Jon
The darkness in the cargo hold was absolute, a living thing that pressed against Jon's eyes like wet wool. He'd wedged himself behind bales of Northern wool—the irony wasn't lost on him even at six years old—and now, as The Mermaid's Grace rolled with her first real swells beyond White Harbor, his stomach rolled with her.
"Breathe," Marcus's memories whispered. Center your breath in your belly. Let it flow like water.
Jon tried, drawing air deep as the foreign knowledge instructed, but the ship lurched again, and bile rose in his throat. He clamped his small hands over his mouth, terrified that if he vomited, someone would hear. Someone would find him. Someone would throw him into the black water that now surrounded them on all sides.
Above, boots tramped across the deck. Jon could track each sailor by their gait—the heavy tread of the bosun, the quick steps of younger deckhands, and the measured pace of whoever had the watch. His enhanced hearing, a gift and curse from Marcus's memories, made the ship a symphony of creaks, groans, and muffled voices.
"Wind's picking up," someone said directly above him. "We'll make good time to Braavos if it holds."
"Aye, and if the storms hold off." Another voice, gravelly with age. "Winter storms in the Narrow Sea are nothing to laugh at."
Jon shivered despite the Water Breathing technique warming his blood. He'd stolen aboard with a small sack of firm bread and a waterskin, but he could already feel hunger gnawing at his belly. Two weeks to Braavos, he'd heard the captain say. His supplies might last four days if he were careful.
Four days. Then what?
Then he'd have to steal from the galley. Or reveal himself and pray they didn't throw him overboard for thievery.
The ship rolled again, and this time Jon couldn't stop it. He turned his head and vomited as quietly as he could into the bilge water that sloshed between the wool bales. The sour smell made him retch again.
"Somewhat tunelessly. Light bloomed—a lantern swaying with the ship's motion. Jon pressed himself deeper into his hiding spot, using the Beast Breathing technique to slow his heartbeat and become as still as the cargo around him.
A woman appeared in the circle of lamplight. Grey-haired, strong-armed, with the kind of face that had weathered storms both literal and metaphorical. She moved between the bales, counting under her breath.
"Twenty... twenty-one... twenty-two..." She paused, sniffing. "What's that smell? Bloody rats getting seasick now?"
She was close, so close Jon could have reached out and touched her boot. He held his breath, muscles locked in absolute stillness—a technique Marcus had used to hide from demons with supernatural senses.
The woman—Dalla, he'd learn later—stood there for what felt like hours but was probably only seconds. Then she shrugged. "Old ship. Always smells like something died down here."
The light retreated. The ladder creaked. The darkness returned.
Jon finally exhaled, his whole body shaking.
That was too close. I can't hide forever.
But what choice did he have? He curled into the smallest ball he could manage, closed his eyes, and tried to let the ship's rolling lull him to sleep. Instead, Marcus's memories rose unbidden—another sea voyage, another world, fleeing from a demon that had slaughtered his entire unit. The taste of salt spray mixed with blood. The certainty that water meant death just as surely as staying meant death.
"I'm not you," Jon whispered to the darkness. "I'm not Marcus. I'm just Jon."
But even as he said it, he knew it wasn't entirely true anymore.
Days in Shadow
By the fourth day, Jon had developed a routine. Wait until the deepest part of the night watch, when even the sailors on duty dozed at their posts. Use Thunder Breathing to move in perfect silence between footfalls. Creep to the galley. He stole what he could—a heel of bread here, a handful of dried peas there, never enough that anyone would notice. Fill his waterskin from the barrels. Return to his hide.
The seasickness had passed, thankfully, though his stomach now cramped with hunger instead. The bread he'd brought aboard was gone, eaten in careful rations that still hadn't been enough. He'd tried to catch rats—Beast Breathing let him sense them in the darkness and track their movements. He'd managed to corner one, a scrawny thing more fur than meat.
Warriors do what they must, Marcus's memories insisted. Survival first, dignity second.
Jon had eaten it raw, gagging on the taste, telling himself it was no different than the blood sausage they made at Winterfell. It was completely different. But he kept it down.
During the days, he listened to the crew through the deck above. Learned their names, their voices, their complaints, and their dreams.
"Captain Torren's a hard man," one sailor grumbled during what Jon had learned was the afternoon watch change. "But fair. Better than my last captain, who'd flog you for looking at him sideways."
"Aye," another agreed. "And Dalla's cooking's almost edible. Remember that ship out of Lys? The cook there could burn water."
They laughed, and Jon found himself almost smiling despite his misery. These men weren't so different from the guards at Winterfell. Rough, crude, but not evil. Just men trying to make their way.
