Jon
Although Jon was able to fix his nose, he was only allowed a day to 'rest' his beaten body before he was forced to row again. It was painful, but Jon knew they would kill him if he stopped. Regardless of the pain, it was good to be back below deck, and rowing the oar forced his muscles to work out his stiffness. Also, surrounded by other slaves, all moving in a confined space kept him warm as they pushed their way beyond the Wall and through the Northern Seas.
Initially, he was uncomfortable being back down there with the other men. Jon had broken down in front of a few of these men. They saw him run to the edge, almost losing all hope, and nearly throwing his away to be swallowed by the sea.
It made his new purpose much more difficult, as Jon needed to find a way to convince them to have hope again and if Gods willing, to escape. Not through taking their own life, not like he nearly did. Jon had to be smarter, and he knew he needed the others' help if he wanted even a chance at succeeding.
That hope still made him nervous. He wanted to avoid losing anyone else again, or at least lose as few as possible. Jon couldn't bear to see what happened to Cason happen to anyone else, but Jon felt the desire to escape again. It wasn't the urgent, manic feeling before like a man hammering against a stone wall. This was a feeling like a calm, steady stream flowing near the stone and wearing it down until it broke the stone down, piece by piece.
It would take time to convince the others to trust him again, and even more importantly, to persuade the others to want their freedom, no matter the cost. Once that was done, he could try and get word back to his father about the Watch and what they were doing, but first and foremost, he owed these men their freedom.
Is this even possible? Is this the futile hope of a damned slave?
Jon stopped that train of thought and remembered a lesson his father had given Robb once, something about overwhelming problems and breaking them into simple steps. There was nothing simple about Jon's next step, but it needed to be done.
His first day back on the oar, Jon was placed at the innermost position. He had tried to speak to the others around him, but it was useless as none of the others would talk to him. They all either still hated him for Cason, or they avoided him because they were too apathetic to care about anything as trivial like a conversation, let alone something like freedom and escape.
It was a disheartening thing, but Jon knew he couldn't relent as Cason never seemed to, and Jon knew his purpose was much more complicated than Cason's ever was. Cason wanted them to survive, which was admirable, but Jon was going to ask so much more.
So Jon kept at it, both throughout the day and into the evening, day after day. On the fifth day after Eastwatch, they had stopped, and that evening Jon saw the lands north of the Wall for the first time while eating his meal. Two guards stared at them in case he tried a repeat performance. Jon didn't notice as he studied the coastline. He was a little disappointed not to see any wildlings roaming the beaches and cliffs, but he banished the childish notion as he remembered what the pirates were here to do. Still, the lands weren't as frozen as he expected, but green and heavily wooded. Jon then saw the five skiffs, the rowboats attached to the three ships, with men departing for the estuary and up to one of the rivers.
As Jon watched them go, he saw Ryjar approach his guards, and on instinct, Jon quickly wolfed down the rest of his slop. His bruised ribs protested at the quick movements, but after days of rowing through pain, this small movement meant little to Jon.
Ryjar seemed to notice him, and Jon felt his ire rise at the long stare. The slave master came over, inspected him, Harald and Jorcho, with a discerning eye, deliberately searching for something. What it was, Jon didn't know as he decided it would be best to try and act as he had appeared, broken down. Ryjar eventually came to him, and Jon thought the corner of Ryjar's mouth was ever so slightly upturned.
"You lasted longer than most men, Slave. I am suitably impressed that it took that long to wear you down. Your decision was disappointing, as you almost cost me my investment, but I am glad my men were able to rectify your poor choice."
Choice.
It was Jon's choice. His choice to try and mend his shattered mind and forge it with a singular hope and purpose.
Ryjar didn't need to know that so Jon didn't look up or acknowledge the man, but he did feel the slap of the Belt hit him.
One of his guards spoke then, "Your master spoke to you."
Jon, unable to control himself, looked up sharply to meet Ryjar's eyes. Luckily, the bastard was glaring at the guard that hit him. Jon then wizened up and dropped his gaze immediately to the deck, praying Ryjar didn't notice.
"Enough with the whipping, Kalto, he has done nothing to deserve it. Yet." Ryjar took a deep breath and shuddered, "I do hate it this far North, always a chill even in the heart of summer. However, these barbarian slaves are sturdy people, strong-willed, but if you get them young enough, they can be molded and sold for quite a bit of silver."
One of the guards snorted, "Says you, last time we were up 'ere one of 'em women nearly took my prick off with a dagger."
Ryjar sighed in boredom, "Well, when you try to rape one who has a weapon on them, I say you were asking for it. Also, your stupidity cost us ."
"She wasn't fit to be a slave!"
"Now we will never know, will we," Ryjar snapped, "If not a slave, then we could have sold them to the pits of Tyrosh or even Myr for something at least."
The guard rolled his eyes, then the one called Kalto spoke, "I remember that one. She was too skinny. They take actual fighters in Tyrosh."
"Then we would have sold her to pit on Bloodstone. Men pay for bloodshed everywhere." Ryjar answered.
