The Shivering Sea

298 AC

Mormont had woken before dawn.

Within the rather spartan living quarters of the Captain's Cabin, he'd found himself ready to get on with his day before the sun had risen.

He'd gotten out of bed and had dressed in thick woolen trousers and his leather riding boots. He'd worn his long black gambeson coat over a plain shirt so as to protect him from the chill of the sea. Then he'd buckled Longclaw to his belt and opened the door to his cabin and had immediately begun hearing the combined snoring of over sixty men.

Mormont ignored them, and climbed up the nearby steep staircase to the top deck of his glorious brigantine; The Waking Serpent.

After having purchased it from Wyman Manderly- though not without great effort on his part- Mormont had taken an immediate liking to the pinewood vessel with the wonderful hull of durable white steel and three square-rigged masts that carried them across the sea at around eight knots for every hour traveled.

It was by far one of the most efficient and high-quality ships that Mormont had ever laid his eye on. He was especially pleased by the sight of eighteen catapults and sixteen ballistae that had been mounted on during his stay at White Harbor, so as to provide a means of defense against pirates.

As soon as he finished climbing the stairs, he felt the misty morning chill of the Shivering Sea hit him. The cold breath that brushed against his skin, however, was nothing compared to the harsh, forceful winds of the North-much less than the icy air of the lands beyond the Wall.

He'd glanced around and had spotted all ten men who had taken the night watch. For only a moment, Mormont had felt an odd sensation upon seeing Wildlings, House Manderly men, and Mormont's own guards band together and watch each other's backs. As if they'd fought with one another for years.

Sigmund had brought along twenty-five wildling men to serve as seafaring barbarians. They had eagerly signed on to an expedition that had seemingly scared the wits out of "those craven southerners" as they put it.

In a way, Mormont couldn't blame them. The Free Folk were far more tempted to take part when it came to competition between them and their rivals. Especially if they were competing against anyone who lived south of the Wall.

It might have been that spirit of competition that had helped roused Mormont's own men to come along this journey as well…

He'd taken twenty-five out of the thirty that had come with him to White Harbor. Of course, he'd given them all the option to stay behind. Mormont would not order his men to go to their deaths, and they could crew a brigantine with twenty good men regardless.

Yet, much to his surprise, all of them had not failed to raise their hands to participate on this journey to Valyria. Even those who had families back on Bear Island had given their assent.

Mormont had taken his lot and left the remaining five with Duncan and Rhaenys to travel back with them to Bear Island. Wyman and Ned would keep them safe with guards from their own households as added protection if the need was there.

And as for the twenty Manderly men, well, they had come along at the behest of Wyman Manderly. Not necessarily for Mormont's sake, but it was because of the sudden addition of Wendel Manderly to their crew.

After having told Wyman of his plans, it hadn't taken long for the fat man's son to offer his aid on their ragged journey across the Narrow Sea. Wendel was of course one of Mormont's old friends, as they had met four years prior during Mormont's final tour throughout Westeros.

"Bah! You are on an honorable quest, Starag!" Wendel said boisterously as he clapped Mormont on the shoulder. "Is it not the most dangerous of missions which deliver the best rewards that life has to offer? And for what better cause than the safety of the realm! No, I must come with you, my friend. I must play my part as well!"

And that had been that. Just like with the other members of his party, Mormont could no less dissuade them from coming with him as he could convince a squirrel to give up acorns.

In a way, their diehard commitment to his mission had warmed him greatly. Mormont had felt more than relieved knowing that he wouldn't be heading into the Dragon's Den all by himself, that he would be going with men he could trust with his life and even go so far as to call them brothers.

Mormont walked up the next few steps to the ship's wheel, where one of his men- a tall, lean wildling named Harkan- was stoically keeping watch of the sea while maintaining a steady grip on the wheel.

It had been surprisingly easy to teach the wildlings how to crew a ship of this size. And they'd had plenty of time since Mormont had spent weeks-damn near a moon- planning out the entire voyage to Valyria in the white stone halls of New Castle, the home of House Manderly.

