"Damn it! I was careless." Jon cursed himself as he tightened his grip around his sword.
Every time he went to a new location, whether it was the crowded markets of Volantis, with arrogant nobles beating slaves every few steps, or the "orderly" streets of Braavos, where you could never be sure that the little beggar you gave a few copper coins to wasn't an assassin in training, Jon always took the precaution of bringing Frost along with him.
No amount of men or armour could give him the sense of safety that the simple presence of his flying friend could.
And even if he didn't want to use the plethora of deadly weapons in her arsenal—which included her sharp beak capable of piercing iron, her claws that could twist a man's head off from his shoulders, and her screech that could stun dozens of men in an instant—for the sake of not causing a rout in the middle of a busy street.
Simply having her flying over his head gave him the option of Bullet Time.
A skill that gave him the confidence to smile fearlessly, no matter how many enemies there were in front of him.
After all, while he trusted his skills with a sword or spear, fighting multiple opponents was far more dangerous, especially when some of them were armoured or armed with bows.
So he believed that it was always good to have some backup with you that could get you out of all sorts of dodgy situations, no matter how many you were up against.
Unfortunately, his reliable backup was currently halfway across Westeros, busy carrying letters, local sweets, and a few small toys to his little brother Bran, who had been left all alone in Winterfell.
Now, back in Essos, Jon only ever sent Frost away during the night when he was asleep or if he knew that he was going to be spending the whole day idle in his mansion, where he was sure of his safety.
But today, he had gotten careless for some reason.
He didn't know if it was because he was back in Westeros, his "home," or if it was because he had seen too many nobles with a retinue of more than a dozen guards parading in the streets of the city, getting scared of every beggar or dirty child they came across, and simply couldn't bear to look like them.
Whatever the reason was, he had left home with little to no protection, thinking it was just a short outing in the very centre of the city. What was the worst that could happen?
He really should have known better than to tempt Murphy's Law like that...
And now he was caught in an alleyway with one fully armoured opponent, two hedge-knights of unknown skill, and two crossbowmen. He was surrounded on three sides, with a wall behind him.
On his side, he was dressed in a thin linen tunic and dark breeches, a choice that did wonders for showing off his toned physique, but offered little to no protection against a sword.
Tweety was with Robb, and it would take her a few minutes to get here; Inky and Gan were with his family in Essos; Tiger, his shadowcat, was back in Winterfell, and Peggy would hardly be useful even if she could get here from the stables in time.
So essentially, he was all alone here, with just his trusty sword to rely on.
'Eh, it shouldn't be too hard.'
His eyes flicked towards the men handling the crossbows on either side, and the sight of them almost immediately sent a wave of relief through him.
Both were noticeably shorter than their sword-wielding companions. The one on the right was a squat, meaty fellow, while the one on the left had a mousy face and three broken teeth bared in an ugly grin.
They hardly looked like men who had seen much fighting.
Probably why they were given crossbows. Just need to point and shoot. Easy enough for idiots.
But they weren't doing particularly well in that department either. Neither man seemed to have the slightest idea how to reload the crossbow, fumbling with the new bolts as if they were touching one for the first time, looking thoroughly baffled by the mechanism.
A quick glance was enough for him to make a rough guess that he had at least a minute or so before he had to worry about any danger from their side.
'And that made things a lot easier.'
Because if arrows truly began flying, Jon would be left with no choice but to take drastic measures.
Which involved him just brutally warging into one of them, and then forcing him to kill his fellows, just like Bran did with Hodor at the Wall.
He really didn't want to do that, though.
Not only because he had never tried it before, and attempting it for the first time in the midst of combat would be disastrous, but also because it was considered a serious taboo in the books.
The human mind was fundamentally different from that of an animal and could resist the intrusion both consciously and violently, resulting in potentially devastating consequences.
Hodor was a prime example of that.
And while he wasn't very worried about the well-being of his foes, the damage could very easily be transferred back to him, and he did not want that.
So even though he considered himself a much better warg than the Bran from canon, Jon was not very eager to go inside the mind of another human being, especially with all their thoughts, desires, and complicated emotions.
A tiny mistake could leave him imprisoned in the mind of another, so unless it was the end of the rope, Jon really didn't want to tempt fate like this.
It took a long while to explain his thoughts, but in reality, only a second had passed since his boastful declaration that they wouldn't be able to make him surrender, while carrying a smirk on his face as if he was about to absolutely thrash them.
'Let's stall and wait for Tweety,' he decided.
"Wait! Wait! Are you sure you want to do this?" He abruptly raised a hand towards the approaching knight, breaking the tense standoff. "You just said they took your wife, right? So why don't you just tell us who they are, and maybe we can work together to get her back? After all, wouldn't it be better to trust us—or rather, her family with this?" He jerked his head behind him. "Instead of these men who look like they've been sleeping in a ditch for the past week?" He gestured vaguely towards the hired assassins.
The attackers in question were very offended by this insinuation, and the bald swordsman on the left even stopped and sniffed himself, as if wondering how his secret had gotten out.
"You think I have not thought of that?" the knight replied through gritted teeth. "You think my very first instinct after getting that note wasn't to go to Lady Tyrell and tell her about this?" his voice trembled with emotion.
"Why didn't you, then?" Jon asked slowly, an eyebrow raised in curiosity, trying to keep the conversation going while keeping an eye on the others.
"I was about to, but then I turned the corner and another note was thrust into my hands." His eyes squeezed shut in distress. "There were spies in the mansion watching me. What choice did I have after that?"