"Where are we stopping after Braavos?" A younger voice asked—barely older than Jon himself, from the sound.
"Pentos, if the captain finds a cargo worth hauling. Then maybe Myr or Tyrosh. It depends on the winds and the wars."
"I want to see Yi Ti someday," the young voice said dreamily. "They say the cities there are made of gold, and the women are beautiful as summer wine."
"You want to sail for eight months through pirate waters to see cities that might not even exist? You're madder than a bag of cats, Marro."
Jon filed the name away. Marro. The dreamer. He understood the feeling—the pull of distant lands, the hope that somewhere, far from everything you knew, you might find where you belonged.
By the fifth night, desperation drove him to greater risks. The hunger was a living thing now, clawing at his insides. He crept toward the galley earlier than usual, when pots of stew might still be warm from supper.
He was reaching for a pot when the door opened.
Dalla
Dalla had been ship's cook on The Mermaid's Grace for eight years, ever since her husband's fishing boat had been dashed against the rocks at Widow's Watch, taking him and their son with it. She'd thought the sea had taken everything from her. Instead, it had given her a new family—rough, foul-mouthed, and perpetually hungry, but family nonetheless.
She knew every sound the ship made, every creak and groan. And she knew someone had been stealing food.
At first, she'd blamed rats. But rats didn't carefully replace pot lids. Rats didn't take precisely enough that it wouldn't be immediately noticed. This was human cunning, and after five days of it, Dalla had had enough.
She'd waited in the galley's storeroom, dozing lightly, when she heard the careful footsteps. Soft, too soft for any of the crew. Her hand found the cudgel she kept for rats—the four-legged kind and the two-legged kind both.
She stepped out just as a small figure reached for her stewpot.
They collided. The figure—a child, dear gods, just a child—fell backward with a gasp. Dalla raised the cudgel on instinct, then saw what she was dealing with.
A boy. Maybe five or six years old, though hunger made him look younger. Dark hair matted with dirt and salt. Grey eyes wide with terror. Westerosi features—Northern, if she had to guess.
"A boy?" she said stupidly. "Just a boy?"
The child scrambled backward, hands raised as if to ward off a blow. "Please, don't—don't tell the Captain—"
Dalla lowered the cudgel, her heart twisting. God, he was skin and bones. How long had he been down in that hold?
"Easy, boy. Easy. What's your name?"
"Jon." Barely a whisper.
"You're the thief. The rat-catcher couldn't figure out why his traps were empty, but it was you, wasn't it? Eating the rats?"
The boy—Jon—nodded miserably.
Dalla sighed. She thought of her own son, dead these eight years. He'd been older when the sea took him, but still. A child was a child.
"You're a fool, boy. But I'll not see a child starve."
She reached into her apron and pulled out a heel of bread from her own supper. "Eat. Quickly."
Jon fell on the bread like the starved creature he was, tearing into it with desperate bites. Dalla watched, calculating. The captain would have to be told. Torren Magnar was fair, but he was also practical. Stowaways were traditionally thrown overboard or marooned at the next port. But surely not a child. Surely not.
"I'll work," Jon gasped between bites. "I'll do anything. Just don't throw me over."
"I have to tell the Captain. I can't keep this secret."
The boy's face crumpled.
"But," Dalla added quickly, "I'll speak for you. You seem a decent lad. Just... unlucky."
"Thank you. Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. Captain Torren's fair, but he's hard. Prepare yourself." She studied the boy's face, seeing old pain there, older than his years. "Why'd you run, boy? Who are you running from?"
Jon's grey eyes darted away. "Someone who hated me. Someone who'd hurt me if I stayed."
"Family?"
The word came out as barely a breath: "Yes."
Dalla felt something cold settle in her chest. She knew that particular pain, the betrayal of those who should protect you. "Aye. I understand that more than you know. Come on, then. Let's get this over with."
Captain Torren Magnar
Captain Torren Magnar had sailed the Narrow Sea for twenty-five years. He'd weathered storms that would turn a green boy's hair white, fought off pirates three times, and buried his share of sailors in the deep. He'd thought nothing could surprise him anymore.
The boy Dalla brought to his cabin proved him wrong.
"A stowaway." He slammed his fist on the desk, making both the child and his charts jump. "Of course. Should've known when the food started going missing."
The boy stood trembling but didn't cower. That was interesting.
"You know what we do with stowaways, boy?"
The child flinched but held his ground.
"We throw them over. You're stealing food, water, and space. That's theft from every man on this ship."