The Free Folk had taken to manning a ship, learning the ins and the outs as quickly as a child would upon practicing a new skill. They'd beyond exceeded his expectations, and even listened to his orders. About as well as his own men-at-arms would.

"Go get some shut-eye, Harkan," Mormont said to the other man. "We should be arriving in Braavos later today. Wouldn't want to be too tired for the women, now would we?"

Harkan gave him a bucktooth smile. "Har! That'll be the day! Harkan Snowheir wouldn't dare pass up the chance, not even if he hadn't slept a week!" Still, the wildling had let go of the wheel and stepped away. "Sounds like something you southerners would do."

Mormont snickered and took the wheel. All the while, he listened as the wildling walked off the deck and over to the latch that led to the decks below.

It had been five days since they'd left White Harbor and began crossing the Shivering Sea. It would have been four days, but they had gotten caught in a bad storm on the third day, throwing them off course and adding unnecessary length to their voyage.

After some quick readjusting, Mormont knew they'd make it to the first of the Free Cities they would be stopping at in due time.

Sure enough, on the horizon, he could make out the figure of the gigantic Titan of Braavos standing firmly on top of Sellagoro's Shield- a mountainous wall of rock and hill that jutted sharply out of the sea in a semi-circle around the inlet where Braavos was located.

It would be hours before they arrived. Plenty of time for some sparring. And for some breakfast.

As if in response, Mormont's empty stomach had gurgled at the thought of something to fill it with. Yet he knew there were plenty of portions of warm food waiting for him in Braavos, so he thought it better to wait than to have more dried meat, stale bread, and hard cheese.

Braavos would be the first of the Free Cities that they'd land at. The others would be Pentos, Tyrosh, Lys, and Volantis. They'd stay in each city for perhaps two-maybe three days to gather supplies and get the lay of the land- or the sea rather.

There would be no telling what dangers lurked along the western coast of Essos. They'd need to be prepared, and gathering up rumors would help them greatly in case they ran into trouble.

Trouble… The mere thought of a sea raid or naval battle had strangely amused Mormont. He snickered at the idea of some bold pirates wanting to do battle with his swift fortress of a battleship.

But even then, it was the tiny threat they represented in comparison to the dangerous mystery of whatever they'd find in Valyria, of what awaited them upon their arrival at their ultimate destination…

Marwyn's forbidding words of Aerea Targaryen, and of the abominations that had lived inside of her body had quickly sprung to mind for Starag Mormont. It was the horrific imagery of eel-like monstrosities writhing underneath one's skin that haunted him.

Would that be the same fate for him? For Arthur? For Jon? The uncertainty had made him broil silently from within. Like he was a pot of boiling water just about to go over the edge…

What eldritch abominations now lived in the ruins of the once great Valyrian Freehold? Where the Dragonlords had once ruled over one of the most powerful empires known to man? The ancient home of the Targaryens themselves…

Mormont did not know. Nobody knew what now inhabited that hallowed grave. And those who had found out were likely now laying at the bottom of the Smoking Sea.

And that was just a hope. Something far worse had probably happened to them.

Mormont had remembered the final words he'd uttered to his wife and his firstborn son. Of how he'd stood on the docks at White Harbor not wanting to leave, but knowing that he must.

He had held Rhaenys' warm hands that day, and he'd let her fingers roam into the untamed jungle that was his curly black hair, and had felt her palm lovingly stroke his grizzled black beard.

"Remember what I told you; Be strong." He said as he kissed his woman's forehead and kissed both of her palms. "I'll be back before you know it."

Rhaenys had nodded firmly. Behind the shaky violet eyes, he could tell that she was about ready to burst into tears. Still, she had willed herself to remain collected, at least until he had left.

Mormont had looked down at the boy of four years standing beside his mother. Even he had tried his best to remain strong and stoic during that moment. He'd stood up straight rather awkwardly, and was trying not to cry.

Mormont had gotten down onto one knee and grinned playfully at his son. He knew exactly what to say then. "Is there anything you want me to bring back?"

