Chapter 1: The escape

The moon hung low over the dark streets of Lys, casting a silver sheen on the cobblestones. The city's famed spires and domes glimmered faintly under the moonlight, but their beauty was lost on the two figures slinking through its shadowy alleys. Guards prowled the streets, their boots echoing against the walls, torches flaring as they scanned for the fugitives.

Roland gritted his teeth, his hand gripping the hilt of a stolen knife. The hedge knight's tabard had long since been reduced to rags, his armor stripped away by his captors. All that remained was a weather-beaten tunic and his worn boots, caked with mud and dried blood. Behind him, Vorion followed, his breath uneven, his steps tentative.

"Stop breathing so loud, Dornishman," Roland hissed, throwing a glare over his shoulder. "You'll bring the whole damn city down on us."

Vorion's lips tightened, but he said nothing. His fine Dornish features were drawn with fear, his dark eyes darting nervously toward every flicker of light or sound of approaching footsteps. Unlike Roland, Vorion bore no weapon. The remnants of the tunic he wore, dyed in the bright colors favored by the brothel he'd been taken from, clung to his frame like a second skin.

They reached a corner, and Roland pressed his back against the cold stone, peering around the edge. A pair of guards strolled past, their armor clinking softly. Roland held his breath, motioning for Vorion to stay still. When the guards passed, he gestured sharply, and the two slipped down another alley.

"You could have run the other way, you know," Roland muttered as they moved. "Not that I'd mind. One less bastard for them to catch."

"And you could have left me tied up," Vorion replied, his voice low and tight. "But you didn't."

Roland stopped abruptly and turned, his broad frame blocking Vorion's path. "I didn't cut you loose because I like you, Dornishman. Don't get ideas. I've had my fill of your kind, sneaky bastards with poisoned knives."

Vorion's jaw clenched, but he kept his voice steady. "I'm not one of your enemy knights, hedge knight. I was taken from Dorne as a boy, sold to a brothel, and trained to serve the whims of men who paid too much for too little. I've killed no one."

Roland snorted. "And yet here you are, following me like a lost pup. What do you want, Dornishman? I've no coin, no food, and no patience."

"What I want," Vorion said, meeting Roland's gaze despite the tremor in his hands, "is to live. You might not like me, but two are better than one. Alone, you'll tire. They'll catch you. But together, we might stand a chance."

Roland stared at him, his weathered face unreadable. For a moment, the only sounds were the distant shouts of guards and the soft rustle of the sea breeze. Then, with a grunt of annoyance, Roland drew his knife and gestured for Vorion to extend his hands.

"Fine," he muttered, slicing through the remaining bindings on Vorion's wrists. "But stay out of my way. If we get caught, I'll slit my own throat before I let them take me again."

Vorion rubbed his wrists, his relief palpable. "Understood," he murmured, though Roland didn't respond.

Vorion and Roland slipped through the shadowed alleys of Lys, moving like ghosts under the dim moonlight. Every footstep was quick, their eyes sharp as danger lurked at every corner.

Suddenly, Vorion tripped on a bottle that was left on the ground and fell on the stone alley. The sound echoed louder than he intended.

"Did you hear that?" a guard called out nearby.

Roland tensed, but before they could react, a cat darted from the darkness, screeching and weaving between the guards' legs.

"Just a damn cat," one guard muttered, shrugging. "Let's go."

The guards walked off, oblivious. Vorion let out a breath, but Roland was not happy, they could have been caught.

They moved again, darting through the labyrinthine streets. Roland led the way, his keen eyes scanning for threats. The knight had spent years traversing the Stormlands, evading brigands and rival knights. Sneaking through the streets of Lys wasn't so different, though the stakes felt higher with every step.

"How did you end up here, hedge knight?" Vorion asked after a stretch of silence.

Roland didn't answer immediately. When he did, his voice was low and bitter. "Raiders hit a village near the coast. I'd stopped there for a meal and a bed. Thought I'd lend a sword to the villagers if trouble came. Turned out the raiders weren't after gold or grain, they wanted people. I killed three of the bastards before one cracked me over the head. Next thing I knew, I was shackled on a ship."

Vorion nodded solemnly. "And the others who escaped?"

"Gone," Roland said curtly. "Scattered like leaves in the wind. Cowards, most of them."

"Not cowards," Vorion said softly. "Just scared. Like me."

Roland glanced back at him, his expression hard. "Fear doesn't make you weak, Dornishman. Giving into it does."

