Jon
The letter felt heavier than parchment should as Jon made his way through Pentos's merchant district. Quarro's seal had opened doors, but Jon knew the real test would come when he met this Belicho Staegone.
The morning sun painted the red brick buildings gold, but it couldn't hide the slaves. They were everywhere—branded faces, collared necks, dead eyes. A woman scrubbed steps while an overseer watched, whip coiled at his hip. A boy younger than Jon hauled water buckets that made his thin arms tremble.
In Braavos, people were free, Jon thought, his stomach turning. Here, they're property.
The warehouse sprawled across half a block, Volantene banners hanging limp in the morning heat. A tiger roared silently from purple silk, all fangs and fury. Guards stopped him at the gate—one free man with a sword, one slave with a collar.
"I have a letter for Master Belicho," Jon said in accented Valyrian. "From Quarro of Braavos."
The free guard squinted at him. "A child?"
"A messenger," Jon corrected. "Will you tell him, or shall I find someone who will?"
The guard's eyes narrowed, but he gestured to the slave. "Take him."
The warehouse's interior was cool and dark, stacked with crates that smelled of spices and silk. Jon followed the slave through a maze of goods until they reached an office that might have been lifted from Old Valyria itself—purple drapes, dragon motifs, and a man who looked like he'd stepped from the histories Marcus had studied.
Belicho Staegone had the silver-streaked hair and purple eyes that marked old blood, the kind that traced lineage back to the Freehold. He read Quarro's letter with the careful attention of someone who'd learned that details mattered.
"You read High Valyrian, boy?" He asked the question in that ancient tongue.
"Yes, master," Jon responded in kind, the words flowing easily thanks to Marcus's gift for languages.
"Not master. Belicho." The merchant's eyes sharpened with interest. "And you're well-spoken for... what are you? Six?"
"Nearly seven. And I learn fast."
Belicho slid a manifest across the desk. "Quarro says you're useful. Prove it. Find the errors."
Jon scanned the document, Marcus's analytical mind engaging automatically. The numbers danced into patterns, revealing their flaws like enemies showing their weaknesses.
"Three discrepancies," Jon said after a moment. "This cargo weight is impossible for the vessel listed—you'd sink before clearing harbor. This route avoids pirate waters but adds two weeks, making your spices worthless. And this tariff calculation is wrong by thirty dragons."
Belicho's eyebrows rose. "How did you... You're educated. Highborn?"
"I learned from someone who knew much," Jon said carefully.
"Mysterious. I like that." Belicho leaned back, studying Jon like he was calculating his worth in gold. "Very well. I sail to Volantis in three days. You'll work as cabin boy, translator when needed. In exchange—passage, food, small wages."
"I accept. Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. The journey is long, and the Rhoyne is... troubled." Something flickered in those purple eyes—fear? Respect? "But you'll earn your keep."
The Tiger's Pride
Three days later, Jon stood on the deck of Belicho's ship, watching Pentos shrink behind them. The Tiger's Pride was a proper Volantene cog, her swan-shaped prow cutting through the waters as they sailed south toward the mouth of the Rhoyne.
"Ever sailed a great river?" Belicho asked, joining him at the rail.
"The White Knife, in the North. But not like the Rhoyne."
"The Rhoyne is ancient. It remembers the Rhoynar, before Valyria drowned them." The merchant's voice dropped. "Some say the water itself mourns."
"That's superstition."
"Perhaps. But fear it nonetheless."
The crew was a mix of origins and conditions—free sailors from Volantis, hired swords from Myr, and a few branded faces that Jon tried not to stare at. One man stood out: Yezzan, a Ghiscari with gentle eyes and scars that suggested his gentleness had been hard-won.
"You're small," Yezzan said when they were introduced. "Stay close to me if trouble comes."
"I can handle myself."
Yezzan's smile was sad. "I'm sure. But still."
On the fifth day, as they entered the Rhoyne delta, Jon was sent to check cargo. The hold was dim and close, stinking of tar and old wood. He was counting wine casks when his Beast Breathing detected it—another heartbeat, quick with fear, hidden behind stacked crates.
"I know you're there," Jon said quietly. "Come out."
Silence.
