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Eddard

Robert Baratheon grunted as he unlaced the straps to his leather breeches, soon shooting a stream of piss into the green shrubs and frozen blades of grass. It was an early morning - the sky pale and the morning dew yet be gone with -perhaps too early to hunt. But His Grace Robert never thought it too early to hunt.

Eddard sat atop his grulla courser, his thick wolf-pelt cloak wrapped around him. Tyrion Lannister sighed and groaned and shifted at his side, mounted on his own piebald gelding with his queer saddle. What good was that in a hunt? Ned thought, but truly this was no hunt at all. Benjen Stark paced along on his own black garron, clad in black wool with a stark coldness about his face. Does he feel as tormented as I? It had not been easy to wake, to dress and face his wife, his king, his sons and his daughters… he could only think back to Jon's face, grey eyes like his own glooming and a bed of blood and roses.

He shook his head at his worries, such would do him no good. Words were like arrows, he had found, once loosed they could not be called back. Jon would never forget what he had told him, it would not change his past. But now I must help him, Ned told himself, once whilst he was in his bed and now atop his horse, I have kept it from him for so long. Eddard had decided that he could not send him to the Wall… not now. Perhaps Jon would desert, desert for the thoughts that had haunted Eddard for fourteen years past. If so Ned would be expected to bring him a deserter's end. He could never do that, by the Old Gods he never would, as he laid in his bed the night before, he wondered whether he had lifted a great burden from the Jon's shoulders, or set him on a course for doom. And as he slept, he dreamt the dream of blood and roses.

Jory and Ser Rodrik Cassel were beside each other, mounted between two great soldier pines that loomed like black-green towers. And upwards from the ridge, Robb and Theon jested, their laughs scare to Robert's own bellow. Ned could not share in laughs this morn, even if he wanted to. He had thought to tell them to cease their jesting, it was not proper in the presence of the king, but he had not done that either.

They were all still upon a huge ridge of mud, staring down a steep bank of icy grass to see the levelling ground below them. The Wolfswood was old and dark, clambering down such a hill on horseback was risking the breaking of a leg. So as it was, they had been talking of changing course nigh on an hour.

Eddard was scratching his beard when Tyrion Lannister approached. "I grow weary," the imp began. "are we going to move or not?"

It was a fair question, Eddard rubbed his brow. "Soon, the king shall decide."

Tyrion did not seem resolved with his answer. "Direwolves," he looked about his small shoulders. "Any more in these woods? They would make easy work of me."

Was he mocking him? "There are no direwolves here but mine own. You need not worry." His voice was stern and certain, direwolves had not been sighted south of the Wall for near two hundred years. Though Eddard's unspoken thoughts were not alike. Days ago, there had been none, but now there were six of them. Who was to say they were not more?

They had left Robb's own Grey Wind at Winterfell, for he was too small to come out in such hunts. Too easily lost sight of.

Ned was about to turn his way to Robert when Ser Rodrik Cassel approached, his white whiskers scattered over red cheeks. "My lord," he began. "If you have a moment, I would wish to speak with you."

Ser Rodrik's sable steed shuddered, it was cold. It was the same cold in the air from when they had readied their horses this morning, with the stableman Walder and men of the king's party, those who had been less fortunate to help about the stables in their stay. Hullen himself – the master of horse - was wrapped in his featherbed, snoring away his stupor. Ned did not think to wake him, it had been a late feast the night before, he could not blame him for resting, he would've preferred to do so himself.

Eddard followed Ser Rodrik aside, away from the banks edge and further back into the trees. The shadows shot darkness on his features, and Ned felt a sudden stab of worry. "It's the boys, my lord. The prince… there's some quarrels between them."

"How so?" Ned furrowed his brow.

"You mustn't worry yourself, my lord, truly." Ned nodded at that, to appease him. Ser Rodrik would never intend to worry him, and the old knight would never admit that he was having trouble on the yards, too large was his pride. "Only I ask that you speak with Robb, it's Prince Joffrey, my lord. He's… I fear that one of them would get hurt should it come to steel."

Ned cocked his head forward. "Steel?"

"Aye, my lord." He looked back the through the trees, black old ems and soldier pines. "I wouldn't allow it, but Robb seems eager. If they were to…"

It was expected, he supposed. They were boys nearing manhood, competition was doubtless. "I will speak to Robb, ser. You were right to tell me."

Ser Rodrik Cassel smiled, and they returned to the bank.

Robert had laced his breaches, mounted his horse and found his bellowing laugh again. Ned approached him.

"Have you decided a course, Your Grace?"

"Ah, Ned, put an end to the courtesies. I hear enough of them in King's Landing." He chuckled and reached for his wineskin, a fine thing for a wineskin, hanging from his saddle. "We follow back our track, time we returned to Winterfell."

For the first time that morning, Ned smiled a proper smile.

Then he frowned.

Even on as they began their way back, Robert held both a spear and the reins, whilst he kept his other hand on the hilt of the longsword sheathed at his belt; as if some boar or wolf was suddenly going to jump for him, if so he was ready. And still he was not without his dagger, the one that Jon Arryn had given him when they were both boys, it made him smile to see it so, and upset all the same.

Robert was not without his tales. Tales of the Red Keep, of his full nights and empty days, his time in the kingswood, hunting any and each track that he could find. It was one of those tales now.

