Jon

"The Father's face is stern and strong," The voice sang next to him.

"Pull!" The cacophony of slaves yelled in partial unison.

"he sits and judges right from wrong."

"Pull!"

"He weighs our lives, the short and long,"

"Pull!"

"and loves the little children."

"Pull!"

Jon was going to kill him, The last hour had been fucking Songs of the Seven just like this, and it felt like the songs were burrowing into his skull slowly.

He would do this now and again the cheeky shit. Usually, it was proper sailor's songs, but once a day or every couple of days, he'd devote a whole turn to these fucking songs, and Jon felt the urge to end it once and for all. His back was sore pulling for their turn, and his slave collar was itching like hell, and Jon was going to kill him if this lasted any longer.

Jon's thoughts must have had no effect as they continued to pull because the older man just continued to sing in rhythm with the drumbeat in front of him. The beating drum set the strokes of the oar, and as it beat the older man, with his fucking smile next to him kept blathering about. Jon glared at him, and the man just smiled back and sang louder.

"The Mother gives the gift of life,"

"Pull!"

"and watches over every wife."

"Pull!"

"Her gentle smile ends all strife,"

"Pull!"

"and she loves her little children."

"Pull!"

Jon looked to his left at the man with overgrown hair and beard, who was dirty and unkempt and hadn't spoken a word in the three weeks Jon was chained next to him. Although he could make out the men surrounding him well enough, it was dimmer than it should have been in the rower's cabin as the sun was reaching her zenith. They never saw the sun directly unless it was in the mornings and evenings, and he had the unfortunate experience to be in the third position for that day next to the oar slit, or they were given one of their three breaks for food and water.

. Still, outside of the few hours around noon, it was dim enough that their guardian would have to sometimes wield a lantern in one.

Jon studied the man next to him as they rowed. The man was probably five or six inches taller than Jon, thin but with a muscled back, arms, and legs from long hours of rowing. Jon had even felt his body adjust, but he'd noticed that any fat on him and even some of his muscles had started to melt away, but being a galley slave would do that to you.

"The Warrior stands before the foe,"

" Pull!"

"protecting us where e'er we go."

"Pull!"

"With sword and shield and spear and bow,"

"Pull!"

"he guards the little children."

"Pull!"

Jon looked around again and saw one of the oarmaster's minions, the man Jon had nicknamed 'Arsehole' looking for someone to whip with the Belt. Traditional whips wouldn't do as they broke the skin, and broken skin led to infection, and infection leads to one less man to pull an oar. So this specially made Belt was there to inflict as much pain as possible, but leave skin unbroken. However hard their work was, his masters needed them to pull oars and pull them well, so Jon was a slave, but a comparatively well-treated one, or so the Septon next to him continued to claim

Jon noticed Arsehole was looking at him. Shit. Jon braced as the Belt slapped across his back, and Jon grit his teeth through the sting of pain.

"The Crone is very wise and old,"

"Pull!"

"and sees our fates as they unfold."

"Pull!"

"She lifts her lamp of shining gold."

"Pull!"

"to lead the little children."

"Pull!"

The day he was chained to the oar, they had stripped him, washed him in cold seawater, and wrapped a thin leather collar around his neck. That first turn at the oar nearly killed him. Luckily the shaggy man chained to his left, who he later learned was Harald, motioned to copy him, and Jon eventually got used to it, but at the end of his second turn, he was exhausted and couldn't breathe through his recently broken nose. That was when the man who was chained to his right, Cason, or rather Septon Cason, set his nose straight again. Or straight enough that Cason was happy with it and Jon could breathe with more regularity.

Now, if only Jon could stop his damn singing.

"The Smith, he labors day and night,"

"Pull!"

"to put the world of men to the right."

"Pull!"

"With hammer, plow, and fire bright,"

"Pull!"

"he builds for little children."

"Pull!"

