Pudding Face had somehow found a mule. When he charged into camp covered in mud, Leon was packing.
He burst straight into the tent and dropped to his knees with a thud.
"Young master, you have to leave at once." His voice rasped like sandpaper scraping stone. "Lord Tywin's army has crossed the Blackwater Rush. They'll reach King's Landing in five days at the latest."
Leon's hands paused for an instant.
"Where's Maester Loomis?"
"At the Wendwater. Your letter arrived, and he's preparing ships and supplies. He said he'll follow you wherever you go."
Leon nodded.
As expected. Loomis had followed him from Casterly Rock to King's Landing, then from King's Landing to the Wendwater. They had long since become more than maester and pupil.
"What about the king?"
"He's gone mad." Pudding Face lowered his voice. "There are over a thousand jars of wildfire stockpiled in the Red Keep. The Alchemists' Guild's pyromancers are working day and night, and the cellars of King's Landing are packed full. He's declared that when the rebels enter the city, he'll take the whole city to the grave with him."
Tyrion sucked in a breath beside them. "Over a thousand jars of wildfire? That could burn all of King's Landing to ash."
"That's why we have to leave immediately." Pudding Face rose. "Young master, if we don't do what you ordered before now, we'll never have another chance."
Leon stood. "Let's go."
They did not alert Robert's camp.
Leon left only a letter, saying there was urgent business at the Wendwater. Then they slipped away, spurring their horses on and traveling day and night.
Four days later, they stood on a hill outside King's Landing.
The shipping lanes of Blackwater Bay were crowded with ships carrying refugees, and the Kingsroad was full of commoners fleeing with their families. On the walls, guards scurried about like ants on a hot pan.
"The gates are closed," Thea said.
Leon looked at Pudding Face.
Pudding Face nodded and led them around the main gate, following the foot of the wall until they stopped at an abandoned sewer entrance.
"The Red Keep's sewers lead to Blackwater Bay. Varys told me we can reach the cellars of Maegor's Holdfast from here."
Tyrion frowned. "Varys? Why would he help us?"
Pudding Face fell silent for a second. "He said he wants to save those two children too. But he can't act himself, so he's using us."
Leon asked no more questions.
The stench in the sewer was enough to wake the dead.
Tyrion vomited twice along the way and swore countless times, but still stumbled along behind them. Thea and Sandor guarded Leon from the front and rear, while Pudding Face led the way with a torch.
Maester Loomis had been left at the Wendwater to prepare the ships-the maester's legs could not manage a route like this.
They crawled through the darkness for nearly two hours before finally seeing light filtering through a grate overhead.
Pudding Face pushed the grate aside, climbed up, and reached down to pull Leon after him.
They were in a storeroom on the lowest floor of Maegor's Holdfast, filled with dusty old furniture.
Through the crack in the door, they could hear hurried footsteps and screams outside.
"Chaos has broken out," Pudding Face whispered. "Lord Tywin's army has reached the city, and people inside have begun looting."
Leon pushed open the storeroom door.
The corridor was deserted, with only a woman's weeping coming from far away. They climbed the stairs, dodging panicked servants and handmaidens fleeing along the way.
On the third floor of Maegor's Holdfast, near Queen Rhaella's chambers.
Two children huddled in a corner.
Rhaenys Targaryen, three years old, with brown curls spilling over her shoulders.
She clutched a little black cat, trembling all over, but did not cry.
Those eyes, that brown hair, the shape of her little face-she looked nothing like a Targaryen, and much more like her mother, Elia Martell.
Aegon Targaryen, one year old, still swaddled, slept peacefully.
The maid who had been looking after them had vanished.
"Take them," Leon said.
Thea stepped forward and gently picked up Rhaenys.
The little girl struggled briefly, but slowly quieted when she saw the look in Thea's eyes.
Tyrion reached out to pick up Aegon-
"Not him."
A voice came from the doorway.
They turned to see Varys standing there. A round, bald head, plain gray robes, and that same unchanging smile on his face.
A tall, hooded figure stood behind him, his face obscured.
"Lord Varys." Leon looked at him calmly.