"Like those injured slaves, like the one that lost his arm to infection from the splintered oar," another guard added, "Kalto, you remember the one. Sold them in Bloodstone, fought on our last day there, what'd he face again?"
Kalto smiled, "That hideous one-eyed Ibbenese woman," Kalto then imitated with a high voice, "Help me, help me! He shouted. How'd she kill him?"
"Slow like, piece by piece. Gods it was brutal," the man said with relish.
"Yes, as I was saying, men or women can always be sold somewhere," Ryjar said dismissively, "Anyway, hopefully, this raiding is more profitable than the last time. More children would be preferable." Jon clenched his fist so hard he almost drew blood.
They sat there for days, floating with the two other ships waiting for the raiding parties to come back. This did give Jon some time to try and engage the men around him. Xano spoke a few sentences to him every so often, but the rest of them were silent as his false name. Jon took heart in this though, any improvement was moving in the right direction, so Jon decided it was best to focus on Xano.
The third day sitting still, was when one of the Dothraki twins, Rorlo, started to cough. There hadn't been much to do except sit in the cold, and since they didn't row, they received one meal a day. So they were cold, underfed, and dirty.
Eventually, the pirates did come back, or so Jon assumed as he listened to a few of the men board the boat and secured two of the rowboats, and then they heard the call to row. It must have been a successful raid as the sailors were talking more than usual. Or I am paying attention for the first time in...some amount of time? Regardless, Jon wasn't sure since there were no openings on any of the oars when the raiders had returned, so no new slaves were chained along with them. This was unfortunate because if no oar was available and the new slaves proved unruly, Ryjar would start to break the Wildlings in other ways. In ways far more painful but less monotonous as an oar.
The trip back to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea was a difficult one. Ventarro was pushing the sailing ships hard, so the galleass had to push themselves harder than usual. Now it was one and a half turns for each shift, overlapping for half a turn with the opposite shift to try and make up the speed. This also meant that instead of a full turn of rest, it was trimmed down to half a turn.
It didn't do any favors for Rorlo, for by the time they reached Eastwatch, he was pale, weak, and his breathing was labored, wheezing with every breath. Two days after they left Eastwatch, the twin couldn't pull an oar and was taken away.
They didn't see him again.
The following morning he was replaced by a tall man with bright red hair and beard. Jon turned to look at him, and the man was probably a few inches bigger than Jon's father, but he was young, maybe not more than a few years older than himself.
Jon held sympathy for the man. He had been beaten badly and looked like a couple of fingers were broken. Jon then noticed that his fingers weren't just broken but bloody, and Jon winced, noticing the fingernails had been removed. Then Jon noticed dry blood under his ear. Or, the hole where his ear was probably supposed to be.
The bell rang, and Jon and his row of oarsmen started their turn. Periodically, Jon turned his head to check on the man, but he simply held his head down.
Jon turned to face forwards, pulling the oar again. "What's your name?" Jon asked in Westerosi. No reply came to Jon, so he asked again, "Wildling, what is your name?" The man mumbled something, and Jon spoke again, "What was that?"
"Freefolk," The man mumbled.
"Your name is Freefolk?" Jon asked, thinking he must have misheard the man, then looked for confirmation from Harald then realizing only Larris might understand Westerosi, and he still ignored him. However, Xano turned around and gave him an exasperated smirk, and Jon shrugged.
"No, my people," the man exhaled, "we are Freefolk, not Wildlings."
Jon turned to see the man glaring at him, and he faced forward, away from the hostile stare, still pulling the oar with practiced ease, "Forgive me, I'm a Northman I-"
Jon heard a grunt from behind him, and he turned on instinct to see the tall man lunge for him, but the chains stopped him before reaching him, "You fucking southern piece of shit!"
Jon just shook his head, "You stupid fool." The man's eyes hardened, then widened when their guard, a new man named Kylmer, unleashed a fury of whips from the Belt. The Freefolk man hissed and grunted in pain as he was whipped a dozen times.
Kylmer grabbed the Freefolk and spoke in Valyrian, "Stay on your bench, or you'll be cleaning up your own brain from the deck." When the Freefolk didn't acknowledge the words, so Kylmer hit him again.
Jon interrupted speaking in Valyrian, "He doesn't speak Valyrian," Jon pulled the oar back, "I can translate."
Kylmer released the Freefolk and walked forward until he was in front of Jon. The guard was a short, squat man with thick legs and thicker arms. He pointed at Jon with the Belt, "You callin' me stupid?"
Jon thought quickly before saying, "Just offering to translate your message, so he doesn't do it again."
Kylmer studied him with narrowed eyes before saying, "Fine."
Jon switched to Westerosi, "Freefolk, whatever your name is, listen to me. If you try to do something like that again, they will kill you painfully. So nod your head to him, so he thinks you understand."