"It was a big bastard of a thing." Robert said. "I knew that from the tracks, and Barristan would tell you."

They passed under old elm branches, shot with shadows, Robb and Theon still talked among themselves, as did Jory and Rodrik, save for his own brother and the imp, they brought the Wolfswood to life with their voices.

"Three days, Ned. Three days, it took." Robert gazed, wide-eyed. "Sleeping in the bloody pavilions, spear and dagger in hand, mud beneath my feet. I was like my younger self."

As much as Ned felt he wanted to share in his friend's hunts, to be with him once again, side by side and trusting in their own strength; he found that hunting did him no appeal. I have grown old, he reflected as Robert spoke, I am settled with my wife and children – but my king does all he can to spare him of that life.

"When I found the thing, it came at me." He chuckled. "So I stuck it with my spear! Leapt its horns and got the bastard right in the eye." This time, Robert bellowed his laugh. "The court enjoyed roasted boar that night."

Ned laughed too, yet he assumed that boar did not come without the measure of wine. Wine was no object to that of kings, whether a sweet red or firewine or pepperwine, Andalish sours or smokeberry browns, it made no difference.

"When was this, Robert?" Eddard asked.

Robert had a puzzled look about his face, then shrugged. "I do not recall, Ned."

Robert again reached for his own wineskin. A fine thing, Eddard thought again, for a wineskin - dark supple leather with inlaid gold. The king drank and swallowed before he began another tale, this one another hunt. Jory and Ser Rodrik soon trotted beside them, listening closely. Such was the reason Eddard found himself not listening anymore, but thinking about Jon again.

He had done so all morning, it was best if he did not grow worrisome, but he could not seem to stop it.

When I return to Winterfell, he thought as he rode forward, I will tell Jon all the rest. Ned had told him most, but not all, he would take him down to the crypts on his return. Let him see his mother, let him see Lyanna, tell him all he knew about his sister, and his father, the late Prince of Dragonstone… and Howland Reed and the knight… of the Spider. I will tell him everything. I will tell him who he is.

Ned turned back to Robert, who was laughing still. What would you do, old friend? He had kept his secret for fourteen years, even from his own wife and children, from Jon himself. What wrath would Robert summon? Would he call him a dragonspawn, and have him killed before the dusk, even if he had loved Lyanna, even if he held Ned dear? What could stop the king and his fury if he found a boy of Targaryen blood sleeping within the same walls?

Eddard would not send Jon to the Wall, as Benjen had told him what he had asked, they both agreed – much to the anger of his wife. What could he say to her? She was right in her protests, but he could not tell her the truth… would he soon have to send him away? Lyanna's boy, the one thing left of her in this world. It would feel like betrayal.

As if he sensed his father's mood, Robb reined up beside him. He had donned a fresh grey cloak and new riding leathers, clean and without sweat and marks. Ned had long before permitted him to carry a sword on his belt, in hunts especially. The scabbard was of virgin leather and inlaid with silver accents, it rattled as he rode.

Ned smiled and said. "Ser Rodrik has informed me of a… matter, concerning you and the prince."

Robb shot him a queer look. "Joff?"

"The prince, yes." Ned faced forward, his voice like stone. "I need not tell you what happened, but make sure it does not happen again. He is staying in our halls; we will treat them as is fitting to the royal family."

"But-"

"Robb, you listen to Ser Rodrik, you always have. He put a sword in your hand as much as I did, respect him."

Robb looked pained, shamed. Regret filled Ned to see so, but this was for the good of them both.

"Yes, father."

"Practice with tourney blades, but do not ask for bare steel." Eddard was going to continue before Robb dug his heels and rode to Theon Greyjoy once more, though they did not laugh this time.

He would not risk a conflict between their families, not with that prince, too. Joffrey was clear to all those who cared to look, he would not concern himself with the matters of the Stark's, of the children, he saw himself a higher vintage. And Queen Cersei would start wars for him, that much he was certain of.

I should tell Jon to keep our words privy, Ned knew he already would, but should Robb find out? Arya? It made no difference to them, they were brother and sister, as he had prayed for them to be all those years ago. As much as Ned knew they would most like forgive it within a day, he preferred for them not to know.

"Promise me, Ned…" she had said, the air smelt like blood. "Take him, raise him as I would… Promise me..." He had looked down at Rhaegar's son that day, as Howland Reed had taken Lya's hand from his. He was without the violet eyes or streaming silver hair, he had Stark in his blood, black of hair and grey of eye.

Onwards they rode, the sky patched with green canopies becoming lighter and lighter. All the while Robert spoke between his wineskin, tale after tale. It made good for a long ride, they had gone further inwards than what he had expected. The King spoke of a feast and then a hunt, a tourney and hunt, a feast and a wench, all the way until they came to another stop before the tree line. Robert had need to relieve himself.

Eddard watched as the King dismounted, found himself a fair bush to rinse and went about his business. He then trotted over to Benjen, finding him nearer the end of the Wolfswood.

"Brother." Ned began, his breath misting before him.

Benjen was silent, sullen, yet untouched by the cold. He was a man of the Night's Watch; coldness was another one of his brothers.

"Ned." He gripped his reins tightly through his fine black moleskin gloves. "This hunt has taken twice the time for the king's pissing."