Duncan was just a boy. He didn't know why Mormont had to leave, all he knew was that his father, the man he'd looked up to his whole life up until this point was leaving for someplace far far away. His sorrowful mother certainly did not help to improve his mood, either.

On some level, the boy was dying to know why exactly Mormont was leaving this time around. And why it would be for so very long. Perhaps he had some level of awareness of his age and knew that he wouldn't get a straight answer from Mormont.

Duncan had smiled sadly. "Could you…" He trailed off, not really knowing what to say. The boy likely hadn't been prepared for Mormont's question. "Could you bring back a Dragon for me?"

Mormont had raised a rather curious eyebrow at his son. He'd glanced up at Rhaenys, who had only worn an unexpected grin at her child's innocent ask.

He looked back at the boy. Those violet orbs were both pleading, and curious to know what his father's answer would be.

Dragons… They would be the least of what he'd potentially find in Valyria…

Mormont tousled messy black curls atop his son's head. "I'll see what I can do, son."

Jon Stark hadn't a single clue where he was going.

It was as if he were eleven years old once again, leading a blushing Margaery Tyrell through the naked markets of Dragonstone harbor without actually knowing which stall he wanted to buy from.

Except now, he did know where he was supposed to go. And still, he'd managed to get himself, as well as his current company completely lost.

They'd arrived in the Free City of Braavos earlier that day. Their first stop was Chequey Port, where they had spent a rather sullen few hours being inspected by Braavosi customs officers. By the time they had finished up, it had been just before midday. As such, his Uncle Starag had sent him along with both Arthur and Sigmund to the Iron Bank of Braavos.

While they already had enough of the strange square iron coins that the Braavosi used as currency, they would ultimately need enough of the currencies used by the other Free Cities along the western coast of Essos. For both the journey to Valyria and for the return journey as well.

Fortunately (or unfortunately depending on how you viewed it), the Iron Bank was the right place to exchange gold dragons -a commodity at this point for Jon's uncle- for these foreign coins.

Jon had heard more than enough fabled stories of the Iron Bank from both Maester Luwin and Uncle Arthur alone. Apparently, his own grandfather, the Mad King himself, had troubles in the past with the Iron Bank. He'd supposedly threatened to build a grand fleet and "bring the Titan to its knees"

Jon Stark had quickly found out in the last few hours that that threat- even if it had been carried out, it would have been rendered null and void…

Docked along the inner crest of Sellagoro's Shield were hundreds-potentially even thousands of quays, sheds, and shipyards housing gigantic war galleys, ready to blow any naval force that comes knocking to smithereens.

"All Braavosi warships are the same design." Arthur had told him when they sailed past the massive hulking Titan of Braavos after its deafening roar had ceased. "Look, there." He'd pointed out the innumerable amount of shipyards. "They are all built the same way. It would only take the shipbuilders one day to assemble a full galley."

Jon had been far too impressed to actually make a comment, or even ask a question about a feat such as that. All it took the Braavosi to build a ship was a single day, and all the while, it would take moons before his father could finally have a ship ready to sail in White Harbor.

It made Jon Stark wonder just how exactly the process itself worked. Not just of the actual building, but of the colossal amounts of paperwork that must be behind it…

Was there no level of bureaucracy to go through? No forms or files to fill out due to regulations of some kind. No toes they'd manage to step on in the process of making another war galley? What if-somehow- all the quays had been filled up? What if there was no more space for their warships?

Apparently, the Braavosi hadn't seemed to be tied down the same way the Westerosi had when it came to damn near pointless paperwork. Even with the customs inspection, the officer's sheer thoroughness had come off only as a result of experience, not as routine inspection.

Why was Westeros not functioning the same way? Surely, at least from what Jon had seen so far, Braavos was running much more smoothly and efficiently than King's Landing.

Even the people themselves seemed far more superstitious. They openly believed in magic and mystical abilities beyond human understanding. They believed in the "higher mysteries" that the Maesters of the Citadel seemed to scoff even at the mere mention of.