He must have done so as Kylmer gave Jon an approving nod before continuing on his way. Jon kept rowing in silence when the drumbeat indicated it was time for the overlap period, and all the oars started to dip into the water, propelling them southward. Jon turned to see how the Freefolk was doing. The poor man was struggling, and his form was causing him to tire quickly. If he keeps that up, he will hurt himself or get too exhausted to pull. Either of those meant death or worse if they had slaves to replace him.
"Freefolk," Jon spoke in Westerosi, "Look at how I pull and do as I do, the innermost position is trickier than the outer two." Jon continued to pull for a handful of strokes then shot a look back, and it seemed the man would still not listen. "Do you want to die?" The man stayed silent, so Jon continued, "If you continue to row like that, you will, so I ask again, do you want to die?"
It was silent for a moment, "Freefolk…. don't bend the knee."
"Well, Northmen don't believe in slavery, and here we both are."
"My ancestors would spit on me to see that I have submitted to be someone's slave. To...to allow a sister and brother to be taken," the man spoke, dejected and downtrodden. Jon understood the feeling well. A stronger man wouldn't have allowed himself to be taken, would have rather died. Jon shook his head, clearing that from his mind, surprised by how quickly it continued to come back. How close the despair was underneath the porous, thin layer of hope. Can't think like that now.
"We are surviving, we are biding time until we can be free again, to free your family again. If your ancestors can't see the strength in that, then fuck them."
There was silence between them again, while the rest of the slaves continued to yell out 'Pull.' Jon turned around to see the man, whose form was steadily improving. "Why are you helping me? Our people hate each other."
"Aye, my Uncle is in the Watch and has probably killed your kin, and you and yours have probably killed my countrymen, but that doesn't matter here ." The drum indicated it was time for his group to stop rowing while the other half continued to row. Jon stretched his back, trying to relax his tired muscles. Jon turned to face the Freefolk, "When we get out of this, we can go back to killing each other, but for now? We are the same." The man nodded, and Jon turned back to face the others. Jon caught Harald's eye, and the silent, impassive man held a snarl and a fierceness in his eye.
"What is your problem?" Jon asked in his abominable Old Tongue, in reality, Jon only knew the word 'matter.'
"The Stone-born are blood sworn to kill Wildlings," Harald grit out in Westerosi .
Stone-born? Jon had heard that from somewhere. It was one of Luwin's lessons. Lessons about the North. Stone-born was another name for some people in the North. Skagos.
Jon shook his head in disbelief, "Others take me. You're from Skagos?" Then something else hit him. Wait? Harald speaks Westerosi? "You have been able to speak Westerosi this whole fucking time?" Harald just nodded like they hadn't spent nearly...however long being unable to talk to each other, aside from a smattering of words Jon knew, and this man had instead chosen to sit in near silence. This didn't seem to matter to Harald as he only seemed to have eyes for the Freefolk man. "Are you going to kill him?" Jon asked.
"It is my blood sworn duty to kill him."
Jon thought quickly then spoke, "Isn't it also your people's sworn duty to serve the Lord of Winterfell?" Harald remained silent, so Jon continued, "Yet only a few generations ago you rebelled. Fifteen years ago, the Starks called on all Northmen, and you ignored your oath, again."
Harald looked at Jon, and for the first time and Jon saw dark blue eyes that roiled with fury, he had no idea the man still possessed. Jon thought Harald might actually kill him or die trying. For the first time, Jon could see underneath the ragged hair, tattered clothes. There is still a man underneath. Instead of being cowed, Jon was undeterred and continued, "If your people are capable of ignoring those oaths, you can ignore this one." Then Jon lowered his voice, "For now at least. As I told him, we can kill each other once we are free. Until then. We. Are. All. The. Same."
Harald scowled at that, but Jon met his eyes until Harald nodded then said, "We will never be free, and I won't die for your foolishness like Cason."
It was Jon's turn to scowl, "Do you want to die here?"
"I don't have a choice," Harald grumbled, the fury starting to fade quickly.
"Yes you do, it might not be today, or tomorrow, a month or even a year from now, but there will be a chance to escape, and I will take it, and I will drag your unwilling ass with me."
"Then we will die," Harald said.
"Probably," Jon responded.
"Oi shut the fuck up!" Kylmer whipped the Belt at Jon's back, but Jon could hardly feel it as he stared at Harald. The man shook his head, but a fit of coughing overtook him. Soon all that could be heard was 'Pull' and the oars dipping beneath the water.
"Toregg," the man behind Jon said.
Jon turned and looked at him, "What?"
"My name, it's Toregg."
"You can call me Toli," Jon said.
It was Jon's evening meal, and he unsuccessfully tried to determine where they were and searched for a faint outline of coastline, as he had since they had passed the Wall again. None was in sight, so Jon studied the rest of the crew and found Ryjar and the captain and two men under his command speaking together on the far side of the ship.
Jon knew they were hunting for a cog that the traitorous Night's Watchman and his allies had told them had arrived a day after they left for the North. There seemed to be a new trade route for Braavosi ships and the North. From what little he overheard, Jon pieced together that Braavosi cogs traveled from Widow's Watch to Karlhold, to Eastwatch and back to Braavos. The last stretch back to Braavos was through the open ocean, and with fewer patrols, Jon assumed the pirates were hoping to get lucky on their return journey to Bloodstone.