Jon's only solace was that as soon as this song stopped, his turn finished as well. Rowing non-stop, Cason told him, would kill a man quickly and, more importantly, cost a fortune in water. If there was one thing, a stingy man like Captain Ventarro avoided was spending his money unnecessarily. Unless, of course, it was on himself. Ventarro's cabin aboard the larger of the two caravels, The Parçalandi, where the asshole spent all of his time, was supposed to showcase his wealth.

Which meant here on the galleass, Gymus Arabasi , or The Silver Chariot, another captain, Emin, was nominally in charge while Ryjar had actual control. So, that white-eyed fuck had every other row of oarsmen take alternate turns rowing from sun up to sun down with an hour break at the sun's zenith. Of course, if the waves were rough enough, they were allowed to stop, but that usually meant that they were pushed to exhaustion prior, trying to outrun the storm. This had already happened twice, and Jon would not look forward to it happening again.

Still, the breaks felt like godsends and three times a day; sunrise, noon, and sunset, the slaves would be led up a row at a time to eat, shit, and piss, then led back down. The ship had twenty-four oars total, so seventy-two slaves. Three to each row. Every day they would move positions, middle to the outside, outside to the inside and inside to the middle. Since they rowed for a turn and took a break, they moved slower, but the slaves didn't die, which Jon guessed was the intention. Also, with three masts and large square sails, the ship made good time, or so he was told by Cason.

Luckily his midday break and meal of gruel, hard biscuit, and watered-piss were coming at the end of this turn, and Jon was hoping that Harald wouldn't mind if he slept on him for a bit before their next turn started again. Since he never spoke, Jon didn't feel the need to ask permission.

"The Maiden dances through the sky,"

"Pull!"

"she lives in every lover's sigh."

"Pull!"

"Her smiles teach the birds to fly,"

"Pull!"

"and gives dreams to little children."

"Pull!"

God's first week was brutal, but the only thing that kept him going was the hate and loathe as he was to admit it, Septon Cason and his intolerable singing. Needless to say, Jon preferred the hate, hate, and determination to escape and get revenge for Vimeras, for Haro, for Brachen, Sylvar, the crew, and, most importantly, Evrett. Every time Jon closed his eyes, he saw his friend, blood leaking from his mouth, asking him not to let him go.

Jon thought he was close, close to finding a way to kill 'Arsehole,' grab the keys, unlock himself, kill the rest of the crew, lead a revolt and kill the men on the other ships. It was a long shot, but Jon couldn't keep doing this.

Jon pulled again, then looked in front of him. Cason had introduced him to everyone around them. Most only spoke a smattering of Valyrian, barring Harald and the Dothraki twins, as it was mostly everyone's second tongue, so they still could communicate. There was Xano, a former archer from the Summer Isles who was exiled and then found himself enslaved, who sat in front of Cason. Then Larris, who sat in front of himself, was from Westeros initially but grew up in a village in Old Andalos, but his father had debts and sold him to pay them off. Dolath, a thin Norvoshi, was in front of Harald. They all looked at each other as they were readying to leave to shit, piss, and eat. Jon turned around to see the Dothraki twins Rorlo and Ollo, and another Braavosi, Horo. The Dothraki were quiet and spoke little else aside from their mother tongue, but Horo would sometimes talk, though was often morose.

"The Seven Gods who made us all,"

"Pull!"

Xano looked at Jon and motioned his hands to hurry up, and Jon gave an involuntary smile, this got him another hit on the back from Arsehole. Jon hissed as the leather made contact, and Xano gave an apologetic look. He was the only other one that had moments of cheeriness aside from Cason, but that was because he had only been here a few more weeks than Jon. Jon grimaced again on his next pull as he could feel the bruise that was starting to form from the Belt.

There was no speaking when Arsehole was patrolling, except Cason's intolerable singing, which their brutal beast pointedly ignored, and ignored anyone who sang along. However, when the other one that watched them, the one Jon nicknamed "Not Arsehole," they were allowed to speak to each other as long as they rowed. And as luck would have it, after the midday break, it would be Not Arsehole's turn to patrol and beat them.