Jon approached carefully, hand on the knife at his belt. He'd barely rounded the crates when steel kissed his throat.
Kerys
She should have killed him immediately. That was the smart play—silence the boy before he could cry out, dump the body overboard at night. She'd killed before, when necessary.
But something in those grey eyes stayed her hand. Northern eyes, like winter storms.
"Make a sound, I'll cut your throat," she hissed.
"You're a runaway," the boy said, too calm for someone with a blade at their neck. "Slave?"
Kerys blinked. "How—?"
"The brand on your wrist. Myrish mark."
Clever boy. "Now what? Turn me in for a reward?"
"No."
The simple word hit her like a physical blow. "Why?"
"Because slavery is evil. I've seen it. I hate it."
Kerys lowered the knife slightly, studying this strange child. Clean features beneath the dirt, educated speech despite the rough clothes. "You're Westerosi. You wouldn't understand."
"Maybe. But I understand running from people who want to hurt you."
There was such pain in that young voice that Kerys found herself believing him. "If you're not turning me in, what do you want?"
"Nothing. But you need food, water. I can sneak it to you."
"Why would you help?"
"Because it's right."
Kerys laughed bitterly. "There's no 'right' in this world, boy. Only survival."
"Then I'll help you survive."
He means it, she realized with wonder. This fool child actually means it.
The Sorrows
The Rhoyne changed as they sailed deeper into the continent. The delta's broad waters narrowed, and ruins began to appear along the banks—broken towers reaching toward the sky like skeletal fingers, shattered bridges that ended in air, palace walls covered in creeping vines that looked too much like grasping hands.
"We pass the Sorrows," Belicho announced to the crew. "Stay on ship. Don't look at the ruins too long. And whatever you do, don't touch the water."
Jon's Beast Breathing screamed danger with every league they sailed. The river felt wrong—too quiet, no birds, and the water itself tasted of iron and ash when spray hit his lips. Marcus's memories stirred, recognizing the feeling from battlefields where too many had died too quickly.
"What happened here?" Jon asked Yezzan during night watch.
The Ghiscari's scarred face was grim in the moonlight. "Valyria happened. Dragonlords burned the Rhoynar, killed their water mages. They say the river rose in rage, dragging dragons from the sky. But it wasn't enough. The Rhoynar died, and the river... the river went mad with grief."
At dawn, they saw them—the Stone Men.
They stood on the eastern bank like statues, but statues didn't breathe. Their skin was grey and cracked like old stone, weeping pus from the fissures. They moved slowly, purposefully, watching the ship pass with eyes that held too much intelligence for the mindless plague victims they were supposed to be.
"Living but not alive," Jon whispered. "Worse than death."
From the cargo hold, Kerys's voice drifted up through the boards: "That's what happens to slaves who displease their masters. Thrown to the Sorrows to die slowly."
Jon's hands clenched on the rail until his knuckles went white. How many of those grey figures had once been human? How many had been thrown here for the crime of wanting freedom?
This world is broken, he thought. And I'm just one boy.
But Marcus's memories whispered back: One man ended slavery in Haiti. One woman's book turned America against it. One person can begin change.
But they had power, Jon argued with the ghost in his head. I have nothing.
You have the breathing techniques. You have knowledge of three worlds. That's not nothing.
Myr
The slave market in Myr made Pentos look like paradise.
Jon accompanied Belicho into the square, ostensibly to help translate and carry purchases. What he found was hell dressed in silk and perfume. Hundreds of human beings stood on auction blocks, naked or near to it, while buyers examined them like livestock. An auctioneer called out prices with the enthusiasm of someone selling fine wines: "Prime Lyseni girl, trained in all the pleasure arts! Opening bid fifty gold!"
A mother screamed as her child was torn from her arms, sold to different buyers. The sound cut through Jon like a blade.
"He's a person," Jon found himself saying when Belicho examined a carpenter's hands and teeth.
"Of course. A person who is property," Belicho replied patiently.
"That's wrong."
"It's the world, boy. You cannot change it."
"Someone has to."
Belicho sighed. "Idealism is the luxury of the powerless. When you have power, then judge."
But Jon's control snapped when he saw a slaver whipping a child no older than himself for the crime of dropping a package. The whip rose and fell, blood spattering the dusty ground, the child's cries growing weaker with each strike.
