King's Landing, Flea Bottom
Night fell like a heavy, stained curtain. The pale, cold moonlight clung to the crumbling ruins of Flea Bottom, lending an even more skeletal chill to the already desolate district.
This was a corner of King's Landing that prosperity had long since forgotten. Whether it was the flicker of a tallow candle or the glow of an oil lamp, any light that dared enter this place seemed to be swallowed by the hungry darkness. If not for the occasional, weak shimmer of a dying hearth, one might easily mistake the district for a mass grave.
Dilapidated hovels were packed tight, their walls mottled with rot and their roofs patched with mud and rotting straw. When the night wind whistled through the narrow, muddy veins of the slums, it carried the cloying, rhythmic stench of sewage and decay.
In the oppressive silence of the pauper's district, a heavy atmosphere of despair lingered. Homeless beggars wrapped their gnarled bodies in tattered rags, huddling together for a warmth that would never come. Residents with actual hovels sat with faces etched in permanent worry, hiding behind doors that a strong gale could blow off their hinges. Their clothes were rags, their faces masks of hunger and cold.
Children curled in corners, their thin arms wrapped tight around themselves, eyes wide with a hollow, wordless terror of the future. Occasionally, a stray dog's bark would puncture the quiet, only to be muffled by the heavy, suffocating air.
Whoosh—!
Suddenly, a strange ripple tore through the air in a secluded alleyway. The very fabric of space began to distort, twisting like heated glass.
CRACK!
As if struck by a titanic, invisible claw, the air shattered into a thousand glittering shards. From the jagged rift, Jon stepped out into the mud.
"Where is this?"
Jon surveyed the squalor, momentarily wondering if his teleportation had missed its mark. Experience had taught him that while the Dimensional Dragon was reliable, its exit points were often... unpredictable. The last time, he had dropped directly into the Purple Palace of Tyrosh. This time, he had invoked the power to rescue Eddard Stark from the heart of the enemy, yet he found himself standing in a cesspool.
"I need to get out of this filth," Jon muttered. He looked at the sky. It was late, but King's Landing never truly slept. In the Street of Flour or the Street of Silk, the night was just beginning for the whores and the drunkards.
Caw... caw...Hoot...
Jon's consciousness expanded. Two ravens and an owl perched nearby took flight, their eyes becoming his. Through the avian perspective, he mapped the surrounding labyrinth. After a few moments, he oriented himself and began to walk. Based on the rot and the density of the hovels, he was certain: he was in Flea Bottom.
He navigated the maze until he reached a nondescript building. It looked like a blacksmith's shop, but far humbler than the master armories of the Street of Steel. This was a place for hammers and cooking pots. A sign hung over the door, depicting a heavy hammer striking a chain—an image that would have looked strangely familiar to anyone from the "Zhonghua Family" of Earth.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Jon pulled the cord for the door bell. A faint candlelight flickered within.
Click.
A small viewing slit, no larger than a melon, slid open.
"What do you want?" a voice rasped. The light from a low-quality oil lamp made it impossible for the man inside to see Jon's face clearly in the gloom.
"I'm looking for a hammer strong enough to break a shackle," Jon said.
"Hm... cough. We open shackles here; we don't need to build hammers for them."
The man squinted, trying to make out the silhouette of the stranger, but Jon remained a shadow in the dark.
"The hammer I need is meant to break the shackles in a man's heart," Jon replied. "It isn't an easy thing to forge."
"You... you are...?"
The password hit home. The man gasped, his voice trembling with sudden realization.
"Let's talk inside," Jon said.
The man unbarred the door, and Jon stepped into a two-story mud-brick courtyard. The walls were rammed earth, the roof tiled. In the yard stood three smelting furnaces and six anvils. Only two were currently warm.
"Lord Jon! The Flea Bottom Squad is present and ready for inspection!"
Led by the gatekeeper, five young men in coarse linen tunics stood at attention. They were the "Chainbreakers" intelligence node in King's Landing.
"Temi, Labe, Lance, Amy, Koster—thank you for the welcome. I know it's late."
These men were all System-aligned professionals. Jon knew their names as easily as his own; to him, every soldier was a data point he had personally nurtured.
"It is no trouble, my Lord!"
They were outsiders, meaning they could hide in Flea Bottom without raising suspicion. Their smithy provided a vital service to the poor, making them respected "local businessmen" rather than foreign spies.
"Jon?!"
A voice broke through the formal briefing. A small girl burst from a side room, followed closely by a handsome young boy dressed in commoner's clothes.
"Is it really you?"
Arya Stark didn't wait for an answer. She threw herself into Jon's arms. Jon caught her instinctively, only to feel a second pair of arms wrap around his waist. He looked down into the wide, tear-filled eyes of Bran Stark.
"It's been a long time," Jon said, patting their backs.
"Septa Mordane is dead... Jory is dead... so many people are dead..."
Arya was strong, but the sight of her brother broke the dam. The trauma of the last few days poured out of her. When Eddard had been arrested, the "House Stark Special Operations" team—the sleeper cell Jon had planted before leaving the capital—had acted instantly.
Jon had spent a fortune turning these twenty agents into elite System professionals. Their only job was to be the safety net Eddard refused to build for himself. They had hidden the children in the Street of Steel before moving them under the cover of darkness to this smithy.
"Peace, little sister," Jon whispered. "The Winter of House Stark is coming for them. The Lannisters aren't the only ones who 'pay their debts.' The Direwolf is far more ruthless than the Lion."
He handed the children off to a nurse to rest. He had work to do. He led the five agents into the main room and sat them down.
"Give me the situation," Jon commanded.
"Yes, Lord Jon."
Temi, the leader, spoke clearly. They had been busy. They had confirmed Eddard's exact location in the Black Cells and had even narrowed down where Sansa Stark was being held under "honorable" house arrest.
"According to the latest intelligence, Lord Eddard is to be brought to the Great Sept of Baelor tomorrow for public judgment."
"And what of Varys and Baelish?" Jon asked. "They are the true variables. Be careful with them."
The Spider and Littlefinger knew every stone in this city. Jon could "force" his way through a thousand soldiers, but he couldn't easily parry a knife in the dark or a poison in his cup.
"Lord Jon, our brothers have been shadowing them," Temi said. "Thanks to the 'powers' you granted us, we move like shadows ourselves. They have no idea we are watching."
"Good. Tomorrow, focus entirely on their agents. I will handle the main event. And get Arya and Bran out of the city at first light."
"By your command, Lord Jon!"