It was true. "He is the king."

"Aye, that he is."

It was silent for a time. Only the sound of the trees, the wind and the promises…

"The deserter, the one that I put to death… did you know him?"

"Gared, was his name." Benjen sighed. "He was a true ranger."

Eddard had not seen a true ranger that day. He had seen a soul of fear. "He spoke madness... he said the Others had killed his sworn brothers."

"Two more were with him, yes, and they have not returned."

"Do you think it is the wildlings?"

Benjen scratched his chin. "Direwolves south of the Wall… the nights grew colder and colder. You have not seen what I have, brother."

What had he seen?

"He was the fourth this year," Ned said. "How does the watch fair?"

"The King-beyond-the-Wall, Mance Rayder, he is called. Word is that he gathers the wildlings, to form an army. Greenboys piss themselves when they hear of that… and then they desert."

"Wildling kings have long gathered armies and made south, only to lose. Tell me, is this Mance Rayder truly a threat?"

As had the Starks of old, raised their banners to repel a King and King's-beyond-the-Wall, such had Stark and Umber slain Raymun Redbeard in battle, in the time of his grandfather's father, it may need to come to that again. But that battle was not without its losses, on both sides.

"Mayhaps, if he does gather an army; though the Wall was built to stop armies. He will not pass." Despite Benjen's words, his voice seemed uncertain. "Have you spoken to Jon?" He asked.

Ned shook his head. "Not as yet, but when we retur-"

In the distance, the sound of a horse's hooves rattled through the trees, like a low grumbling. Ned turned his head onwards, he could see Winterfell now the shadowy line of trees, grey and misty in the distance.

"Riders?" Benjen said, turning his head.

Then Ser Rodrik and Jory were beside him, hands on their hilts. Tyrion shifted on his saddle, unsure to which direction he should face.

"My lord." Jory Cassel bared his steel, it glistened in the morning light.

Ned was not afraid. "Put away your steel," he commanded. "This is one of our own."

Robert laced his breeches, the third time this morning, and came stomping over to them, hot-blooded. His large face was flushed, he gasped breaths through his beard of nestled barbs. "Who is it, Ned?" He called.

Eddard did not speak; somehow he knew. The gate of trees beyond them, with their green falling canopies left him unable to see past. And so the eight men sat, one huffing, one breathing slow breaths, others scowling, all waiting for what would come through the trees. All but Eddard.

It was a single rider.

"M'lord!" he called, his voice raspy. "M'lord!"

The guard reined his palfrey before Eddard, the mount whickered and stamped its hooves, causing Ned's own to shift backwards.

The rider though, the face he knew, but he could not summon a name.

"M'lord," he said again, trying to calm himself. "You're here, I searched for you but… I thought you had returned to Winterfell. And so I did… then I came back out again. "

He was gasping, red-faced and his green eyes scanned the rest with worry.

Something is wrong.

Eddard looked over his shoulders, he was suddenly so cold, so cold it burned right through him. It hurt even to move.

Robert caught his eyes, his face like stone. Then he nodded.

"Come." Ned gestured his arm to the tree line and began a swift trot, no others made to follow, except the guard, albeit hesitantly. Ned did not want to have all the rest hear any wrongs that may have happened in his home, he would hear them first. What if Jon had… Eddard could not allow himself be afraid, not now, not for sake of him. He had been afraid for fourteen years, and yesterday, in the dimness of Jon's chambers, he had been truly brave.

The light hit Eddard's face as he left the sprawling shadows of the Wolfswood, those cast down by the needles of the iron oaks and old elms and all the other sort. Winterfell sat in the distance, grey and still. He no longer felt cold.

Ned could see that the guard was reluctant to share any happenings, despite his haste to reach him.

"My lord." His green gaze found Ned's own, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. "Jon Snow… he has left Winterfell."

Eddard's body fell numb. It was not from the cold.

"And Bran…"

Jon

The Wind's Wave always rocked softly in the night, and so Jon came to think it was that which made him so easily fall asleep. To forget his guilt.

He laid upon his own white sheet featherbed, in his very own bunk with his very own brazier. The only things here that are truly mine, he thought, is the coin in my pouch, the dagger by my side and the direwolf at my feet. All the rest belonged to the Wind's Wave, to Thoran Brenyris. Though now it was Jon's own hands that he sat gazing at, tracing each finger, each and every crack that had borne themselves into his skin.

My hands were summer green when I arrived, he thought as he felt one with the other, like hardened leather they had become, like stone. After a near moon of doing captain Thoran's work, under the watchful eye of Belario with his greasy beard, the blisters and the splinters had run their course once, twice and thrice. They are as hard as winter now.

It was a good thing, Jon knew. Even if they were only hands, he would need all the strength he had for the Free Cities. For Pentos, Jon did not truly know what to expect. If it involved carrying crates, though, for that he would be ready.

Aboard the Wind's Wave, his work was simple, once he had come to learn the ways of it. Below the deck, beyond the wooden door of his dimly lit bunk; stacks upon stacks of wooden crates and chests and baskets lined the shadowy sides of the storage quarters. They were ones of ash wood, birch or oak or clear pine, and plenty of each displayed a different sigil. Whether chest or crate or basket, each alike was striped with a single stroke of paint, either blue, red, or green. Meaning for trade or for sale or empty. Jon would be given a colour on the dawn of each day, and so he would take those boxes, crates or chests and carry them to the deck for sorting. It was the robed men, as the crew called them, who did the sorting.

