VIII. Frozen Seas
Jon had only ever heard of the Swan Ships out of the Summer Isles in books and stories. He had thought his uncle would charter a Hulk or a Galley, which were plentiful at the port. But instead, the ship he stepped on seemed to be carved out of a single piece of pale wood, so smoothly and elegantly it was made.
The decks did not move as much as he had expected. Jon had though it would be like the poleboat on the Greenblood, but ten times worse. But the Maiden's Mist defied his expectations, and bore the waves of the open sea with such grace Jon hardly felt he was no longer on solid ground.
The captain promised them a voyage of no more than three weeks. He was a Summer Islander, with skin of ebony and a shaved head that gleamed in the sun like a black pearl. Captain Morqua Jho had fared the seas for decades, from Lannisport to Tall Trees Town, and from Oldtown to Ibb and the Shivering Seas.
Jon would've loved to hear all about those voyages. The captain was nearly as well traveled as the famed Sea Snake, Corlys Velaryon! But instead of seven voyages, he had carried out over seventy. Of course, on such a large ship the Captain had far too much work to do.
And so did Jon.
Intellectually, he knew that he would be bidding farewell to his uncle soon. But in his heart, it didn't actually feel real yet.
Arthur must've sensed something. "Don't worry," He told Jon, "We have time yet."
They made good use of that time. On the ship, Jon learned more of swordsmanship than he had in the last two years. It seemed Arthur meant to impart every last bit of knowledge he had.
He learned a dozen tricks with his arm and blade that would disarm or disembowel an unprepared opponent. He learned stances that would let him strike faster and harder. He couldn't use them all, not for years yet, but he committed them to memory nonetheless.
And when he had a moment alone, he wove water.
It was an agonizingly slow and frustrating process. Jon had started simple: A cup of water in his cabin next to his bunk. But the water was so hard to grasp. It was like grabbing fistfuls of sand — he could grab some of it, but the majority slipped through his fingers and the small bit in his hand would be useless.
But he persevered. When he was meant to be sleeping or studying, he slowly grew his control over the water. By the end of their first week at sea, he could create a current and stir the water within the cup with a mental effort, and he could lift up a gulp's worth of water above the cup. It had no shape, and would fall back down with a messy splash if he lost his focus for even an instant, but it was progress.
Jon didn't spend all his time with his uncle or practicing by himself, though.
There was plenty to be done on the ship. Arthur had paid in full for their passage, so if Jon wanted he could've spent the whole voyage in his cabin. Of course, his uncle wouldn't have approved of that. He didn't want that either. Instead, he did his best to help around the ship. They always needed an extra hand for cleaning, or rigging, or masting. Jon was the smallest and lightest person on the ship, so it was easier for him to climb up the ropes up to the mast.
"Sand boy! No swordplay today?" That was Zorqua Jho, Captain Morqua's youngest daughter. She had two years and a foot on Jon, with wide eyes and hair bound in tight locks.
Jon bristled a little. "My name is Jon. Why do you call me that?"
She crossed her arms. "Dorne is land of sand, yes?" Her Common wasn't perfect yet, but it was clear the captain had put emphasis on teaching her. "And you are Dorne boy. I am right?"
"A Dornish boy." Jon corrected her, slightly relieved. "And it's 'am I right?' And Dorne isn't all sand."
"I have seen Dorne many times. Only sand."
"It's only sand in the south of Dorne." Jon answered. "Which ports have you been to?"
She thought for a moment, counting them off. "Planky Town. Sunspear. Once up the green river."
"You have to go further north." Jon explained. "Have you sailed in the Sea of Dorne?"
"No. Nothing to trade."
"It's greener there. There are mountains as tall as the Vale there. Between the mountains there are lots of valleys that are greener than anything you've ever seen."
She looked impressed. "Tell me more."
So Jon told her about the valley of the Torrentine where he grew up, and of Westeros with its great tourneys and pageantry and rebellions. In turn, he heard stories of the Free Cities and the Summer Isles where the trees grew like keeps.
At times, he even managed to sneak a conversation or two with one of her brothers. Kolloro and Zhoquo were both young men, old enough to be full members of the crew. They had less to say on distant lands, but more on shipcraft.
At the start of their second week on the ship the winds died. There were no oars and no rowers, so they were becalmed.
