The Free City of Braavos did not welcome Jon Snow; it swallowed him whole.
He had thought Winterfell was large, with its double granite walls and sprawling courtyards that smelled of pine and woodsmoke. He had thought White Harbor impressive, with its whitewashed stone and busy docks. But Braavos was a living, breathing leviathan. It was a creature of water and stone, a city that pulsed with the tide and beat with the hearts of a hundred thousand souls.
The world immediately assaulted Jon as he stumbled from the gangplank of The Mermaid's Grace.
The air in this place was unique. It didn't smell of clean snow. It smelled of brine, of frying fish, of unwashed bodies, of exotic spices that tickled the back of the throat, and of the sulfurous torch-smoke that clung to the damp fog.
The buildings defied the logic of the North. They were tall, narrow structures of grey stone and brick, piled atop one another like drunken giants leaning in for a secret. They loomed over canals that twisted like serpents—waterways choked with slim, painted boats poled by men who sang in a language Jon's Northern ears found both beautiful and dizzying.
And the people.
It was a flood of humanity. Dark-skinned Summer Islanders in feathered cloaks towered over pale Lyseni with hair like spun silver. Squat, hairy Ibbese with shields of wood shouldered past Pentoshi merchants whose oiled forked beards reeked of perfume. And everywhere, the Braavosi: quick-moving, quick-tongued, dressed in flamboyant purples and blues, their hands flashing as they spoke.
Jon tried to move through the press, clutching his meager sack of belongings to his chest. He was six years old. In this crush, he was nothing more than driftwood in a rapids.
"Watch it, bilge-rat!" someone cursed in Low Valyrian.
A woman selling eel pies from a floating barge shoved a skewer under his nose. "Hot! Hot and greasy! It fills the belly, warms the blood!" The smell of charred meat and garlic made Jon's stomach clench violently.
A juggler tossed flaming batons overhead, the fire roaring, while his partner—a waif of a girl—slipped her hands into the pockets of the distracted crowd.
Too much, Jon thought, panic rising in his throat like bile. It's too loud. There are too many eyes.
Marcus's memories surged—the roar of a modern city, the crush of a train station in Tokyo. Focus, the warrior's instinct commanded. Filter the noise. Isolate threats.
Jon took a breath. Water Breathing: Tenth Form. He didn't execute a technique; he simply used the rhythm to lower his heart rate. The chaotic noise of the crowd separated into distinct layers. He could hear the distinct ring of steel on steel nearby.
He bumped hard into a silk-clad leg.
Jon stumbled back, nearly dropping his sack. A man stood before him. He was tall, lithe, and beautiful in the way a unsheathed dagger is beautiful. He wore a coat of slashed purple velvet and breeches of striped silk. At his hip hung a slender, deadly blade—a bravo's sword.
"Eyes open, little water-rat," the man said. His Common Tongue was heavily accented, musical and lilting. His hand drifted to his hilt, casual as a lover's caress.
"I'm sorry, sir," Jon stammered, his Northern accent thick and clumsy. "I didn't mean—"
The bravo laughed. It was a bright, dangerous sound. "Sir? No knights here, little wolf. Only water dancers." His dark eyes swept over Jon, taking in the travel-stained clothes and the terrified grey eyes. "You are far from the snows, are you not?"
"Yes," Jon whispered.
The man studied him for a heartbeat longer, a faint smile playing on his lips. Then he shrugged, the tension vanishing. "Walk with purpose, boy. The timid are eaten in this city."
He moved on, melting into the crowd with a liquid grace that made Jon's skin prickle.
Everyone here is dangerous, Jon realized. Even the beautiful ones.
The Long Fall
As the sun began to sink toward the western sea, turning the canals into ribbons of molten copper, Jon admitted the truth: he was lost.
He had tried to find an inn. He had asked for directions to a cheap shelter. But half the people ignored him, and the other half gave him directions that led him in circles over bridges that seemed to curve back on themselves.
Marcus's strategic mind tried to map the city. Find high ground. Triangulate. But there was no high ground in Braavos, only a maze of stone and water.