Belario had been clear, each day the storage quarters would be filled anew, fresh crates smelling the scent of newly dashed paint. And through the day or the night, Jon would have to take those of his colour to the deck. So as long as on the morn their spaces were empty to be stacked once more.

Jon preferred the nights. He did not often feel like hauling wooden crates for hours when he had just awoken, in a deck full with the crew and sailors, sweating under the beating sun. The nights were calmer, cooler and brought a tiredness upon him, one that he was grateful for. Many a night he found himself drifting off as soon as his head hit the pillow, with Ghost gathered at his side.

And in the days, he had other duties.

It was Belario himself who had given him the blunted blades to practice with, when he had heard Jon talking of swords and spears with another aboard the ship. Aren was his name, he was a little older than Jon, but looked younger. He had a head of sandy blonde hair, thick and unwashed, and his body was slender and thin.

They practiced with the sword each day. Attacking one another with blunted blades whilst the others in red and blue and yellow all pranced the desk around them, sorting through their boxes. They would spar until they were drenched with sweat, until it beaded on their brow and dripped from their nose.

Jon had soon learned they called him Aren One-Eye, but he was clueless as to why, he had both of his eyes, a muddy brown colour they were. He may as well have had only the one, though, Jon found often found it too easy to best him at swordplay. Aren did not have a drop of the skill that Robb had. Where Robb, he was stronger and quicker than Jon, this one was weaker and slow.

Soon it turned to guilt every time Jon made a strike, every time Aren grunted beneath his blunted blade. Jon and Robb had been trained in a castle, by the master-at-arms Ser Rodrik Cassel, a knight. Aren… he is only a sailor; he has no one to train him.

Jon decided to take that upon himself.

Every day, when the sun glistened on the waves and lit up the crimson sails, Jon and Aren met with their blunted blades and went about their practice. Whether it was atop the deck, below in the storage quarters or any place they could fit. Jon taught him to parry, to swing a hard strike and counter, and soon enough he found an oaken kite shield in the underbelly of the Wind's Wave, brown oak with rusted iron hinges. Aren had never used a shield before, and so Jon went about to teach him that too.

He was aching now, as he laid in his bed. It was a good ache, though, Ser Rodrik would always say that an ache after sparring would mean that you tried your hardest. And Jon would need his strength.

Jon ran his fingers down the bed sheet, until he felt the leather sheath of his dagger. Lifting it up, he unsheathed the blade and watched as the dark steel scraped free, gleaming. The blades edge shone in the light in of the brazier, swirling ripples where the steel had been folded again and again.

It was still dark in his bunk however, and so Jon opened his wooden window panel so he could see the dagger better.

The Valyrian steel came alive in the finger of moonlight, whirling and glistening. Jon had polished the blade until his hands hurt even more than what they already had, and so his own reflection flashed at him, sprawling amongst the ripples. He did not look at it long though, he did not want to. His fifteenth nameday had passed, and his hair had begun to grew all the while aboard Wind's Wave, it would've been trimmed long ago if he was in Winterfell.

He ran a finger down the flat of the blade, as smooth as the summer sea, he thought. Then, a great slice of pain rattled from his fingertip and all the way down his hand, like a wave of sharp tendrils. He had sliced himself on the blades edge, sliced from a mere tap of the fingertip.

Jon winced quietly and sucked at the blood as it dripped from the crack in his finger, he had gone to close, to close to edge and he had reaped the consequences. And I thought my hands were tough, he reflected. Ghost bounced form the foot of the bed and nuzzled him, he had grown bigger over the near moon's turn, as Jon felt he had too.

He used the blade to cut a slice from his white sheets, to then wrap it around his finger to stop the bleeding. The clear white turned to grey and then a crimson red. I'll have to keep it covered during practice tomorrow, he thought, lest it bleeds and stings.

Tomorrow may be the last practice, or perhaps this day had been. They had been sailing to close a month, but Jon was not sure how long a journey across the narrow sea would take. And each time that he came to ask Belario, "Soon." Was always the answer, and only that, nothing more. It never left Jon satisfied, every morn he woke, every time he broke his fast on salted beef or otherwise, he thought about that soon.

Why did he want to reach Pentos so badly? So quickly? Jon did not like to think on it, for fear that he was consumed my guilt.

Guilt for Ned, guilt for Robb… for Arya.

I have other blood, Jon would say to his Stark kin in his dreams, Winterfell is not my place, it never will be. I want to see them, to talk to them, to know them, to feel that I belong… You always belonged, they would reply, with us. But it was in howls that they spoke, and they were all wolves, green and gray and black and silver, eyes of yellow and gold and green. His were blazing red, on his back were ghost white wings.

There was seldom a night when he didn't dream that dream, howls ringing in his head as he woke. Sad howls, they were, it made him feel so each time he donned his clothes to the start another day aboard the Wind's Wave.

You are all I wanted to be, Robb. You are your father, as I wanted to be him too…. an honorable man, honorable…

Jon Snow had others of his father's blood, it was true, but in the dreams the Stark's didn't seem to hear him.

