The letter felt heavier than parchment should as Jon made his way through Pentos's merchant district. Quarro's seal had opened doors—guards stepped aside, toll collectors waved him through—but Jon knew the real test would come when he met Belicho Staegone.
The morning sun painted the red brick buildings of Pentos a glorious, burning gold, but the light could not hide the rot beneath.
Slaves were everywhere.
They were part of the architecture, as ubiquitous as the bricks and the mortar. Branded faces, collared necks, eyes that had learned to look at nothing. A woman scrubbed the steps of a manse while an overseer watched, a whip coiled like a sleeping snake at his hip. A boy, younger than Jon, hauled two massive buckets of water on a yoke across his shoulders, his thin arms trembling with the effort.
In Braavos, people were free, Jon thought, his stomach churning with a mix of pity and revulsion. Starving, yes. Cold, yes. But they belonged to themselves. Here, they are cattle.
Marcus Chen's memories surged, unbidden. He remembered history books about the American South, about the Spartan Helots. He remembered the feeling of helplessness.
"Power," Marcus whispered. Without power, you cannot break the chains.
The warehouse of the Staegone family sprawled across half a block near the harbor. Banners of orange and purple silk hung limp in the morning heat, depicting a tiger roaring in silence—all fangs and fury.
Guards stopped him at the gate. One was a free man with a curved sword and an oiled beard. The other was a spear-wielding slave with a bronze collar.
"I have a letter for Master Belicho," Jon said. He spoke in High Valyrian, the words rolling off his tongue with the practiced ease of a scholar. "From Quarro of Braavos."
The free guard squinted down at him. "A child?"
"A messenger," Jon corrected, standing as tall as his six years allowed. "Will you tell him, or shall I find someone who will?"
The guard's eyes narrowed, but the accent—pure, highborn Valyrian—gave him pause. He gestured to the slave. "Take him."
The warehouse interior was a cathedral of commerce. It was cool and dark, stacked to the rafters with crates that smelled of cinnamon, cloves, saffron, and silk. Jon followed the slave through a maze of goods until they reached an office that might have been lifted straight from the ruins of Old Valyria.
Purple drapes muffled the sounds of the harbor. Dragon motifs were carved into the ebony desk. And behind it sat a man who looked like he had stepped out of the histories Marcus had studied.
Belicho Staegone had the silver-streaked hair and violet eyes that marked the blood of the Dragonlords. He was not a prince, but he carried himself like an emperor in exile. He read Quarro's letter with the careful, predatory attention of a man who knew that fortunes turned on details.
"You read High Valyrian, boy?" He asked the question in that ancient tongue, his voice smooth as oil.
"Yes, Master," Jon responded in kind.
"Not Master Belicho." The merchant's eyes sharpened with interest. "And you are well-spoken for... what are you? Six?"
"Nearly seven," Jon lied smoothly. "And I learn fast."
Belicho slid a manifest across the polished desk. "Quarro says you are useful. He says you have eyes that see what others miss. Prove it. Find the errors."
Jon picked up the parchment. It was a cargo list for a ship bound for Volantis.
Marcus's analytical mind engaged automatically. It was like switching vision modes. The numbers danced into patterns, revealing their flaws like enemies showing their openings in a duel.
"Three discrepancies," Jon said after a moment, tapping the paper. "First, this cargo weight is impossible for the class of vessel listed—you would sink before you cleared the harbor. Second, this route avoids the Stepstones but adds two weeks to the journey, making your perishable spices worthless. And third, this tariff calculation is wrong by thirty gold dragons."
Belicho's eyebrows rose. A slow smile spread across his face.
"How did you... You are educated. Highborn?"
"I learned from someone who knew much," Jon said carefully.
"Mysterious. I like that." Belicho leaned back, steepling his fingers. He studied Jon like he was calculating his worth in gold per ounce. "Very well. I sail to Volantis in three days. You will work as a cabin boy and translator when needed. In exchange—passage, food, and small wages."
"I accept. Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," Belicho warned. "The journey is long, and the Rhoyne is... troubled. The river remembers things it should have forgotten."
Something flickered in those violet eyes. Fear? Respect?
