Chapter 17 — The Collapse and the Tomboy
The street was crowded and noisy — packed with people and a prison wagon at its center. Inside were petty thieves, vagrants, a rapist or two, and even a blacksmith's apprentice with soot-stained hands.
"My old master got tired of me," the apprentice said bitterly, his voice thick with sarcasm. "So he sent me off to join the Black Brothers."
Charles looked over at him — a boy around his own age, black-haired and broad-shouldered, with calloused hands from years at the forge.
"That's not so bad," Charles replied, his tone distracted. His gaze was constantly shifting, scanning the narrow street for exits. "At least you're free now."
"Free?" The apprentice snorted. "You ever been north, friend? They say at Castle Black it's so cold your fingers can freeze clean off. And the Brothers don't let you marry, don't let you have kids. If that's freedom, I'd rather—"
He rambled on, unaware that Charles wasn't listening.
The boy's name was Gendry, and though he talked plenty, it was mostly to vent his own frustrations. Charles wasn't interested.
He was too busy blending in — dressed now in a rough gray tunic and trousers, his hair deliberately messy. He looked like any other commoner.
They stood near one of the city's outer gates, where a column of rough-looking men gathered under the direction of Yoren, the black-cloaked recruiter of the Night's Watch. Around thirty in total — thieves, murderers, and desperate souls — forming up in preparation to leave King's Landing.
Beside Yoren stood a bald, limping man cloaked in rags, speaking in low tones, his expression grim.
That man, of course, was Eddard Stark — or what was left of him.
He had shaved his head the previous night to hide his identity. They had escaped the Red Keep barely twelve hours ago, and now, with dawn breaking, they planned to slip out of the city before anyone could react.
But something in Charles's gut twisted uneasily.
He didn't trust how quiet everything felt.
"I have to find Arya," Eddard said firmly to Yoren.
The black-cloaked recruiter didn't even look up from tying a bundle. "No offense, m'lord, but King's Landing has half a million people. You plan to check every alley?"
His tone wasn't disrespectful — just blunt. "Every minute you linger here, you're gambling with your life. Stay too long, and you'll be caught again before you find your girl."
Eddard's brow furrowed, his jaw set — but he said nothing.
Spotting Charles approaching, Yoren called out, "Ah, Ser Cranston, just in time. Maybe you can talk some sense into Lord Stark."
Charles ignored the jab. "Before that," he said, glancing between them, "I have a question. Eddard — how many people in this city can you actually trust?"
"Not many," Eddard admitted grimly. "Perhaps… none."
"Then it's simple," Charles said. "We should leave. Now. Hide somewhere else before someone tracks us."
Eddard went quiet, clearly thinking. Yoren, however, only chuckled.
"Relax, boy. No one in King's Landing cares about the Black Brothers. We're the ones who clean up their messes. They only remember us when they've got scum to throw away — and forget us the moment it's done."
"You sure about that?" Charles asked skeptically.
"Should be fine," Eddard said at last. "On the surface, I still have friends here. They'll be the first suspects — not me."
"If you're that worried," Yoren interrupted, "you can stay behind and wait for the goldcloaks to find you. But my wagons are heading out now, and I've already greased the guards at the Dragon Gate."
His words left little room for argument. After a long pause, Charles and Eddard exchanged a glance — then followed as the group began to move.
---
The streets grew narrower as they approached the city gate.
"Don't you want to find your daughter?" Charles asked quietly.
"I do," Eddard said, "but Yoren's right. Staying here is too dangerous. My best chance to save them is to win the war. If Robb and Stannis take the capital, then my girls will be safe."
He tried to sound resolute, but his eyes betrayed the pain beneath his calm.
Charles could tell — the man's heart was still chained to his family.
They reached the Dragon Gate without incident. The guards barely looked at them. It seemed, for a fleeting moment, that they might actually make it.
Then chaos struck.
From the corner of the street, a squad of soldiers in golden cloaks appeared — faces hidden behind chainmail masks, swords flashing in the morning sun.
"By order of the King!" their leader shouted. "Stop those Black Brothers!"
The gate guards, confused but obedient, drew their blades and blocked the road.
"Damn it," Yoren hissed. He stepped forward to explain — but before he could speak, the lead goldcloak slashed him down in one clean motion.
Blood sprayed across the cobblestones.
Panic exploded through the ranks.
"RUN!"
Eddard's voice roared over the din as he limped forward, sword in hand. "Go! Now!"
He glanced back at Charles. "If I fall here — find my son at Riverrun! Tell Robb… Winter is coming!"
Charles froze for an instant.
"Go!" Eddard barked again. "This time, you won't trick me into staying!"
The words cut deep — harsh but honest.
Charles clenched his jaw and turned to flee.
All around him, the ragged recruits broke apart, scattering in every direction as the goldcloaks surged forward.
Within moments, the resistance crumbled. A few brave souls tried to fight — they were cut down almost immediately.
Charles risked one last look over his shoulder — just in time to see Eddard entangled in a weighted net, dragged screaming to the ground.
The rest was lost to chaos.
By the time the shouting faded, Charles had vanished into the streets, blending with the frantic crowd.
---
He wandered aimlessly for a long while, the noise of the city pressing in on him.