As twilight deepened, the city transformed. Lanterns flared to life along the canals. Music drifted from the open windows of taverns—lutes and woodwinds, accompanied by raucous laughter. The shadows between the buildings grew long and sharp.
Jon found himself in a district that smelled of old rope and rotting fish. The Purple Harbor, someone had called it. He found a small alcove between a warehouse and a sea-wall, shielded from the wind by a stack of empty crates.
He curled up on the cold stone, pulling his knees to his chest. He tried to summon the warmth of the Water Breathing, but he was exhausted. The technique required focus, and his mind was fraying.
The wind off the Narrow Sea cut through his thin tunic like a knife.
This is freedom, he thought bitterly. Freedom is cold. Freedom is hungry.
He closed his eyes, but sleep felt as distant as a foreign country. Every footstep on the cobblestones sounded like a threat. Every splash in the canal sounded like a body hitting the water.
I thought leaving Winterfell was the hard part, Jon thought as he shivered. I was wrong. LLeaving was easy. Surviving is the war.
The Hunger and the Rats
By his third day in Braavos, Jon Snow was no longer a boy; he was a stomach with legs.
His wages from Captain Torren were gone. Braavos was expensive. A loaf of bread cost three times what it did in White Harbor. A bowl of clam chowder took his last two silvers.
He wandered into a poorer district that In the morning, he wandered into a poorer district where the buildings leaned precariously, and the plaster peeled like dead skin. The canals were darker, slick with waste and oil.
Ragman's Harbor. Even the name tasted of defeat.
The smell of baking bread stopped him in his tracks. It was coming from a vendor's stall—warm, yeasty, overpowering. Jon's mouth watered so painfully it hurt his jaw.
He stood in the shadow of an alley, watching.
That was when he saw them.
They were a pack. Four children, none older than twelve, moving through the market with the coordination of a military unit.
Jon watched, fascinated. A girl with tangled hair dropped a basket of apples. As the vendor shouted and moved to help her, a boy slipped in from the other side. His hand was a blur. Two loaves of bread vanished into his tunic. A third child, a small boy with a limp, whistled sharply.
The pack scattered. They didn't run; they vanished. They slipped into alleys, climbed drainpipes, and melded into the shadows.
Jon's stomach twisted. He was Ned Stark's son. He had been raised on honor. We do not steal.
We do not starve, Marcus's memory countered cold and hard. Honor is a luxury for the fed.
Jon looked at a fishmonger's stall. The man was haggling with a wealthy merchant, his back turned to a crate of smoked herring.
Father, forgive me.
Jon moved.
He didn't use the full Thunder Breathing—he didn't have the calorie reserves for it—but he used the footwork. Slide. Step. Silent.
He was at the crate. His hand snatched a herring. Cold, oily, real.
He turned to slip away.
tweet!
A sharp whistle cut the air.
"That's our mark, Wolf-boy!"
Jon spun. Three children blocked the alley exit.
The leader was a boy of perhaps twelve, lean and wiry, with skin the color of teak and eyes that were black beads. He held a wooden club—a table leg with a nail driven through it. Beside him was the girl who had dropped the apples, twirling a small, rusted knife.
"I didn't know," Jon said, backing up until his heels hit the canal wall. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry doesn't fill the belly," the leader said. His Braavosi accent was thick, he chewed the words. "That fish was in our territory. You pay the tax."
"I have nothing else."
The boy grinned. "Then we take the fish. We also took your boots with us. And maybe a finger for the insult."
"Tagan," the girl warned softly. "He's cornered. Cornered rats bite."
"He's not a rat," Tagan sneered. "Look at him. Soft hands. He wore highborn clothes, despite their dirtiness. He's a lost puppy."
Tagan lunged.
It was a clumsy strike, a wide swing of the club meant to intimidate.
Jon didn't think. The Thunder cracked in his veins.
Inhale.
Jon dropped below the swing. He didn't retreat; he surged forward. He drove his shoulder into Tagan's solar plexus.
Oof.
Tagan doubled over. Jon swept his leg, hooking Tagan's ankle. The older boy hit the cobblestones hard.
The girl gasped and slashed with the knife.