Eddard had told Jon their names, the night of the feast. And Jon had listened like hadn't already known.

"Your uncle," Eddard had said, his voice thin like old parchment. "Viserys Targaryen, he is his father's son, truly. He fled Dragonstone with Ser Willem Darry, and his sister."

"Daenerys Stormborn, she is called… Robert would have both of them killed."

He is father's son, Jon often recalled those words, the Mad King? Aerys II had not always been mad, Jon had learnt, Viserys was only young… perhaps he was the same. Untouched by madness, he had raised his sister all this time. They think that they are alone…

They were the only two known Targaryen's left to this world, would they deny him? He would need proof of his words, he did not have the beaten silver-blonde hair of old Valyria, or the violet eyes. He had taken his mother's looks, Eddard told him, when Jon had always thought that he had gotten them from Ned himself.

He was of the north, grey of eye and black of hair, they would not believe him.

Or perhaps they would simply hate him, or even cast him away, try to kill him.

Or they could believe him. They are simply two, surely they would want to welcome another? Despite not having that of their look, perchance they would believe his words. Perhaps they would recognize him as their brother's son… if so...

Sleep took him as he pondered on that thought.

Belario awoke him from the howls, with the light of the day streaming through his window in a narrow circle. He tapped Jon on the head, smiled and took his leave, as he always did – even if Jon didn't see him for the rest of the day, he was the one who would wake him.

Jon propped himself up onto his elbows, letting Ghost run up his chest and lick at his face. Despite his tiredness, Jon laughed and nestled Ghost's white fur with his hands.

Afterwards, with the tiredness still in his eyes, Jon rose from his bed. Groaning, he donned thin grey woolen tunic and black woolen breeches. He had his own chest of cedar wood, an earthy colour that smelt like burnt coal, in it was all the garb that he had brought and anything else that he had gathered aboard the ship. Then came his boots, now they gleamed as the Valyrian steel had, Jon had polished them so.

The wooden planks thudded with each step he took, swaying slowly with the ship. Though his days on the Wind's Wave were pleasant, Jon was eager to step on hard, still land once again – to practice with sword and be sure of his feet, against stone and grass and mud.

Outside of his bunk, Dontin and Derron snored naked in their hammocks, swaying with the ship. Whilst at their left, Myke and Kayl Keller sat atop green-striped crates, one chewing sourleaf and an onion the other.

"Morning." Myke lifted a red-stained finger, and grinned a red grin.

Ghost nipped at Jon's heels, always close, always silent. Kayl Keller was regarding the direwolf slowly, many of the crew were used to him now, often stroking Ghost's fur when Jon was nearby, calling his name and offering him salted beef. All did so save for dour Addam, called Dolorous Addam aboard the Wind's Wave, and a man even greyer than his hair called Keg. Jon did not care for them, though, he ignored their scowls and remarks.

Some nights, if he had not been working, Jon would join the rest of the crew to jest and drink. Daren Do-Little would bring out his woodharp and play all the songs he knew, and Jacks would begin to recall stories of the time he'd spent on other ships, Black Tide and The Stormy Servant, sailing from the Summer Isles to the Jade Sea. Jon took each word well salted, but it was good to listen to as he ate.

And the wine, despite other things, the Wind's Wave was not without its wine. Jon would drink with the other sailors at their gatherings below the deck. He would drink as much red as he could until each night they started to keep his cups from him, perhaps because of his youth. It was always for the best, he would awake the next morning with a spinning head and an urge to throw himself into the sea. Whether their kindness was true or from the command of Thoran or Belario, or both, that Jon did not know.

Further onwards, spotted half with shadows, Aren One-Eye sat atop a barrel cleaning his nails with one of the dirks that Jon had given him. Jon couldn't do so with his own dagger, it would easily be off with a fingernail.

He wore old ragged woolens, yellow and stained, though above it all draped a fine black cloak of satin.

"Ready?" Aren asked as Jon approached, slipping from the barrel.

"No." Jon said. "But, you could help me with the crates."

"You should give the captain whatever coin you got, so you don't have to work with the crates. I don't do no work with those crates."

Jon shook his head. "You're a sailor. And I need my coin."

"You're on a ship. Coin don't matter on ships."

"For now."

Aren shrugged. "Be that as it may. You keep working, then."

"Are you going to help me?" Jon asked again.

You have nothing else to do, Jon thought as he watched Aren weigh his decisions. The only thing Aren had to occupy himself was their practice with blunted swords, and should the One-Eye refuse, Jon wouldn't practice with him later.

"Tell you what," Aren pointed his finger. "Beat me at swords, and I'll help you."

Jon laughed mockingly. "I always beat you at swords." Aren knew that.

Aren shrugged again, he often did so. "Well, then you will have my help, if you're going to so easily best me."

Jon was half-tempted, to take a sword – albeit blunted - into his hand and best Aren as quick he could. To hear the small ring that danced in his ears as their blades met, to swing his strikes with all the strength he could, to feel like he was in the courtyard again…

No. You have work to do, you lackwit.

"No." Jon looked Aren straight in his two muddy eyes.

Aren sighed. "Come on then, let's be quick about it at least."

Jon laughed, patted Aren on the shoulder and turned his way to the steps that led to the deck. They were made of spare planks, where they were not splintered, they were painted black.