"I can work, Captain." The boy's voice shook but didn't break. "I'm strong. I'll earn my passage."
Torren almost laughed. "You? You're what, five? Six? You'd be crushed by a coil of rope."
"Test me. Please. Give me a chance."
There was something in the boy's eyes. Desperation, yes, but also determination. The same look Torren had seen in his own son's eyes before the fever took him ten years past.
"Where are you from?" Torren asked, his voice slightly softer. "Northern accent—you're highborn?"
"I'm nobody. A bastard. I'm going... anywhere that's not Westeros."
Running from something. Or someone.
"Captain," Dalla said quietly. "He's just a boy. Whatever he's running from, it was bad enough that he chose this."
Torren looked at the boy again. Dirty, starved, and terrified, but still standing straight. Still meeting his eyes.
Damn it.
"You'll work," he said finally. "Starting now. Any slacking, any more theft, and you're over the side. Understood?"
"Yes! Yes, Captain. Thank you—"
"Don't thank me. Thank Dalla. She's the only reason you're breathing." He turned to his cook. "He's your responsibility. He works under you in the galley. If he causes trouble, it's on your head."
"Understood," Dalla said, putting a protective hand on the boy's shoulder.
"And boy—Jon, was it?—don't make me regret this."
"I won't, Captain. I swear it."
Torren waved them out, but something made him watch as they left. The boy moved oddly—too smoothly for a child, too controlled. Like he was holding something back.
Everyone has secrets, Torren told himself. As long as his don't sink my ship, I don't care.
But he'd be watching. Oh yes, he'd be watching this Jon very carefully.
The Crew
The sun hurt Jon's eyes after days in darkness. He squinted against the brightness as Dalla led him onto the main deck, where twenty sailors stopped their work to stare.
"Listen up!" Captain Torren's voice cut across the murmurs. "This is Jon, a stowaway. He'll work for his passage. Anyone who has a problem, take it up with me."
Silence stretched like a held breath.
Then the grumbling started. "Great, another mouth to feed." "Stowaways are bad luck." "Probably noble-born from the look of him."
One voice rose above the rest. "Captain, this is madness. Stowaways are bad luck!"
The speaker was a scarred man with two fingers missing from his left hand. His eyes held the kind of mean that came from a lifetime of disappointments.
"Your opinion's noted, Yoren. Now get back to work."
Yoren spat to the side but turned away, though not before giving Jon a look that promised trouble.
"Don't mind Yoren." A younger voice, friendly and accented. Jon turned to find a sailor barely into his twenties, olive-skinned with the quick smile of someone who'd learned early that charm could defuse violence. "He's always angry. I'm Marro."
"Jon."
"Where are you from, little wolf?" Marro's eyes took in Jon's Northern features with interest.
"The North."
"Long way from home. You're brave. Or foolish." The smile widened. "Both, probably."
Despite everything, Jon found himself almost smiling back. "Both, definitely."
"Come on, Jon," Dalla said, steering him toward the galley. "Let's get you settled and working. The best way to shut up complainers is to prove them wrong."
Learning the Ship
The days that followed blurred together in a rhythm of work and exhaustion that was somehow cleaner than the desperate hunger of hiding. Jon woke before dawn to help Dalla prepare breakfast—porridge or hardtack softened in water, sometimes with salt pork if they were lucky. He peeled turnips until his small fingers cramped, hauled buckets of water that weighed nearly as much as he did, and scrubbed pots with sand and seawater until his hands were raw.
But he didn't complain. Couldn't complain. This was survival, and Marcus's memories knew a hundred harder ways to survive.
"You're a good worker," Dalla said on his third day of legitimate labor, watching him wrestle a particularly stubborn pot. "Stronger than you look."
Jon carefully didn't mention that he was holding back, that the Water Breathing technique gave him stamina beyond any normal child. "I want to earn my keep."
"You're doing that and more." She handed him a ladle. "Here, taste the stew. Tell me if it needs more salt."
It was such a simple gesture of trust that Jon nearly cried. When had anyone last trusted him with anything at Winterfell? Lady Catelyn had watched him like he might steal the silver, might corrupt her children with his bastard's taint.
The crew slowly warmed to him. Not friendship, not yet, but the kind of rough acceptance that came from seeing someone work without complaint. Marro, especially, seemed to have adopted him as a curiosity.
"Come, little wolf," he'd say during the evening watch. "Let me teach you to tie a proper bowline. You can't be a sailor if you can't tie knots."
Jon's fingers, guided by Marcus's muscle memory, picked up the knots almost instantly. Marro whistled appreciatively. "You learn fast! Have you sailed before?"
