Jon
The Free City of Braavos swallowed Jon whole.
He'd thought Winterfell was large, with its double walls and sprawling yards. He'd thought White Harbor impressive, with its busy port and stone buildings. But Braavos... Braavos was a living thing, a creature of water and stone that breathed with the tide and pulsed with ten thousand hearts.
Jon stumbled from the docks into a world of purple-dyed buildings that leaned over narrow streets like drunken giants. Canals twisted everywhere—not streets but waterways, with slim boats poled by men who sang in languages he didn't know. Bridges arced between buildings, some stone, some wood, some seeming to hang on nothing but habit and hope.
The crowd pressed in from all sides. Dark-skinned Summer Islanders towered over pale Lyseni with silver hair. Pentoshi merchants in perfumed beards haggled with Tyroshi whose hair was dyed blue and green. And everywhere, the Braavosi were present—quick-moving and quick-tongued, with hands gesturing as they spoke in their lilting accent.
Jon tried to move through it all, but the current of humanity swept him along like driftwood. Someone cursed at him in what might have been Valyrian. A woman selling eel pies shoved one under his nose, the smell making his stomach clench with hunger. A juggler tossed flaming batons overhead while his partner picked pockets in the watching crowd.
Too much, Jon thought desperately. Too many people, too many smells, too much noise.
He bumped hard into someone and stumbled back. A man stood before him, and Jon's breath caught. The man was beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful—all lean muscle and deadly grace. He wore bright silks and a slender sword at his hip.
"Watch yourself, boy," the man said, his accent making the words musical. His hand drifted to his sword hilt, casual as breathing.
"I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean—"
The man laughed, showing white teeth. "Sir? Westerosi, then, and Northern by the sound." His eyes, dark and amused, took in Jon's travel-worn clothes. "Long way from home, little wolf."
Jon nodded, not trusting his voice.
The bravo—for that's what he was, Jon realized, one of the famous water dancers of Braavos—studied him a moment longer. Then he shrugged and moved on, melting into the crowd with liquid grace.
Jon's heart hammered. Everyone here is dangerous. Even the lovely ones.
He tried to orient himself, but the city defied logic. Streets that should connect didn't. Canals that seemed to run straight somehow curved back on themselves. He asked for directions to an inn, anyplace cheap, but half the people didn't speak the Common Tongue, and the other half gave contradictory answers.
Finally, as the sun began to sink toward the western sea, Jon admitted the truth: he was lost.
Marcus's memories stirred, offering knowledge of other cities—Rome's ordered streets and Beijing's rigid districts. Find high ground, the tactical mind advised. Map the city from above.
But there was no high ground in Braavos, only buildings piled on buildings, and Jon was too exhausted to climb. He found an alcove near what someone had called the Purple Harbor, where fishing boats bobbed beside merchant vessels. The space was barely large enough for him to curl up in, hidden behind empty crates that reeked of old fish.
As darkness fell, the city transformed. Torches flared to life along the canals, their light dancing on black water. Music drifted from taverns. Somewhere, steel rang on steel—bravos dueling for honor or insult or simple boredom.
Jon pulled his knees to his chest and tried to use the Water Breathing technique to stay warm. It helped, but not enough. The wind off the sea cut through his thin clothes like accusations.
This is freedom, he thought bitterly. But freedom doesn't fill your belly or shelter you from the wind. I thought escaping Winterfell was the hard part.
He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but the city wouldn't let him. Every sound might be danger. Every shadow might hide a knife.
I was wrong. The challenging part is just beginning.
The Canal Rats
By his second day in Braavos, Jon's few copper coins were nearly gone. A heel of bread cost twice what it had in White Harbor. A bowl of fish stew might as well have been made of gold. His stomach had become a living thing, clawing at him from inside.
He wandered into a poorer district that morning, following the smell of cooking food. The buildings here were shabbier, the canals darker with waste. He heard someone refer to it as Ragman's Harbor. Even the name sounded like giving up.
That's where he saw them—other children, living as he was trying to live. They moved in a pack of four or five, dirty and thin but quick as mongooses. He watched them work: one would distract a vendor with questions or complaints while another grabbed bread or fruit or dried fish. They scattered before anyone could react, vanishing into alleys he hadn't even noticed.