Jon was still furious and knew that this information racket that Black Brothers were running wasn't just damaging the North but the Night's Watch themselves. Jon had to get free. He looked at Jorcho and Harald, not without them, though. Their chance at freedom is intertwined with mine.
He looked at the coastline, trying to judge how far it was. A league? Two? With how cold the water probably was and how Jon's hands and feet were chained together, there was no way any slave could make it. They would either drown or freeze to death long before he could reach the coastline. Jon had to wait, maybe if they were further south and the water warmed and could see a coastline clearly.
Jon knew even that was a foolish dream and they would drown with the chains. He would need to gain control of the ship, and the other men were far from trusting him. His incessant attempts at trying to speak with the others were starting to pay off, though. Larris, the devout man, was beginning to communicate, though not with him. Toregg, once he started talking, the Freefolk wouldn't shut up, which got him whipped with the Belt more often than not. However, he learned about the man and his family. Toregg was the oldest son of his father, someone named Tormund, and was captured with his sister Munda and brother Dryn while his other two brothers escaped. Jon had to steer away from his family, so the young man didn't fall into despair and instead spoke on hunting.
Harald was still quiet, but he and Jon would speak in the Old Tongue every so often, and Harald was slowly teaching Jon what he didn't know in that language. Xano was starting to become like his old self again, but it was blatantly clear the rest still held disdain for Jon, and Jon struggled to accept that they may never forgive him for what he had done all that time ago. I may never forgive myself for it either.
Still, Jon's plans to escape were never far from his mind. Because if they drifted too far, hope would soon follow, and Jon needed to keep his hope near at hand to keep his purpose alive, to keep himself alive. Harald gave another wet cough, which drew Jon back to his evening gruel. Harald had finished his own, but the man was looking weaker and weaker. He may die soon. Or the cough would get bad enough that he would disappear like Rorlo.
Jon couldn't let that happen. The man was a Northman. Skagg maybe but one of his father's people and Jon suspected he may be part of whatever passed for nobility there. He was too educated, or what a Stone-born would consider educated, that Jon couldn't lose him.
As the guards were distracted and Jon tipped his remaining gruel into Harald's bowl.
"Toli, what are you doing?" He asked with confusion.
"Wolf it down, they'll toss it if they see," Jon hissed, then tipped the bowl to pretend he downed the rest of his own.
"You need this," Harald said, confused at the offer.
"You need it more than I do," Jon said.
"Why?"
"Because when you're healthy, you're stronger than me and no offense to Jorcho here. If I lose you, I'd have to do all the work."
Jorcho just glared at them both, but Jon wouldn't be deterred then whispered in the Old Tongue, "Eat the damn..." Jon searched for the world slop and realized he had no idea what it was and instead settled for "Cac ar," shit. Harald gave a nearly imperceivable smirk and nodded. Harald downed the rest of Jon's portion, and once they were chained in place, Jon told him, "I can give you some of mine during the first and last meal, but midday, I need it all." Harald acquiesced quickly and went into a fit of coughing, and soon it was time to rest as the third shift crew sailed them further south during the night.
So it went for the next couple of weeks as the days became shorter, indicating they were on a southern heading. For Jon, though, hunger became a constant state, and he soon saw his body become leaner and leaner, while Harald slowly started to recover.
Toregg and Harald seemed to slowly accept that they couldn't kill each other and spoke briefly on occasion. Larris was still silent when Jon tried to engage. Yet, Jon noticed he started to talk more animatedly with Xano, and even Daleth and Jon accepted these as successes. Ollo was distraught at losing his twin and still never spoke. While Horo was merely sullen, but at least he was more vocal about it.
Jorcho had been as apathetic as Jon had been, no even more so. Jorcho was filled with hollow, haunted eyes from seeing his family torn asunder, and the gaunt frame made him seem more bone than young man. But in those two weeks, he started to improve, and the merchant's son, the one Jon had been hired to protect all that time ago, started to come back to life. No, roared back to life like a pitch on an open flame.
The stupor the men had been in, or that Jon perceived them to be in, was drifting away, but it only served to see how precarious of a position they were all actually in. The men once had shells around their souls that made them desirable slaves, which forced their guarded to treat them with more deference than hostility. However, the shell was starting to crack and crumble.
They had started to rebel in seemingly insignificant ways but meant more to them then anyone who hasn't been in chains could ever know. Walking slowly when led on their break, missing the stroke by a quarter of a second, humming a tune softly or tapping a beat in unisons on the wood when it wasn't their turn to row. All done just to feel like they had control, had little freedoms they could express.
But they had started to become bold, too bold. None more so than Jorcho. He had begun to join what they were doing, these small acts of rebellion. And in doing so, Jorcho, the foolish, sullen merchant's son, who not one month ago was near catatonic became filled with barely contained rage and struggled to keep it under control.