Vorion didn't reply, and they fell into silence once more. The alleys grew narrower as they moved farther from the slave markets, the air thick with the smells of rot and brine. Roland's ears pricked at every sound—the distant clatter of hooves, the faint murmur of voices. They passed a sleeping beggar, and Vorion flinched when the man stirred, muttering in his sleep.

Near the harbor, the air grew saltier, the cries of gulls mingling with the distant shouts of sailors unloading cargo. Roland halted suddenly, holding up a hand to stop Vorion. Two sailors had stumbled out of a nearby tavern, laughing and slurring their words. They staggered toward the alley, one of them loosening his breeches.

Roland moved quickly, his movements silent and precise. Before the sailors could react, he had struck the first one on the back of the head with the hilt of his knife. The man crumpled to the ground. The second sailor turned, eyes wide, but Vorion lunged forward, shoving him against the wall. Roland delivered a swift blow, and the man slumped beside his companion.

Vorion stared at the unconscious sailors, his chest heaving. "Seven save us," he muttered. "We're going to get caught."

"Not if you shut your mouth and move quickly," Roland growled. He knelt and began stripping the sailors of their clothes. "Put this on. Unless you'd rather stroll through the harbor in that god-awful tunic of yours?"

Vorion hesitated but obeyed, pulling on the oversized tunic and breeches. The sailor's clothes smelled of sweat and ale, but they would have to do. Roland donned the other set, adjusting the fit as best he could. He tucked his knife into his belt and motioned for Vorion to follow.

The harbor was bustling even at this late hour. Ships rocked gently in their moorings, and dockworkers shouted to one another as they unloaded cargo. Guards patrolled in pairs, their eyes scanning the crowds. Roland and Vorion kept their heads down, blending in as best they could. The sailor's garb seemed to do the trick; no one gave them a second glance.

"There," Vorion whispered, pointing toward a ship with dark sails marked by a crescent moon and a sword. "Braavosi."

Roland frowned. "What makes you think they'll take us?"

"They hate slavery as much as we do," Vorion said. "It's worth a try."

"Or they'll toss us back to the guards for a few coins."

"Do you have a better idea?"

Roland didn't. He scowled but nodded. Together, they crept along the edge of the docks, keeping to the shadows. A pair of guards passed nearby, their torchlight flickering dangerously close, but the two men held their breath and waited until the patrol moved on.

When they reached the Braavosi ship, Roland glanced around to ensure no one was watching. He gestured for Vorion to follow as he climbed the gangplank, moving as silently as possible. The ship's deck was quiet, most of the crew likely below deck or in the city. Roland's boots touched the wooden planks without a sound.

Vorion followed, his movements surprisingly graceful for someone so visibly frightened. The two men entered the cargo hold of the ship and crouched behind a stack of barrels, catching their breath.

Roland's sharp eyes met those of his companion."We wait here until they set sail, and then we reveal ourselves. Until then, we stay hidden."

Vorion nodded, his expression a mix of fear and hope. For the first time that night, Roland allowed himself a flicker of optimism. The Braavosi ship was their best chance. If they could stay hidden long enough, they might just make it out of Lys alive.

The sound of footsteps on the deck made both men freeze. A sailor emerged from below, his lantern casting a dim glow. Roland tightened his grip on the knife, ready for a fight if it came to it.

But the sailor merely yawned, muttering something in Braavosi before heading toward the gangplank. Roland and Vorion exchanged a glance, their relief unspoken but palpable.

As the sailor disappeared into the night, Roland leaned back against the barrels, his body finally relaxing. For now, they were safe. But the road ahead was uncertain, and he knew better than to hope for an easy escape. Vorion's gaze met his, and for the first time, Roland saw something other than fear in the Dornishman's eyes. Determination.

"Thank you," Vorion said quietly.

Roland grunted. "Save your thanks. We're not free yet."

But as the waves lapped against the ship and the city of Lys stretched out behind them, both men allowed themselves a moment to breathe. For now, they had each other, and that was enough.

The first rays of morning light filtered through the cracks in the ship's deck above, casting faint beams onto the barrels and crates in the cargo hold. Roland and Vorion had nestled themselves between two large crates of salted fish, exhaustion overtaking their initial vigilance. For the first time in days, they had fallen into a deep, albeit uneasy, sleep.

The sound of footsteps on the creaking wooden planks jolted them awake. Roland's hand instinctively went to his knife, but he hesitated when the source of the noise came into view. A young Braavosi sailor stood there, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and amusement. He was lean and sharp-featured, with a mop of dark curls under a blue scarf tied around his head.

