Jon

Jon grunted, and the oar sliced through the water. It was a good stroke, nearly perfect built on hours and hours of practice. Jon caught the scent of sea and salt, but only for a moment before sweat and odor of men came down like an oppressive cloud, blowing away clear air.

Jon pulled his oar again, staring forward, his mind completely blank.

"Do you hear that?"

Jon turned to the voice on his right, Ryjar was sitting there eating fruit. The fruit was rotten, and Ryjar's black mark started to swirl, mixing with his white eye. "Do you hear that?" Ryjar said again.

Jon continued to row, and then he heard it, someone was yelling.

"No, no, no, no," Jon muttered to himself, "no please, no."

" Let the father judge me, and prolong my suffering to atone for whatever sins I have committed." A voice ran out.

"No, no, no, please stop," Jon begged as he turned to Ryjar, whose whole face was being overtaken by his black mark. His teeth white and head cocked as he smiled, his eyes turning slowly red. Jon pulled his oar harder, willing it to go faster.

" Mother, take me into your loving embrace, Maiden, may your fair light, illuminate my path home ." The man was crying in pain, and Jon looked up to where the voice was coming from. It was coming from the prow, but the prow was in front of him. What was happening? He could see him now, chained, facing him, but the water was coming up to him. He was dipping below the water, and the blood was pouring from his skin. The red washed away as the boat tipped under the wave.

"No, no, Cason, no!" Jon cried out. He tried to drop the oar, but his hands were chained to it.

"Row, boy, row and end the pain." Jon turned to Ryjar, who was now as dark as a shadow, dark red eyes staring at him.

"No," Jon said, "No I can't row, I won't."

Jon turned to Cason, who was still bleeding and yelling out prayers in agony, " Warrior give me justice!"

"No, please, no," Jon was crying, but Ryjar only smiled.

"Only you can end this, row boy."

" Smith, take this vessel you created and ease my pain!"

"No, please," Jon whimpered.

"You are the row, boy," Ryjar said.

" Stranger, accept my soul and guide me to my afterlife," Cason continued to scream out in pain, the noise reverberating within Jon. Jon looked down at his hands, they were attached to the oar. No, they were the oar. Jon looked up at his friend, chained in agony.

Jon continued to pull the oar, and soon Cason was still. Jon looked at Ryjar, who just smirked as his face continued to morph. Jon looked back to Cason, who was now in front of him, an arm's length away, chained and bleeding. Then the dead man's face looked at him, and his mouth moved, "Why?" Then the flesh started to wither away and gave way to the bone. Jon tried to shake his head and close his eyes, but he could do nothing but stare in horror.

Cason was then replaced with dark green eyes, freckles on a heart-shaped face and light brown hair.

"Ella," Jon whispered, trying to reach out, but his hands wouldn't move from the oar.

The dark green eyes filled with fear, the blood started to flow onto her face from a wound.

"Ella!" Jon said, trying to get to her, but the blood flowed, and the green eyes just stared at him.

"Why?" It was all she spoke, and Jon started to yell furiously, but he could make no sound as he struggled to try to get to her. Evrett was there now, somehow chained and lying down, his face still, blood leaking from his eyes, nose, mouth, and ears. Only a choked sound to be heard.

Then Jon felt hands wrap around his throat, starting to squeeze, and Jon tried to move his arms, but they only rowed. He looked over to the right as the hands continued to constrict his throat. Lenfred Rykker was there a cruel smile plastered onto his face as the pressure increased, and Jon felt his chest start to burn, yet he continued to row.

Jon tried to move, he wanted to escape, but his vision started to dim, and Jon rowed furiously, trying to get away. The darkness was coming across his sight, and Jon began to thrash violently, still somehow rowing. Soon there was only a pinpoint of light, closing fast.

Lenfred was smiling.

Jon awoke with a start and sat up quickly, breathing heavily, sucking down deep breaths of stale and putrid air, welcoming the familiar stench into his lungs. They weren't burning anymore, they were never burning.

Jon continued to breathe deeply as he tried to see in the darkness, faint light came through the slit of the row. Morning .

Steps were heard above him as they moved back and forth. It still must be the third shift. They would switch out soon, then the drum would start to beat again.

Jon tried to focus on his present, focus on what was around him. It was only a dream. It was only a night terror. Every time he slept, it was the same. Every time he saw his failures while he slept, sometimes Jon would still hear the faint screams while he was awake. Or maybe he imagined it.