"are listening if we should call."

A few rowers mumbled along with the verse Septon Cason sang. Few of them could speak Westerosi, but they had all learned the songs of Septon Cason as he had been rowing longer than almost every man here. The other slaves, Jon assumed, enjoyed the more traditional sailor songs far more enthusiastically. Still, even they would sing along to anything, especially if it signaled the end of a turn.

"Pull!" This verse had a little more enthusiasm from the chained slaves.

"So close your eyes, you shall not fall,"

"Pull!"

"they see you, little children."

"Pull!"

Jon forgot his annoyance from earlier and joined in, humming the chorus, sensing the end of the burn that plagued his fatigued muscles.

"Just close your eyes, you shall not fall,"

All the current rowers were singing now, and to his surprise, he heard Harald humming along with him.

"they see you, little children."

"Pull!"

They all shouted the last 'Pull,' and the drum signaled three times quickly to signify the end of a turn. Arsehole turned to all of them, yelling in Valyrian, "Turn finished you useless sea-turds, the first row up to shit, piss, eat and then back down with all yous." Arsehole finished his eloquent speech, unlocked the first row, and pointed with the short cudgel he had taken from the loop in his Belt, and the first row went up onto the main deck in silent obedience.

"Not a bad turn, wouldn't you say Toli?" Cason asked with too much contentment.

Jon got irrationally angry, or maybe it was rational. "I swear to even your gods septon. I will kill you one of these days if you don't stop that false cheeriness."

Cason just smiled in return, "Well, seven's blessing on you anyway, Toli."

Jon turned to Harald, "How have you not killed him yet?" But Harald, silent as stone, remained so, but Larris turned around.

Surprisingly the man decided to engage in conversation if it could be called such a thing, "I thought about it for a long while."

"And?" Jon asked.

"" I'm a slave in this life, I won't be one in the next life," Larris said.

Jon frowned and looked at Septon Cason, "The Seven make you slaves if you sin?"

Cason smiled at that, "Yes." Then thought a moment, "Well, one of the seven hells has you serve demons, so I suppose that could be construed as slavery."

Jon got even more confused, "Wait, are you assigned one seven different hells? Or do you travel through all seven at different times?"

Cason laughed, "I asked that exact same question at the septry I served at for a time, and you know what?" Jon just stayed silent, and Cason continued, "People disagree! Some High Septons said they are forced to travel between the hells on their journey to the worst. Others said each one is for certain sins, others say the hells are only for one to atone for sins and are welcomed into the Seven Heavens after their penance is paid."

Jon just shook his head, "It's all a bit confusing."

"Well, did your septon not teach you this? You obviously grew up in Westeros, no?"

Jon bristled at the mention of his origin as he had tried to keep that secret, but he guessed at this point the truth didn't matter, not amongst the slaves. "I grew up in the North, I worship the Old Gods, the sean-déithe, in the Old Tongue."

Cason was about to speak when Jon heard an unfamiliar voice talk behind him, "An labhraíonn tú an sean-theanga?" Jon turned to look wide-eyed at Harald, who for the first time spoke more than two words, but the shaggy man was only looking at the row in front of him, and unfortunately for Harald, he only understood a couple of them.

Jon tried to remember the lessons his father forced him and Robb to take on the Old Tongue, but he wasn't sure exactly what all Harald had said, but caught some of it, "Cuid, beagán." Jon responded. Yes. Little. That was probably two of the twenty-five or so words he could remember of the Old Tongue. But Harald nodded a little back to him and Harald went back to being quiet. A Northman? Or maybe a Wildling. Jon looked at the other rowers around him who were all surprised, Jon just said out of habit, "Uume mdogo."

Xano started laughing loudly, too loudly, and Jon just looked confused and a little angry. Xano was smiling brightly, and Jon and the other slaves stared at him in annoyance for disrupting their wallowing with something as pleasant as laughter.

