The stone walls of the dark corridor were cold. Jon kept his footsteps silent as he pulled the maidservant's headscarf—stolen from a laundry basket—down low over his face. This would hide his features. The problem was that everything else about him was completely wrong. （……My shoulders won't fit.） The hallway in the women's quarters was narrower than he'd expected. With Jon's broad shoulders, walking normally meant risking collision with the walls. And no matter how hard he tried, his gait remained that of a knight—his heels striking the stone floor with sharp *clacks*. Maidservants didn't walk like this. Never. Rounding a corner, he passed an actual maidservant. She stopped and looked up at him intently. "[whispers]……Aren't you a bit too tall?" Jon said nothing and kept walking. （Don't think about it. No time to think about it.） The third door in the women's quarters. That's where the maidservant's messenger had said Sansa's room was. One, two, three—there. Jon placed his hand on the door and pushed it open slowly, without a sound. The next instant, a fireplace poker was thrust directly at his face. "—!" He stumbled backward. A girl with vivid red hair stood with the poker gripped in both hands, raised in striking position. Her blue eyes fixed on the intruder with sharp, piercing light. Sansa Stark. Second daughter of House Stark, seventeen years old. In the capital, she was famous as "the noble lady of the North," but in this moment, there was no trace of that refined demeanor. In the candlelight, chin lowered, she glared at Jon with terrifying directness. Afraid, yet refusing to flee. Standing alone to face him. Jon hurriedly pulled off the headscarf. Sansa lowered the poker. And then— "[surprised]……Why are you dressed like that?" Her expression was exasperated. Not angry, not tearful—purely, genuinely exasperated. "It's absolutely ridiculous on you." Jon held his head in his hands. "[serious]This isn't the time for that. We need to leave now. If we don't get out of the castle by dawn—" "I know. But——" Sansa looked down at her own dress. A cream-colored gown of fine quality. The kind that wouldn't shame her at a noble's feast. "I can't run in this dress. Help me change." "[angry]What? If we don't leave now, the guards will——" "I'd rather be caught than escape looking like this." "[angry]Are you serious right now?" "[serious]Completely serious." Their eyes locked. Neither gave ground. Jon relented—or rather, he decided that continuing this argument was a waste of time. He opened the wardrobe. Scanning quickly through the clothes, he pulled out the plainest, most practical-looking garment. A dark gray wool dress. No decoration, no frills whatsoever. He threw it to her. "[sarcastic]……Your taste is absolutely terrible." "As long as you can move. Turn around—hurry up." Jon faced the door. The sounds of changing. Fabric rustling, laces being tied. Jon kept his awareness on the corridor, but noticed his heartbeat was oddly fast. It was the tension, he told himself. That's what it was. "……I'm done." He turned back. Sansa stood in the gray dress. She'd complained, but she'd put it on properly. It looked practical. Her red hair stood out starkly against the gray fabric. "Let's go." They left the room and moved down the corridor. Partway through, Jon took Sansa's hand—a practical decision, in case she stumbled on the narrow stone passage. At least, that's what he told himself. Sansa didn't pull her hand away. If anything, her fingers seemed to tighten slightly. Jon decided it was his imagination. --- The entrance to the drainage tunnel was on the eastern side of the outer wall. "[serious]We exit here. Go left, then turn right, and once we pass through the grate door, we're outside the castle." "Really?" "[serious]Really. Let's go." The drainage tunnel was dark, damp, and black water flowed beneath their feet. No torches. Jon felt his way along the wall with his hand. Left, then right—— Three minutes later, they were back at the grate door. The starting point. "[sarcastic]……We just went in a circle, didn't we?" "[serious]It's just your imagination." It wasn't. He tried again, this time entering from the right and turning left—— Five minutes later, the grate door again. "Second loop." "[serious]The structure is complex." They pressed on. Dark. Foul-smelling. The ground was muddy. Jon heard Sansa mutter "worst" once. Seven minutes later—— The grate door. "[cold]Third loop." "[serious]……I know." This time he chose a completely different route. The wall texture changed, air flowed in. An exit. He pushed open the grate door and night wind rushed in. Outside the castle. Beneath a dark sky, stars