Jon pivoted. Water Breathing: Flowing Dance. He moved like liquid, the knife missing his nose by an inch. He grabbed her wrist, not to break it, but to guide it away. He shoved her gently, sending her stumbling into the third boy.
Silence descended on the alley.
Jon stood panting, his small fists raised in a guard position that no Westerosi knight would recognize. Tagan lay on the ground, gasping for air.
"I would rather not fight," Jon said, his voice trembling. "I just want to eat."
Tagan rolled over, coughing. He looked up at Jon. There was no anger in his eyes, only surprise. And respect.
"Fast," Tagan wheezed. "You're fast."
He sat up, rubbing his chest. "You fight like a water dancer, but in a different way." Stranger."
"Instinct," Jon lied.
Tagan stood up, dusting off his breeches. He looked at the girl. "Put the knife away, Lanna."
He turned back to Jon. "You kept the fish?"
Jon looked at his left hand. He was still clutching the smoked herring. He hadn't dropped it even during the fight.
Tagan laughed. It was a genuine sound. "Alright. You pass."
"Pass?"
"We needed to know if you were useless," Tagan said. "Ragman's Harbor eats the useless. But you... you have teeth."
He extended a hand. "I'm Tagganaro. Tagan. This is Lanna. The lump you threw her into is Tommard."
Jon hesitated, then took the hand. "I'm Jon."
"Well, Jon," Tagan grinned, revealing a chipped tooth. "Welcome to the Cana Rats. We share the food. We watch the backs. You in?"
Jon looked at the lonely alley, the cold sky, and then at the three dirty, grinning faces.
"I'm in."
Life in the Gutter
They lived in a boathouse that had half-collapsed into the silt of the canal. The floor was tilted at a ten-degree angle, and the roof leaked, but it was dry-ish and hidden from the City Watch.
For the next two weeks, this was Jon Snow's world.
He learned the rhythm of the streets. He learned that the baker on Ragman's Lane threw out stale loaves at sunset, but only if you didn't look him in the eye. He learned that the Bravos who dueled by the Moon Pool would sometimes toss coins to children who cheered for them. He learned that the Gold Cloaks of the City Watch were slow and corrupt, but the Iron Bank's guards were to be avoided at all costs.
Tagan was the king of this little kingdom. He was sharp, cynical, and fiercely protective.
"Why run, Jon?" Tagan askOne night as they shared a stolen wheel of firm cheese. The rain hammered against the roof. "You have the appearance of someone born in a castle." Did you kill someone?"
"No," Jon said, picking at the cheese. "My stepmother... she feared me."
"Feared you?" Lanna laughed from her corner, where she was sharpening her knife. "You're smaller than a goblin."
"She feared what I could do," Jon murmured.
He didn't explain. He didn't tell them about the thunder in his blood or the memories of a man from a world of metal carriages.
"Parents are rubbish," Tommard grunted. "My father sold me to a mummer's troupe in exchange for a bottle of wine." I ran away the first night."
"W"We are your family now," Tagan said firmly. "The Rats take care of their own."
Jon felt a lump in his throat. It was true. In Winterfell, he had been the Bastard. The Outsider. Here, among thieves and castoffs, he was just Jon.
But he knew it couldn't last. Every night, before sleep took him, Marcus's memories pulled him East.
Yi Ti, the wind whispered. The Jade Sea. The mountains where the sun rises.
The Fishmonger and the Sword
One morning, the Rats targeted a new stall near the Purple Harbor. It belonged to a man named Brusco, a fishmonger with shoulders like an ox and a face like a battered shield.
"Easy mark," Tagan whispered. "He's slow. Jon, you distract. Lanna, you grab."
Jon approached the stall. "Fresh oysters?" he asked, trying to sound like a paying customer.
Brusco turned. He didn't look at the oysters. He looked straight at Jon.
"You're the new one," Brusco rumbled. "The fast one Tagan picked up."
Jon froze. "I don't know what—"
"Save it." Brusco's hand shot out.
Jon flinched, expecting a blow. Instead, Brusco tossed him an oyster. Jon caught it instinctively.
"Fast hands," Brusco nodded. "Too swift for thieving. It's a waste."