"What did you just say?" Xano asked in Valyrian and Jon repeated it, leading to Xano to laugh again and Jon heard a couple of chuckles from some other slaves who Jon assumed could speak Summer Islander. "That means 'little cock," Xano said, and a few more slaves laughed, and Jon's face was red but found himself chuckling with the other slaves. It felt good to laugh, an honest, genuine laugh. Even if he knew it was a fleeting moment and may never happen again, Jon appreciated the small moment. That being said, If Jon ever escaped this galleass, he was going to bury Medvjed in the ground for that little joke.

Soon, Jon was up on deck and had shit and pissed and was ready to eat. It was him, Harald and Cason, along with the three others from across the aisle. Jon was finally given the inedible gruel and stale, hard bread when Arsehole slapped his bowl to the ground, splattering the remaining half of his watery sustenance onto the deck.

"Finish up!" Arsehole said, and Jon glared at the man then received a slap on the back from the Belt, but Jon ignored the pain as he swallowed the stale bread as fast as he could not willing to risk Arsehole's ire but rather the risk of choking to death.

"I'm going to kill him," Jon murmured later, "I think I have it figured out, and I'll kill him, and we will escape."

"No." Cason said, "No, I've seen many men try to do it, but it ends in failure every time. The gods have determined that our time for liberation has yet to come."

"Fuck your seven, they play no part in this. These men did this, and I will make them pay for those they have killed." Then Jon whispered softly, "for those that they have raped," Jon said, and the Septon grimaced as if he'd been struck.

" Those that seek revenge will incur the wrath upon themselves," Septon Cason quoted to Jon.

Jon was silent until they returned to their bench and Jon just looked at Cason, "You seem like a good man, one of the few sections I have ever met that hasn't treated me like shit, so I say this in all respect," Jon took a breath, " Fuck your holy text, I am getting out of here." Jon looked away, then let his anger carry him away, "And what the fuck do your gods have to do with anything. I'm a bastard, they've never given a shit about my ilk. So why would they give a dusty fuck now?"

Cason gave him a patronizing smile that irked Jon further. The Septon tried to place a manacled hand on his shoulder but was stopped short of doing so by Jon's glare, "The holy texts never speak ill of bastards, they do not speak much of them at all actually. Which leads me to believe either the Seven view us all as bastards, or bastards are viewed the same as everyone else."

Jon's lip twitched upwards, "If only you could tell that to my father's wife."

"Well, Toli, whatever gods you believe in, I'll pray to them you don't do something fool-hearted or reckless," Cason said.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Jon said, and they sat in silence as the other rows were taken up and back down.

Soon the drum signaled their start, and Jon tried to get comfortable enough to sleep as he continued to hear the words, "Pull!"

"Pull!"

"Pull!"

"The fuck ya think ya're doing?" Not Arsehole spoke.

Jon opened his eye to see Not Arsehole five rows in front of him where the sailor that Jon was captured with, Jyntyro or something like that, was sitting. The sailor's hands were off the oar.

"I said, what the fuck do ya think ya're doing?" Their guard asked again.

"I-I c-can't," Jyntyro sputtered.

"Can't what?"

The sailor looked wide-eyed, "I-I can't, I need, I need to get outta here! I need to get outta-" He was cut off with a slap of the Belt across the face.

"Yous sit here and help them two move the oar back and forth."

"No, no no no no no no," The man was moving his head back and forth then looked down and moved the chains back and forth, trying to wrench himself free. The next blow clipped him in the back of the head, and the man tried to tear off the collar around his neck in panic.

"I said, shut ya fuckin' mouth and row!" Non Arsehole bellowed out, then delivered another massive blow, then tried to whip him again, but the sailor caught it as it painfully wrapped around the arm, and Jyntyro wrenched it free.

"No!" the sailor screamed, "I NEED TO GET OUT," he finished, delving into hysteria and whipped the Belt and clipped the face of Not Arsehole making him stumble back into a few of the other rowers who were now ignoring the oarmaster's beat of the drum. Not that it mattered as the oarmaster himself looked on in shock. No one was pulling now in order to watch what was these events unfold. "I NEED TO LEAVE I NEED TO LEAVE!" The sailor was whipping the Belt like a madman, hitting himself as often as 'Arsehold.'