Varys entered and looked down at the two children. "Young master Leon, young master Tyrion, you arrived sooner than I expected."
His voice remained smooth as silk. "But you cannot take Aegon."
Tyrion's hand went to the hatchet at his waist. "Why?"
Varys sighed softly. "Because this continent needs him. Or rather, House Targaryen needs him."
Leon stared at the light in his chest. Within that boundless web, something pulsed at its center.
Some kind of almost sorrowful... fixation.
"What do you intend to do with him?"
Varys looked at him, his eyes utterly still.
"Live. Let him live. Robert Baratheon will kill every last Targaryen. But if no one knows he is alive, he can survive."
He paused.
"Take Rhaenys. She is a girl, and she has the Martell look. Robert might spare her, or he might not. But Aegon... he is a boy, the last male Targaryen heir. Robert will not let him live."
Tyrion gritted his teeth. "Then that's all the more reason for us to take him!"
Varys shook his head and stepped aside, revealing the tall figure behind him. "This is a friend of the 'Sealord,' the finest sailor in Braavos. He will take Aegon to the Free Cities, where he will live under another name, until..."
He did not finish.
Leon looked at him. "What makes you think we'll trust you?"
Varys smiled. For the first time, there was a trace of sincerity in it.
"Because if I wanted these two children dead, I could call for someone right now. The guards are still downstairs, and the Mountain's vanguard has already entered the city. But I haven't. I have been waiting for you."
He stepped closer and lowered his voice.
"Did Rhaegar give you anything before he died?"
Leon pressed a hand to his chest. That parchment map. The location of the Tower of Joy.
Varys nodded. "Then that is enough." He stepped back. "Take Rhaenys and sail from the Wendwater. I will take Aegon east. Jon Connington is waiting, and afterward we will take a ship from the docks to Braavos."
He paused, looking at Leon. "We each save one. Better than letting both die here."
Leon was silent for three seconds. "All right."
Tyrion grew frantic. "Leon!"
Leon raised a hand to stop him. "He's right. We can't take both."
Varys took Aegon from Tyrion's arms. The swaddled infant still slept peacefully.
"Go, quickly. The Mountain's men have entered the Red Keep. They are killing people."
No sooner had he spoken than a scream rang out downstairs. Then came the clash of metal, shrieks, and the sound of heavy boots pounding up stone steps.
"This way." Pudding Face pushed open a hidden door. "Follow me."
Leon gave Varys one last look.
The plump, bald man stood in the dim room with Aegon in his arms, that same unchanging smile on his face.
But something flickered in his eyes.
"We will meet again, young master Leon," he said.
Then he turned and disappeared through another door.
Behind them, the slaughter in the Red Keep began.
For the rest of his life, Leon would never want to recall their escape from King's Landing.
By the time they crawled out of the sewers, the land outside the city was already a sea of flames.
Tywin's army was attacking the city, while someone unknown had set fires within, and the blaze was spreading wildly.
Two days later, they finally reached the Wendwater.
The tax office was still there, as was the repaired fishing boat at the dock.
Maester Loomis stood by the dock, with Old Tom and several farmers behind him. When he saw Leon and the others return, his eyes reddened.
"Young master..." His voice trembled. "Are you all right?"
Leon walked up to him. "I said I would come back."
Loomis nodded and wiped the corners of his eyes with his sleeve. Then he saw Rhaenys in Thea's arms and froze.
"Don't ask," Leon said. "Prepare to leave. Fresh water and food, enough for ten days."
Loomis opened his mouth, but asked nothing and turned to make the arrangements.
Old Tom approached, drew something from inside his clothes, and pressed it into Leon's hand. It was another wooden lion Little Tom had carved.
"Little Tom asked me to give you this." Old Tom's voice caught slightly. "He said that when you come back again, he'll be able to serve at your side."
Leon looked down at the roughly carved wooden lion. His fingers brushed gently over the carved marks. He tucked it inside his clothes.
"Tell him I'll be waiting for him to grow up."
The fishing boat left the Wendwater at dusk.