He was tortured while he slept and beaten and exhausted while he was awake. He could no longer find peace.

I am going mad.

No, no, he wasn't.

Yes, I am.

Jon looked to his right, Harald was chained there last night, Rembryllo, the merchant's son would be on the furthest inside of the row.

No. Jon thought Rembryllo is gone. Wasn't he?

Jon looked down at his hands, still chained, but still his hands. Were they? Do I own my hands? Jon looked further up to his forearm. The large tattoo of a chain was in the middle of his forearm. The mark of a slave in Lys. It didn't hurt anymore, it hadn't hurt in a long time. Or was it a long time? How long has it been?

They had made it to Lys, that he could remember clearly. Fewer had died than expected, and Jon and Harald did most of the work on their oar as the merchant's young son had given into exhaustion after the eighth turn, and was poorly beaten from the Belt. Jon had almost collapsed himself, but hate had fueled him then.

He remembered when the drums signaled, and they had arrived at the port, and Jon had then allowed himself to collapse, as he was sure most of the other slaves had as well. Eventually, they had been dragged out with the rest, fed slightly better gruel and fresh fruit. Nothing had ever tasted sweeter to him, and he remembered he looked thankfully at Ryjar. Then Jon had clenched at that reaction and tossed his fruit away to spite the man. He had been beaten for that as well.

Jon had hoped to be sold, sold like a piece of meat. That hope permeated his mind as he and the rest of the new slaves were taken to the market. He watched as Marcelino's wife, bruised badly and hollowed eyed, was sold as was her youngest daughter, who cried as she was dragged away. He left before seeing if the other sister was sold. Jon thought he would be next except they went to a man with needles and dark ink. Jon tried to fight, but his arm was stilled as the man marked him with a chain on his right forearm, then crossed oars right above it. It had been painful, and it had been bloody.

Worse, he remembered Ryjar was there the whole time, "You are lucky it is the arm here, slave. Volantis is on the face. Tsk Tsk. There they make you one thing by tattooing the face, making a slave unable to be something else besides a whore, a wheel, hand. Here, slaves can aspire to be something more, and your new station will be above your old." Ryjar leaned down toward Jon's ear, "But you will stay an oar, I think."

Jon remembered the merchant's sons were next but only received the chain. Jon remembered Ryjar saying he would sell them elsewhere, "Taxes on boy slaves were increased five-fold!" Ryjar had yelled and argued with the man, but the merchant's sons were taken with them when they left Lys. Then his days became repetitive pain.

Jon wasn't sure how long it had been. He looked to the left and confirmed the youngest son wasn't there any longer, but instead replaced by the boy's older brother, Jorcho. They had docked at some point. No, Jon was sure they had anchored multiple times as new slaves had come on, and the boy had been sold. Or did he die? How many ports have we actually been to?

Jon had cared for a time, his hate had burned through him and gave him the strength to do so, but the oar took it away. Then he turned to grief, and the oar had taken that from him as well. Soon it was apathy, and his life became turn after turn, day after day tuned to the beat of a drum, and soon all days became one day. One day became every day. His nights were filled with torment, and when he woke, it was repetitious suffering and exhaustion that dulled his senses to everything else around him.

Nobody sang anymore, only the yells of 'Pull' and the sound of the Belt could be heard, which only added to his confusion and clouded his mind. He hadn't understood what Cason was really doing, he never realized what he had truly meant to the slaves. What he meant to the slavers, too, a part of his mind told him.

He saved you, you damned undeserving fuck.

Whatever Cason did or didn't do, he sacrificed himself for Jon and tried to help everyone keep their minds and humanity by merely trying to talk to each other.

Nobody talked to each other either now, Jon remembered that Xano had tried for a while, but soon it was silence and 'Pull' and nothing else.

That was when everything started to fade. The few smatterings of communication were never directed at himself, not anymore. Toli was the outcast, Toli was the one that had killed Cason, the one that had murdered ten others with the row to Lys. He was alone. He was a slave, he was now the oar.

Time stopped existing as he lived his punishments in one of the Seven Hells Lady Stark spoke about for what he had done. Jon had let others die for him. He had stopped fighting even after his men were killed, and Jon chose to live instead of dying with them. When he had decided to fight again, a better man had been killed for him instead.

This is justice. This is my penance for my sins. I was born to be damned.