"Bad luck for us." Zorqua muttered. Jon agreed. They had passed Sunspear days back, and were now headed squarely north. That placed them right in the middle of the Stepstones now.
For the better part of the day they waited for the wind to pick up, and set a watch all about the ship. Morqua had eleven bowmen with great goldenheart bows, but every sailor knew how to shoot an arrow. Jon only knew how to use a hunting bow, but Zorqua took him aside and showed him the proper way to handle a longbow with a lighter draw weight.
It was good that she had. At nightfall, the wind had started to pick up, but it was scarcely more than a breeze. And the watchers on the prow called out for a sail on the horizon.
Even in the dying light they could see the sails were black.
"Archers!" The captain sprang into action. In the dark, the fearsome Goldenheart bows were less of a threat, and it seemed the corsairs knew it.
Arthur strapped on his armour and tightened Jon's padded coat. Jon took his sword and shield, and tried to follow his uncle up top. It was in chaos, sailors running to and fro preparing arms and securing the deck. Zorqua stood by, fingering her fine horn bow and looking up with envy at the archers on the prow. She had not earned a Goldenheart yet, though her bow would still be a great prize for any yeoman.
Just outside the cabin, Arthur stopped Jon. "Stay here. If the fighting breaks out on deck, go inside." There was a deathly seriousness to his uncle's voice, one he'd heard rarely. He nodded.
The wind slowly picked up. Could they outrun the corsairs?
Jon voiced his question to Zorqua. She shook her head. "They have oars. They will row faster."
It was a close thing. The wind picked up just enough to save the ship from being smashed apart. Captain Morqua commanded the sailors to angle the sails to starboard. The Corsair ship came in at full speed to ram the Maiden's Mist, but the Swan Ship spun in a great circle and narrowly avoided it.
Arrows shot across the blackness between the ships now. The Summer Islander bowmen were reaping a bloody toll. It was hard to make out the enemy, but Jon could see dark bodies raised up and flung away whole by the power of their arrows.
A dozen grappling hooks whipped across the gap between the two ships, latching onto the railing. Jon stumbled back in surprise and fear as one hook struck the rails to the upper deck less than five paces away from him.
"Jon! Your sword!" Zorqua cried out at him. Before he knew what he was doing, he ran towards the nearest grapple. An arrow whizzed by at the corner of his eyes and he remembered his shield. He raised it up to cover his head and hacked down at the rope connecting the hook. It was thick and the sword bit in.
"Watch out!"
The Corsair ship loomed above him like a mountain in shadow. It was too close. He saw black shapes in the ropes and rigging, waiting for the ships to get closer so they would jump over. Zorqua shot once, twice, thrice. On the third arrow one of the shapes screamed out in pain and fell out.
Wrenching the sword back, Jon struck the rope again. He missed the previous spot. He struck again, and again. With a bang like a hammerblow, the taut rope snapped, lashing Jon across the chest. Jon nearly fell overboard, but Zorqua caught him and pulled him back with one arm.
That was only one rope, out of a dozen. The corsair ship seemed to draw even closer. A black-feathered arrow found its mark and one of the archers on the prow stumbled, falling backwards to the sea. The Summer Islanders were now taking cover and drawing swords. Zorqua clambered atop the railing and shot more arrows, heedless of the danger.
"Up above!"
Ropes swung out, dark shapes at their end. One was right above Jon. Fear nearly blanked out his mind, but years and years of training held steadfast. The pirate dropped to the deck with a thump, but before he could draw his sword Jon was on him. The pirate was short and stocky, his weapon almost a cleaver. But before the man could swing, Jon struck.
Jon's sword bit into the man's neck and went in easily. He staggered, gurgled, and dropped to the ground limp.
Fighting had erupted on the deck, as pirates and sailors exchanged blows. Zorqua felled another man who approached Jon. Then she threw aside her bow and dropped down next to Jon. "No arrows left. Let's go inside."
"Wait- I- I can't, my uncle-" Jon pulled his sword free. "I have to help!"
Then Jon saw a glint of pale white, shining in the dark.
His uncle, Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, leapt across the wide gap between the ships. "Starfall! Starfall!"
"Starfall!" The men at arms took up the cry and followed without hesitation, echoing. "Starfall! Bring the Light!"
