The Red Keep's black cells lay deep beneath Aegon's High Hill.
Every turn of the spiral staircase swallowed another slice of daylight. The air grew thick, damp, and heavy, like wet wool pressed against the lungs.
The third level held the worst of the worst—absolute darkness broken only by the brief flicker of a gaoler's torch.
Joffrey stepped off the final stair.
His boot sole slapped against the damp flagstone with a dull echo.
"Well now, this old man could've fetched the prisoners himself," a raspy voice cut through the silence. "No need for Your Grace to trouble yourself coming all the way down here."
Joffrey's smile in the dancing torchlight carried layers of meaning.
"Men of the Night's Watch are guests of House Stark. That makes them guests of House Baratheon as well."
"The Watch guards the Wall for the realm. As prince, it's only right I show a little courtesy."
The ugly, hunchbacked brother tried to protest again.
Joffrey waved him off. "Enough, Yoren."
"Truth be told, I've wanted to see these cells for myself for a while. Just never had a good excuse."
"You showing up gave me the perfect one."
The handful of gold cloaks with them chuckled on cue.
Joffrey's gaze swept across the iron-barred doors. Shadowy shapes huddled inside.
He had another reason for this visit.
A few days earlier, while "discussing profit shares" with Janos Slynt, he'd gotten the commander blackout drunk.
Then, almost offhand, he'd asked whether any particularly strange or suspicious characters had been picked up lately.
The answer had pointed straight to this level.
"Let's pull them according to the list," Joffrey said.
Yoren unrolled a sheet of parchment and squinted at the scrawled names in the torchlight.
A gaoler produced a massive ring of keys and started unlocking cell after cell with loud clanks.
The prisoners dragged out looked exactly like what they were.
One had no nose—just a raw, bloody crater in the middle of his face.
Another was a fat bald man with rat-sharp teeth and oozing sores that glowed sickly yellow in the firelight.
They stumbled into line, leg irons rattling across the stone.
But when the final cell door swung open, even the well-traveled Yoren paused.
The man inside looked completely out of place.
He was a handsome young man, maybe in his mid-twenties, slender, sitting calmly on a pile of straw in the corner.
Iron fetters bound his wrists and ankles, yet his posture was as relaxed as if he were at a feast.
The most striking thing was his hair—split perfectly down the middle, one side vivid red, the other pure white.
The moment the torchlight spilled into the cell, the young man lifted his head.
A faint, almost polite smile curved his lips.
"Boy. Kind boy," he said, voice soft and musical with a faint foreign lilt. "A man's wrists hurt from these irons, and his throat is very dry. Would the merciful boy spare a man a sip of water?"
Joffrey turned to the gaoler. "What did he do?"
The man stared nervously at the prisoner and lowered his voice.
"Your Grace, this one was caught sneaking around the inner ward of the Red Keep. Patrol grabbed him red-handed."
The red-and-white-haired young man gave a small nod. "A man… simply got lost."
"King's Landing is a maze of streets. A man took a wrong turn and somehow ended up inside the castle."
"Don't believe his horseshit, Your Grace!" another gaoler burst out, pointing at his own limp. "This crazy bastard's not right in the head!"
"When we were bringing him down here he suddenly fought back and injured three of us. Look at my leg—nearly snapped it with one kick!"
Joffrey studied the man who called himself "a man."
Jaqen H'ghar.
Faceless Man of the House of Black and White, servant of the Many-Faced God.
In his memories the man was a cipher—mysterious, motives unknown.
For a split second Joffrey considered ending him right here, right now. Problem solved.
The killing intent must have shown, because Jaqen's eyes flicked over and settled on him.
"So the boy is a prince," he said, still perfectly polite. "A man apologizes for the discourtesy."
"A man poses no threat to Your Grace. A man has other business and was merely passing through King's Landing…"
He paused. "If the noble prince would allow a man to leave, a man would be most grateful—and would owe you a debt."
"Absolutely not, Your Grace!" the gaoler protested. "Dangerous types like this need to be executed immediately. Even sending him to the Wall would be asking for trouble!"
Joffrey raised a hand, cutting him off.
"From your accent… Braavos?"
Jaqen hesitated a beat, then nodded.
"You're certain?" Joffrey took half a step closer, torchlight dancing in his green eyes. "Your destination was never King's Landing?"
"You slipped into the Red Keep with no other purpose?"
"A man is certain," Jaqen answered with that strange, absolute calm.
Joffrey frowned.
Pieces from his memories weren't lining up with what he saw now.
If Jaqen hadn't come to assassinate Eddard, and wasn't trying to slip north with the Night's Watch recruits, then what the hell was he doing here?
Silence stretched through the black cells.
Then Joffrey remembered another side of these assassins.
They were the most devout servants of the Many-Faced God. They believed in fate and debt.
The Three-Eyed Crow had already shown himself.
So…
An idea flashed through his mind like lightning.
"Here's what we'll do," Joffrey said, turning away despite the gaoler's frantic look. "I'm taking you to meet someone first."
Two hours later.
A girl's furious scream split the quiet little courtyard.
"My father is such an idiot!"
Arya bounced around like an angry wolf pup, kicking at the dirt.
The moment the servants had brought her here she'd spotted Joffrey and charged straight at him.
"I was looking for you! Someone wants to kill my brother! I told him and he thinks I'm making up stories!"
Joffrey's eyes sharpened instantly.
"Where did you hear this? When?"
Arya grabbed his sleeve. "Yesterday! I knew you'd believe me!"
"I was chasing cats and ended up in this really dark place, like a cellar. I didn't dare turn around because there was a monster behind me!"
Her words tumbled out in a rush.
"I ran and ran and suddenly heard two men talking down there."
"One was fat, the other wore a steel helmet like a wizard. One had a yellow beard, the other had rings on every finger."
"They said all the bastards are dead, Jon is dead, the Hand has gone down the wrong path, and the book won't help."
"Something about wolves and lions being carried off by eagles, and war coming soon!"
To anyone else it would have sounded like a child's nightmare.
But Joffrey knew exactly who Arya had overheard.
Varys and Illyrio Mopatis.
The two spiders weaving their web, trying to put a Targaryen—or maybe a Blackfyre—back on the Iron Throne.
"You won't let them win, right?" Arya looked up at him, eyes pleading.
Joffrey rested a hand on her shoulder.
"Don't worry. Jon is at the Wall, protected by his brothers of the Night's Watch."
"I'll tell your father to watch his back too."
"But right now I need you to meet someone."
He led Arya across the courtyard.
The little yard had grown quiet since the tourney ended, but the borrowed kitchen apprentices were still using the space.
Cersei seemed to have forgotten about it. Joffrey was happy to keep the quiet corner.
Right now the apprentices were clustered at one end, pointing and whispering at the figure in the corner.
Jaqen H'ghar sat there, wrists and ankles still shackled, a thick chain locking him to a pillar.
His red-and-white hair stirred in the light breeze. He looked like he was taking a pleasant nap.
When he heard footsteps he lifted his head.
The moment his eyes landed on Arya, the calm, bottomless gaze widened in unmistakable shock.