It was the sound of rough and guttural laughter that drags him out of his deep sleep, it rolls through the small cabin like an echo, blending with the weary the old wood and the low, endless groan of hull from beneath the sea. Jon's eyes flutter open to the sight of yellowish, flickering lantern light. The scent struck him second, stale ale and the dense and suffocating smell of sweat. When he tried to shift his weight, the sound of ugly rattle of iron filled the room.
He freezes, his heart slamming against his ribs feeling the cold iron chains bitting into his wrists. His hands were tied together to the back with thick links running down to the arms of an iron-forged chair. A thick band of leather running across his chest pinning it, to the backrest of the chair making it hard to breathe, and another iron link clasped around his legs tightly against the chair's legs. Even his ankles felt tied up to the chair with sharp iron wires cutting against his skin. The chair itself was bolted into the floorboards like a prisoner's seat and not the comfort of a prince.
Panic make its way up his throat, he shifts once more, just enough to test the chains but the scrape of metal on metal sounded in the room like a thunderclap. The laughter of men which woke him up, that he failed to check now ceased. A dozen hard and unkind faces turns toward him, their mirth now showing up in their smirks and not laughter. Their clothing looked good to be a City Watch guard with many having leather and metal greaves on their limbs and breastplates new and polished. One man sat cross-legged on his bed, idly sharpening his curved blade against a wet whetstone. Few rummaged through crates , his crates, flinging out folded shirts, parchments and anything to their liking.
And then, a man comes into his view. He looked tall and slender, with hair the color of silver and grey. He wore a robe that looked stitched from the remains of a dozen others, shades of faded red, brown, purple and many, all sewn together without care for pattern. He moved with an odd grace, and knelt before him, meeting his eyes. The man's were pale and looked sad-eyed, though there was no warmth in them.
"You're in quite a dilemma, young prince."
His voice sounded soft and silken and that very softness drew laughter from the mercenaries once again cruel and mocking that felt far too familiar like in Kings Landing to him. Jon said nothing, his mouth desert-dry, his throat tight with unspent fear as he looked around to the men laughing at his greeting.
The man's eyes sharpened. He tilts his head as if studying him and then continues quietly, "I don't like being ignored, my prince." The slap came before he could even flinch. The sound cracked in the room, sharp as a whip's lash. His head snapped violently to the side, his lower lip split instantly, and the warm, copper taste of his own blood flooded his mouth. Tears stung at the corners of his eyes in the shameful and humiliating display.
The man watched him calmly, then brushed an invisible speck of dust from his patched sleeve. "Better," he murmured. "Now we better understand each other."
Jon swallows the blood and the searing pain, forcing himself to meet the man's icy gaze. "Why?" he rasped, his voice sounding soft and weak even to his own ears. The man's hand moved again and another hard slap sounded against his other cheek. The iron bolts of the chair beneath groaned at the impact.
"Let's not rush, my prince" he said, almost gently. "How about we get to know each other first."
He rose and walked back to a small table littered with ale and food, and sat down. The way he carried himself reminded him of the arrogant gait of courtiers at the Red Keep, confident, and entirely drunk in their own selfishness.
"My name is the Tattered Prince," the man said. "My men call me commander, others -" he smiles faintly, "- call me sellsword though I prefer the former."
The name struck a chord of memory in his mind. He knew of this man from the book, a Pentoshi of high birth who first worked with the Second Sons and then founded a sellsword company called TheWindblown. The Windblown... on a royal vessel? What in the seven hells is he doing here?
Soon a chilling realization dawned on him. The ship, the sailors, the crew and the absence of any servant or guard from the Capital made him start shaking. He finally whispered the name like tasting a bile "Aegon."
The Tattered Prince's pale eyes glimmer as if amused. "Exactly. Though not only him." He leans back into his chair, his voice calm as a summer breeze across still water. "It was Prince Oberyn who acted as a middle-man. A Dornishman of passion, but also deep love for his family."
Jon's stomach turned over, coiling with sickness in his gut. The cabin suddenly felt like gallows, he'd been a fool, an over-confident idiot to believe the King would make sure a safe passage for him to Skagos whilst vipers lived in his own bloodline.
He drew a slow and shaking breath. "I'll give you the gold that Aegon paid you. All of it and twice over."
Laughter erupted around him in harsh and ugly voice. The Tattered Prince smiles with humour. "It's already ours, my little oblivious prince. Along with your life, should I choose to take it."
Jon steadied himself, his voice came quieter this time now devoid of the desperate plea. "Then what are you waiting for?"
The Tattered Prince regards him with a curious look. "I wanted to see what made you different."
Jon frowns, the motion sending a jolt of pain through his split lip. "Different?"
The man lifted a hand, and the only man in helm steps forward, carrying a stack of folded letters bound with a twine.
"For the last three moons," the Tattered Prince starts softly, turning them between his fingers, "I've received these. Each sealed in coloured wax, each carrying a sigil of its own, and everyone of them accompanied by coins. Men and women from as far as the eastern end of Essos like Shadow Lands and Yi Ti to Castle Black, the Northern End of Westeros all seem eager for your death."
Jon's heart thudded with fear in his chest. "Who?"
The Tattered Prince looked up from his letters at his foolish question. "Every contract is sworn to secrecy, my prince. That's how I stay in market. But I can tell you this, all wished for your death." He paused, a flicker of amusement settling crossing his face. "All but one."
Jon swallows, his mouth tasting of fear and the sticky residue of his own blood.
"Your loving brother," the Tattered Prince continues with his voice perfectly even. "He wished for something… different. He asked that before you die, you learn what it means to truly suffer. That you beg for death on your own."
Before a word could even form on his split lips, a large, rough hands seized his jaw, forcing a greasy rag between them. He choked on the taste of salt and grime as the laughter started again, louder and more cruel than before.
The Tattered Prince gets up, his patched cloak whipping as he turns towards the door. "He even sent a friend of his aboard this ship, to see that the task's done right." At the door, the Tattered Prince pauses, his voice calm as it has been all this time. "Only the strong should make enemies, prince."
With that he was gone, and Jon was left in the dim and stale cabin with the voice of laughter and the endless moan of the sea blending into one cruel and hideous sound.