Three weeks after leaving Eastwatch, Jorcho rage caught up to them.
They sat eating their evening meal under a cloudy sunset while the five that guarded them, one of which was supposed to keep an eye on him, were all in an animated conversation. After Jon's 'attempt at freedom' or so his guards had called it, Jon was supposed to be watched at all times, but it was only a few days before they had faded back into their regular routine. So Jon studied the men around him, with little worry of being caught. Jon noticed Ventarro, Ryjar, and the two other ship captains speaking on the deck again, a habit that had formed after Eastwatch. Ventarro must have called the meeting as he was more animated than usual. Jon tried to listen to hear if they had any luck searching for the lone Braavosi cog that Ventarro's ship and the other caravel had been scouting for it, disappearing in the morning and returning in the evening.
They must have had success as the energy of the guards seemed to shift. Jon took that moment to switch out his bowl with Harald's as his stomach rumbled in familiar protest. Harald nodded in thanks as he had done for the weeks since they started, this ritual of theirs. The Skagg was looking better, and Jon was hoping he could finally have his meals back. Jon was inspecting his thinning arm with a little concern and then rubbed his patchy beard when the guards' conversation became too loud to ignore.
"I need to get my cock wet again," the guard named Pero complained loudly.
"Again? You've never fucked anything aside from your own hand," Kylmer mocked, and the group of guards laughed.
Pero's face reddened, while a glare was shot towards Kylmer, "I just don't want to stick it in something as wild and filthy as the savages we have."
"Everyone is dirty on the ship and in the slave cabins, especially."
"Ventarro doesn't allow us to touch the younger, more valuable ones. Only the older women, and what's the fun in that?" Pero asked.
"You can't tell when it is dark."
"Shows what you know," Pero shot back, which got another round of laughs, but this time at Kylmer. Though the man seemed impervious and laughed along with them.
"Your right, this batch isn't the best," Kilmer said jovially, "You know who I miss?"
"Selaria?" One of the other guards asked.
"Obviously, but how often are we in Lys? No, I am not talking about whores, or maybe I am? Do you remember that Merchant's wife, from that ship, we ambushed for Dramar?"
Jon stopped looking at his arm and looked at Jorcho, who had stopped eating.
"Yes!" Pero said eagerly, "Not as pretty as the daughters, but boy was she great."
"You don't know the half of it, best ride I've had outside of a whore house," Kylmer said. Jon looked at Jorcho, whose hands were shaking in rage. He's going to snap. "I think she had forgotten about that dead husband as she took my cock." The men were laughing harder now as Kylmer was animatedly thrusting his pelvis into the air. Jon knew if they continued, Jorcho would strike out and lose his life.
"Wasn't as good as the daughter," another said, and Jorcho's grip turned his hands white.
Fuck.
In one motion, Jon pushed Jorcho to the ground, and as the laughing men turned to him, he threw his bowl to the ground near their feet. The clay shattered on the ground, and one of the shards cut through Kylmer's trousers.
"Fuckin' Shit!" Kylmer shrieked as he put his hands on his trousers, and Jon saw blood seep through them. My fucking luck.
Pero and the other three stared at Jon, and Jon stared back. "Make sure Jorcho doesn't do anything stupid," Jon said in the Old Tongue. Jon heard Harald grunt in reply.
"The fuck you think you're doing?"
Jon said nothing, and Pero advanced. Pero raised his cudgel and tried to swing, but Jon caught it. Jon was underfed, but rowing had given him some strength, more than this useless man who did nothing but oversee their torture. Jon just stared in the man's eyes. Pero tried to pull the cudgel away, but Jon simply held him there. The anger faded from the pirate and widened in surprise.
Jon then let go of Pero, and the man stumbled back into the other two. The other two guards stared at him, while Jon saw that Kylmer was still holding his trousers but the blood seemed to have already stopped flowing. Not very deep then.
The shock Pero showed moments ago faded, and the three guards advanced on him. Jon took a deep breath, knowing if he struck any of these men, he'd be killed and killed painfully. Pero swung at him hard, and Jon, weak from hunger and thin, still had a warrior's training and moved in his shackles well enough to dodge the blow. The second one swung his own, and Jon threw his arms up to partially block the blow and pushed the man in the third's way. If Jon had a sword or even a dull knife, he could have killed two of them before being cut down. His unarmed hand was starting to drive forward regardless, and he had to stop his old instincts from kicking in.
Pero swung wildly, and Jon moved backward, the cudgel missing his head by a hair's breadth. Jon had to fight the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. Moving like a warrior again felt good, but unfortunately, he was out of practice and his chains limited his movement. Jon's enslavement and starvation caught up to him then, unable to step back in a full stride as the chains stretched tight, and Jon stumbled. Jon felt a blow on his hip, and he staggered, falling to one knee, then pain exploded on his back, and Jon collapsed to the ground and felt two feet stomp on him in quick succession as the air rushed out of his lungs.
"Enough!" The kicking stopped at once, and Jon was surprised to hear not Ryjar but Ventarro. "Get him up."
