern party moved out of the alleyway, beginning the tense journey back through the winding, cobblestone streets of Pentos.
The upper city was asleep, but the streets were not entirely empty. The city watch maintained irregular patrols. As they turned a narrow corner near a high-walled garden, a drunken patrol of spear-carrying watchmen stumbled out of a tavern directly into their path. They were less than thirty paces away, laughing loudly.
Arthur tensed, his hand sliding beneath his cloak to grip the hilt of Dawn. A fight in the streets would rouse the entire district.
Before Arthur could draw his blade, Arya moved. She slipped seamlessly into an adjacent, pitch-black side alley. With a swift kick, she sent a heavy clay pot shattering against the brick wall. Immediately after, she let out a flawless, ear-piercing screech that sounded exactly like two furious alley cats fighting over a scrap of meat.
The drunken guards stopped, cursing the sudden noise.
"Damned beasts," one of them grumbled, turning his spear toward the dark side alley. "I'll skin them for boots! Go on, get out of here!"
The patrol staggered down the wrong alley to investigate the noise. The Northern party slipped past the main street completely unseen, Arthur giving Arya a brief, deeply impressed nod of approval as she seamlessly rejoined them.
Thanks to the absolute discipline of the Northmen and the silencing effect of the Grey Path, the rest of the journey went without incident.
They left the wealthy manses behind, descending into the foul-smelling, chaotic maze of the lower docks. Even in the dead of night, the harbor was alive with illicit activity—smugglers unloading crates, drunken sailors passed out in the alleys, and the low, muffled sounds of tavern brawls.
Arthur, Anna, and Jon pulled their hoods low. They walked purposefully, their faces hidden, looking like nothing more than a group of rough mercenaries hauling a drunken comrade back to their ship. In the lower docks of Pentos, a man carrying a limp body over his shoulder was too common a sight to warrant a second glance.
They reached the hidden, rotting pier where the Winter's Lance was berthed.
The ship was completely dark. No lanterns burned. The sails were already half-unfurled, waiting only for the wind.
Cassel and Alyn stood near the base of the gangplank, their swords drawn and hidden beneath their heavy cloaks. When they saw Arthur carrying the dark bundle, they immediately stepped aside, gesturing urgently toward the deck.
The party hurried up the wooden plank.
The moment Arthur's boots hit the main deck, the ship sprang into silent, furious motion.
"Cast off," Anna ordered, her voice a low, sharp whisper.
The crew moved perfectly, demonstrating the terrifying discipline of the North. There were no shouted orders. The crew used heavy leather wraps, thickly coated in goose grease, wrapped tightly over the pulleys and oarlocks to muffle any sound of grinding wood. The single slipknot holding the heavy mooring lines was pulled. The ropes slid quietly into the dark water.
The crew hauled on the greased rigging, catching the strong offshore breeze. The massive ship glided smoothly away from the rotting wooden piers without a single creak of timber or splash of water, melting into the sea mist like a true phantom.
Arthur carried Daenerys straight into the captain's cabin, laying her gently on the narrow wooden cot. Anna pulled a heavy wool blanket over her to ward off the sea chill.
Jon stood at the stern of the ship, watching the sprawling, lantern-lit hills of Pentos shrink into the distance. The city was completely quiet. No alarm bells were ringing in the upper city. Magister Illyrio and Viserys Targaryen were sleeping soundly in their luxurious beds, entirely unaware that the prize they intended to sell to the Dothraki was currently sailing away on a Northern ship.
Arya walked up beside Jon, leaning against the wooden railing. She pulled her scarf down, taking a deep breath of the clean, salty sea air.
"Are we taking her straight to Sea Dragon Point?" Arya asked, looking back at the shrinking city.
"Yes," Jon said quietly, his grey eyes fixed on the horizon as he tasted the last of the copper in his mouth. "She will be safe there. The South will not find her."
Arya looked at her brother, a newfound respect shining in her eyes. "You really are a ghost, Jon."
Jon didn't smile. He just turned away from the railing and looked toward the captain's cabin. He had executed the rescue flawlessly. He had saved the girl from a fate worse than death.
But as the Winter's Lance cut silently through the dark waters of the Narrow Sea, Jon knew the hardest part of the mission was still to come.
When the sun rose, the Targaryen princess was going to wake up in a strange room, surrounded by strangers from a kingdom she had been taught to hate. And Jon Stark was going to have to explain to a girl who believed he was an assassin why he had just stolen her from her only living family.