Jon moved without thinking. Thunder Breathing flooded his muscles, and he crossed twenty feet in a heartbeat, catching the whip mid-strike.
The square went silent.
"Unhand my property!" the slaver snarled.
"He's a CHILD!"
Belicho was there instantly, gripping Jon's shoulder hard enough to bruise. "Apologies, master. The boy is new, doesn't understand customs." He dragged Jon away before the situation could escalate, but not before Jon saw the child slave's eyes—grateful and terrified in equal measure.
Back on the ship, Jon couldn't stop shaking. "I hate this. I HATE this."
"Don't ever do that again," Belicho said sharply. "You could have been enslaved yourself."
"I don't care."
"You should. Dead or enslaved, you help no one. Control yourself."
"How do you live with it?" Jon whispered.
Belicho's purple eyes softened slightly. "By accepting what I cannot change. You'll learn."
"No." Jon's voice was steel. "I won't. I'll never accept this."
That night, bringing food to Kerys, Jon was still trembling with rage.
"You saw the markets," she said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"Now you understand."
"I'm sorry. For all of it."
Kerys laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Sorry doesn't free anyone."
"Then what does?"
"Power," she said simply. "Gold to buy freedom. Steel to take it. Or influence to change laws. Without one of those, you're just another idealist who dies young and changes nothing."
Maelor
The slaver caught up with them as they approached Volantis.
Jon saw the galley approaching fast, Myrish colors flying, and his blood went cold. He found Kerys in the hold, her face pale.
"They found me," she whispered.
"I won't let them take you."
"You're a child. What can you do against armed slavers?"
Jon didn't have an answer.
Maelor came aboard with six men, all armed. He was handsome in the way a sword is handsome—beautiful and deadly. His smile never reached his eyes.
"I seek a runaway slave," he announced. "Lyseni, branded with my mark. She cost me five hundred gold, and I will have her back."
They found Kerys within minutes. As they dragged her onto deck, she fought like a wildcat, but six men were too many.
"Let her go," Jon stepped forward, ignoring Belicho's warning hand.
Maelor looked at him with amusement. "A child? How entertaining."
"She's a person, not property."
"Ah, Westerosi idealism. Charming, but irrelevant." Maelor studied Jon more closely. "You're protective. How much is she worth to you? You'd fetch a good price yourself—young, strong, pretty."
Jon's muscles coiled, Thunder Breathing activating unconsciously. Yezzan gripped his shoulder, whispering, "Not here. Not now."
But Jon memorized every detail of Maelor's face, the way he moved, where he wore his blade.
Tonight, he promised himself as Maelor's ship pulled away with Kerys aboard. I'll come for you tonight.
The Kill
Volantis rose from the mouth of the Rhoyne like a fever dream of stone and gold. They docked as the sun set, painting the Black Walls the color of old blood. Maelor's ship was three berths down.
"I'm going after her," Jon told Yezzan.
"That's suicide."
"I don't care."
Yezzan studied him for a long moment, then sighed. "Then I'm coming. Someone needs to keep you alive."
They waited until the darkest hour of night. Jon's Beast Breathing mapped the ship—two guards on deck, one below. He moved like Marcus had taught, Thunder Breathing muffling his footsteps between heartbeats. The first guard went down to a chokehold, unconscious before he could cry out.
But the second saw them.
"Alarm! Intruders!"
The ship erupted. Men poured from below deck, surrounding them. Yezzan fought three at once, his scarred hands moving with deadly precision. Jon faced four, and for the first time, he didn't hold back.
Thunder Breathing sent him blurring between strikes. Beast Breathing let him sense attacks before they came. Water Breathing kept his stamina constant as he flowed through Marcus's combat forms. He disarmed one man, broke another's arm, sent a third into the harbor.
"What IS he?!" someone screamed.
Then Maelor emerged, sword already drawn. "The idealistic boy! Come to die for your principles?"
He was fast, trained, deadly. Jon barely avoided the first strike, the blade whistling past his ear. The second caught his sleeve, drawing blood.
He's going to kill me, Jon realized. Unless...
