Chapter 19 — The Strange Man Named Jaqen
That morning, a brutal scene unfolded at the Dragon Gate, on the northeastern edge of King's Landing.
The Night's Watch recruiter, Yoren of the Black Brothers, was ambushed and hacked to death by a squad of Goldcloaks. Several of the new recruits he'd gathered died with him, while the rest scattered in panic.
Officially, the city guard claimed that Yoren had "committed crimes in the capital" and was executed on royal orders — but nobody really believed that.
The common folk preferred the rumor that the new king, Joffrey Baratheon, simply hated the sight of black-cloaked crows.
Others whispered darker, pettier tales: that Yoren had visited one of Littlefinger's brothels and refused to pay; or that he drunkenly mocked Varys, the eunuch spymaster, and was struck down in secret revenge.
Whatever the truth, the people of King's Landing were abuzz with gossip — and as usual, not a single one of them had the faintest idea what had really happened.
No one outside the Red Keep knew that a group of high-profile prisoners had escaped from the dungeons that same night.
The officials, of course, would never let such a truth slip.
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For a few copper coins — ten, to be exact — Charles managed to get directions from a chatty bystander to a grim courtyard at the edge of Flea Bottom.
The man wrinkled his nose as they approached. "Strangest thing — the Goldcloaks didn't even bother to clear the bodies. Word is, the higher-ups ordered them left out here. No one knows why."
He shrugged, pocketed his payment, and hurried off, eager to be away from the reek of blood and rot.
Charles watched him go, then stepped into the courtyard.
Arya followed a few paces behind, pinching her nose. "Why are we here, anyway? What do you want with a pile of corpses?"
Charles smirked. "If I told you some of them might not be entirely dead, would you believe me?"
She gave him a flat look. "No."
"Fair enough. I'm not sure I believe it myself."
He strode across the yard, toward a wrecked prison wagon half-covered in dried blood and flies. Inside lay three bodies, crumpled together like discarded dolls. He'd spoken to these men briefly that morning — before everything went to hell.
The two at the top had been brutish, unfriendly types — the kind that glared more than they spoke. Charles hadn't bothered remembering their names. But the third one… the quiet one with the long, reddish-brown hair — that one had seemed different.
And that was why he was here now.
He crouched beside the wagon and peered through the slats. From a distance, it looked like the men had been skewered clean through — riddled with spear holes like honeycombs. But something didn't quite add up.
"Let's see…" he muttered, grabbing a broken stick from the ground. With a grunt, he pushed aside the top two corpses, their bodies stiff and cold, until the long-haired man beneath was exposed.
The face was pale but not drained of color, framed by tangled locks streaked with red and white.
"Hey," Charles called softly, poking him in the shoulder. "You alive in there?"
No response.
He frowned, leaning closer — and then, out of habit, activated the Eye of True Sight.
[This man has used a special technique to feign death. His blood still flows — slowly, but steadily.]
Charles' lips curved. "Well, look at that. He's faking it."
Then, just to amuse himself — and perhaps to test the act — he said aloud, "A shame, really. He's dead. But those clothes look decent. Might fetch a few coins if I strip them off him."
Arya wrinkled her nose. "You can sell dead people's clothes?"
"At least enough to buy you another jam tart," Charles said dryly.
That did it. She grabbed her own stick and joined in, poking curiously at the "dead" man's tunic.
"See?" she said with mock seriousness. "If you take the boots, I'll take the belt."
Charles chuckled. "Deal. But be careful, or our corpse might—"
Before he could finish, a hand shot up — fast as a viper — and clamped around his wrist.
The "corpse" opened his eyes, one gray-blue and one brown, glinting like steel in the sun.
A low, accented voice murmured:
"A man hears talk of theft… yet a man is not dead enough to be robbed."
Arya yelped and stumbled back. Charles, however, just grinned.
"Well," he said calmly, meeting those mismatched eyes. "Looks like the rumors were true after all."
At first, there was no sign of life from the long-haired man in the cage — his stillness so perfect it could've fooled anyone.
But when Charles and Arya tugged at his half-torn shirt to check for wounds, the "corpse" suddenly twitched, coughed twice, and drew in a ragged breath before lifting his head.
Arya nearly jumped out of her skin.