Once upon the deck, Jon looked past the black and crimson sails to see the sky was as a grey as Jon's very own tunic, as grey as Keg's hair. Walls of clouds blocked the sun, sending the ocean to look a deep, dark azure. Jon was grateful for the coldness in the air, at least, it would be a relief when they did practice. The sorters, in their queer robes, went about the crates and chests and baskets that were already stacked on the deck, inspecting them closely.

Jon approached the door of the quarterdeck, the captain's chambers. He knocked twice, waited, and soon Belario emerged with his shining beard.

"Blue today, friend." He said, then he was gone again.

Aren's face was a puzzled one, he followed Jon back below the deck and said. "Which one's the blue? What's it for?"

"For trade," Jon told him. "If we should pass another ship, trade goods for goods."

Aren nodded.

They were many blue-striped crates stacked in the belly of the galleass, one on top of the other, until the uppermost reached the planked roof. They would never be rid of them crates themselves, they would only fill them with new gotten goods, to trade for more than what they had done before.

Jon was not the only one working, Myke was lifting them of the green stripes and two other men the blue and the red. Working in the day often meant that they were more to move than at the nights.

Aren sighed, seeing them stacked on and on and on.

Jon rubbed his hardened hands together, took a sharp intake of breath and got to moving them, hesitating would do him no good. He had never thought about what would happen if one day he just…. didn't work. Would they take his bunk away? That was one of the very few things he was grateful for aboard the ship, he did not want it taken away.

It was a simple order of work, once the feet were trained for it. He would find the crate of his colour, lift, it was then eight steps to planked, black stairs. And atop of them, Jon would simply drop the crate and return below.

"Today," Aren began as they began their way upwards, for the fifteenth time. "We're docking down today, Myke told me. And staying at port for the next week."

No one had told Jon, but it was good news nonetheless, he supposed.

Jon dropped his last box with a groan, sweat beading on his brow. His woolens had started to latch themselves to his skin, like drenched confines. He was grateful for the cold in the air.

Sighing, Jon flexed the numbness from his hands and then closed them again. "I'll be going then. When we make port."

"Aye, you said so." Aren began, wiping his hands together. "We should have our practice now, or you could stay awhile in Braavos, we can practice there too."

What?

Braavos?

They were not in Braavos; he did not want to go to Braavos. Belario hadn't said Braavos.

Jon, scowling and boiling with rage, pushed his way past Aren, sending him tripping onto the planks. He climbed the steps, each footfall drumming in his head. Braavos? No, he did not want to go to Braavos.

Jon reached the door of the quarterdeck, ignorant the robed men that walked behind him. He pushed the doors open with his hardened palms.

They slammed to the sides with a thud so loud the ship seemed to shake.

Pale light leaked into the inside, shot with the figure of his own sprawling shadow. It was a square room, dark and small and unkempt. In the center sat an oaken table covered with parchments and books and ink and quill, and Belario was leant against it too, with Thoran sat before him.

Jon had never been in here before, and now he was glad of it.

"What is wrong, friend?" Belario walked towards him, as calm as he always was.

"I heard we were docking today." Jon said, speaking as steady as he could.

"Yes, this is correct."

"In Braavos?"

"Yes."

Jon held his hands at his side, white-knuckled. "You said Pentos, you lied."

"No, no, no," Belario shook his head. "I never said Pentos, you did, friend."

"Well," Jon looked to his feet, he could feel his face turning even more red – and not with anger. "You said that this ship would take me wherever I needed to go!"

"He did." Thoran's voice suddenly sounded from behind his first mate. His voice sounded like that of Westeros, not Essos; not for a man with the name Thoran. As he approached, Jon noticed a grey streak down his jet-black hair, one that he hadn't seen before.

Thoran walked around the table, donned in his black and crimson. "We are going to Braavos, we need to trade. But, from there we have another ship setting its sails to the Bay of Pentos."

He pointed at Jon. "You need not worry, you will be on that ship."

They both stared at him, their eyes judging, their eyes laughing at his anger. Jon remained still, thinking. Thinking whilst the robed men watched him from behind, and the others from the front.

They had left him without a choice.

Jon nodded and left the chamber as quick as his legs would allow him. He could feel the squinting eyes of the robed men digging into his back as he walked, and their scowls, they must have practiced their scowls – for they were so unique in giving them.

Jon lunged down the splintered steps, and from afar Aren began to call for him. Jon ignored him, and the rest, Myke and Kayl and Keg and Daren, though not a single one of them had seemed to have heard him from above, they were too tired to even care.

Jon closed his door, oddly as soft as he could and laid upon his featherbed. The window panel was still open, sending small splashes of water to brush against his forehead as the oars turned with a thruumm. Ghost sat beside the bed, watching the door should anyone try to enter.

He was half-tempted to sleep the rest of his time aboard, for a moment, Jon Snow did not want to be aboard the Wind's Wave any longer.

Before he could sleep, Kayl arrived with a platter of salted meat and a small wooden bowl of carrot stew. Jon thanked him as sincere as he could and took the food. He was more thankful now for his bunk than he had ever been.

Back across the sea, in Winterfell, he thought. Does Arya know I'm gone? She must know, they all must know. Would they search for me in the godswood? Or think that I am hiding the crypts like when they were young.