Jon's stomach twisted, and not just with hunger. He'd been raised better than this. Ned Stark's son—bastard or not—didn't steal.
But Ned Stark's son had never been this hungry.
Father, forgive me.
Jon targeted a fish stall at the market's edge, far from where he'd seen the other children work. He waited until the fishmonger turned to serve a customer, then used the Thunder Breathing technique—a quick burst of speed, grab the fish, and run.
He made it three streets before the whistle caught him.
"That's our mark, little wolf!"
Jon spun to find three children blocking the alley behind him. The speaker was a boy, perhaps twelve years old, with the lean build of someone who'd grown up running. Behind him stood a girl with a knife and another boy holding what looked like a club made from a table leg.
"I didn't know," Jon said quickly, backing up. "I'm sorry—"
"Sorry doesn't feed us," the leader said. His accent was pure Braavosi, musical even in threat. "That fish was ours. You pay the tax, or you pay in blood."
"I have nothing."
The boy grinned, and it wasn't entirely unfriendly. "Then blood is there."
Tagganaro
The Northern boy was fascinating.
Tagganaro had been running the Canal Rats for two years now, ever since he'd killed the previous leader in a fair fight—well, fair enough. He was familiar with every street child in Ragman's Harbor, understanding who to trust and who would sell you for a scrap of bread.
This one, though—this one was new.
His clothes were clean, or at least they had been recently. He had Northern features, characterized by his particular pale skin and dark hair. The way he stood said he'd been trained to fight, but the way his eyes darted said he had no idea how street fighting worked.
"You're fast," Tagan said after the boy had dodged Lanna's knife and tripped Tommard with moves too smooth for coincidence. "Trained?"
"No. Just... instinct."
"Liar," Tagan thought, but it didn't matter. Everyone lied about their past here.
"Useful. Here's the deal: join the Canal Rats. We share food and watch each other's backs. Or refuse, and we beat you, take your boots, and you survive alone. Your choice."
The boy, who had introduced himself as Jon, considered his options. Tagan could see him weighing options and see the moment he realized he had none.
"I'll join. For now."
"For now?" That was intriguing too. Most kids begged to join, desperate for any protection. This one already had his eyes on something else.
"I'm not staying in Braavos. I'm going east."
Tagan laughed. "East? To where? Slaver's Bay? The Shadow Lands? You'll die."
"Maybe. But I'll try."
The determination in those grey eyes was something Tagan recognized. He'd seen it in his own reflection, back when he'd decided he'd rather rule in the streets than serve in them.
"Your funeral. But while you're here, you're a Rat. Come on."
He led Jon back to their hideout—an abandoned boathouse that floods had made unusable for anything but desperate children. Lanna and Tommard followed, muttering about soft Northern boys and wasted time.
That night, sharing stolen bread and bruised fruit, Tagan watched Jon carefully portion out his share, making sure everyone got some before he ate. Tagan watched Jon as he listened to their stories: Lanna's parents had died of plague, Tommard's father was killed by a bravo's "accidental" thrust, and Tagan himself had been abandoned as an infant.
When it came to Jon's turn, he said simply, "I'm from the North. My family... couldn't keep me."
"Family's overrated," Tagan said, and meant it. "We're your family now."
Jon looked around at them—thieves and orphans and survivors—and nodded slowly. "For now," he said again, but softer.
Tagan decided he liked this strange Northern boy. He'd probably die trying to go east, but until then, he'd be useful.
And who knew? Maybe he'd even survive.
The Fishmonger
Brusco had been selling fish at the Purple Harbor for fifteen years. He knew every thief, every beggar, every desperate soul that haunted the docks. So when small fingers reached for his catch at dawn on his eighth day, his hand was already moving.
He caught the boy's wrist and held firm.
"Fast hands," he said mildly. "But not fast enough."
The boy—Northern, from his looks, and young, even younger than Brusco's daughters—stared up at him with grey eyes wide with terror.
"Please, don't—don't call the guard—"
"What's your name, boy?"