The differences between these people and those of the Seven Kingdoms were absolutely astounding to Jon Stark… It was like he'd altogether stepped into an entirely different world…

In a way, he had.

"Why do we need these coins?" Jon had palmed one of the rough square iron coins of Braavos and held it up to Arthur. "Wouldn't they take gold dragons?"

Arthur had shaken his head. "Because most of the Braavosi don't hold gold dragons in the same regard as we do. They believe their iron coins are more valuable than gold." He explained. "Those at the Iron Bank understand the value of gold, but the rest of the population don't really care to use it. Therefore, these," He said as he plucked the iron piece from Jon's hand. "Have more value."

That had instantly thrown Jon for a loop. How was it that even in another continent in the same world, the general populace held iron as more valuable than gold?

Arthur elaborated. "Doesn't mean that some Braavosi doesn't use gold, but for the most part, they believe these coins are more valuable. Does that make sense?"

"No, not really…" Jon flipped the words that his uncle had been saying in his head, again and again, trying to make sense of it all. "Is it sort of like how Starag values gold over copper and silver?"

The Sword of the Morning had given him an approving nod. "Absolutely. The same way he disregards copper and silver, the Braavosi do likewise with anything that isn't their iron coins." He watched the briny water in the canals, and passing citizens who went about their daily business. "The concept of money isn't real, Jon. It's the belief behind it which gives it power."

Before Jon could spark off another question, Arthur had glanced back at a rather out-of-place Sigmund, who looked quite uncomfortable standing in the middle of such a crowded place. "Sigmund, do your people value gold beyond the Wall?"

Almost thankful for the distracting discussion, Sigmund had focused on Dayne and shook his head. "No. Precious metals mean little if you're dead. Steel weapons and armor are best since we require them to protect ourselves from other tribes." He patted the large battleax slung across his back. "A smuggler had this ax before I did. He wanted three portions of amber for it. And I wanted the ax. It was a simple bargain."

"Exactly." Arthur had said, looking back to Jon. "The value of the exchange is based on the needs of both parties present. The wildlings want weapons and armor they're unable to forge themselves, and the smuggler in this instance wanted some amber. Since the wildlings covet steel over amber, they found it an acceptable trade. Likewise, the smuggler valued amber over steel, which he could find easily at any smithy south of the Wall."

Almost in the blink of an eye, everything that Jon had been taught about economics within the halls of Winterfell and Queenscrown had been tossed out the window.

If his uncle Arthur was right, then money itself wasn't real. If every nobleman in Essos simply stopped believing in the power of the Iron Bank and decided to believe in a new currency not tied to it, then the Iron Bank itself would struggle to function. Nobody would deal with them, nobody would value the vast amounts of wealth they commanded.

"So why have gold? Why have iron coins if it means nothing? If it is inherently valueless?" Jon had asked. This was a puzzle he needed to solve once and for all. Why would they still use something that had no value? Why would his uncle Starag use gold if he didn't really believe in it?

"Currency is still a useful tool," Arthur remarked. "But it's not what truly matters in the end. For the wildlings, trading amber for steel is a means to continue their survival. For us south of the Wall, gold is a very helpful time-saver. Other people value it more than we do, and it solves far too many problems for us to ignore it outright. In the end, gold is a means to an end. It holds no actual value other than looking pretty. It is a tool, nothing else. Understand?"

For the rest of that day, Jon Stark had tried his damndest to make connections between the fragments of his formal education in economics and the massive implications of what Arthur had been telling him…

By the Old Gods… He barely spoke another word the rest of the afternoon. Having only shared a few words with his uncles and the others. If he hadn't known this incredibly simple realization about currencies and economics…

What other elusive truths about the world did he not know?

Mormont was not in a mood to haggle.

He could, for all intents and purposes, talk his way out of anything. Talking was by far one of the most useful skills in his arsenal, and had certainly kept him alive in more situations than not.

Right now, Mormont was hungry for some warm food. After all, the customs officers back at Chequay Port had taken hours to search The Waking Serpent. And while Mormont couldn't blame the man for being a professional, he'd still been angry that he had been denied a hot bowl of warm stew so early in the day.