Jon was raised to his feet, and he winced in pain.
Ventarro and Ryjar looked at him with differing expressions. Ventarro had a pleasant smile while Ryjar looked as if Jon had tried to stab him.
"What happened here?" Ventarro asked.
Kylmer spoke up, "This slave threw his bowl at us!"
Ventarro looked at the broken pieces of the clay bowl and then looked at Jon, whose chest was still flat against the deck while two guards had feet digging into his back, forcing him flat. "Why did you throw the bowl?"
Jon's mind worked as fast as possible, "Dropped it," O thers take me.
"Dropped it?" Ryjar asked, "Drop it fast enough for it to shatter and injure our men?"
Jon didn't say anything, but Ventarro laughed, "It's a little scratch on the leg, Kylmer will be fine."
Pero spoke then, "He attacked us!"
Ventarro's smile stayed, but his eyes hardened, " You attacked the slave who made you look like a fool. It seems you three have been lax in your practice if it took as long as it did to take down a chained, starved galley slave. Where did we find this one again?"
"The merchant's ship, the contract from Dramar," Ryjar said.
"Ah, yes, you thought he would be better in a brothel, no?" Ventarro laughed with the other men, "All this time behind an oar, and he can still move pretty well, yes? Maybe he could become crew?" The laughter ended in a moment, replaced by a low murmur of disagreement, and Ryjar then leaned in and whispered something in Ventarro's ear, and Ventarro sighed, "You're right, of course, even if he was crew he would still need to be punished, and as you remind me, he is not crew."
"Cut his fuckin' hands off!" Kylmer said, the blood had stopped flowing, but the stain on his trousers were larger than Jon thought it should have been. Still, Jon's face paled at the remark about his hands, but before he could panic, Ventarro waved it away.
"For a broken bowl and a scratch?" Ventarro snorted, "No, a Braavosi cog has been seen, due southwest probably eight leagues away. We need him on the oar for the morning run."
Pero reddened, "With no punishment?"
Ventarro scowled, "I said he'd be punished." When the men didn't seem appeased, he continued, "Fine ten lashings and make it quick, we have a cog to catch in the morning and I need to review our weaponry."
The guards grumbled, and Jon was lifted up off the ground. Jon looked at Jorcho, who had a mixture of anger and concern, but Harald just held Jon's gaze and nodded. Jon grit his teeth. Ten lashings from the Belt would be painful, but Jon could get through the pain. It was better than seeing Jorcho chained on the prow.
Jon was tied to the 'X' although this time, his torso faced the 'X' instead of away from it. Jon breathed steadily, readying for the Belt. Jon turned his head and the corner of his eye he saw Ventarro grab, not the Belt, but a whip. It had three cords and was two feet longer than the Belt. Jon felt his blood run cold, his mind worked faster than he could control, and the math was finished before he could stop it.
Thirty strikes on his back.
Jon swallowed, thinking about why he did this. Jorcho would have gotten himself killed, and for what? Kylmer's bruised jaw? Jon wanted that thought to bring comfort, but instead, it only brought him frustration. Jon didn't know what he was doing, why he thought it was a good idea.
"It's your turn." A voice like Cason's rung through his mind.
A different voice boomed behind him, and Jon noticed that most of the pirates had stopped what they were doing to watch his punishment. Little enough entertainment. "We are here to punish this slave for his infraction. He has injured one and taunted three more. Kylmer will give ten lashes with the Fish Tail. Make it quick, we hunt in the morning." That last bit received a hearty cheer.
Jon faced away from them all and saw Jorcho and Harald staring at him from the spot where they had been stranded. Jorcho's anger was no longer directed at him, but at the others, the merchant's son's shoulders were tense, and his eyes never left Kylmer's. Harald's steady hand held onto Jorcho's shoulder. Staring at them, gave him some sense of strength.
It's only ten, I can-
The sound of the three cords whistled in the air, and Jon felt three lines of hot fire slash across his back, and Jon fought to hold the scream, but an involuntary groan escaped his lips.
"One," Ventarro said.
Jon didn't have time to think as the whistle came again, and Jon's body tensed on instinct.
Jon's body shook with the blow as three more marks marred his flesh.
"Two."
It came again, and this time Jon tried to keep his body lax and was successful, but his head was flooded with pain, and white lights crept into the corners of his vision. He looked at Jorcho and Harald, both of whom stared in pity and impotent rage.
"Three."
Jon felt as though his body could not keep this up, but he forced himself to stay upright and stay conscious. I will not give them the satisfaction, Jon told himself. They seemed to come quicker now.
"Four."
"Five."
"Six." There was another pause. Jon heard Kylmer's voice start to taunt him, but Jon's head was fogged in so much pain that he couldn't understand the words.
The next blow contained far more force, and Jon's body collapsed in pain, held up by his bindings.
"Seven."
Before Jon could right himself, the next blow came, and it struck higher, two cords hitting the top of his shoulder and the third on his shoulder blade.
"Eight."