"Jon."
"Well, Jon, I could call the guard. Thieves lose fingers here." The boy's face turned as pale as fresh-caught cod. "Or," Brusco continued, "you could work for me. Honest work, honest pay."
The boy's suspicion was obvious. "Why?"
"Because I need help, and you need food. Simple." Brusco studied the thin face, the desperate hunger there. His son would have been about this age if the grey plague hadn't taken him. "So? Work or fingers?"
"Work."
By the end of that first day, Brusco knew he'd made the right choice. The boy worked without complaint, gutting fish and hauling crates with surprising strength for his size. He learned quickly too, picking up the Braavosi phrases Brusco taught him for calling to customers.
When evening came, Brusco paid him—a few coppers and the fish too damaged to sell.
Jon stared at the coins like he'd never seen money before. "You're really paying me?"
"I said honest work. I meant it." Brusco hesitated, then added, "Where are you staying?"
"Around."
Street, then. Brusco sighed. "I have a shed out back. Sleep there if you want. Warmer than alleys."
The boy's eyes filled with tears he was too proud to let fall. "Why are you helping me?"
"Because someone helped me once. And because my son... you remind me of him."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Just don't waste the chance." Brusco turned to arrange his remaining fish, giving the boy privacy for his emotions. "You're running from something. Or someone."
"How do you know?"
"Eyes like yours—always looking over your shoulder. What happened?"
"Someone wanted me gone. So I left."
The pain in that simple statement made Brusco's chest tight. "Well, you're here now. Make the most of it."
Syrio Forel
The First Sword of Braavos did not often concern himself with street children. The city was full of them, quick-fingered shadows that darted between the legs of their betters. But this one...
Syrio paused in his instruction, watching the boy who stood transfixed at the edge of the training square. Northern, by his look. Young, perhaps six or seven. He was delivering fish, as indicated by the smell that clung to him.
But his eyes—his eyes watched the water's dancing forms with the intensity of a warrior studying his enemy.
"No," Syrio corrected himself. With the intensity of a student who already knows the lesson but sees it for the first time.
The boy's stance shifted unconsciously, mimicking the footwork Syrio had just demonstrated. Although his footwork was not perfect, it demonstrated an understanding that should have taken months to develop.
There is something in this one. Something that sleeps but stirs.
Syrio met the boy's eyes across the square. For a moment, they simply looked at each other—master and potential student, recognizing something neither could name.
Then Syrio nodded, ever so slightly, and returned to his teaching.
The boy walked away, but Syrio knew he would remember that grey-eyed child. There were currents moving in the world, deep tides that even the First Sword of Braavos could only glimpse.
Perhaps he will return, Syrio thought. Perhaps not. The water dancer does not chase the tide—he moves with it.
But he would remember.
The Conjurer's Warning
The crowds in the market square parted for Cossomo the Conjurer, like water around a stone. His robes were seven different colors, none of them subtle, and his painted face could be seen from across the plaza. Jon, returning from a delivery for Brusco, stopped to watch despite himself.
"Far to the east," Cossomo proclaimed, flames dancing between his fingers, "beyond the Jade Sea, lies the Golden Empire! Yi Ti, where emperors wear robes of silk and jade! Where dragons once flew, and gods walked among men!"
The fire in his hands became a dragon, then a palace, and finally a warrior with a flaming sword. The crowd gasped and threw coins.
Jon stayed after the others dispersed, drawn by something he couldn't name.
"You, boy," Cossomo said, his painted eyes fixing on Jon. "Northern, yes?"
"How did you—?"
"Eyes. Accent. The way you stand—like you're ready to fight or flee but haven't decided which." Cossomo's voice dropped the theatrical projection, becoming almost normal. "I've traveled far. I know faces."
"Your stories... are they true? Yi Ti?"
"As true as anything. You dream of going there?"
Jon found himself nodding. "I need to. I don't know why, but... I have to."
Cossomo studied him, and Jon felt like the man was looking through his skin to something deeper. "You have something unusual about you. Power, perhaps?"
"I'm just a boy."