"But you will earn your keep, little wolf."
The Tiger's Pride
Three days later, Jon stood on the deck of Belicho's ship, watching the domes of Pentos shrink behind them.
The Tiger's Pride was a proper Volantene cog, sleek and dangerous. Her prow was carved in the shape of a snarling tiger, painted in orange and black, cutting through the Summer Sea as they turned south toward the mouth of the Rhoyne.
"Ever sailed a great river?" Belicho asked, joining him at the rail. He wore robes of silk that fluttered in the breeze.
"The White Knife, in the North," Jon said. "But not like the Rhoyne."
"The White Knife is a trickle," Belicho scoffed gently. "The Rhoyne is a god. It is ancient. It remembers the Rhoynar, before the Valyrians descended on dragons of fire and drowned them. Some say the water itself mourns."
"That is superstition," Jon said, though Marcus's memories of spirits and demons made him unsure.
"Perhaps. But fear it nonetheless."
The crew was a motley collection of humanity. There were free sailors from Volantis with their tattooed faces, hired swords from Myr with crossbows on their backs, and below decks, the rowers—slaves.
One man stood out among the free crew. Yezzan was a Ghiscari, a man with skin like burnished copper and gentle eyes that sat strangely in a face scarred by pit fighting.
"You are small," Yezzan said when they were introduced, looking at Jon's hands. "Stay close to me if trouble comes. The river pirates like to take children for the pleasure houses in Lys."
"I can handle myself," Jon said, touching the bone-handled knife at his belt.
Yezzan's smile was sad. "I am sure you can. But still."
On the fifth day, as they entered the massive delta of the Rhoyne, the air changed. It grew heavy, humid, and thick with the scent of decaying vegetation and wet earth.
Jon was sent to the lower hold to check the wine casks. It was dim and close down there, smelling of tar and old wood.
He was counting casks of Arbor Gold when his Beast Breathing: Seventh Form twitched.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
A heartbeat. Quick with fear. Maelor hid behind a stack of crates near the rudder.
Jon stopped. He let his breath out slowly.
"I know you are there," he said quietly to the shadows. "Come out."
Silence.
Jon approached carefully, his hand resting on his knife. He rounded the crates.
A flash of movement.
Jon reacted instantly, dodging back, but not before cold steel pressed against his throat.
"Make a sound," a voice hissed, "and I will open you up."
Kerys
She should have killed him immediately. That was the smart play—silence the boy, dump the body in the bilge, and pray she wasn't discovered until Volantis. She had killed before. She would do it again to stay free.
But something in those grey eyes stopped her from acting. They were Northern eyes, like winter storms, but they held no fear. Only calculation.
"You are a runaway," the boy said. His voice was calm. Too calm.
Kerys blinked. "How—?"
"The brand on your wrist," the boy said, nodding slightly. "Myrish mark. A pleasure slave?"
Clever boy. Dangerous boy.
"Now what?" she snarled, pressing the knife harder against his skin. A bead of blood welled up. "Are you going to turn me in for a reward?" Scream for the master?"
"No," the boy said.
The simple word hit her like a physical blow.
"Why?"
"Because slavery is evil," the boy said. "I have 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. He looked like a noble's son playing dress-up.
"You are Westerosi. You wouldn't understand."
"Maybe," Jon said. "But I understand what it means to run from people who want to hurt you." I understand being hunted."
There was such old pain in that young voice that Kerys found herself wavering.
"If you are not turning me in, what do you want?"
"Nothing," Jon said. "But you need food and water. I can sneak it to you."
"Why would you help?" she asked, suspicious.
"Because it is right."
Kerys laughed bitterly. "There is no 'right' in this world, boy. Only survival. Only masters and slaves."
"Then I will help you survive."
He meant it, she realized with a jolt of wonder. This foolish child actually meant it.
She lowered the knife completely. "My name is Kerys."
"I'm Jon."
The Sorrows
The Rhoyne changed as they sailed deeper into the continent. The delta's broad, brown waters narrowed, and the jungle pulled back to reveal the bones of a dead civilization.