The riders that he had narrowly missed on his way to White Harbor, he had thought them riders sent by Eddard. But the more time he spent thinking on it the more he began to doubt, they carried no banner. They could've been sworn swords, or even hedge knights looking to board a ship from White Harbor, perhaps to a tourney.

And what of Ranger? Jon wondered as he lifted the spoon to his mouth. He would never know what had become of him, but he hoped that the man had rode south as he said he would.

He was feeding Ghost with the piece of salted meat when suddenly a great boom rippled from the ocean waves, shaking the ship. In a shock, Jon dropped the platter to the floor, spilling crumbs and meat and stew onto the planks. Ghost bared his fangs and began to pace, clawing the door.

Could it be another ship? Jon had never heard something so loud.

He crawled over his bed to the small window, where it smelt of salt. And he saw.

A titan, the titan. The Titan of Braavos.

The feet of it rested upon two separate mountains, on smaller islands nestled black spruce and solider pines. Its legs where the same dark granite of the islands on which it stood. Jon had only heard ever heard of this wonder by man, only ever by the Maester. The Titan was far bigger than anything Jon had ever imagined. One of its colossal stone hands rested upon the ridge, bronze fingers wrapped into the stone. The other thrust into the air carrying the hilt of a broken sword, nearing the clouds.

In the wind, the Titan's green hair flapped about the bronze halfhelm, and inside boiled two fiery orange eyes.

A great shadow loomed over the Wind's Wave, until the waters seemed to go from blue to green to simply black. They were passing under the Titan; they were sailing into Braavos.

Jon leapt from his bed, forgetting the spilled meat and stew. Forgetting his anger. He pulled upon the door, wood scraping against wood. The storage quarters were all but empty, no one but Dontin still snoring in his drunkenness. The rest were gone, already on deck, he thought, and so Jon climbed the steps to join them.

Murder holes, they were so many of them – and arrow slits. There, under the Titan, ready to drop down burning oil and arrow on any passing foe. Crew and sailor and robed man alike sat staring up at them, and Jon could see others staring down at him.

The shadow passed as they stood gaping, and in an instant the crew went back about their duties. Jon assumed it was not the first time most of them had been here, not like him.

He returned to his cabin, stripped himself of his dried woolens and donned his finer garb. He would not seem proper if he crossed Braavos in sweating woolens, stinking. He hadn't bathed in a fortnight, and he was starting the smell the beginnings of a stench. He would bathe in Pentos, when he found Viserys Targaryen.

Jon was strapping the thin black cloak about his shoulders when Aren entered.

"Hull," Aren said, that was what they called him. Short for Hullen, they don't even know my proper name. "You need to come with me."

"What?" Jon asked, the ship had stopped a while ago, but he had been changing.

"Now," Aren urged, he had a distressed look about his face, and from his hip hung a sword. Not a blunted one. "We have no time; they're going to take you."

"Me?" Jon strapped his own sword belt around his waist. "Who is going to take me?"

Aren closed the door quietly, looking to see if anyone was listening. "The captain, and that bloody Belario!"

He wasn't making sense. "Aren, they're showing me to a ship, not… taking me!"

"No, you don't understand." Aren sat on the bed, eyed the spilled mess that was on the floor and then said. "They were talking to one of the Sealord's customs officers, and they said they were taking you to another ship, to a magister!"

They had said nothing to Jon about a magister, nor he to them. "Who? Who is the magister?"

Aren shook his head, lifting his hands as he tried to think. "Ah, I didn't hear properly…. some, Ilvisio?"

"Ilvisio?" Jon didn't understand. Why would they want to take him to a magister?

"What if they want to sell you?" Aren's muddy-brown eyes were spinning. "Magisters, I heard they keep slaves."

Jon's hand clenched around the hilt of his sword. "I'm not a slave, they can't sell me."

"Any slave would say there weren't one. They wouldn't believe you, Hull."

Jon stood from his bed and pulled the black hood of his cloak over his head. "Do I look like a slave?"

Aren regarded him, head to toe. "No, but they could make you look like one. Those Magisters, they've got guards, lots of them. They'll put a collar around your neck and brand you."

"They won't!"

Aren then stood. "We need to go, we're wasting time."

Jon shook his head. "I'm going to Pentos, Aren. They're getting me on a ship."

"I know." Aren nodded. "But they're giving you to a magister, perhaps he'll never let you leave. Come with me and I'll take you to a ship, you can make your own choice from there. You can decided where you want to go and what you want to do. Please, Hull."

Jon sighed, the silence seemed so loud his ears hurt. Both of Aren's eyes – not just the one eye – seemed to grow wide, bigger and bigger until the brown was but a thin circle below the black of his pupil. Thoran had said he would get Jon passage to Pentos, but he hadn't mentioned a magister.

What do I know about them? They had taken him when Jon had been desperate, from White Harbor where every other captain had refused him or were setting their sails elsewhere. This ship was too, it seemed. And despite how veiled Belario's words were, he had lied.

Jon grabbed his dagger and lifted it to his waist. It would take too long to strap, he knew, so he shoved it under his sword belt instead. He then knelt over his cedar chest, looking down at the woolen tunics and steel plate that he had.

"That," Jon pointed to the saddle sack. "Pass it here."

Aren lunged over the bed and took of hold of it, Jon had never seen him move so fast, even when training.