Leon stood at the stern, watching the dock recede into the distance. Old Tom and several farmers stood there, waving to them. Little Tom was there too, a little taller than before.
Some roads had to be traveled. But who knew whether one could return?
The boat spent seven days at sea.
Rhaenys was seasick and vomited for three days, but never cried.
On the fourth day, she slowly began to adjust, looking curiously at everything around her with those black eyes.
Thea fed her, washed her, and told her stories. Maester Loomis would occasionally sit beside her and softly recount ancient histories of the Dornish and House Martell.
Once, Rhaenys reached out a small hand and touched Maester Loomis's chain.
Her black eyes met Loomis's aged eyes for a few seconds, then she withdrew her hand and went back to staring blankly.
Watching from nearby, Tyrion suddenly said, "She looks Dornish."
Leon nodded.
"Will Robert spare her?"
Leon thought for a moment. "He'll think she's dead."
On the eighth day, they saw the outline of land.
It was the border of Dorne, a desolate stretch of coast. Vulture's Roost was nearby.
Pudding Face pointed at the coastline. "We land here, cross that mountain, and we'll be in the Red Mountains. The Tower of Joy is deep in the mountains."
They landed and hid the boat in a secluded sea cave.
Thea strapped Rhaenys to her chest with cloth bands, the girl's little hands clutching her clothes tightly.
She still did not speak, but her eyes remained wide open as she watched this unfamiliar world.
Maester Loomis struggled along behind them with a walking stick. His legs troubled him, but he made no complaint. Tyrion could not bear watching and had Sandor carry the maester on his shoulder.
"Seven Hells," Tyrion grumbled. "We're dragging the whole family along to our deaths."
Leon ignored him.
They began climbing.
Dorne's Red Mountains took their name from the color of their rocks.
In the sunlight, those rocks shone a red almost like blood, as though scorched by fire or soaked in blood.
They walked for three days.
On the evening of the third day, as the setting sun stained the entire mountain range a true blood-red, they saw the Tower of Joy.
A white stone tower stood alone deep in a valley.
It was not tall, only four stories, but it was sturdily built.
A banner fluttered at its summit.
Not the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, nor the blazing spear of House Martell, but House Hightower's gray tower on white.
Leon raised a hand, signaling the party to halt.
Three men stood before the tower. Three men in white cloaks.
Arthur Dayne stood foremost. His silver-gray hair shone softly in the sunset, and he held the legendary greatsword Dawn. A pale, cold gleam flowed along its blade in the blood-colored light.
Ser Gerold Hightower stood to his left, his white cloak covered in the dust of travel, but his back perfectly straight.
Ser Oswell Whent stood to his right, his once-flippant face now showing only calm.
Three drawn swords.
But their swords were not pointed at Leon.
Arthur Dayne's gaze settled on Leon, and a trace of complicated emotion flashed through his dark eyes. "Little lion." His voice rang clear as a sword. "So it was you who came."
Leon stepped forward. "Ser Arthur. Ser Gerold. Ser Oswell." He nodded to each in greeting. "It's been a long time."
The corners of Oswell Whent's mouth lifted slightly. "The last time we were together, we were cutting down the Brotherhood in the Kingswood. Back then, you still needed us to save your life."
Leon looked at him. "This time, I don't need saving."
Oswell smiled. There was no hostility in that smile, only the ease of old friends reunited.
"Come inside." Arthur Dayne sheathed his sword. "Lyanna is waiting. She has been waiting all this time... for news of Rhaegar."
Leon pressed a hand to his chest.
As he passed Arthur, the knight's hand gently pressed Leon's shoulder. Very lightly, but very warmly.
"Rhaegar..." Arthur's voice was very soft. "What did he say before he died?"
Leon was silent for a second. "He said he was sorry."
Arthur closed his eyes, then opened them again. There were no tears in those dark eyes, only a deep, almost compassionate calm.
"Sorry..." he murmured. "He was always like that."
The Tower of Joy was more sparsely furnished inside than they had imagined.
The ground floor held the kitchen and storerooms, the second floor the bedrooms, and the third a study. They were taken to the third floor.