"I NEED TO-" The sailor had been so hysterical that Jon didn't even see Arsehole pass them all and swing his cudgel with two hands and connect with the side of the sailor's head. The sailor slumped down, and Arsehole raised his cudgel again and brought it down again, then again. Then continued as the sound of bone breaking, flesh flattening, and blood splattering was all that could be heard. Every slave stood still as their oars as Arsehole continued to slam the cudgel down.

"Remylo, enough!" The man stopped with a jerk of his body at the sound of the voice. Ryjar was standing there, surveying the scene. Arsehole or Remylo apparently stopped the beating and turned to face Ryjar. The beast had blood splattered all over him, and worse was the smile the man wore.

"Wipe that smile off your face," Ryjar said, then looked at Not Arsehole, "What happened?"

"Little shit cracked, wouldn' row," Not Arsehole said weakly, the man in some pain from the blows Jyntyro had delivered.

"Well, he cannot do much of anything now, can he?" Ryjar said with annoyance.

Remylo used the cudgel to point at the sailor, who Jon could hear take small, irregular and ragged breaths, something pink showing from the hole in his head. "Da fuckin' slave whipped Jesmyl, was screaming like some daft gull. Wha' was I s'pose to do?"

Ryjar just jutted his jaw out and pinched the bridge of his nose, "We have other ways of dealing with slaves who disobey."

"But 'e hit 'im!" Remylo said.

"And you have killed him, rendering him fucking useless," Ryjar raised his hand, "Speak again, and I will chain you in his place." Both of the guards quieted, and Ryjar marched on, "Now. Dispose of the now useless cargo, and make sure to get all the other bits of him as well." Ryjar turned, "You are lucky we have the merchant's young boys to take his place. If you kill another slave without my leave to do so, I swear to the Merlin King I will send you to his watery halls after removing bits of you piece by fucking piece!" Ryjar stalked off, and the drumbeat started again.

Jon turned to Cason, "What happened to him? The slave?"

"Broke." Cason shook his head, "And so unlucky about how, poor man. Seven guide him on his journey."

"What do you mean 'how?'" Jon asked.

Cason turned to him, "We all break, son. Most just stop caring, turn to apathy, show no emotion, and become living dead. Others become a bit mad like our poor fellow here. Others break down in tears, others get angry, or they go through them all at once, or it comes to them at separate times."

Jon shook his head, "I will never break."

Cason gave him a sympathetic smile, "You will, son, you will."

"You haven't," Jon pointed out.

Cason's face lost its cheeriness a bit, "I've been broken long before I pulled this oar."

Jon looked confused. Yes, they were all slaves, but Cason, Cason, didn't seem like any of the other slaves pulling an oar. The empty gaze Cason gave Jon unnerved him, and Jon tried to think of something to get the old Cason back.

The merchant's eldest son Jorcho, must have come from one of the other ships as he was marched in. The poor boy, who looked as if he'd lived in pig shit, sat in the empty seat and grasped the oar that was covered in blood. The rowers started again, and the chants of 'Pull' were heard as the drum started its beat.

"Did your holy text really not speak poorly about bastards?" Jon finally asked.

Cason sat there in silence, then blinked a few times before asking, "I'm sorry, what did you ask?" Jon repeated the question, and Cason's eyes lit up again when he answered, "Not the ones that I have seen."

"There are different versions?" Jon asked.

"Who copies books?" Cason asked.

Thrown from the question, Jon took a moment to respond. "Maesters? A Septon probably, right?"

"Aye, and what if a septon came across a passage they didn't agree with? Or what if his High Holiness wanted to make a change to the doctrine? Or a Lord didn't like a certain passage for causing guilt?" Jon wasn't sure how to respond to that, so Cason kept going, "The Faith of the Seven has been around for a thousand years or more, and a thousand small changes and probably a thousand larger ones have come since."