Behind them the crew of the Maiden's Mist swarmed across. He watched, amazed, as Dawn glowed in the dark, rising and falling like flashes of lightning. No armour blocked it, and no blade stopped it.
Arthur Dayne was a blur of motion, an unstoppable gleam that clove its way across the deck of the other ship. Jon watched him slice apart the corsairs with ease, spinning and slashing his way through a dozen men in as many heartbeats. He thrust his sword through one man's face, drew it out and in that motion cut down another. He ducked beneath a wild swing from a club and cut the corsair's stomach open. Before the guts hit the deck he strode forward and slit the necks of two more men before they could so much as see him coming.
"The Sword of the Morning!" The soldiers and sailors were cheering even over the din of battle. "Bring the Light!"
The trail of bodies in his uncle's wake grew longer, and the wind picked up. The ships drifted apart and Arthur and the sailors jumped back onboard the Maiden's Mist before it was too late, cutting the grappling hooks. Their ship began to pull away, but Jon could only stare at the corsair vessel as it floated further and further away.
The deck of the corsair ship was drowned in a tide of blood and bodies. Thirty or forty of them must have died there. He'd seen dead men before. But not so many, not so violently. He glanced down at the body at his feet. There was so much blood…
Before he knew it, he heaved his guts over the stern.
Zorqua held his hair. "Your uncle, the knight. He is a fearsome swordsman," she said.
Jon spat into the sea. His stomach felt queasy. He waited for it to settle. "He- he is. He's one of the best Warriors in the world."
"I can see."
"Thank you for taking care of Jon." Arthur had extricated himself from the rest of the men. He acknowledged Zorqua and turned his attention to Jon. "Are you alright?" He asked, eyes flickering to the side at Jon's kill.
There was blood all over Arthur's body. None of it was his. Not trusting himself to speak, Jon nodded.
"I- I'm sorry. I shouldn't have let you on the deck. This was bloody work, but you did well."
"It's fine." Jon finally pushed out. "I'm just… a little shocked. I wasn't expecting battle to be like… this."
"Glory only exists in charges and duels. There's no space for it in real battle. It'll be alright." Arthur pulled open the straps of his armour and threw it to the deck, then hugged Jon. "Just alright."
Jon held tightly onto his uncle for a long time. The men were starting to clean up the detritus of the battle by the time he let go.
As he stepped backwards, he felt his uncle's breathing slow down and weight shift forward.
"Uncle? Uncle!"
Arthur collapsed on top of Jon.
Though there was no Maester onboard the Maiden's Mist, Zhoquo Jho, the captain's eldest son, had some knowledge of the human body. It was simple exhaustion, he said.
Jon stayed by his uncle's bed for the next week. Arthur regained consciousness the next day, and was well enough to stumble out of the bed the day after. At that point, he banished Jon from his rooms, claiming he was well enough now for Jon to stop worrying.
Zorqua's two kills in the battle had earned her the Goldenheart bow from the archer who had fallen. She proudly showed it off to Jon, managing just a single shot.
Jon's own deeds had earned him acclaim in the battle. The men-at-arms and the sailors all clapped him on the back for participating in the battle and even claiming his first kill at such a young age. Someone pushed a cup of rum into his hands. He hesitated only for a moment, then drank it deeply.
If this was what the world was like, then he couldn't shy away.
They were now on busy lanes. The days passed, and as Arthur recuperated Jon focused on training with the bow and with his magic. To the east the tall cliffs of the Stormlands were a faint line on the horizon. Then and now the lookouts called out for sails on the horizon, but all those were friendly ships — Westerosi galleys and longships, sails emblazoned with the Stag of Storm's End and Dragonstone, the Moon and Sun of Tarth, the Seahorse of Velaryon, and even a lone Kraken out of the Iron Isles. There were Essoshi ships too, Braavosi and Pentoshi Carracks and Ibbenese Whalers.
The Maiden's Mist skipped past Storm's End and King's Landing. Morqua had no cargo he could unload easily there. But they stopped at Gulltown for a day, while he picked up exquisite timber and woolens from the Vale.
Arthur was still restricted to his cabin then. Without his uncle, Jon had no wish to disembark. The city beckoned tantalizingly, but only watched it from abroad the ship. It was larger than Planky Town, and far, far better built. The streets were narrow and the houses built from solid timber.