"He really came back to life!" she exclaimed, eyes wide. Then she glanced at Charles — expecting one of his usual jokes — but for once, his face was serious.
"Do you need us to get you out of there?" Charles asked calmly.
The prisoner tilted his head, his mismatched eyes gleaming faintly in the dim light. "A man has many friends… yet a man would not mind one or two more."
His voice was smooth and strange — each word carefully weighed, spoken with an eerie rhythm. Then, as his gaze fixed on Charles, he added with quiet curiosity:
"The boy's name is… Cranston?"
Arya frowned. "Why does he talk so weird?" she whispered.
Charles ignored her, his attention sharp. "You're Jaqen, aren't you? Yoren said you were dangerous — that you once slipped into the Red Keep itself."
Jaqen said nothing, merely watched him with mild amusement, as if testing what kind of man stood before him.
Charles took a steady breath. "You've been stuck in that cage for quite some time. That can't be pleasant. Help me with something, and I'll set you free."
He wasn't completely confident about the offer. Once Jaqen was loose, there would be no controlling him. But Charles didn't have other options — and if the man was anything like he'd been in the stories, then this gamble might actually pay off.
He remembered now — vaguely but clearly enough. Jaqen wasn't Westerosi. He was from somewhere far across the sea, trained by assassins who could change their faces as easily as others changed clothes. A Faceless Man.
In the tales, Arya had freed him from the same cage. And in return, Jaqen had repaid that debt in blood.
Maybe history could repeat itself.
"A moment of kindness," Jaqen murmured cryptically, "sometimes earns more than a lifetime of caution."
He neither agreed nor refused.
Charles narrowed his eyes. "If you're about to die anyway, all the rewards in the world won't matter."
Then, more bluntly: "So — will you help us or not? If not, we'll find another way. Maybe someone else will show up to save you. Or maybe the Goldcloaks will come back to finish the job."
He said it coldly, but his pulse was uneasy.
Jaqen wasn't someone to threaten lightly. Charles knew that much — magic or not, he was no match for an assassin who could kill kings without a sound.
For a long moment, they simply stared at each other through the bars. Then Jaqen gave a faint smile and nodded.
"Very well," he said softly. "The boy speaks. A man will listen."
Relief washed through Charles. "Good. Then here's what I want to know."
He paused, then asked the kind of question that would've sounded insane to anyone else.
"Can you kidnap the king?"
Jaqen blinked once. Then, almost politely, he replied, "That is the language of the Red God. But a man feels… the time is not yet right."
Arya tugged at Charles's sleeve, whispering, "What does that even mean?"
"It means," Charles said dryly, "he doesn't feel like dying today."
He looked back at Jaqen. "Fine. Then maybe something smaller — can you get me a strand of the king's hair? Just one."
"The golden hair of a false king," Jaqen mused, curling his fingers through the bars. "Shining, precious… coveted by many. The boy wants it for a collection?"
"No," Charles replied, dead serious. "For a curse."
At that, Jaqen's eyes gleamed with faint amusement. "The boy is no man of Qarth… nor of the Shadowlands."
Charles didn't bother explaining. Instead, he picked up a nearby rock and slammed it down on the cage lock. It took a few hits, but the metal finally snapped with a sharp clang.
The lock fell. The door creaked open.
Jaqen stepped out, stretching lazily like a cat freed from a crate. He looked from Charles to the grimy little girl beside him and tilted his head.
"After the third bell," he said quietly, "in Hook Alley — at the cobbler's shop with the iron nails. A man will be there."
Then, with unhurried grace, he straightened his torn clothes and disappeared down the alleyway without another word.
Charles exhaled, finally relaxing.
Arya stared after the departing figure. "So… getting Joffrey's hair will save my father?"
Charles shook his head. "Joffrey's hair won't."
"Then that red-haired weirdo will?"
"Maybe he will. Maybe he won't."
She frowned. "Then how are we going to save my father?"
"You'll see soon enough." He looked down at her, his tone soft but firm. "Just pray your family's enemies don't rush his trial. I need at least one more day — or there's nothing I can do."
Arya blinked, not fully understanding. "So what do we do now?"
"We wait," Charles said simply.
"Wait? For him to bring back the hair?"
"Exactly." He nodded — though in his mind, he added silently:
And wait for my time in this world to run out.