"No," Jon said truthfully. Marcus had never sailed and had only crossed water to fight demons. "I just... pay attention."
"Smart boy. Here, let me teach you something more useful: words for when we reach Braavos." Marro's eyes lit up with the joy of teaching. "Valar morghulis. It means 'all men must die.' It's a greeting there."
"That's a greeting?" Jon asked, incredulous.
"And the response is 'valar dohaeris'—all men must serve. The Braavosi are philosophical people." Marro taught him more phrases: "kirimvose" for "thank you" and "geros ilas" for "goodbye." Jon absorbed them all, Marcus's gift for languages making the foreign words stick like they'd always been there.
Only Yoren remained hostile, muttering about bad luck and cursed children whenever Jon passed. Jon ignored him, following Dalla's advice: "Men like him need someone to hate. Don't give him more reason."
The Storm
It began as a darkening on the northern horizon the morning of Jon's twelfth day at sea. Captain Torren took one look and started barking orders.
"Storm coming! All hands! Secure everything that isn't nailed down, then nail that down too."
The crew exploded into motion. Jon helped Dalla frantically store anything that could become a projectile—pots, pans, knives, even the sacks of flour and dried peas.
"When it hits, you stay below," Dalla ordered, fear creeping into her usually steady voice. "You're too small for deck work in a storm."
Jon nodded, but Marcus's memories carried their own warnings. Storms at sea killed more warriors than demons ever did. When crisis comes, act without hesitation.
The storm struck just after midday like a giant's fist. The ship heeled hard to port, and Jon heard screams from above. In the galley, secured pots broke free and crashed across the floor. Water poured through the sealed door.
Then, cutting through the chaos: "Man overboard!"
Jon didn't think. He burst through the galley door into a world gone mad. Rain hit like arrows, wind screamed in the rigging, and waves towered above the deck before crashing down in torrents of freezing foam. Sailors fought desperately to control sails that wanted to tear free and take the masts with them.
There—at the rail, a sailor Jon recognized as Harren, one of the few who'd been kind to him, dangled from broken rigging over the churning sea. Other sailors were trying to reach him, but the ship's violent pitching made it impossible.
"We're losing him!" Captain Torren shouted. "Someone—"
If I help, they'll see. They'You'll know I'm not normal.
Survival matters. Honor matters. Save who you can.
Jon moved.
The Thunder Breathing technique flooded his small muscles with explosive power. He crossed the deck in heartbeats, grabbed the rigging, and climbed. Not impossibly fast—he forced himself to hold back even as Harren's grip slipped—but faster than any child should climb in a storm.
His hands found Harren's wrist just as the man's fingers gave out. Jon's enhanced strength, channeled through perfect leverage, hauled the sailor up enough for Harren to grab the rigging properly.
"Hold on!" Jon screamed over the wind. Together they pulled themselves back over the rail, collapsing on the deck as another wave crashed over them.
Harren stared at him, eyes wide with shock. "You... how did you...?"
"Just moved," Jon gasped, letting exhaustion he didn't fully feel color his voice.
Captain Torren was suddenly there, pulling them both to their feet. "Jon, you just—"
The ship lurched again, and the captain's amazement turned back to crisis management. "All hands! Keep working! This isn't over."
For hours, Jon worked alongside the crew. When men faltered, he was there to help hold lines. When the bilge needed pumping, he took his turn at the handles, using Water Breathing to maintain a pace that amazed but didn't seem impossible. He became just another pair of hands fighting to keep them all alive.
Finally, as night fell, the storm broke. The wind dropped from a scream to a moan. The waves settled from mountains to hills. The crew collapsed where they stood, exhausted beyond words.
"We made it," someone croaked. "We bloody made it."
"Aye," Yoren said, and for once his scarred face held something other than hostility as he looked at Jon. "We did."
Earned Passage
The morning after the storm, Captain Torren called Jon to his cabin. The charts were water-stained, and everything smelled of salt and wet wood, but the ship still floated, and no one had died. That was victory enough.
"That was brave," the captain said without preamble. "Foolish, but brave."
"I just helped," Jon said, studying his feet.
"More than that. You're stronger than you look. Faster too." The captain's eyes were knowing. "I won't pry. Every man has secrets. But you've earned your place on this ship."
He pushed a small stack of copper coins across the desk. "Cabin boy wages. Not much, but honest."
Jon stared at the coins. "You're paying me?"
"You worked. You deserve it. That's how ships run." Torren leaned back, studying Jon with those weathered eyes. "When we reach Braavos, you're on your own. Where will you go?"