"Well, well," the sailor spoke in the bastard version of High Valyrian that the Bravossi use, "what do we have here? Rats in the hold?"

Roland stiffened but didn't make any sudden moves. Vorion sat up beside him, his face pale and tense. "We mean no harm," Vorion said quickly, raising his hands. "Please, just take us to your captain. We'll explain everything."

The sailor's eyes flicked to the knife at Roland's side but seemed to judge that they weren't a threat. "You've got some nerve sneaking aboard a Braavosi ship," he said. Then, with a shrug, he added, "But you're in luck. Our captain has a soft spot for interesting tales. Come along."

Reluctantly, Roland tucked his knife away and followed the sailor, with Vorion close behind. They were led up to the deck which was filled with sailors and where the morning sun sparkled on the waves, and then into the captain's quarters. The room was modest but well-kept, with charts and maps spread across a sturdy wooden table. A man stood by the window, his hands clasped behind his back as he looked out at the sea.

"Captain!" the sailor announced. "Stowaways in the hold. They say they want to talk. They are Westerossi."

The captain turned, revealing a face marked by age and experience. His beard was neatly trimmed, and his sharp, dark eyes seemed to miss nothing. He wore a simple coat of deep blue, adorned with subtle silver embroidery.

"I am Captain Maleno Naryss," he said, his voice smooth and authoritative. "Speak quickly, stowaways, before I decide whether you're worth the trouble."

Vorion hesitated, glancing at Roland, who gave a terse nod. Taking a deep breath, Vorion began. "We're escaped slaves, Captain. We were being held in Lys, waiting to be sold. This man..." he gestured to Roland, "...freed us. We… we had nowhere else to go."

Captain Maleno's eyes narrowed slightly. "Lys, you say? And how did you manage to find yourselves aboard my ship?"

Roland stepped forward. "We're desperate, Captain. The slavers… they'll kill us if they catch us. We thought if we could reach Braavos, we might stand a chance. I've no love for Lyseni slavers, and from what I hear, neither do your people."

A flicker of something dark crossed the captain's face, but his tone remained even. "You've heard correctly. I trade with the Lyseni because I must, but if there's a way to make life difficult for their slavers, I take it."

He studied them for a long moment, his gaze weighing their sincerity. Finally, he nodded. "Very well. You may stay aboard until we reach Braavos. But hear this: cause any trouble, and you'll find yourselves swimming back to Lys. Understood?"

"Understood," Vorion said, his voice firm. He sagged with relief. "Thank you, Captain. Truly."

Captain Malenowaved a hand dismissively. "Don't thank me yet. Braavos is still weeks away, and the Lyseni patrol these waters. If they suspect I'm harboring escaped slaves, we'll all have a fight on our hands."

With that, he turned back to the window, his posture once again rigid. The sailor who had found them gestured for Roland and Vorion to follow him out.

As they returned to the deck, Vorionlet out another breath. "That went better than I expected."

Roland grunted. "Don't get too comfortable. We're not free yet."

But as the ship sailed further from the shores of Lys, leaving the city's gleaming spires behind, a flicker of hope took root in both men. For the first time in a long time, freedom felt within reach.

The voyage to Braavos was long, but it gave Roland and Vorion time to adjust to their newfound freedom. The ship cut through the waves with a steady rhythm, its sails billowing under the Braavosi crew's expert handling. For the first few days, the two former slaves kept to themselves, watching the crew at work and avoiding unnecessary attention. But as the days passed, they found themselves drawn into the daily rhythms of life aboard the vessel.

"You can't just stand around like deck ornaments," one sailor barked at them after catching Roland watching the rigging. "If you're going to loaf, do it below deck. Otherwise, grab a rope and make yourself useful."

Roland's pride bristled at the tone, but he knew better than to argue. He rolled up his sleeves and followed the sailor's instructions, hauling ropes and securing knots with the same determined efficiency he'd once used in battle. Vorion, though less physically imposing, offered to help clean the deck and carry supplies to and from the galley.

In the evenings, when the crew gathered to eat and share tales, Roland and Vorion were invited to join them. At first, the pair were wary, unsure of their place among these men. But Captain Maleno had made it clear to his crew that the two were under his protection, and the sailors gradually warmed to them.

"So, what's a knight doing chained up with a bunch of slaves?" one sailor asked Roland in accented common tongue over a meal of salt pork and hardtack.