"I told them we should've moved sooner," he muttered under his breath, frustration bubbling in his chest.
Everything had unraveled again — just when things had started to settle.
Now the only person he'd known in this world was back in chains.
So what now?
Find someone else? Try to integrate into this mess of a world again?
Or cut his losses and run — leave King's Landing entirely?
Or… attempt a rescue?
The thought made him laugh bitterly. "Yeah, right. A one-man rescue mission against a capital full of guards."
He drifted through alleyways and crowded markets, his thoughts a tangled mess. The smell of fish and smoke hung thick in the air near the harbor.
Pickpockets brushed past him more than once — scrawny street kids with darting eyes and quick fingers.
He let them go. They didn't get far; his coins were tucked inside his coat, not on his belt.
Eventually, he stopped at a street near the docks.
He was about to find a place to rest when he caught a snatch of conversation from a nearby vendor.
"Three coppers."
"I'll trade you a fat pigeon for it."
"Only a white walker would want your pigeon, lad."
Charles's head turned. White walker?
A boy stood at the stall, arguing animatedly with the shopkeeper.
The boy's clothes were ragged, his hair cropped short, and his manner rough — but something about the defiance in his stance made Charles pause.
Or rather — not his stance.
Up close, he realized the "boy" was a girl.
And not just any girl.
There was a wild spark in her gray eyes — the same kind he'd seen once before, in a cell under the Red Keep.
Charles's lips parted slightly in surprise.
"Wait a second…" he murmured.
Wasn't that… Arya Stark?
The stall was small, its wooden counter stained with years of grease, but the scent drifting from it was enough to stop Charles in his tracks.
Freshly baked jam tarts — bright, steaming, and sweet enough to make his stomach twist with hunger.
"How much for one?" he asked, stepping forward.
"Three coppers," the vendor replied curtly.
Charles had no idea what that was worth, but he still had a few silver coins left — trophies from his prison escape. He pulled one from his pocket and handed it over.
"One, please."
"Right away!"
The man's eyes lit up as he hurried to wrap the pastry. Business was business, and this customer looked like he could pay.
Charles accepted the tart, the warm crust radiating through the paper. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a small figure beside him — a ragged "boy" with messy brown hair, swallowing hard as he stared at the food.
"My fat pigeon tastes better than that," the child said dryly, his — or rather, her — voice trying too hard to sound tough.
"Then eat your pigeon," Charles replied flatly, not even looking over. But the floating text that flickered before his eyes made him pause.
[A girl pretending to be a boy — hungry, underfed, and trying not to show it.]
He blinked. "A girl, huh? No wonder…"
Shaking his head, he walked a few steps to the side, crouched down, and prepared to eat.
"I'm a boy!" the grimy little thing snapped, puffing up indignantly — though she didn't actually leave. She sat down beside him instead, clutching a worn wooden toy sword and pretending not to stare at his food.
"You wanna trade half that tart?" she said after a moment. "A fat pigeon's worth a bowl of brown stew at Flea Bottom. It's real good!"
"If it's so good, why don't you trade it yourself?" Charles asked without looking up.
"There's too many people. I'm small, I can't get through the line."
Her stomach growled right on cue — a loud, pathetic sound that made her cheeks flush.
She was trying to act tough, but her gray eyes never left the pastry. Every few seconds she'd glance up at him, like a stray pup hoping for scraps but too proud to beg.
Charles sighed helplessly.
"Honestly… You've got a face like a mule and you've gone and covered it in grime." He tore the tart in half and handed one piece over. "Even if you were a boy, you'd be an ugly one."
"Family trait," she mumbled through a mouthful, already devouring the food before he could change his mind.
He watched her scarf it down, amused. "Family trait, huh?"
Something about her — the way she held herself, the quick glare she shot him mid-bite — nagged at him. She looked familiar.
"What's your name?" he asked casually.
"A—" She started to answer, then coughed violently, choking on a crumb.
After he thumped her back and she finally caught her breath, she said between gasps, "Emma. My name's Emma, m'lord."
"Right." Charles's tone was mild, but his eyes narrowed slightly. The hesitation hadn't escaped him.
He leaned in a little, voice lowering. "And what's your relation to Eddard Stark?"
The effect was immediate.
Her chewing stopped cold. Her gray eyes flicked up — sharp, wary, like a cornered cat — and the next second, she bolted.
Or tried to.
Charles caught her by the collar before she'd taken two steps.
"Help! Thief! Someone help!" she shrieked, kicking wildly.
But no one cared. The passersby barely glanced over; the dockworkers were used to noise. Even the two goldcloaks standing at the port entrance only looked over briefly before turning away again, uninterested.
"There's no justice anymore!" she yelled for effect.
Charles grinned, unbothered. "You can keep shouting — unless you want the guards to come check who you really are."
That shut her up instantly.
Her body went stiff, and for a moment, all that bluster evaporated, leaving behind nothing but wide, frightened eyes.
Charles loosened his grip slightly but didn't let go completely.
"Good," he said softly. "Now, how about we have a proper talk… Lady Arya Stark?"
Her jaw tightened.
"…You've got the wrong person."
"Sure," Charles said, smiling faintly. "And I'm the King of the North."
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