Then, he'd sent Arthur, Jon, Sigmund, and about ten guards off to the Iron Bank to exchange gold dragons for currencies hailing from Braavos and the other Free Cities they'd be going to.

All the while, Mormont needed to restock their supplies of cured meat, hard cheese, and bread. As well as acquire more stores of fresh water for them to drink.

With over seventy men on his ship, those stores were sure to run out quickly. Men were gluttonous animals who expended energy all day, every day by working. They'd need food and water to sustain them.

As such, he, Marwyn, and Wendel had spent the rest of their day going through the Ragman's Harbor, visiting the various market stalls of fisherman, butchers, and whatnot.

Mormont himself only knew a few loose phrases in Braavosi, which would've been enough to purchase the supplies he needed. Thankfully, Marwyn had stepped in with his impeccable knowledge of the foreign language. Mormont gave his orders for what they needed in Westerosi, while the Archmaester translated it into Braavosi.

Slowly, the day became far more productive as they had finished up their orders, seeing the merchants haul off several crates full of goods and provisions towards the dockside where their ship had landed.

Then, once they were finished, Mormont could go find himself a nice warm bowl of stew. His men came first, as moral was important. Especially on a voyage such as this one.

"He's saying that he's glad to be of service to well-respected foreigners, especially ones who could speak." Marwyn had said, breaking Mormont out of his musings. He'd just finished speaking with another butcher who sold smoked pork and cod.

"Speak? You mean being able to speak Braavosi?" Mormont asked, half amused at the butcher's comment.

Marwyn had shaken his head. "No. The version of the word he used meant that they literally could not speak. They were mute."

Mormont snickered. "That's odd. Don't know why a bunch of mutes would try haggling with a fisherman."

The Archmaester shrugged. "I'm sure you understand how powerful body language can come across. But I do agree. It is an… odd circumstance. Especially since he said they weren't just Westerosi, but also from the Summer Islands, Yi Ti, even Sothoryos."

Odd indeed. Who knows what kinds of foreigners Braavos had entertained over the years. Especially now of all times when the world was changing. Winter was coming, after all…

But Mormont's curiosity had been sufficiently ignited. The pitch was now burning brightly, and where there was smoke, there was fire. "These mutes… Did they come from the same crew?"

Marwyn raised a cursory eyebrow and turned back to the butcher, who had been hacking away at a long strip of pink flesh. He uttered a few sentences in Braavosi, to which the butcher seemed rather eager to respond.

"He says they did. Some ship in the harbor came in about a moon's turn ago. A ship not unlike ours, but with a single mast and…" Marwyn continued listening to the other man speak. "A black sail, with the hull painted red. Like pig's blood." His eyes went wide as soon as he translated the final sentence. "There was a golden squid stitched onto the sail."

Ironborn. Mormont's senses had instantly awoken upon hearing that last sentence come out of Marwyn's mouth. It wasn't so much a squid as it was a Kraken. A Golden Kraken.

Mormont had certainly considered the possibility of them encountering Ironmen ships along their journey. Anything was possible. And the Ironborn themselves were a brutal, seafaring kind of folk.

Yet… There was something about the whole story that troubled him in the depths of his mind. Something that gnawed at him, something he'd definitely heard of at one point…

A crew full of mutes… He recalled hearing talk of such a crew existing during the Greyjoy Rebellion, just after Lannisport had been raided and burned by the Greyjoy fleet…

While the Iron Islands were united underneath Balon Greyjoy, the various lords and captains did not bear his sigil- the golden Kraken on a field of black- unless they were going to war. They used their own symbols for carrying out minor raids or voyages…

This meant that whoever had been in the Ragman's Harbor but a month prior was either a diehard supporter of Balon Greyjoy…

Or they were a Greyjoy themselves…

How many were left in that sodding family? Two of Balon's sons had died in the Rebellion- one of them to Mormont himself- with the third being taken hostage in Winterfell. Mormont also knew that the man had a daughter, too. But he wasn't about to worry himself over some woman.