"Just a boy." Cossomo laughed, but not mockingly. "Of course. But boys become men, and men become legends." He leaned close, and Jon smelled spices and smoke and something else, something that reminded him of the terror he'd felt passing the House of Black and White.
"If you go east, heed this: Avoid the Shadow Lands. Asshai devours souls. In Qarth, trust no one. Warlocks and merchants lie with every breath. And in Yi Ti..." He paused, eyes unfocusing as if seeing something far away. "Seek the mountains. Old power sleeps there."
"Why tell me this?"
Cossomo straightened, the theatrical manner returning like a mask. "Because I see your path, boy of ice and lightning. Your fate lies beneath golden skies and jade towers."
Before Jon could ask what that meant, the conjurer was moving away, robes swirling, already calling to new crowds about wonders and mysteries.
Ice and lightning, Jon thought, shaken. How could he know?
But Marcus's memories whispered their truths: Magic is real. You fought demons in another life. This world has its mysteries.
Leaving the Rats
Jon broke the news after three days of planning and three days of gathering coins, supplies, and courage.
"I'm leaving. In two days."
The Canal Rats sat in their boathouse, sharing the evening's take—bread and dried fish and a single apple Lanna had managed to grab. They all stopped eating.
"Leaving?" Lanna's voice was small. "Where?"
"East. Pentos first, then further."
"You're crazy," Tommard said flatly. "You'll die."
Tagganaro just watched him with those sharp Braavosi eyes. "Let him go. I told you he wouldn't stay."
But then Tagan stood, and Jon knew what was coming before he spoke.
"Before you go, one last thing."
"What?"
"Fight me. Prove you can survive out there."
"I don't want to fight you."
"Don't care. If you can't beat me, you'll die on the road. So fight."
The others cleared space, and Jon found himself circling Tagganaro in the dim light of their hideout. He didn't want this—Tagan had been the closest thing to a friend he'd had since Robb.
However, Tagan struck first with the speed of any skilled fighter, prompting Jon's instincts to take over. He flowed around the punch, Beast Breathing making Tagan's movements seem telegraphed. When Tagan kicked, Jon was already moving. When Tagan grabbed, Jon twisted free with techniques Marcus had learned fighting opponents twice his size.
Jon pulled his punches, not wanting to hurt his friend. But Tagan snarled, "Don't hold back!"
So Jon didn't. Thunder Breathing flooded his muscles for just an instant, and Tagan was on his back with Jon's hand at his throat before either of them fully understood what had happened.
Tagan laughed, bright and genuine. "Alright! You'll survive!"
Jon helped him up, and Tagan gripped his shoulder. "You've been holding back this whole time."
"Didn't want to hurt anyone."
"Stupid. But honorable. Northern thing?"
"Maybe."
"Go east, little wolf. Find your golden empire. But remember—Canal Rats always welcome you back."
They clasped arms like brothers, and then the others were pressing forward. Lanna gave him a stolen knife. Tommard offered a small pouch of coppers. Even quiet Denyo, who barely spoke, handed Jon a piece of bread wrapped in cloth.
"I can't—"
"Take it," Tagan said firmly. "You're family. Family helps."
Jon took the gifts, his throat too tight for words.
The Road to Pentos
Quarro's caravan left Braavos as the morning fog lifted, six wagons rolling through the city gates onto the coast road. Jon sat atop sacks of dried fish, watching the Titan shrink behind them until it was just a shadow against the sky.
The Pentoshi merchant had been skeptical when Brusco introduced them. But when Jon read a manifest in High Valyrian without hesitation—Marcus's linguistic knowledge making the ancient language as clear as the Common Tongue—Quarro's eyes had sharpened with interest.
"Educated. Runaway noble?"
"Does it matter?" Brusco had asked.
"Not if he works," Quarro decided.
Now, three days into the journey, Jon had proven his worth. He helped load and unload without complaint, kept watch at night with senses that caught sounds the guards missed, and even helped Quarro with his accounting—numbers came easily when you'd once managed supply lines for a Roman legion, even if only in inherited memory.