Ruins began to appear along the banks—broken towers reaching toward the sky like skeletal fingers, shattered bridges that ended in mid-air, and palace walls covered in creeping vines that looked too much like grasping hands.
"We pass the Sorrows," Belicho announced to the crew, his voice tight. "Stay on the ship. Don't look at the ruins too long. And whatever you do, do not touch the water."
Jon stood at the rail. His Beast Breathing was screaming at him. The air tasted of ash and iron. The water felt... wrong. It felt heavy with malice.
Demons, Marcus's memory whispered. This place feels like the Infinity Castle. It reeks of death.
"What happened here?" Jon asked Yezzan during the night watch.
The Ghiscari's scarred face was grim in the moonlight. "Valyria happened. The Dragonlords burned the Rhoynar alive. They killed the 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 went mad with grief. It became the Sorrows."
At dawn, the fog lifted, and they saw them.
The Stone Men.
They stood on the eastern bank like statues, grey against the green ruin. But statues didn't breathe. Their skin was cracked like dry old mud, weeping pus from the fissures. They moved slowly, purposefully, watching the ship pass with eyes that held too much intelligence for the mindless monsters the stories claimed them to be.
"Living but not alive," Jon whispered, gripping the rail until his knuckles were white. "Worse than death."
From the cargo hold, Kerys's voice drifted up through the floorboards in his memory: That is what happens to slaves who displease their masters. They were thrown to the Sorrows to die slowly.
Jon looked at the grey figures. How many had once been human? How many had been fathers, mothers, or children?
This world is broken, he thought. And I am just one boy.
One man ended slavery in Haiti, Marcus's memory argued. One woman's book turned an empire against it. One person can begin the avalanche.
But they had power, Jon argued back. I have nothing.
"You have the breath," Marcus said. You have the knowledge of three worlds. That is not nothing.
The slave market in Myr made Pentos look like a nursery.
Jon accompanied Belicho into the square, ostensibly to help translate and carry purchases. What Jon found was a hellish scene adorned with silk and perfume.
Hundreds of human beings stood on auction blocks. Men with muscles like corded wood. Women with terrified eyes. Children.
An auctioneer called out prices with the enthusiasm of someone selling fine cattle. "Prime Lyseni girl! Trained in the seven signs! Opening bid fifty gold dragons."
A mother screamed as her child was torn from her arms and sold to a different buyer. The sound cut through Jon like a Nichirin blade.
"He is a person," Jon found himself saying as Belicho examined a carpenter's teeth.
"Of course," Belicho replied absently. "A person who is property."
"That is wrong."
"It is the world, boy. You cannot change it."
"Someone has to."
Belicho sighed, looking down at him. "Idealism is the luxury of the powerless. When you have power, then you can judge."
But Jon's control snapped ten minutes later.
A slaver was whipping a child—a boy no older than Jon—for the crime of dropping a package. The whip rose and fell, crack-crack-crack. Blood spattered the dusty ground. The child's cries grew weaker.
Jon moved without thinking.
Thunder Breathing.
He crossed twenty feet in a heartbeat. He caught the whip mid-strike, snatching the leather thong from the air.
The square went silent.
"Unhand my property!" the slaver snarled, a fat man with a greasy beard.
"He is a CHILD!" Jon roared.
Belicho was there instantly. He gripped Jon's shoulder with a hand like iron.
"Apologies, master," Belicho said smoothly to the slaver. "The boy is new. He is... simple. He does not understand the customs."
He dragged Jon away before the situation could escalate. But as they left, Jon looked back. The child slave was staring at him. His eyes were not dead. They were alive with gratitude.
Back on the ship, Jon couldn't stop shaking.
"I hate this," he whispered. "I HATE this."
"Don't ever do that again," Belicho said sharply, pouring himself a goblet of wine. "You could have been enslaved yourself or killed."
"I don't care."
"You should. Dead or enslaved, you help no one. Control yourself, Jon Snow."
"How do you live with it?" Jon asked, staring at the merchant.
Belicho's violet eyes softened slightly. "By accepting what I cannot change, you will learn."
"No," Jon said. His voice was steel. "I won't. I will never accept this."