"I was bound for Braavos." Captain Morqua explained to Jon. His Common was clean with an accent. "Your uncle paid well for me to stop at White Harbor. But I must make it worth it in my own way."
Then he pushed a bag of coins into Jon's hand. "I have never seen a warrior like him. A part of his payment, returned, as gratitude."
On the third week of their journey, Jon felt the seas grow colder. His uncle, finally well enough to move around and about on the deck, nodded. "We're in the North now."
They sailed up the White Knife now. Jon looked at the land about him. It was bleak. The distant coast was a line of darkness crowned with trees that were dull green and topped with white. Snow was falling, gently. Some of the sailors shivered, half-naked as they were. Jon simply stared at the snow-covered ground. It looked like sand, just in a different colour. So, this was the North. This would be his home for the next few years.
They passed by small fishing boats and sloops and pulled into the port at White Harbour. It was early in the day. Jon found Arthur packing in his cabin, who looked up. "Ready to go?"
"Almost." Jon nodded nervously.
"Take your time, say your farewells." Arthur told him. "We have some time."
First, Jon went to his room. The cup of water still sat beside the bunk. He focused and felt it, and brought it out. Slowly, smoothly, he raised a single tongue of water up into the air, and twisted it left and right. It moved gently, like a drowsy snake peeking around. If he moved it too fast, or too far, he lost control.
But he was satisfied with the progress so far.
A knock at his doors distracted him. The water fell to the deck with a splash. Rather than try and put it back in the cup, Jon let it go for now.
Zorqua stood outside. "I'll be sad to see you go."
"Me too. You saved my life."
"Then you owe me, yes? But before that, I have a gift. You fought with us, and you helped me with tongues."
She held out her old horn bow, wrapped in thin leather. It was better made than the one Jon had. "I don't need it anymore. It is yours."
"You're really giving me this?" Jon asked. "Can you even shoot your Goldenheart?"
She gave an annoyed huff. "I'll be able to, soon. Just take it."
Jon took it with a grin. "Thank you. "
She suddenly stepped closer and gave Jon a peck on the cheek. "I will see you again, Jon Dayne."
With that, she left, leaving Jon a blushing mess.
That's how Wyck of Starfall found him. Jon scowled at the man-at-arm's teasing and shouldered his pack, heading up. The rest of the party was already waiting on the deck.
They passed through White Harbour with relative ease. With the purple falling-star banner held aloft, the crowds gave way. Arthur directed half their company to finding a blacksmith to repair the arms and armour damaged at sea, and to restock on medical supplies.
House Manderly's keep was Jon's first glimpse of Northern pageantry, though his uncle warned him the Manderlys were more Southron than anyone else in the North. The Merman's Court was a beautiful keep of white stone and sea-blue banners. Lord Manderly himself was almost too fat to leave his chair to welcome them.
They exchanged greetings at the court, and once that was done Wyman Manderly stared at Jon with an eye that seemed far too keen. "So, Ned Stark's bastard comes home at long last." But his tone was light, and as Jon defiantly met his eyes he saw no hostility. "You look healthy, lad. Ned will be pleased."
That evening, Lord Manderly called for a feast. Jon sat at the high table, and met his sons Wendel and Wylis, and his pretty granddaughters Wynafryd and Wylla. They made small talk, and Wyman's sons congratulated Jon on his blooding. Wylla Manderly was far too curious about it for Jon's comfort, hanging onto every word of the story with rapt attention.
Their party spent two days recuperating at White Harbour, and on Jon's third day in the North they set off for Winterfell, laden with heavy cloaks fit for traveling through the snow. They journeyed for five days under clear skies and a gentle snowfall.
On the morning of the sixth, Jon found himself staring across the field and a town at the great, grey walls of Winterfell.
The next 5-6 chapters with Jon in the North will likely be shorter, because they're all character drama involving exclusively canon, fleshed-out characters, and I have such a hard time with those because I go insane trying to achieve 'authenticity'. Meaning I'll end up keeping it as short and sweet as possible.
Then we'll say 'hi' to the stations of canon, and proceed to spend the next seventy chapters after that ignoring it.
Up next, in Chapter IX - The Wolf Pack, Jon meets the other half of his family.