scattered faintly. They were out. Sansa stepped outside and stopped. She looked down at her dress hem. The gray wool was covered with dark water stains. "[cold]This is your fault." "[serious]I'm sorry." A brief silence fell. "……But we made it out." Her voice was softer than he expected, and Jon found he had no response. --- Beyond the castle walls, they passed through the Mud Gate of King's Landing—a small gate in the southeast, leading to the fishing town along the bay. The Goldcloaks—six thousand soldiers of King's Landing, moving under Lannister command—would begin a full search at dawn. For now, it was still night's end. They had time. The Kingsroad heading north from the capital—the main continental artery connecting to Winterfell—was unusable. The pursuit would certainly be waiting there. They took a western side road, moving north while staying off the main routes. After about an hour of walking, a small inn appeared along the roadside. Light still glowed in its windows. （If we could just rest here for one night……） Jon knocked on the door. After a moment, a middle-aged man appeared. His eyes were bloodshot, sleepy. "I'd like to stay the night. My name is Jon Snow." The innkeeper's face changed instantly. Snow—the surname given to bastards in the North. Nobles' illegitimate children couldn't inherit the family name. No succession rights. In the North they were called Snow; in the South, Storm, Sand, Waters—the surname varied by region, but the meaning was the same. "Not of proper blood." The innkeeper's eyes narrowed. "[cold]We're full." "There's a light on. There must still be a room——" "[cold]I said we're full." Just before closing the door, the innkeeper looked Jon over once, from head to foot. That gaze said everything. We don't want the likes of you. The door shut with a *bang*. Jon stood before the closed door, motionless for a while. He was used to it. For eighteen years, this had been normal. Say the name Snow, and you got that look. At feasts, pushed to the edges. At inns, turned away. Belonging somewhere while belonging nowhere. （It's fine. I'm used to it.） He turned around. Sansa was standing there. He almost spoke reflexively. He might have said, "I'm Sansa Stark——" But Jon quickly pulled her arm. "[whispers]Don't. If your name gets out, it's over." Sansa stopped. She stared at the inn window. The closed door. Retracing the innkeeper's gaze in her mind, it seemed. Jon thought for a moment that she might get angry, or cry, or say something. But Sansa said nothing. She simply stood there, looking at the door. Her profile was oddly quiet. They began walking. Sansa walked slightly closer to Jon than before. Just a few dozen centimeters difference in distance. But Jon noticed. He was certain of that much. --- In the pale light before dawn, they reached the edge of a forest off the Kingsroad. Jon said they should rest. They sat down side by side at the base of a thick oak tree. The grass was wet and cold. The eastern sky was beginning to pale. "[serious]We can't use the Kingsroad next. The pursuit will definitely be watching. We head north on side roads." "Do you have a map?" "No." "Horses?" "No." "Money?" Jon paused. He searched his pocket and pulled out coins. "[serious]……Three silver stags and nine copper pennies." One silver stag bought a night's lodging. In copper pennies, that meant……two thousand four hundred kilometers to Winterfell was nowhere near enough. Sansa stared at the coins for a while. "[sarcastic]Do you know it's two thousand four hundred kilometers to Winterfell?" "[serious]I know." Silence. Wind rustled the leaves. A bird called somewhere. The sound of dawn. Sansa sighed. Long, resigned. But the next moment, she stood up. "Well, fine. Let's go." "[surprised]……You can really accept that so easily?" "[sarcastic]Sitting here will just get us caught anyway." With that, she looked toward the north. Beyond the trees, the sky continued dark. Jon watched her profile for a moment. The girl who'd stood alone last night, gripping a fireplace poker. Trembling, yet refusing to flee. Treated unjustly at the inn, yet walking in silence. And now, with no map, no horses, no money, she stood and said "fine." （This girl……） He couldn't quite say what he was thinking. But the night he'd run through on obligation alone seemed to have become something different. Jon stood as well. As the eastern sky whitened with approaching dawn, the tension of the Goldcloaks' imminent full search began to drift quietly between them. No food in hand. No water. How much distance could they cover before pursuit arrived? That was the first problem. The two of them walked side by side into the forest.