He reached deep, finding the fusion Marcus had developed in his second life—Thunder and Beast combined, speed and instinct merged into something beyond either. The world slowed. He could see Maelor's blade moving, predict its path, feel the opening before it existed.
Jon flowed inside Maelor's guard, picked up a dropped dagger, and moved faster than thought.
The blade went in easier than he'd expected. Maelor's eyes widened in surprise, then pain, then nothing. He collapsed, blood pooling black in the moonlight.
Jon stared at the dagger in his hand, at the blood—so much blood—at what he'd done.
"Jon! We have to GO!" Yezzan's shout broke through his shock.
They freed Kerys and fled into the maze of Volantis's streets, Maelor's crew too stunned to pursue immediately. In a dark alley, Jon collapsed against a wall, shaking.
"I killed him," he whispered.
"Yes," Kerys said simply. "And you saved me."
"I'm a murderer."
"You're a warrior," Yezzan corrected gently. "There's a difference."
"But—Robb would be ashamed. Father would—"
"Your father isn't here," Kerys cut him off. "This isn't the North. This is survival. Maelor hurt hundreds, destroyed lives. You stopped him. That's not murder. That's justice."
"Justice feels like blood and guilt," Jon said bitterly.
"The first kill is always the hardest," Yezzan said. "You'll remember him forever."
"Good. I should remember. So I never forget what it means to take a life."
Kerys studied him with something like wonder. "You're wiser than you should be at your age."
"I've had to be."
Volantis at Dawn
The Long Bridge stretched across the Rhoyne like a city unto itself, covered in shops and homes and temples. Jon stood at its center as dawn broke, watching Volantis wake around him—the greatest of the Free Cities, heir to Valyria's glory and its sins.
Belicho found him there.
"I heard about last night."
Jon tensed. "Are you—?"
"Turning you in? No. Maelor was scum. And you defended someone under your protection. That's... honorable, in its way."
"You're not angry?"
"Disappointed you were reckless. Impressed you survived. Both." Belicho handed him a sealed letter. "I sail for Braavos next week. You're welcome aboard. But I know you won't come. This is for a merchant in New Ghis. He'll give you passage to Slaver's Bay."
"Why help me?"
"Because you're unusual. Perhaps special. And the world needs special people, even if it tries to crush them." The merchant's purple eyes were serious. "Jon Snow, heed this: the east is more dangerous than here. Dothraki, slavers, worse. You have skills, but you're still a child."
"I know."
"Then be smart. Learn when to fight, when to flee. And remember—power without wisdom is just violence."
"I'll remember."
"Good. Go find your Yi Ti. Maybe you'll make a difference there."
After Belicho left, Jon stood alone on the bridge, watching the sun climb higher. He could still feel Maelor's blood on his hands, though he'd washed them a dozen times.
I killed a man. I'm seven years old, and I'm a killer.
Marcus's memories offered cold comfort: I killed demons to save people. You killed a slaver to save Kerys. The cause was just.
But it still feels wrong.
It should. The day killing feels right is the day you've lost yourself.
Jon turned east, toward the rising sun. Somewhere beyond the horizon lay Slaver's Bay—Astapor, Yunkai, Meereen. Cities built on chains and suffering. Then Qarth at the edge of the world, and finally the Jade Sea and Yi Ti beyond.
He was seven years old. He'd crossed seas and rivers, stolen to survive, fought to protect, and killed to free another. He carried the memories of Marcus Chen—three lifetimes of knowledge, combat, and loss.
And he carried his own scars now. Catelyn's hatred that drove him from home. Maelor's death that stained his hands. Kerys's freedom bought with blood.
The only way forward is through, Marcus's memories whispered.
Jon took a deep breath, feeling the familiar flow of the breathing techniques—Water for endurance, Thunder for power, Beast for awareness. Then he walked east, toward whatever destiny awaited a bastard boy with a dead man's knowledge and blood on his hands.
Behind him, Volantis conducted its morning business of gold and chains. Ahead, the sun painted the world in shades of possibility and threat.
Jon Snow—bastard, killer, vessel for impossible knowledge—walked toward his future, knowing that each step took him further from the boy he'd been and closer to whatever he was becoming.
He would breathe, and the world would feel it.