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Jimmy mounted Horus and took to the skies, heading straight for Stoney Sept.
He had no interest in explaining anything to anyone. It would be far easier to let Gendry realize his life was in danger first. Saving him at the last possible moment meant Jimmy wouldn't have to waste time justifying himself.
Stoney Sept.
At the Peach Inn, an unusual guest arrived that day.
Clad in deep blue armor, rainwater dripping from its polished surface, Jimmy pushed open the door. Perched on his shoulder was a crimson hawk, its sharp eyes scanning the room.
The tavern fell silent.
"…Damn."
The man who had been drunkenly cursing moments earlier froze mid-sentence. His face paled as he quickly lowered his head, wishing he could disappear beneath the table.
One glance was enough to tell them.
This was no ordinary traveler.
That armor alone marked him as the child of some powerful noble house. And nobles were unpredictable. Dangerous. A careless word could cost a man his life.
Everyone had heard stories.
The Boltons, for instance, were said to flay men alive over something as trivial as a disrespectful glance.
Fortunately, Jimmy paid them no attention.
He removed his helmet and walked calmly to a corner table.
"Two servings of roasted meat and bread," he said evenly.
He flicked a silver stag into the air. It spun, flashing in the dim light before landing on the table with a sharp, ringing sound.
"And someone tell me," he continued, "have the black crows from the Wall passed through here?"
Every eye locked onto the coin.
"I—I know, my lord. They haven't passed through here in at least three days."
"That's nothing. I've been here seven days, and I haven't seen any."
"My lord, there are many black crows. Which direction do you mean?"
Before anyone else could speak, a woman stepped forward.
Her black hair fell in wild disarray, untamed and uneven. Her brows were thick, almost unrefined, but her eyes were large and expressive.
She moved with a natural, effortless allure.
Without hesitation, she picked up the silver stag from Jimmy's table, her fingers brushing his palm deliberately as she did.
"My lord," she said with a teasing smile, "if you want information, why not ask Barra?"
Her voice carried quiet confidence.
"I grew up here."
Jimmy studied her briefly.
"Very well," he said. "Have any black-cloaked men arrived here from King's Landing?"
She shook her head.
"No. Not in the past month."
She leaned slightly closer.
"And why would someone like you care about them?"
Her lips curved faintly.
"I promise, I'm far more interesting than they are."
Jimmy replied calmly.
"I want to see what kind of men they are."
He paused.
"I've heard they're nothing but thieves, criminals, and outcasts. I'm curious."
To the tavern's patrons, nothing about his behavior seemed unusual.
A noble heir, clad in impossibly fine armor, adorned with elegant engravings and carrying himself with effortless authority.
His ignorance of ordinary matters only reinforced the illusion.
This was someone born into privilege. Someone who had never known hardship.
Jimmy pulled a clean white cloth from his armor and gently wiped the rainwater from the hawk's feathers.
The sight made several men wince internally.
A pristine cloth, fit for a lord, used to dry a bird.
The extravagance was painful to witness.
Soon, the food arrived.
Roasted meat. Bread. And a large mug of ale.
The liquid was cloudy and unappealing.
Jimmy pushed it aside without hesitation.
"You can have it," he said to Barra.
"Bring me boiled water instead. I only drink boiled water."
She blinked, surprised.
Jimmy continued.
"I'll be staying here for a while. Until those black crows arrive."
His voice remained calm, precise.
"I don't drink alcohol. I want boiled water. Fresh."
He gestured slightly.
"I bathe every two days."
"Three meals a day. Double portions."
"Breakfast in my room. Lunch and dinner down here."
He placed five more silver stags on the table, aligning them neatly.
"Take it. If it's not enough, ask for more."
The casual way he spent money made everyone certain of one thing.
This was no mere noble.
This was someone from one of the great houses.
After finishing his meal, Jimmy returned to his room.
The inn had clearly done its best to provide its finest accommodations, but even so, the bedding was barely tolerable by his standards.
Jimmy frowned faintly.
Barra noticed immediately.
"This is the best room and bedding we have," she said quickly. "I'll heat water for you. A bath might help you feel better."
Jimmy nodded and waved her away.
She left, muttering under her breath.
"What's so special about him? I'm the king's daughter too…"
The irony was cruel.
A king's daughter in name only.
Cersei had never bothered hunting her down. Not because she was merciful, but because no one believed the claim.
Perhaps not even Barra herself.
It was nothing more than a fragile lie she clung to, the last thread of dignity she had left.
…
Jimmy's routine quickly became impossible to ignore.
He woke at the same time every day.
Ate at the same time.
Went out at the same time.
Returned at the same time.
Every day was identical. Predictable. Precise.
From the second day onward, he stopped wearing his armor. Instead, he dressed in fine clothes that radiated quiet wealth.
At his side hung a beautifully crafted weapon, its ornate sheath concealing whether it was a sword or a blade of another kind.
No one had ever seen him draw it.
Jimmy spent his days wandering Stoney Sept, learning its streets and rhythms.
It wasn't difficult.
The town was small.
The only structure worthy of notice was the central fountain, carved in the shape of a leaping trout. Water poured endlessly from its mouth into the shallow basin below.
A symbol of House Tully.
But war had changed everything.
The Kingsroad had become a river of soldiers.
Wolves fighting lions.
Lions fighting trout.
And trout, battered and bleeding, turning to the wolves for protection.
Despite everything, Robb Stark had performed brilliantly.
Three battles.
Three victories.
And he had even captured Jaime Lannister.
Still, victory did not bring peace.
The Kingsroad remained crowded with armies.
Victors.
Survivors.
And opportunists hoping to profit from chaos.
They all shared one thing in common.
Requisition.
Merchants were stripped of their goods in the name of war.
Farmers, driven from their land, lost everything.
Sometimes even their lives.
Yoren, traveling under the protection of the Night's Watch, would not be spared.
His black cloak meant nothing in times like these.
His supplies would be seized.
His prisoners taken.
His life, discarded.
The Night's Watch claimed neutrality, but neutrality meant nothing when there were no witnesses left alive.
War erased rules.
…
Yoren understood this.
He avoided the Reach entirely.
Instead, he turned toward the coast near Crackclaw Point, intending to travel north by sea.
It was safer.
Quieter.
If Arya had not been among his charges, he might have risked the road.
But now, caution mattered.
He could not afford mistakes.
…
Across the Riverlands, travelers began avoiding the main roads.
Small towns like Stoney Sept grew unnaturally crowded.
Once quiet and forgotten, it now overflowed with refugees, merchants, and survivors.
The inns were full.
The streets restless.
Rumors spread quickly.
House Lannister had unleashed Gregor Clegane.
The Mountain.
He was ravaging the lands near the Gods Eye, burning villages and slaughtering anyone he encountered.
No mercy.
No survivors.
People whispered the same conclusion.
Better to hide.
Better to wait.
Better to pray he never came their way.
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