I deserve this.

Voices started to shout as their first turn was approaching, which meant gruel and stale biscuit, shit, and piss before another day of pain, and the pull began. Jon was led up on deck, and he barely felt the cold air that greeted him.

They had headed north at some point, or so he thought, as the air had become noticeably colder and the days seemed to stretch on forever. It never bothered them during the day, as the rowing heated their surroundings to a comfortable temperature. The nights, however, they only had flea-infested covers and the body heat of the man next to you, or in Jon's case, forced to be on your own.

Now, however, he sat there on the deck, eating his morning ration and staring out into the ocean. It was a cloudy day, hiding the sun, which only served to make the cold more noticeable on his beaten skin. Jon rolled his shoulders. They no longer ached or got sore, but they were always tight. Jon noticed the new guards ( were they new?) turned away from them, their shoulders relaxed, but Jon knew that his allotted time was ending. He tipped the bowl back and forced the rest of the food down out of ingrained habit and fear. Some of his slop escaped the sides, and Jon put the bowl back down. He wiped his face then felt the hair there. I have a beard? Jon rubbed his face again and noticed that his beard was longer than he thought it should be, although it was still a patchy mess. Jon then felt the hair on his head. It was knotted and longer than he ever remembered. How long has it been? Six weeks? Six months? Years? He wasn't sure which both filled him with anxiety and despair. Did it even matter?

Then the sun broke through the clouds and lit up the horizon, and Jon could do nothing but stare at the beautiful sight. Jon couldn't help but stare, trying to take in some beauty when something on the horizon caught his eye.

It was land, but something was wrong, it didn't look right. They had been to harbors, he remembered that now. They had made port before at least a few times since he had been on board. He remembered sometimes it was just the two sailing ships that were with them while the galleass had stayed away from the docks. They had all seemed the same as he was usually the furthest from the oar slit every time that they were near to a harbor. Each one was comprised of the stones of buildings and walls and a collection of sails and wooden-planked decks. The ports had blurred together in his mind.

Now, however, he was looking at the land, but even he couldn't miss that this one was different. There was a smooth surface that looked like glass that reached higher than anything else.

"It can't be," Jon croaked out.

Without thinking, Jon took a step toward the edge of the ship. In the back of Jon's head, he knew someone said something, but he couldn't look away, and he couldn't stop his feet moving.

It was where he was supposed to go, but fought against it. He should have just gone, he shouldn't have dreamed of something more. I never deserved more, I never deserved anything but the Wall.

It stood there, beautiful and striking, like a sentinel, a shield, and a beacon calling to him.

His feet started to move quicker. Wanting more got people killed, wanting hurt people that I cared about. That cared about me.

Jon knew he shouldn't have gone to Braavos, he should have just done his duty and been with Benjen and man the Wall. To gain his honor back, to do some good, for his life to have meaning.

Why did I even want more? What did I think would happen?

Jon just wanted to mean something, but now he just wanted to disappear to escape the pain. At nights it was the terrors, and awake it was the oar.

Jon was just tired, tired of it all.

Jon stopped suddenly. He was already on the edge of the ship, looking down into the cold Northern Sea. It would be so easy, just to lean forward and fall. He didn't even have to step forward, just tilt forward, and the pain would fade. It was his choice.

My choice.

At that moment, that singular moment, Jon was in control of his life for the first time in so long. The feeling was intoxicating, almost overwhelming. His life was in his hands, he could end it. The sea gently pressed against the ship, beckoning to him.

A voice, a sweet voice, spoke into his head, " Move forward, end it, it's what you want, you'll only hurt those better than you."

His family flashed through his mind. The images and memories of his siblings had faded into something like a pleasant dream, rather than concrete memory. They probably thought he was dead anyway. They had perhaps already mourned him, they had perhaps started to forget about him.

I'm just a pleasant memory to them now too.

One step, one step, and Jon's pain would fade away, just like his family's memory of him. It was his choice, it was in his hands.

He looked at the edge, his death, the end of this pain, just the end stood within his grasp.

A memory of Arya came to his mind then. She was only two then, a bundle of dark hair and a temper. Little Arya had seen him and leaped from her mother's arms and toddled over to him.

Jon made his choice and took a deep breath.

He didn't move.