Even Jon was left speechless at that, having no answer to his question.
In fact, if he were in a similar situation and didn't possess the various abilities that he did, he would probably have reacted in the same manner.
But who could have done this? Jon mulled over the question, and almost instantly, a dozen faces came to mind—all the people in the city cunning enough to pull off such treachery, and with the resources to do it.
He stopped the line of thought before it could distract him. 'I'll think about it later.'
"How can you even trust them, though?" Jon continued with a raised eyebrow. "How can you be sure they would go through with their word? That they would release her after they get what they want?"
"...I can't." He shook his head, a pained expression crossing his face. "But if I don't follow their orders, I won't even have that chance. So I have no other choice..."
"Of course you do. You can put your trust in me and help me take them down." Jon leaned forward with an earnest expression. "And I give you my word, I will find your wife, no matter where they're hiding in this city."
"You can't promise that." He shook his head with an agitated smile. "No one can."
As if he could take no more of Jon, he turned towards the nervous Margaery hiding behind him.
"I know what I am doing, what I am about to do... it is betrayal. I know that even if I make it out alive, I won't..." His voice faltered, and he swallowed. "But please... my wife. She is innocent. If she is still..." His lips quivered, his eyes turning red. "Please, don't punish her. She's pregnant, and I—"
"Enough of your snivelling." The lanky swordsman on the right interrupted with an impatient expression. "No one gives a shit about your sad little life, you idiot. We all have to get out through the city gates once this is done. So if you're so eager to die, you can do it after you've finished your job."
"Yes, yes, you better hurry up," the bald, muscular swordsman on the left continued with an unsightly grin. "Because the two we left your wife with aren't exactly decent folk. And they're not the sort to let a little thing like pregnancy stop them. If you get my drift..." He chuckled darkly.
"You—"
"What, you?! Get on with it, you idiot!" the lanky one scolded without hesitation, truly treating the knight as if he were their dog. "Or else, it will be on your head if anything happens to your wife."
The knight gritted his teeth in humiliation, but with no other choice, he swallowed his rage and turned to Jon. "I am sorry, lad." He raised his sword, preparing to attack.
"Yeah, me too." Jon gave him a sympathetic smile before his expression suddenly changed. "Tweety! The one on the right. Don't let him shoot!"
A flash of bright colour suddenly shot into the alley. Tweety swooped straight at the fat crossbowman, pecking at his face and hovering inches from his eyes.
The man cursed and flailed at the tiny critter. "Fuck! Go away!" But the little bastard was just too damn fast, darting out of reach every time he tried to hit it.
"What the fuck is that?" The lanky man was left shocked, unable to comprehend what was happening.
In fact, everyone present was distracted by this sudden, strange intrusion, and Jon, the cause of it, did not miss the opportunity and immediately lunged at the knight.
Clang!
The knight, caught off guard by the sudden assault, hurriedly raised his sword to defend himself as the other two swordsmen noticed and immediately began to close in.
But just as the knight imagined a hard duel against the famous Northerner bastard, the boy ducked beneath his sword and lunged towards the stunned bald man on the left, leaving a startled Margaery completely exposed before him.
"Um..." Maynard was left dumbfounded by the sudden turn of events, but before he could decide what to do, he caught sight of the tall, wretched man bearing towards Margaery, a look of malice in his eyes.
"NO!" Maynard shouted instinctively, throwing himself in front of her. "Y-You can't touch her. We just need the boy."
Ha! Knew it! Jon smiled inwardly at the commotion behind him. Thankfully, things had gone exactly as he expected.
From the knight's earlier responses, Jon had already guessed that he wouldn't lay a hand on Margaery unless he was left with no other choice. And his reluctance would buy him a few precious seconds.
'Which is just enough.'
"Argh! Die!" The bald swordsman roared as he swung his sword with all the strength he could muster.
Jon met the attack head-on. From the man's first step and the way he committed his weight behind the swing, he could tell that the man wasn't some untrained thug.
He had some experience. Enough, perhaps, to make short work of an ordinary man.
But against Jon, there was little difference between a decent swordsman and a novice who had only just picked up a blade.
Clang!
Jon casually knocked the man's sword aside, barely needing to put any strength behind the deflection, and then before the bald man could recover, Jon stepped inside his guard and struck.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Steel flashed through the narrow alley in a blur.
The bald swordsman barely managed to catch the first blow, stumbled away from the second, and nearly lost his footing trying to evade the third.
"Ah! Fuck! Fuck!"
Panic crept into his voice as he desperately backpedalled, raising his sword again and again just in time to keep Jon's blade from finding his flesh.
"It's done! Move away!" the short, mousy man shouted as he hurriedly raised his crossbow.
But the only response he received was a strangled grunt.
A sword suddenly burst through the back of the bald man's mouth, spraying blood across the mousy man's startled face.
"Argh!"
He stumbled backwards, his crossbow nearly slipping from his hands as Jon kicked the lifeless body aside and advanced on him, his sword dripping with blood.
"Ah! Stop!" The mousy man screamed through his broken teeth, fumbling with the crossbow as he desperately tried to find the trigger.
His sweaty hands were shaking so badly that the bow nearly slipped, but eventually he managed to fire.
But the bolt flew wildly off course, and Jon casually stepped aside before closing the distance.
The man's eyes widened in terror.
"W-Wait—"
Jon's sword flashed and sent the man to meet his fellow in hell.
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