Lyanna Stark lay there.
The girl from the North to whom Rhaegar had once presented blue roses at Harrenhal now had a face as pale as paper and bloodless lips. Sweat plastered her long, dark brown hair to her forehead.
Her eyes were half open, gazing at the ceiling, and her lips moved faintly, as though she were praying.
A newborn baby lay beside her. Very, very small, wrapped in a piece of coarse linen.
His wrinkled little face was buried in the swaddling, leaving only a sparse tuft of black hair visible.
A boy.
"She has just given birth." Gerold Hightower's voice came from behind them. "She has lost too much blood. She may not last much longer."
Leon walked to the bedside and crouched down.
Lyanna's eyes shifted, slowly turning toward him.
Those gray eyes, once as clear as the frozen lakes of the North, were now clouded beneath a shadow of death.
But the moment she saw Leon, a light suddenly appeared in them.
"You..." Her voice was as hoarse as sandpaper. "You're... the one with the purple eyes..."
Leon nodded. "Rhaegar sent me."
He took the parchment map from inside his clothes and gently placed it in her palm.
Lyanna looked down at the map. The location of the Tower of Joy, Rhaegar's handwriting, and that little line-"For Lyanna."
Her lips began to tremble, and tears slid silently down her face.
"Did he... did he..."
Leon was silent for a second. "The last thing he said was your name."
Lyanna closed her eyes and clutched the map to her chest. Her shoulders shook violently, but she made no sound.
A long, long time passed.
When she opened her eyes again, there was a new calm in those gray eyes. The calm of knowing she was about to die and having nothing left to worry about.
She looked down at the baby beside her. "His name is... Jon."
Leon's heart skipped a beat.
Jon Snow.
"Please..." Lyanna took his hand. Her hand was ice-cold, without a trace of warmth. "Look after him... let him live... don't let Robert know..."
Leon looked at her. Her ball of life-light was breaking apart, going out, but within its last light there was only one thought: this child.
He turned his head toward the doorway.
Arthur Dayne stood there, his white cloak gleaming dimly in the twilight.
His gaze rested on the baby, and there was something in those dark eyes that Leon had never seen before-not grief, not anger, but something deeper, almost a promise.
"We will protect him." Arthur's voice was soft but steady. "Until the very last moment."
Leon turned back and looked at Lyanna. "I promise."
Lyanna smiled.
The smile was faint and delicate, like a fallen leaf drifting into a river.
Exactly like Rhaegar's smile before he died.
Her hand slowly loosened, and her eyes slowly closed.
Outside the Tower of Joy's window, the last ray of sunlight sank into the Red Mountains.
Leon watched the night swallow the mountains bit by bit.
Tyrion came to his side and looked down at the baby in Arthur Dayne's arms.
"What are you going to do?"
Leon did not answer.
In the distance, at the entrance to the Tower of Joy's cellar, Thea and Sandor were digging. That was where Rhaegar had hidden the Dragon Egg.
"Leon." Tyrion's voice was very soft. "This child... Stark and Targaryen blood. If Robert finds out-"
"He won't," Leon interrupted.
Tyrion looked at him.
"I want to persuade Gerold, Arthur, and Oswell to come with us. Wait for Eddard Stark to come looking for his sister," Leon said. "If they don't leave, they'll all die."
Tyrion froze for a moment, then slowly understood.
"Eddard Stark..." he murmured.
Leon looked north.
There, faint lights moved through the darkness. A party was approaching.
"He's here."
He turned to look at the baby.
Two children. Neither had silver hair or purple eyes. One looked like the North, the other like Dorne.
The Targaryen bloodline was continuing in this way.
Thea emerged from the cellar, cradling a stone. Its crimson shell and deep pink markings were completely different from those of the egg Leon had found at the bottom of the Wendwater.
"Young master." She handed the egg to Leon.
Leon took the egg. It was heavy and ice-cold. But the moment his fingertips touched it, something inside trembled faintly.
Sleeping. Waiting.
In the distance, the Direwolf banner flickered in and out of sight in the firelight.
"I'll go persuade them," Leon said, turning away.