"What the fuck are you doing?" One of the guards shouted in his ear as hands wrapped around his body. He was torn from the ledge. His head hit hard against the deck of the galleass, and then he felt the blows rain down on him. One hit the side of his torso, one on his leg, then they started to come too quickly to differentiate until one hit his face, and he felt a crack in his nose.

The next blow hit the side of his head, and Jon felt the world blur, and a dull ringing overwhelmed his ears. He stayed silent for a moment, and Jon tried his best to breathe, but it was labored, and there was a pain in his side every time his lungs filled with air.

Jon just had his eyes closed, slowly giving into unconsciousness.

No, please, no.

He made his choice, he wanted it to be his choice. It was supposed to be his choice.

Or was he just a coward, was he just not strong enough to make that choice. Did he still want to live?

Yes.

He wasn't sure where the thought came from but grasped onto it like a drowning man, trying to escape the sea of despair that threatened to overtake him. However, another blow interrupted him, and lights bloomed in his vision, and all he could do was wait for the last strike, the final blow.

Nothing came.

Instead, he heard someone speak some words, but it sounded as though he was underwater. The person spoke again, and Jon was able to understand some of it. "What is the meaning of this?" Jon opened his eyes to see Ryjar standing there, a frown on his face as he looked at him.

"The slave was walking towards the ledge. Scarin' the others he did, he was crack'd, and I'd thought best to beat'd outta him." The guard had said.

Ryjar just studied Jon for a moment, then sighed, "Well you certainly beat him, I do not think he can row for a couple of days," Ryjar took a deep breath, "You are lucky we are so close to a port, or what passes for a port at the edge of the world and have a day or two. If we were not. Pero, you would have taken his place." Ryjar disappeared from his vision, then seemingly reappeared before returning with two others. "Drag the slave up and chain him to the 'x', keep his arms below his head, I'd rather he not kill himself that way. But make sure his legs are tied. I do not want him to have the opportunity or the ability to fall overboard.""

"B-but sir, are you su-" The guard, Pero, was struck in the face quickly and stumbled a bit.

"If he dies, I would rather it be in a place where we can easily throw him overboard, and if he somehow lives, I want him close enough, so it isn't a chore to chain him again." Ryjar said as if explaining to a small child, and Pero only nodded, and Jon was half-dragged half carried up and tied to the 'x'. It was chilly as the sun was again hidden behind the few grey clouds, but Jon didn't notice, he only noticed that the pain was worse and that his roughspun tunic was covered in his own blood leaking from his nose and a cut from his chin, and that he couldn't ignore as parts of the cloth stuck to his body.

When they tied his hands and let go of him, he slumped forward, and the rope and his shackles held him up. Jon was struggling to breathe as blood continued to flow from his nose. Jon faltered again, unable to right himself under his own strength, relying on his binds to keep him upright. Jon's head slumped down, in pain, and he prayed to his gods that this wasn't the end, praying he may wake up as darkness took him.

Jon didn't know how much time passed, but he must have dozed off at some point as the sound of many footsteps pounding onto the wooden deck woke him. People were speaking loudly and in such harsh tones that gave the air a cacophony of blended conversation. Jon raised his head to take a better look, but he was distracted as a light reflecting off something that drew his one good eye. The other one was nearly swollen shut. Jon saw what must have been the most massive structure he had ever seen, taller than New Castle on a hill, larger than the Titan of Braavos. The Wall glistened in the sunlight and Jon could see a web of wooden stairs, crossing to and from as it snaked up the side to the top.

They must have docked, because for the first time in who knows how long Jon didn't hear Valyrian but Westerosi, "Oi there, welcome to Eastwatch." The man had a young voice and was cheery as well. Jon thought of Cason then, and his addled mind panicked. Was this a nightmare too? Was he just sleeping and would soon wake, no longer in pain and continuing to row. Jon's heart quickened and looked around him, trying to see if he was on his bench. Jon struggled against the rope and chain, but the pain in his side and back caused him to stop, but Jon's erratic breathing continued, but he slowly stilled himself. I am awake. Jon told himself, only partially believing it.

Jon heard footsteps and then saw someone in a black cloak walking towards him. Benjen? Benjen would save him, would take him with him. Jon would gladly exchange his chains for a black cloak.

I would rather be a slave on the Wall then on this ship .

Jon looked up, but instead of blue-grey eyes, it was a muddy brown. The man had broken his nose at some point, and his mouth was too small. If this was the man with a young voice, he looked too old to have it as he had grey hair mixed with black that stubbornly clung to his scalp. Regardless, he was a black brother, and if Jon could get his attention, this man could save him.