The road to Pentos was well-traveled but not safe. On the second day, bandits had scouted them from a distant rise, though Quarro's eight guards had been enough to discourage attack. On the fourth day, a storm had delayed them, Jon using his water breathing to maintain body heat while others shivered.
But it was the fifth day that made everyone nervous.
"Dothraki," one of the guards whispered, pointing to distant riders silhouetted against the morning sky.
The caravan stopped. Everyone watched the horsemen—only three, probably scouts—as they observed the caravan in turn.
"Will they attack?" Jon asked the guard beside him.
"Not three against our eight. But if they have a khalasar nearby..." The man spat. "Pray they're just passing through."
After what felt like hours but was probably minutes, the riders wheeled their horses and vanished over the rise.
Everyone breathed again.
That night, around the campfire, the guards told stories. The Dothraki, they said, were horse lords who believed the world was theirs to ride. They took what they wanted—goods, gold, slaves. Cities paid them tribute in order to persuade them to leave.
"And they're between us and Yi Ti?" Jon asked.
"There are even worse threats than them," an older guard said. "The Dothraki Sea is vast, but what lies beyond it?" The Red Waste. Qarth. The Shadow Lands. Each worse than the last."
Jon filed the information away, Marcus's strategic mind already planning routes and contingencies.
On the seventh day, they crested a hill, and Pentos spread before them—red brick and golden domes, larger than Braavos but somehow feeling heavier, less alive.
"Another city," Jon murmured. "Another step closer."
Pentos at Dusk
Pentos smelled wrong.
Where Braavos had smelled of salt, fish, and freedom, Pentos reeked of perfume, trying to cover the rot. Jon saw why immediately—slaves were everywhere, marked with tattoos and collars, their eyes dead as they hauled goods and cleaned streets and stood waiting for their masters' commands.
His stomach turned. In Braavos, everyone was free, even if freedom meant starving. Here, people were property.
"First time seeing slaves?" Quarro asked, noticing Jon's expression.
"It's wrong."
Quarro shrugged. "It's Pentos. Don't show your disapproval too loudly—magisters don't like abolitionists."
The caravan stopped at a warehouse near the merchant district. Quarro paid Jon more than expected—silver stags, not copper.
"You worked well. Here." He handed Jon a sealed letter. "If you reach Volantis, find a merchant named Belicho. Tell him I sent you. He might give you work."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Just survive. I invested in you—don't make me look foolish." Quarro studied him. "Where will you go now?"
"South. Volantis, then east."
"Ambitious. Most boys your age would be content to survive."
"I'm not most boys."
"No," Quarro agreed. "You're not."
Jon found an inn called the Golden Lamb, paying for a room with actual walls and a door that locked. It was the first real bed he'd slept in since Winterfell, and he spent a long moment just sitting on it, overwhelmed.
From his window, he could see Pentos sprawling toward the sea. Somewhere out there, beyond the water, lay Westeros. Winterfell. Robb.
Are they looking for me? he wondered. Do they think I'm dead?
From the common room below, voices drifted up:
"Heard about the Greyjoy rebellion?"
"Aye. King Robert crushed them. Balon Greyjoy bent the knee."
"The North fought too. Stark's boy proved himself, they say."
Jon's chest tightened. Robb at war? No—Father would have led the armies, not his heir. But still, the North had been at war while Jon had been stealing fish in Braavos.
That life is dead, he told himself firmly. I'm dead to them. I have to be.
Marcus's memories agreed: In three lifetimes, I learned that home is not a place. It's a choice.
"Then I choose forward," Jon whispered to the darkening sky. "Always forward."
Tomorrow he would find a ship or caravan heading to Volantis. From there, the real journey would begin—through Slaver's Bay to Qarth, and finally to Yi Ti, where jade emperors ruled and ancient powers slept in mountains.
He was six years old, and he'd already crossed half the known world. He'd stolen and fought and bled, and endured. He carried the memories of Marcus Chen, who had battled demons and studied empires.
Ahead lay dangers that would kill most grown men. Slavers and Dothraki, warlocks and worse.
Jon didn't know what awaited him. But he knew one truth Marcus had learned across lifetimes: survival was not enough.
He would become something more.
He would breathe, and the world would feel it.