Roland hesitated, his jaw tightening. "I was caught in a raid," he said gruffly. "Wrong place, wrong time."

Vorion, sensing the tension, interjected. "And I was taken from Dorne," he said, his voice lighter but tinged with bitterness. "Hardly as noble a story."

The sailor shrugged. "Slavery doesn't care about noble or not. A coin purse is all that matters to those Lyseni bastards."

Roland glanced at Vorion, surprised by his candor. Later, as they sat alone near the stern, Roland spoke up. "You don't talk like most Dornishmen I've met."

Vorion chuckled softly. "And you don't act like most knights I've met. Guess we're both full of surprises."

"And how many knights have you met?" Roland asked.

"A few, sellswords all of them," Vorion answered. "When I was four and ten a knight from Dorne that came to a brothel I worked in. I managed to talk to him and beg him to take me with him. He told me to piss off. That day I learned that knights only cared about themselves."

Roland frowned but didn't argue. "Why did you follow me back in Lys?" he asked, his tone almost accusatory.

Vorion's smile faded. "Because you looked like you knew what you were doing. And because I didn't want to die alone in that place."

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The sound of the waves filled the silence between them, carrying with it a strange sense of understanding.

One night Vorion stood alone on the deck of the ship, gazing into the dark waters of the sea. Memories clawed their way back, unbidden. He closed his eyes, letting the salty breeze tug at his hair as he drifted back to a life long lost.

He remembered his mother's hands, calloused but gentle, combing his sister's tangled curls as they sat by the hearth. The warmth of their laughter, the scent of baking bread, the way his sister's tiny arms would wrap around his neck in an unspoken declaration of trust.

And then, the raid. The shouts, the smoke, the chaos. He could still hear his sister's cries, piercing and raw, as they were ripped apart. His mother had held them both, her voice steady even as fear trembled in her eyes. "It will be alright," she had whispered, over and over. "Stay strong, my loves. We'll see each other again."

But they never did. His sister was sold to a merchant in the east; his mother, somewhere farther still.

Vorion opened his eyes, swallowing the lump in his throat. The man he was now bore no resemblance to the boy they'd taken, but the ghosts of that boy lingered, haunting him still. Decades had passed since then, he was forced to learn many things, things that no child should, things to entertain the tastes of whoever could pay for him, things to survive. There was only one issue, the slavers never truly broke him, a part of that Dornish fire still burned inside of him. That's how he got into trouble with his master and as punishment, the old hag sold him off.

Well, that turned out to be a blessing in disguise as being sold off led to him finally escaping to freedom and away from that damned city. For years he had worked as a whore, no more. Once they reached Bravos it would allow him to make a fresh start, make his new life as different from the past as possible. He would never be a slave again.

Over the course of weeks they spent traveling to Bravos, Roland noticed that Vorions unease had lessened. The Dornishman was quick to smile and jest with the crew of the Bravossi ship as he knew to speak Valyrian fluently. Roland on the other hand didn't speak a word of the foreign language and interacted only with the few who knew some of the common tongue. The Stormlander did in truth pity the Dornishman for the horrible hand in life he had been dealt with, being forced into slavery since childhood. Not that Rolnd would ever admit it to Vorion, he still had his reservations about the Dornish.

By the time the ship neared Braavos, Roland and Vorion had earned the respect of the crew. They'd hauled lines, scrubbed decks, and shared enough stories to carve out a place for themselves, however temporary. When the Titan of Braavos finally came into view, the crew called for them to come forward.

The Titan of Braavos loomed above them as the ship glided into the harbor, its colossal form silhouetted against the morning sky. Roland and Vorion stood near the bow, staring in awe at the massive statue, a guardian of the Free City, its stern face carved into the likeness of a warrior, one hand gripping a sword while the other held a shield, The Titan was the shield that protected the city from its enemies. Waves crashed against its base, and the sound of gulls filled the air.

"By the Seven," Roland muttered, his gruff voice softened by wonder. "It's even larger than I imagined."

Vorion's lips parted in a faint smile, his dark eyes alight with amazement. "I've heard tales of the Titan since I was a boy, but to see it with my own eyes…" He trailed off, shaking his head in disbelief. Suddenly the Titan let out a loud roar, a terrible grouding sound which made the two Westerossi flinch in surprise. One of the sailors approached them, laughing at their reaction.

"It is a way to warn the Arsenal of Braavos of incoming ships," the sailor explained. "It also serves as a way to herald sunrise and sunset."

"Marvelous," was the only thing Vorion could utter, his gaze fixated on the giant statue.