Jon collapsed again, but fought through the pain and righted himself, willing his mind to clear so he could fight the pain, but he could feel his consciousness starting to fade and his mind starting to drift. Jon looked up to see some sort of bird flying towards them. Jon looked at it fly, and as it began to come nearer, Jon felt something in the back of his mind.
"Nine."
The pain started to overwhelm him, and black began to seep into his vision, chasing away the white lights.
Jon shut his eyes and felt his mind slip into unconsciousness as somewhere far away, he heard, "Ten."
He was then in an odd dream, floating through the sky as he beat his wings, looking down at the expansive sea below. There was a floating tree, and Jon felt tired, so he floated down and landed on the bare limbs of the tree with the large, broad white leaves that were bigger than the tree they grew from. The white leaves were rigid from the ocean wind. Men scurried around on the flat base of the tree. They were loud as one of the men, an injured one, was being dragged underneath by two others. The injured one had ragged, dark brown hair, a mess of a beard, familiar features, and a bloody back.
Jon felt disoriented in this lucid dream, then all of the sudden, he felt a sharp pain, a headache almost as bad as the whipping. Then his vision went black, and Jon opened his eyes.
He was now looking at the wooden steps that lead below deck.
He was in immense pain, with a back that felt like a giant open sore. Jon could feel the blood seep from his wounds and down to his legs. Jon tried to shake the brief dream away and turned around to search for the bird and saw wings in the distance, flapping madly away from the ship.
Jon was quickly chained to the oar, and all he could do is slump over, exhausted.
"Others take me, Toli," Toregg said, "What happened to you?"
Harald was the one to answer, "Whipped with the Fish Tail," he spoke in Westerosi and repeated in Valyrian. The fucking Skagg speaks Valyrian as well?
Larris clucked his tongue, and Xano looked at him in anger, "What did he do this time?" Xano asked, his voice on edge.
"Took my punishment," Jorcho whispered in a low tone. When there was confusion, Jorcho explained and relayed the story.
There was silence until Xano spoke up, "He didn't take your punishment, he exchanged it for your life."
Horo grunted, "We'll see, the rumor is that we are going to row non-stop in the morning. It might be his life then."
There was silence, and Jon found little energy to speak, "Harald," he said in Valyrian, "You speak Valyrian too?"
The Stone-born gave what someone could confuse for a smile, "mirrī." A little.
"You're a fucking arsehole," Jon said in Westerosi, and Harald gave an actual chuckle, and Jon joined him but soon turned to a cough.
Jorcho gave him a look of timid shame, and Jon, still slumped over, reached out and grasped his arm, "I owe you more than this, consider it a small repayment. We will kill them all one-day, Jorcho. Believe that." Jorcho looked at Jon's back, then at him, and the look of shame slipped away, and he nodded.
"Good," Jorcho said.
"We," Jon motioned around to them all, "just need to be patient. So, if you men don't mind," Jon said meekly, the last of his energy spent, "I need some sleep." They all nodded at him, and their whispered conversations blended as he faded to sleep, and in his dream, he found himself flying again.
It would be somewhere between turn three and four at his best guess when the shout of "Port Hold" ran out through the slaves' cabin, then the drumbeats would increase in tempo, and his life and the life of all the slaves would be hell for thirty minutes to an hour.
Jon's memory of his hazy apathetic stupor still wasn't clear, but they had made a couple of runs on merchant ships before. They would row steadily to slowly outpace the merchant ship, flying a flag of someplace or another and staying away as to seem that they were not a threat. Then would lurch in a quick moment and row like hell, charging the cog, and Ventarro would decide if they needed to ram it and take it by force or slow down if the cog would surrender without a fight. Jon didn't remember there being any time where it escalated that far.
Or that's how it went in friendly waters, but they weren't in the Stepstones, and Jon feared that what happened to him would happen to this Braavosi cog.
His back hurt like hell, and the pain that was once sharp flashes became a constant companion. The newly formed scabs across his back opened, and his wounds wept bloody fluid that stained his threadbare shirt. His torn back and hours of rowing had exhausted him beyond anything he could remember. At least on the row to Lys, he had hate to fuel him. He didn't have that stored bellow of black hatred but now he had his fellow oarsmen and this time they felt the need to help him.
"Toli," Harald asked him, "Toli, take a break and just pretend to row, Jorcho, and I can handle it."
Jon looked at Jorcho, who didn't seem to feel the same way, and Jon just grunted as his malnourished and beaten body was being pushed to the brink.
"I'll be fine, the cog will surrender, and we can make our way there slowly," Jon said. I hope.
Three hundred and twenty-one strokes later, he wasn't fine, and Jon's missed an entire stroke and had to take his arm off the oar. The Belt followed a moment later, and Jon's whole back went from the constant ache to exquisite, blinding pain.
Jon yelped, and his body spasmed as every part of his fatigued body didn't know how to react. Jon tried grabbing for the oar, but his vision was blind from stinging tears mixed with sweat. He was sure he was going to get hit again, but the drums increased again in tempo, and somewhere he heard shouts as the pirates scrambled to arm themselves.