"Benjen." Jon wheezed, "Take me-" one of the pirates, Jon, didn't know his name, hit him in the stomach and Jon tried to double over, but with hands and legs chained, it wasn't possible.

Ryjar clucked his tongue, "Gag the slave. His ramblings are...distracting." Jon felt something in his mouth as he tried to wheeze air into his lungs.

The Night's Watchmen just stared at him, studying him for a long couple of moments. "What'd he say?"

"I do not know. It seems this one has gone mad, and this shit's ramblings have been incoherent as of late," Ryjar explained. No! Jon tried to get the rag out when there was another blow to his head, and Jon just sagged over, trying to cling to consciousness.

Jon felt that Ryjar was standing next to him, when the man with a black cloak finally asked, "What are you going to do with him?"

Ryjar just shrugged, "He may be broken beyond repair if so we will throw him overboard." To Jon's surprise, he realized that Ryjar was speaking Westerosi. However, his accent was still thick enough that Jon needed to concentrate on understanding it, something he was finding great difficulty in doing as his head was swimming in pain.

The man from the Night's Watch studied him, and Jon tried to focus enough to regard him back, "Aye, beaten pretty good, I wouldn't bet on him."

Ryjar clucked his tongue, "His mind may have broken, but his body is strong, we will see."

"Aye, we will, now let's talk business."

"You do not want to speak to Ventarro?"

The Night's Watchmen shrugged, "You know how this goes, we talk to each other so our superiors can stay ' uninformed .'"

There was an uncomfortable silence before Ryjar spoke again, "Very well, so do you have any information for me?"

Jon's focus started to come back. Information? What kind of information can the Night's Watch give pirates and slavers?

"Aye, we have found a handful of villages. They should stay there for a while. Last, we heard there are few men left to guard them, either south raiding villages or slaughtering each other further north," the man from the Night's Watch said to which Ryjar raised a brow.

"That is interesting, anything else?"

"Like what?

"You know what," Ryjar said.

"Oh, come now. I can't give you that information."

The sound of metal clinked together.

The Black Brother said nothing and more metal hit together. "Information about our trade that most probably already know. Not that we have much compared to ports in the south."

"Well what can you tell me?" Ryjar asked.

"Just word that in the south, fewer galleys are patrolling the coasts." No one spoke, so the Night's Watchmen spoke again, "Which means most merchant vessels you see probably won't be guarded."

"These frozen people do not trade, what merchants of worth would come this far?"

Jon heard a scoff, "Maybe not before, but we have had more Braavosi come to our edge of the world in the past six months than the five years before. You could get lucky. They usually come every couple weeks or so and haven't seen one in around twelve days."

Ryjar nodded, "I will think on this."

The Black Brother just shrugged, "Well, you fine men came North, you should have seen the purple hulls."

"There is a rule, never attack a purple galley North of Pentos, unless, of course, there is no chance of being seen."

"Hah! Very well, now, let me show you where the savages' villages are. You have a map?"

Ryjar motioned him to follow, "I have one in my cabin from our previous ventures."

They left, and Jon was speechless, whether from the pain or the overheard conversation he wasn't sure. His head was throbbing now, and he was trying to make sure he heard what was actually said or was his mind playing tricks on him.

Did the Night's Watch just tell them where to find slaves? Did they just tell them that Braavosi ships were vulnerable to attack? Even if they had, even if Jon hadn't imagined what had just happened, what could he do? Does Benjen know? Does Mormont know? Does Father-.

Jon shoved that down, there was nothing for him to do. He was a slave, and he would probably die here, bloody and chained. There was nothing for him to do but to die and finally be free again.

No, I made my choice.

He tried to fight the despair that was there, just below the surface.

Jon suddenly felt tired, his body was bruised and broken, his mind sore and fogged, his consciousness decided to start leaving him again. He closed his eyes, a part of his mind panicking as the familiar, slow drift to darkness overtook him and braced his mind for more terrors.

Jon needed to do something.

There is nothing to be done.

Jon was a Northman.

I am a slave.

Jon was a person.

I am an oar.

Jon tried to ready himself for his regular terrors, but something was different.

He stood there, in a courtyard, and heard a conversation—a conversation in another time when one bastard talked to a younger one.

"But it's' the honorable thing, and it's something you would do."