"A man has to eat," Jon said defensively.
"A man can work," Brusco countered. "I need a boy. Someone to haul crates, ice the catch, run deliveries. Honest work. Honest coin. And fish to take home."
Jon stared at him. "Why?"
"Because my back hurts," Brusco grunted. "I also dislike witnessing potential waste away." Five coppers a day. And soup."
Jon looked back at the alley where Tagan was hiding. Tagan nodded slowly. Take it.
"I'll do it," Jon said.
Working for Brusco was harder than thieving, but it felt cleaner. Jon hauled crates of cod until his arms shook. He scrubbed scales from the cobblestones. He learned to shuck oysters without slicing his thumb.
It was during a delivery to a large manse near the Sealord's Palace that it happened.
The courtyard was filled with the sound of wooden swords clacking. A man was teaching a girl—barely older than Jon—how to move. The man was bald, beak-nosed, and moved like water flowing over stone.
Jon stopped, the crate of clams heavy in his arms. He watched.
"Left!" the man barked. "You look with your eyes. Look with your senses!"
The girl stumbled.
Jon twitched. His body knew the correction. Shift weight to the back foot. Pivot on the heel.
The man stopped. He turned his head slowly and looked at Jon.
"Boy," the man said. "Do you deliver clams, or do you just deliver stares?"
"Clams," Jon said, stepping forward.
"You see something?" The man gestured to the girl. "You think you can do better?"
"She is off balance," Jon said before he could stop himself. "Her weight is too far forward."
The girl glared at him. The man smiled. It was a terrifying smile.
"Come here."
Jon set the crate down.
"Attack me," the man said. He held a wooden stick.
"I have no sword."
"You have hands. Attack."
Jon hesitated, then lunged. He didn't use breathing techniques. He just used the basic forms Marcus had learned ais a recruit. A straight punch, feint, kick.
The man tapped Jon's wrist, his ankle, his shoulder. Tap. Tap. Tap. Jon ended up face-first in the dust.
"Slow," the m said. "Heavy. But..." He tilted his head. "You see the water. You just do not know how to become it."
"Who are you?" Jon asked, wiping dirt from his face.
"I am Syrio Forel," the man said. "And you are late with your clams."
Jon picked up the crate and ran. But as he left, he felt Syrio's eyes on his back, weighing and measuring him.
Water Dance, Marcus thought. It is similar to Water Breathing. But softer. Fluid.
The Conjurer's Prophecy
It was a month later that Jon met Cossomo.
Cossomo was a conjurer from the East, a man who wore robes of seven colors and painted his face with saffron. He performed in the square near the Moon Pool, breathing fire and making coins vanish.
Jon was passing by, exhausted from a double shift with Brusco, when the fire caught his eye.
The flames in Cossomo's hands weren't just orange. They were green. Blue. Red.
The colors were reminiscent of the Nichirin blades.
Jon stopped.
Cossomo finished his performance to applause and scattered coins. As the crowd dispersed, he fixed his eyes on Jon.
"You stare hard, little Northman," Cossomo said, wiping greasepaint from his brow.
"Your fire," Jon said. "How do you make it change color?"
"Powders," Cossomo winked. "Chemicals from Yi Ti. Trickery."
"Yi Ti," Jon breathed. The name sent a shiver down his spine.
Cossomo paused. He looked at Jon more closely. "You know the name?"
"I dream of it," Jon admitted. It sounded crazed, but he said it anyway. "I dream of jade palaces. Of mountains that touch the clouds. Of swords that burn like the sun."
Cossomo's playfulness vanished. He beckoned Jon closer.
"Dreams are heavy things to carry," the conjurer said softly. "Especially for one so small."
"I have to go there."
"It is the end of the world, boy. Beyond the Dothraki Sea. Beyond the Bone Mountains. It is a land of sorcerers and god-emperors."
"I know."
Cossomo reached into his robe and pulled out a small, strange coin. It was square, with a hole in the center, made of heavy jade.
"I found this treasure in the shadow of the F"I have Forts," Cossomo said. "It is old. Older than Braavos."
He pressed it into Jon's hand.