Jon's breathing was ragged and irregular. He had little strength to offer in aid to Jorcho and Harald as they reached the final part of the run.
Then the sounds of crossbow and scorpion bolts being let loose through the air separated from the rest of the noise. Orders were shouted as they were getting closer, and Jon felt guilt start to seep in that he was contributing again to someone else's demise.
"Fuck, I can't keep doing this," Toregg said from behind him. "It's like trying to sprint after a deer."
Larris grunted, "You savages don't know how to hunt."
"Better than you," Toregg grumbled.
"You're not supposed to run after a deer," Larris said.
"Others take me, I wasn't talking about hunting."
"Then what was-" Larris started to ask when their inane conversation was interrupted.
"Ōtor! Ōtor! Ōtor!" Ram.
"Gods damn it," Jon muttered. They had never actually rammed a ship before as most were smart enough to surrender their cargo in exchange for their lives. The only thing Jon could think of now was that storm so long ago, and the fear he felt when he saw the sailing ship come right towards them. The pace tripled and the next hundred and twenty strokes burned his muscles to a fatigued mess as volley after volley was loosed towards the cog and Jon's memory of the crew from Pearl's Kiss getting cut down by a storm of bolts occupied his sight for a brief moment. "Oars in!" Jon, Harald, and Jorcho quickly tried to pull the oar when they heard Ventarro above them.
The captain's voice rang out, "BRACE!" The pirate captain continued to shout as Jon did his best to grip the bench.
The crash sounded like a wave crashing and a forest of trees falling. It pierced the rest of the noise as Jon was thrust backward, chains straining taut. He felt the ship move a handful of feet in the air. Then a cacophony of shouts and cries while bending and broken wood overwhelmed him. Jon's back lit up in pain, and he cried out as he tried to the right himself up. Jon tried to search for the others in his inability to get up.
The bending of wood gave way, and Jon felt the floor fall a few feet as their galleass broke free of the broken cog. Jon found himself in an awkward position, his back torn, bloody, and protesting. Then the oarmaster shouted, "Backwards, Push!"
Jon went to grab the oar as he heard hooks and planks being laid down in preparation for boarding the cog. They only had to do a couple of strokes before they were relieved. The initial sound of the attack died quickly and was replaced with Ventarro speaking and the pirates muttering, occasionally a spike of laughter would drift through. The memory of a similar time came to him, and Jon could feel something, something familiar and terrible, threatening to rear its ugly head. The other slaves, however, didn't care much, and Jon simply slouched forward and breathed in deep, totally exhausted.
He must have drifted off for a moment or two as the next thing he saw was Kylmer unlocking Harald and Xano's chains.
"Innermost man of each row is to help us bring over the cargo. If it sinks before we clear it out we will leave you there."
Harald and Horo grumbled while Xano just looked too tired to carry on, but carry on they did.
Jorcho took that moment to lay down flat on the bench where Harald was sitting just moments before. Jon instead looked back out his oar-port, and his tired mind scanned the waves and the debris. Jon couldn't help but stare, and the longer he stared, he realized it wasn't all debris. A handful of bodies littered the water and guilt started to flood past him faster than he could stop it.
I am responsible. Jon thought to himself. I helped bring this about. Jon closed his eyes, the pain was overtaking him. He was exhausted, his body was in pain, and he felt the gnaw of hunger, and a dry throat made itself known to him.
I am biding time. If I didn't row, I would die. If I die, I can't free these men. Jon repeated this to himself as the shame of helping pirates kill these sailors, these Braavosi that had probably just seen his homeland, warred with his excuse of self-preservation.
Jon just looked at the water, and the desire to escape his pain started to come back to him in a heady rush of emotion. "No, no, no, I need to stay alive," Jon muttered to himself. At that moment, Jon was thankful for his chains, but the emotion was threatening to overtake him again, and Jon looked for anything, including willing his body to stop working and give him a dreamless rest.
Jon then looked back at through the oar port and on floating debris was a cat sitting, soaking wet, but seemingly at peace to not to be in the water. Jon wanted to be that cat, to feel that fleeting serenity in all this chaos. Jon wanted to feel that more than anything else in the world. Jon closed his eyes, willing himself, and his entire soul to feel peace.
When he opened them, he was surrounded by water, the smell of salt was heavy but the smell of blood more so. Jon could feel his hands and feet against the rough surface of the wood. However, he couldn't sense the metal around his wrists anymore, and Jon looked down to see small paws. Jon felt a sharp stab in his head, and he panicked and stumbled backward. Then Jon was falling. He hit the water and closed his eyes. Jon opened them again and found himself staring at his feet, shackled as they had always been, and sharp pain blossomed in the back of his head. Jon felt a trickle of blood run down his nostril, he wiped at it and stared at the blood on his fingertips as his senses muddled together. "What the fuck," Jon muttered as he fainted.
Author's Notes:
Thanks again for reading!
Sorry for the slow pace, I'm trying haha.