As the ship passed beneath the Titan's legs, its shadow briefly enveloped them, cool and imposing. Beyond, the bustling harbor of Braavos came into view. The waters teemed with ships flying banners from across the known world, and the air buzzed with the shouts of dockworkers, merchants, and sailors. The city itself rose from the lagoon in a maze of canals and bridges, its buildings painted in hues of red, gold, and blue that shimmered in the sunlight.

"Welcome to Braavos," said Captain Maleno in the common tongue of Westeros, stepping up beside them. His voice carried a note of pride, as if the city's grandeur reflected on him personally. "The greatest city in the world, if I may say so."

Roland glanced at him, nodding curtly. "You have my thanks, Captain. Without your help, we'd still be rotting in that Lyseni hellhole."

"Aye," Vorion added, his tone more earnest. "We'll not forget your kindness."

Captain Maleno waved a dismissive hand, though a small smile tugged at his lips. "I've no love for slavers, and every coin they lose is a victory in my book. But I warn you: Braavos is no paradise for men without coin or connections. Be careful where you tread."

As the ship docked, the crew began to lower the gangplank, and the captain turned to face them fully. From his belt, he produced a small leather pouch and pressed it into Vorion's hands. The weight of the coins inside was unmistakable.

"Take this," Vherral said. "It's not much, but it should keep you fed until you find your footing. Consider it a parting gift."

Vorion blinked in surprise, his fingers tightening around the pouch. "Captain… thank you. Truly."

Roland inclined his head. "You've done more for us than most would. We owe you a debt."

The captain smirked. "Let's hope you never need to repay it. Now off with you, before I change my mind."

With that, Roland and Vorion descended the gangplank, stepping onto Braavosi soil for the first time. The harbor's chaos enveloped them immediately, but for the first time in what felt like an eternity, they were free. Roland's hand rested lightly on the hilt of his knife, while Vorion clutched the captain's pouch tightly.

The two sat in a tavern near the shore, watching the bustle of Braavos unfold around them. Merchants shouted their wares, sailors hauled crates of goods, and the canals echoed with the rhythmic splash of oars. For a moment, they simply observed, each man lost in his own thoughts.

Roland broke the silence. "This is where we part ways."

Vorion turned to him, his brow furrowing. "Part ways? We've just made it here. What are you planning to do?"

"I'll find work," Roland said curtly. "I'm a knight. There's always someone in need of a sword, even in Bravos."

Vorion let out a dry laugh. "You think it's that simple? You don't have coin, contacts, or even a proper sword. And you'll stand out here more than you think."

Roland scowled. "I've survived worse on my own."

"Have you?" Vorion pressed, his tone sharpening. "You may have your pride, but that won't fill your belly. And what happens if someone decides to attack you? We're safer together, at least until we've earned enough coin to stand on our own."

Roland crossed his arms, his jaw tightening as he considered the Dornishman's words. "You've got a lot of opinions for someone who spent his days entertaining Lyseni scum."

Vorion's expression darkened, but he held his ground. "And you've got a lot of arrogance for someone who was chained up next to me. Face it, Roland: neither of us is in a position to go it alone. Not yet."

A tense silence hung between them. Finally, Roland sighed, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "Fine. We stick together. For now. But don't think this makes us friends."

Vorion smirked faintly. "Wouldn't dream of it."

"Any bright ideas then?" Roland asked.

Vorion tapped his fingers on the table, his brow furrowed in thought. "We could hire ourselves out. You've got your sword arm, and I can... talk my way into places. We need to get you a sword first, no one will hire a sellsword without a sword."

The hedge knight did not like being called a sellsword. Roland snorted. "Talk your way into trouble, more like."

"Maybe," Vorion admitted with a smirk. "But people here value wit as much as steel. We could find work guarding a caravan or running messages."

"Not glamorous," Roland muttered, "but it's a start."

Vorion leaned forward. "The point is, we pool our skills. Together, we stand a better chance. At least until we have enough to go our separate ways."

Reluctantly, Roland nodded. "Fine. But no tricks, Dornishman."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Vorion replied, his grin betraying just a hint of mischief. Roland simply grunted in reply. He had to admit, since their escape from Lys, the Dorishman spirits had lifted. Oh, he was still ferafulbut over the course of weeks they spent traveling to Bravos, Roland noticed that Vorions unease had lessened. The Dornishman was quick to smile and jest.

"Let's just hope we won't end up in chains again," Roland said, taking a sip of wine from his mug.