And it couldn't be Balon himself. The old man hadn't the stuffing for a good voyage anymore, and sailing by the Shield Islands and around Oldtown would certainly put both the Reach and the Westerlands on high alert, as well as open him up to terrible storms that were more likely to do more damage than any of the Lords Paramount could.

No, whoever it was, it absolutely had to be one of Balon's brothers. But which one?

Victarion Greyjoy was a brutish tower of a man. Mormont had only seen him once and had exchanged few words. It was more or less guaranteed that if they ever met again, it would be a battle to the death. It was unlikely he'd leave Pyke, however. He didn't seem the adventurous type.

And what was the other one's name? Mormont had thought for a moment, and suddenly he found it…

Euron Greyjoy was the one… He had concocted the plan to raid Lannisport and was responsible for plenty of the carnage that had occurred during the Greyjoy Rebellion.

But Mormont knew precious little about him, except that the man wore an eyepatch on the same side of his face as Mormont. Besides that, he'd heard rumors of Euron having command over a crew of mutes. His ship was called Silence.

A fitting name, I suppose.

This man, the Crow's Eye, was dangerous. And not the kind that Mormont intended to get entangled with, least of all now. What with the Others preparing gods knows what beyond the Wall, he wasn't about to make it harder on himself.

They'd just have to be careful. Even as good as they were now, the wildlings and Mormont's men-at-arms did not have as much seafaring experience as the Ironmen. It would not do to run into them. On land, then there was a good enough chance they'd prevail.

But out at sea?

Mormont did not intend to risk it. He had a job to do…

And Starag Mormont would be damned if he let some Greyjoy maniac get in the way of it all.

Starag Mormont had not gotten the best sleep in the world.

The evening prior had been filled with a bit too much drink he supposed. Perhaps he and his companions had also played a bit too many cards as well.

He distinctly remembered how devilishly handy Marwyn had been with a deck of cards. The old Archmaester smoothly sliced the stack of cards in half and folded them on top of one another with sincere dexterity. So much so, that it had disturbed Mormont, at least on a superficial level.

No doubt, the man was a card sharp as well, judging by how many rounds of Poker he'd won in comparison to the rest of them.

Mormont had felt the slow jagged throb come on once again as he glanced around the dark room with a single blurry lightning-blue eye. What was the time?

Probably time for them to leave soon, no doubt. They'd have to be past the Titan of Braavos by the time the sun was well up and on its way to the middle of the gloomy grey sky.

Mormont had rolled out of bed and got onto his feet in one smooth motion. He instantly felt the cool stone of the floor beneath his heels as he walked toward the wash basin and mirror. In the corner of the room, the candlelight had nearly died out. It was flickering on and off, just about to be snuffed for good.

He'd approached the basin of fresh, clean water and had cupped some with both his hands. Then he'd splashed it against his face and ran his hands along his skin and through his beard, making sure he'd been thorough to clean himself of midnight sweat.

It was then that something peeked out at him in the corner of his eye. There was something on his skin. Something dark. What was it?

Mormont glanced down at his right forearm. He could barely see what it was this far from the dim flickering candlelight. But whatever it was, it certainly was not an animal of some kind.

He narrowed his eye at the occurrence and quickly approached the shimmering candle to take advantage of its last guttural gasps for life. Instantly, he saw it and picked out exactly what it was.

Thick lines of dark sea blue that been tattooed onto his skin. They were bent into angular shapes all along his skin and coiled around his forearm in perfectly straight lines that cut off abruptly just where his forearm had met his elbow. The lines towards his wrist had ended off in a sort of square spiral on his open right palm, and they curved outwardly on the back of his hand.

By the Old Gods… A strange feeling had churned in Mormont's gut. Where had these markings come from? Who had given them to him?

Was it some part of the drunken revelry he and his friends had gotten up to the night prior? Surely there were artists and painters who dealt in such trades in Braavos. Perhaps it was some bet with Marwyn or Wendel.