"Here." He said as he passed it to Jon.

The cedar chest had all his clothes, but he would only need a few. He threw the tunics and breeches that he had acquired aboard the Wind's Wave over his shoulder, to land into the cold salted beef and lumpy stew that spread amongst the floor. He packed the saddlebag with his leather tunics and cloaks, his steel plate and all that he had taken from Winterfell.

Finally, he gathered Ghost and placed him in the sack too. The direwolf didn't seem to mind though, within he was still and silent.

Jon hoisted the sack around his shoulder, and sighed. "Lead the way."

Aren opened the door slowly, peaking through the narrow gap. "Come." He said and left Jon's bunk.

Jon followed, finding the underbelly of the ship empty. The crates, lined with their blue and red and green stripes stacked the corners anew. I won't be lifting them anymore, Jon thought as he climbed the steps to the deck, and he was glad of it.

Aren sighed in relief, for the deck was empty too. It seemed that the whole ship was empty, everyone had gone.

"Where is the rest of the crew?" Jon asked they descended onto the stone pier. Here though, Braavosi's ran ship to ship, some carrying notes of parchment and others queer hides and chests.

"The ship has to be inspected, before it can dock." Aren lead them pass two slanting buildings, the stone mottled green and grey and black. "The inspections can last half a day, come, we must hurry."

On they walked, pass many more a stone building, each tens of different rotting colours, roofs of black slate and green slate and purple. Each one had a different door too, painted in green and blue and red, houses with the red doors seemed to be the rarest, out of the ones they passed.

Jon followed Aren over a bridge looming its way over a green-watered canal, it spiralled onwards like a long ivy serpent.

The further they went, the more people they began to see, until they were crossing streets with old men and young men, crones and whores and children all running and standing and talking. If he had thought the Wind's Wave had smelt, this was far worse. And if Aren had talked as they made their way further inwards, Jon could not hear him over the sound of all the others.

They came to a large cobbled square, formed by slanted buildings lining either side. In the centre, atop a wooden pavilion a woman in red robes spoke loudly in a tongue that Jon did not understand. Masses had gathered around to listen to her, like moths to a flame.

Jon stopped and watched, her voice was like a broken woodharp, cracking, creaking but loud and clear all the same. She swept her hands gracefully around her, red robes flashing, her hands seemed to be set ablaze.

She pierced her eye on Jon, red it looked, and the other was but an empty socket. He gasped.

"Zaldrizes!" The woman cried, her eyes blazing the like that of his direwolf. "Zaldrizes! Zaldrizes! Zaldrizes!"

Her long pale finger pointed, and soon the crowd began to turn.

"Come on." Aren yanked him by the shoulder, and Jon followed as fast his legs would allow him.

He did not understand.

It did not seem to matter to Aren. On and on they went, further and further. Over more bridges, this city seemed to be built on small stone bridges lapping over green canals. They passed houses after house, painted door after painted door. Jon saw a young sandy haired man throwing a dagger into the air, he had a narrow thin sword at his belt, thin as a needle. And he saw a dwarf, a mummer and a eunuch, a man selling baked break from a broken stall and another selling silver hilted swords from atop a trestle table, mounted in the center of the street.

Aren then came to a stop, grasping Jon by the shoulder.

A long harbor stretched out before them, it seemed to have appeared from nowhere. Over the green waters, jetty's stretched out in spiral patterns, thinner there and thicker here. Trading cogs and galleys filled the gaps, as stacked as the houses that lined the city. They went from small ships with forty oars to other hundred oar big-bellied beasts, all in many hues of red and blue and green and yellow.

Crew and sailor, whore and porter, ropemaker, mummer, sailmender, taverner, brewer, baker and beggar alike scurried around like ants, some going about their duties and others standing still, looking across at one another.

The harbor had a stench too, one of fish greater than that of White Harbor. Like a thousand unwashed men and women and children were all packed into a single chamber, in truth, that was what it seemed to be.

"The Ragman's harbor." Aren turned to face Jon, one hand still grasping him by the shoulder. "There's a ship here."

"There are many ships." Jon said. In the saddlebag, Ghost rustled.

Aren frowned. "Yes, but only the one I know will take you to Pentos."

How? Jon thought to ask, but his lips remained sealed. It didn't matter how. "Which one?"

Aren smiled despite his worried look, and pointed. "That one."

Jon saw. It was trading cog, fifty oars perhaps with blue sails rippling in the wind. It was mere thing to the size of the Wind's Wave. "That one?" Jon asked.

"Yes, I know this ship, see. Pay them and they will take you to Pentos."

"I told you I must keep my coin."

"Then you will not get to Pentos. You will be a slave, Hull."

Jon sighed, Aren had the truth of it, besides the slave part. Coin spoke words, more words than what Jon Snow could say to most captains.

"How much?" Jon asked, he could not spend all of it.

"A few silvers."

A few silvers, that was all he had.

If he did not reach Pentos, what was the purpose of his journey? If he did not reach the prince and princess, what was there left for him to do? Where else could he go? Winterfell, he could not return there, not now, not to face the dishonour.

Jon approached the ship.

Thank you. Chuck a favourite or follow or review on the chap/story if you enjoyed!

[Note: Next chapter, a small time-jump will occur, very minor though. I think it's time the dragons neared]