"I don't' t know about that."

"I do."

No, he was now in a room with people, Robb was there. His confident brother, his best friend, was speaking to something else now, " He will be by my side for the rest of my life."

Now he was near a weirwood, and Ned Stark stood there, implacable as the foundation of Winterfell itself, " The North will need you," His father told him.

Then he was alone and dark as woman's voice pierced him, one that he didn't recognize, " Promise Me." The woman cried, " Promise me."

Then he was in that memory of Arya, and she wrapped her tiny arms around him and called him, "Jon."

The dying ember within him gave a small spark. A minuscule light in the overwhelming darkness, but it was still there, trying to survive, trying to grow. Jon wanted to snuff it, he wanted to feed it. I made the choice, I didn't move.

Cason was there then, standing over him, his wrists were no longer chained, and the man was smiling sadly at him. Then the apparition of his mind spoke, "It's your turn, Jon."

The figment dissolved, and then someone was there, a ragged old man. He was different, less like a flowing thought, and more robust like a real person. With white hair, scarred face missing an eye and blood-red splotch from his throat to his cheek. The single eye studied him, then a raven landed on the man's shoulder, and then the creature and man were boring into him, not just his beaten appearance but somehow his beaten soul.

It was silent for a time then the old man reached out to him, a pale white hand with dark red veins like the color of weirwood sap. The fingers grabbed his chin and lifted his head. Jon looked into the single eye, then the two eyes of the crow. The three eyes turned white, and the man opened his mouth.

"Open your eye, boy." The man said, and the raven cawed, spread his wings and launched towards him. "Open your eye, boy!"

One of Jon's eyes shot open, seeing only his brown threadbare tunic now stained with his dried red blood. Jon forced the other eye open as the world came into focus. It was still cold, but the sky was no longer grey, and Jon tried to understand how it was so much darker already after only a few moments.

Hands dug into his arms and shoulders as his feet dragged against the wooden deck, it took a few moments before Jon realized what was happening. He struggled to get his feet under him, "One moment," Jon wheezed in Valyrian through his swollen nose. The two that held him let go, and the support disappeared. Jon took a step forward, but the chains around his ankles were shorter than he anticipated, and he tripped himself. He involuntarily fell to his knees, and groaned at the pain it caused, while the men that were holding them moments ago chuckled at his difficulty.

Jon struggled to his feet, his body screaming in agony with bruises, stiff muscles, and strained joints. His hands were somehow already shackled, but Jon fought against everything his body wanted to stand up straight. The water was moving underneath them, but the oars were not. Jon looked to the horizon, the world was only alight due to the last embers of the day's sun.

He surveyed the pirates on the deck, doing their duty as the second shift started to end. Jon saw a few chained slaves, eating or shitting on the opposite side of the ship. Jon took a deep breath in, then was shocked as his nose didn't allow him to. Jon leaned down to his shackled hands so he could feel his nose, the bone obviously misshapen, and the skin puffy and swollen. Jon grabbed both sides of it, took a breath through his mouth, and moved it sharply. He swore loudly. The two guards next to him, the pirates and his fellow slaves, looked at him in surprise. Jon blew air out through his nostrils, a glob of blood exiting it. Jon took a breath and felt the air rush through his nose. It would swell worse, he knew, but for now, he could breathe.

Jon looked up, staring at all the pirates. Jon felt his despair recede, for the time being, replaced by something else.

Purpose .

Jon couldn't die, not for nothing, not in that way. Jon spotted a few of the oarsmen, in their ragged clothes and shackled limbs. These slaves, no, these men needed someone, and Jon knew then that they needed someone better, but he would have to do. Jon would try to keep them alive and work to reignite their humanity like Cason had once done. But Jon couldn't stop there, he needed to give them...to give them more, something more. He needed something more.

Hope.

Hope for what, though? To stay in this hell? To simply exist? No. Jon knew they all needed hope for more. They needed to hope for something substantial, more than to simply not die here, not when death was preferable to what life meant for them now.

Jon was soon chained back into his row and studied the men around him. They were filthy, tattered men with nothing but thin, lean muscle covering their bones. Jon looked at Harald who looked exhausted, having to row with just two men for a day had left him quiet and slouched over. He was maybe a handful of years older than himself and beaten into submission.

Jon then knew his purpose, and if he were to throw his life away, let it be trying to make these ragged men free .