Whoever had done the markings was an expert, though. He felt no pain from where the thick blue lines had been traced and colored in on his skin. Even with a dash of water and a fair bit of rubbing, Mormont found that the stuff would not come off.

The others will know more. Mormont was sure of it. No doubt it was some kind of prank. He'd have to get it off before they went back to Westeros.

After all, whatever happens in Braavos, stays in Braavos.

He glanced out the window of his room. The sun was just beginning to rise, and there was a thick misty fog hovering over the great bay of water, adding to the morning chill. They'd need to cast off for Pentos within the next few hours.

Mormont had decided to ignore the tattoos for the time being. He quickly got dressed, forcing the throbbing in his head to quiet down, and finally buckled Longclaw to his belt.

Then, he'd tossed an iron coin onto the ruffled bed. It was not the best, but the food in this establishment had more than made up for Mormont's uncomfortable night's sleep.

The Inn of the Green Eel had been one of the finer taverns in the Ragman's Harbor, and as such, it was a comely place full of courtesans and degenerates. Mormont never really got why these flashy young women were more or less local celebrities. All they did was stand there and look pretty.

He'd been the first of his company to make it downstairs and order a fresh pot of coffee along with a few mugs. He'd also ignored the various snores that could be heard from some of the men and women who had fallen asleep due to their drink. Amateurs. He thought.

After a few minutes, Arthur had come down the stairs, barely looking as if he'd changed a wink from the night before. He found his way over across the almost empty tavern, keeping his left hand on Dawn's hilt. Dayne sat down next to him, and grabbed the pot of coffee, along with a mug.

"Morning." Mormont had greeted his friend.

"Good morning." Arthur had said back just the same.

They both drank appreciatively of their respective mugs of coffee in silence. Arthur, however, must have been dehydrated, as he downed his mug rather quickly and began filling it up again.

"These Ironborn," Arthur said suddenly, breaking the silence. "Do you think we'll run into them?"

Mormont had told them of what he and Marwyn had heard the night prior from the butcher in Ragman's harbor. Of the blood-red ship with the sail bearing the golden Kraken of House Greyjoy of Pyke. The crew full of mutes, and the rumors surrounding their captain…

Then, of course, they'd all gotten properly soused.

Now, however, was a better time than any to discuss the situation. No doubt, Arthur likely knew more about this topic than Mormont did. He'd been keeping a closer eye on the Greyjoys than Mormont had in the last few years.

"Doubtful," Mormont said. "But there is always the chance. Either way, I don't intend to risk it. There's too much riding on this expedition."

"Agreed." Arthur nodded appreciatively. "Especially with Euron Greyjoy. The man's half-mad himself, almost as much as Aerys was. Any other pirates we can handle, but that one…" The Sword of the Morning had shaken his head. "Apparently even Stannis had refused to engage him during the Battle of Fair Isle."

What? Hadn't Stannis crushed the Iron Fleet at Fair Isle? Was that not the end of the Greyjoy Rebellion itself? Why had even Stannis Baratheon been so hesitant to do battle with Euron Greyjoy?

Mormont had been taken out of his rumbling thoughts when another member of their group had made his entrance. The next to come down the damnable uneven staircase was Wendel Manderly, who had sauntered down the small steps. When he had seen both Starag and Arthur, the fat man's mustache had curled upwards and his eyes had crinkled. "Ah! Good-"

"Shhhh!" The bartender had given Manderly a pleading look as he placed a finger to his lips. The Braavosi had gestured to the still sleeping forms of his customers, who he likely intended to charge for their late night stay.

Wendel had nodded in accordance and walked over to his two waiting companions. He sat down next to Arthur. "So, my friends!" He clapped his meaty hands together. "What is on the menu for today!"

"Cold breakfast most like," Mormont said as he took another draught of his mug. "We've got to get sailing in the next hour or two. We'll find something to eat on board."

That and Mormont wanted to clear his head from all the alcohol he'd consumed the night prior. Food would absolutely throw another wrench into the mix as far as digestion went.

Wendel had nodded in understanding. "Yes, yes, of course." He said. "But surely we can, ah… Take something to go?"