"If you go East, heed this warning: The shadow is growing long there. The spirits are restless. If you seek the light, you must be prepared to burn."
Jon clutched the jade coin. It felt warm.
"I am already burning," Jon whispered.
The Departure
Jon knew he couldn't stay. Brusco offered him a permanent place. Tagan offered him a brotherhood. Syrio Forel watched him with interest.
But the pull was too strong. The Thunder inside him needed a storm.
He found a caravan leaving for Pentos. A merchant named Quarro needed sharp eyes.
Jon went to the boathouse one last time.
"I'm leaving," he told them.
The Rats went silent.
"You're crazy," Tommard said, spitting on the floor. "You have a job. You have food."
"I have a path," Jon said.
Tagan stood up. The leader of the Rats looked older than his twelve years.
"I knew you wouldn't stick," Tagan said. "You're a wolf, not a rat."
"I wanted to say goodbye."
Tagan walked over. For a second, Jon thought he might hit him. Instead, Tagan pulled him into a rough hug.
"Don't die," Tagan whispered fiercely. "If you die, I'll come to the underworld and kick your arse."
"I won't die."
"Take this." Lanna shoved a small bundle into his hands. It was a dried sausage and a small, rusted dagger. "For the road."
Jon looked at his mismatched family. The thieves. The unwanted.
"Thank you," he choked out. "For everything."
He turned and ran before the tears could fall.
The Road to Pentos
The caravan moved like a sluggish snake along the coast road. Six wagons, twelve guards, and one small boy perched atop a pile of carpets.
The journey was a lesson in scale. The world was huge. The flatlands stretched forever, dusty and brown.
Jon earned his keep. He spotted a rockslide before the lead wagon hit it. He heard the approach of riders long before the guards did.
"Dothraki," the guard captain, a scarred Tyroshi, spat as three horsemen appeared on the ridge.
TThe caravan halted. The guards drew bows.
Jon watched the riders. They were shirtless, their skin like copper, their hair in long braids with bells that chimed in the wind. They sat their horses as if they were born in the saddle.
Screamers, Marcus's memory supplied. Light cavalry. Hit and run. Deadly with a bow.
The riders watched them for a long, tense minute. Then, the leader shouted something, wheeled his horse, and galloped away.
"Scouts," the captain muttered. "We got lucky. The Dothraki must be far from their khalasar.
Jon let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
The world is full of monsters, he thought. And I am just a boy with a dull knife.
But then he touched his chest, feeling the rhythm of his heart.
Inhale. Exhale.
I am the thunder.
Pentos and the Chain
They reached Pentos at sunset on the tenth day.
If Braavos was a city of water and song, Pentos was a city of brick and gold. It was warmer here, the air thick with the scent of blooming flowers and rotting fruit.
But as the caravan rolled through the gates, Jon saw the difference.
Men in collars were hauling stones. Women in chains weeping silently as they were auctioned in the square.
Slaves.
Jon's blood ran cold. In Braavos, slavery was death. Here, it was life.
"Don't look so sour, boy," Quarro said, handing Jon a pouch of silver stags—his pay. "It is the way of the world."
"It's wrong," Jon said.
"It is Pentos." Quarro shrugged. "You are free. Be grateful."
Jon took his coin. He walked away from the caravan, finding a cheap inn near the harbor.
He sat on the narrow bed, looking out the window toward the east.
Below, in the common room, travelers were talking.
"...heard from Westeros?"
"Aye. The Greyjoy Rebellion is crushed. Balon bent the knee to Robert Baratheon."
"And the North?"
"Quiet. Lord Stark is back in Winterfell. They say he held a feast."
Jon closed his eyes. Father is safe. Robb is safe.
A tear slipped down his cheek. They are celebrating. And I am here, alone.
But he wasn't alone.
He opened his hand. The jade coin CossoMo had given him a satchel that fit in his palm.
Yi Ti, he thought. The Golden Empire.
He stood up. He practiced his breathing. The thunder crackled, comforting and terrifying.
He was Jon Snow. He was Marcus Chen. He was a traveler on the Golden Road.
And he would not stop until he found the sunrise.