"I don't know yet."
"You're running from something. Or someone. I recognize the look."
Jon said nothing.
"Braavos is a good place to disappear and to start over. You'll do well there, I think."
"I hope so."
"You will." The captain's voice carried certainty. "You're not just a stowaway anymore, Jon. You're crew."
Jon felt his throat close with emotion. "I've never been part of a crew before."
"Well, you are now. Remember that."
The Titan
They saw it first through morning fog—a shadow that seemed too large to be real. Then the fog lifted, and Jon's breath caught.
The Titan of Braavos stood astride the entrance to the lagoon, a warrior of stone so vast that The Mermaid's Grace would pass between its legs like a toy. It held a broken sword toward the sky, and its eyes were powerful beacon fires that would guide ships home through the darkest nights.
"There she stands," Marro said, coming up beside Jon at the rail. "The Titan, Guardian of the Secret City."
"Secret City?"
"Braavos was founded by escaped slaves, hidden for centuries. Even now, it bows to no king, accepts no masters." Marro's voice held pride, though he'd been born there poor and left young. "In Braavos, you can become anything. Or nothing. Or something in between."
As they passed beneath the Titan's legs, a great horn sounded—the Titan's roar, warning all that another ship had entered his domain. Jon looked up at the stone face far above and felt something shift in his chest.
I'm in Essos. I'm truly free of Westeros.
The city spread before them like a dream of purple and gold. Stone pillars supported buildings rising out of the water, connected by arcing bridges that resembled dancers frozen in mid-leap. Gondolas slipped through canals while merchants hawked their wares from floating shops. Jon saw water dancers dueling on a bridge, their swords flashing like silver fish. He smelled spices he had no names for and heard languages that sounded like music and others that sounded like hammering.
"It's beautiful," he breathed.
"It's dangerous," Marro corrected, but fondly. "Beautiful and dangerous, like the best things in life. Remember what I told you—stick to well-lit areas at night. Avoid Ragman's Harbor unless you want your throat cut. If you need work, try the Moon Pool docks."
"I'll remember."
"And Jon—" Marro's expression grew serious. "Everyone in Braavos is running from something. Don't trust too easily."
Farewell.
The goodbye came too quickly. One moment they were securing the ship at the merchant docks, and the next Jon was standing on the gangplank with his meager possessions—the clothes Dalla had found for him, the food she'd packed, the copper coins he'd earned, and memories of the first real acceptance he'd known.
Dalla hugged him tight, and Jon breathed in her scent of flour, salt, and safety. "Stay safe, boy. Find somewhere warm to sleep."
"Thank you, Dalla, for everything."
She pulled back, eyes wet. "You reminded me of my son. Be well, Jon. Be better than well—be happy, if you can manage it."
Marro clasped his shoulder. "This is where we part, little wolf."
"Will I see you again?"
"Braavos is big, but small. Maybe. If not—valar morghulis."
"Valar dohaeris," Jon responded, and Marro's grin was proud.
"You learn fast. You'll do well here." He pressed something into Jon's hand—an iron coin, Braavosi minting. "This is for luck, from one orphan to another."
Captain Torren was last, and he handed Jon a sealed letter. "If you need work, take this to the harbor master. Say Captain Torren vouches for you."
"I don't know how to repay—"
"You saved Harren. That's payment enough. Now go. Make something of yourself."
"I will. I promise."
Jon walked down the gangplank on legs that barely remembered land. The cobblestones of Braavos felt alien under his feet—too solid, too still. He looked back once at The Mermaid's Grace and her crew. Dalla waved. Marro saluted. Even Yoren nodded.
Then Jon turned and walked into the crowd of Braavos—merchants and sailors, bravos and whores, water dancers and fish sellers. The city swallowed him like the sea swallows a stone.
"I'm Jon Snow," he thought as he disappeared into the press of humanity. Bastard of Winterfell. Stowaway. Cabin boy. Survivor.
I carry Marcus Chen's knowledge—wars, empires, and breathing techniques that make me more than human.
I'm six years old, and I've crossed the Narrow Sea.
Ahead lies Braavos, and beyond that, the world.
I don't know what I'll become. But I'll survive. I'll learn. And maybe, someday, I'll find where I belong.
The last thing he heard as the crowd carried him away was the Titan's horn, roaring its welcome or warning to another ship. The sound followed him into the maze of canals and bridges, a reminder that he'd passed from one world to another.
The Narrow Sea had carried him from one life to another. Now, the Free City of Braavos awaited—a labyrinth of canals and secrets where a boy with the memories of empires might finally learn what it meant to be free.