Mormont had raised an eyebrow at the implication. "If you want something to eat, you better get it now before the others wake up. As soon as we're all ready, we'll be heading back to the ship."

"Say no more!" Wendel slapped his hand atop the wooden bar. He looked to the innkeeper, who was still trying his best not to make too much of a racket. "My friend! Bacon and that stew you cooked the night before!"

Just then, the next member of their party had come down the stairs. Marwyn looked absolutely haggard from their card game the night before. He'd scratched idly at the grizzled hairs that were growing out from his jaw and made eye contact with Mormont. The two men nodded, and Marwyn made his way over to the stool next to Wendel.

Arthur had slid the pot of coffee towards the other two men, along with two more mugs. Both Wendel and Marwyn graciously accepted the coffee.

"Good morning." The Archmaester had greeted them all, even the innkeeper, who looked like he was about to wrap a belt around Wendel's neck. "Where's the last of our retinue?"

"Getting his beauty sleep." Mormont chuckled into his mug. Arthur had snickered as well.

Naturally, they had been referring to Jon. As Sigmund had decided to spend the night on the Waking Serpent as per his discomfort in large cities. On some level, Mormont did not blame him. Wildlings were not used to strange foreign lands, much less to being right smack in the middle of one of the Free Cities of Essos.

But Jon had elected not to drink the night before- bless his soul. Yet, all the same, he was looking to be the last one to rise out of bed…

Starag Mormont and Arthur Dayne were from an entirely different generation. One where they had to be professional at all times. When it came to drinking, they couldn't afford to be hungover. Especially not when there were other men trying to kill them.

Jon Stark hadn't had that problem. Not yet at least.

As such, Mormont was barely surprised when only a few minutes later, the boy had somberly climbed down the stairs, wiping the tiredness from his grey eyes and almost walking into a chair while he rubbed them.

"Morning." He greeted them half-awake. Unprofessional. Amateur. That would have to be ironed out of the boy if he was to be king.

It seemed that Arthur agreed with him judging by the hard, studying look he had given Jon Stark. He certainly did not like it either.

Even then, Jon seemed utterly unaware that both of his uncles were carefully dissecting him as he sat down next to Marwyn, who had shifted over his stool to make room for him.

We'll have to up his training regiment. Make him work harder. Put him in worse conditions. Mormont decided. The boy needed to be able to handle stress. He was only as good at stress management as far as the training yard went. But the boy needed to be put under more pressure.

Arthur gave Mormont a knowing side glance. Later, those purple Dayne eyes had seemed to say.

And with that, Starag Mormont had glanced down the bar at his assembled party. "Finish your coffee in the next few minutes. Time to go."

Wendel Manderly looked almost horrified. The innkeeper was still preparing his breakfast. Regardless he finished his mug of coffee and stared at the door that led to the kitchen with a look of intense concentration.

Meanwhile, the others had finished up their coffee and slowly had gotten out of their seats. Arthur led the way out of the large tavern, with Jon and Marwyn following close behind.

"Come on, Wendel." Mormont rested his empty mug on the bar and took out a handful of the square iron coins the Braavosi loved so very much. "Pentos is only a few days away, we'll get some warm food there."

Reluctantly, and with a heavy sigh, Wendel had gotten out of his seat and walked to the entrance of the tavern. He pushed open the door with one great heave and left behind the prospects of a piping hot breakfast.

Perhaps a few seconds later, once Mormont had put his coin purse back into his pocket, the innkeeper had returned holding a hot plate of freshly cooked bacon along with a large bowl of stew. He set it down on the bar and glanced around for the men who had been there just moments prior.

Feeling only a tinge guilty for having put a wedge in his friend's morning, Mormont had asked for the man to wrap up the collection of crunchy bacon strips in fresh cloth. He'd pay extra.

And as the sun had begun to rise over the far wall of Sellagoro's Shield, Starag Mormont had walked through the slowly waking Ragman's Harbor, holding nothing but a firmly wrapped cloth bundle smelling of fresh bacon.