"So...the Seven's teachings have changed."

"Probably, maybe, who truly knows? That is why I was in Old Andalos."

Jon was confused, "Why?"

"Because that was where the Faith first came to be. There are still a few septries there, older than any in Westeros. Some of which currently do not recognize the High Septon as the mouthpiece of Seven."

"Heresy," Larris grunted in between pulls.

"Yes, of course," Cason said, winking at Jon. "Still, the oldest records of the Seven-Pointed Star I found had interesting differences from the one I had brought from the Vale."

"Like bastards?" Jon asked.

"Like bastards." Cason said but then adjusted, "Adultery, yes, it is a sin, of course. But the bastard it creates, well it says "the fruit of adultery is blameless before the Seven and the responsibility of the child lays with the ones who had sinned.'"

"That….is not much help," Jon responded.

Cason chuckled, but Larris interrupted him. "Blackfyres," Pull, "Prove," Pull, "Bastards," Pull," Are sinful." Jon tried not to get irked by that statement.

Cason thought for a moment, "That was fought for power, as have many wars. Most of which are fought between non-bastards. The Dance of Dragons? True-born siblings and the only one with honor was a bastard." Larris grunted in disapproval, and Cason looked at Jon, apologetic, "Blackfyres really gave bastards no chance, didn't they?"

Jon just shrugged.

Cason continued, "Some of the best men I have met are bastards, some of the biggest bastards weren't. Men are men, no matter how they are born. Some are good, some are bad, most are both."

Jon thought about the men he had cut down, his failure to save his crew of men, of Evrett and Brachen, how he stood by while Fyro took his place in death and how he couldn't move, stricken with fear as three women, no, one woman and two children, were being defiled. Am I a bastard of a man? Jon quickly shut those thoughts from his mind knowing that some sort of darkness laid in wait there ready to take him. Jon changed the subject, "what about slavery?"

Cason smiled sadly, "Ah, well, slavery is something all versions made abundantly clear was the most abominable of sins."

Larris spoke up then, "Tell our captors" Pull, "maybe they" Pull, "haven't heard."

Cason gave a full-throated laugh, and even Jon smiled at Larris. Cason simply said, "Do not fret, the Seven will not let our lives end this way."

"I know," Jon responded as he continued to study the movement of his captors. "So you were some traveling septon looking for old tomes?"

Cason smiled again, "I wanted to make sure if I was to spread the teachings of the Seven I would teach the correct ones." Jon thought that was a good start, but it seemed Cason took that dedication to an extreme conclusion.

"Horo, what do you believe?" Jon asked in Valyrian.

"That my oar is heavy, and your voice is grating."

Jon held his hands up to Horo and looked at the Dothraki twins who were just studying him, and Jon didn't even know how to ask then turned to Harald, "Crann croí, cora coill?" Heart-tree, weirwood?

Harald didn't look at him but sat a bit straighter and nodded in response.

Cason interrupted then and asked Jon, "Tell me about your northern gods?"

So he did. They spoke through the whole turn of the oar until it was their turn, and soon the only words Jon could say were, "Pull."

"Pull!"

"Pull!"

"The Father's face is stern and strong,"

"Godsdamn it, Cason," Pull. Jon said. "Couldn't you start," Pull "with something else?" Pull

Cason gave him a coy smile and then switched his tune to something Jon was pleasantly surprised to hear.

"Farwell and So long," Cason started to sing. Jon actually enjoyed this catchy tune.

"Pull," They yelled out.

" To you, Dornish Ladies," Cason sang louder, and Jon joined in. Soon there were no sounds of 'pull' as anyone who spent time at sea knew this song.

Notes:

Again, if Jon can understand I different language I'll try and make it clear which one they are speaking.

Thank you again for reading, if this isn't where you want the story to go I'm sorry! But thank you for reading up to this point!

Thanks to everyone who has read, commented, or even just viewed!

This chapter is a little earlier than usual. The next one will be posted sometime next week!