That night, bringing food to Kerys, Jon was still trembling with rage.
"You saw the markets," she said softly.
"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, Jon."
"Then what does?"
"Power," she said simply. "Gold is to buy freedom. Maelor used steel to seize the opportunity. You can use your influence to change laws. Without one of those, you are just another idealist who dies young."
Maelor
The slaver caught up with them as they approached the harbor of Volantis.
Jon saw the galley approaching fast, flying Myrish colors. His blood went cold.
He ran to the hold. Kerys was pale.
"They found me," she whispered.
"I won't let them take you."
"You are a child. What can you do against armed slavers?"
Jon didn't have an answer.
Maelor came aboard with six men. He was handsome, dressed in black leather and silver. His smile never reached his eyes.
"I seek a runaway slave," he announced to Belicho. "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 the deck, she fought like a wildcat, biting and scratching. But six men were too many.
"Let her go," Jon said, stepping forward.
Maelor looked at him with amusement. "A child? How entertaining."
"She is a person, not property."
"Ah, Westerosi idealism. Charming. But irrelevant." Maelor studied Jon. "You are protective. How much is she worth to you? You would fetch a good price yourself—young, strong, pretty."
Jon's muscles coiled. Thunder Breathing.
Yezzan gripped his shoulder. "Not here," the Ghiscari whispered. "Not now. Too many."
But Jon memorized Maelor's face. He memorized the way he moved. He memorized where he wore his blade.
Tonight, he promised himself as Maelor's ship pulled away with Kerys screaming. I will come for you tonight.
The Kill
Volantis rose from the mouth of the Rhoyne like a fever dream of stone and gold. The Black Walls loomed over the harbor, older than memory.
They docked as the sun set. Maelor's ship was three berths down.
"I'm going after her," Jon told Yezzan.
"That is suicide."
"I don't care."
Yezzan studied him for a long moment. Then he sighed. "Then I am coming. Someone needs to keep you alive."
They waited until the darkest hour of the night.
Jon used Beast Breathing to map the ship. Two guards on deck. One below.
He moved like Marcus had taught him—Shinobi steps. Thunder Breathing to muffle the impact.
The first guard went down to a chokehold from Yezzan, unconscious before he hit the deck.
But the second saw them.
"Alarm! Intruders!"
The ship erupted. Men poured from below deck.
Yezzan fought three at once, his scarred hands moving with the deadly precision of a pit fighter.
Jon faced four.
And for the first time in his life, he didn't hold back.
Thunder Breathing: First Form.
He blurred.
He moved between their strikes. He broke an arm. He kicked a knee backward. He sent a man flying into the harbor water.
"What IS he?!" someone screamed.
Then Maelor emerged from the cabin, sword drawn. "The idealistic boy! Come to die for your principles?"
He was swift. Trained. Deadly.
Jon barely avoided the first strike. The blade whistled past his ear, cutting a lock of his hair. The second caught his sleeve, drawing blood.
He is going to kill me, Jon realized. He is faster than me.
Use the hybrid, Marcus whispered. Thunder for speed. Beast for instinct.
Jon closed his eyes for a fraction of a second.
The world slowed. He could feel the air shifting as Maelor prepared to lunge. He could smell the man's sweat.
Jon flowed inside Maelor's guard. He picked up a dropped dagger from the deck.
He moved faster than thought.
The blade went in easier than he expHe was ejected upwards, piercing through the ribs and into the heart.
Maelor's eyes widened. Surprise. Thea pain. Then nothing.
He collapsed. Blood pooled black in the moonlight.
Jon stared at the dagger in his hand. The sight of so much blood soaking his tunic was unsettling.
"Jon! We have to GO!" Yezzan's shout broke through his shock.
They freed Kerys from the brig and fled into the maze of Volantis's streets.
In a dark alley, miles away, Jon collapsed against a wall. He was shaking violently.
"I killed him," he whispered.
"Yes," Kerys said. She was bruised but alive. "And you saved me."
"I am a murderer."
"You are a warrior," Yezzan corrected gently. "There is a difference."
"But—Robb would be ashamed. Father would—"
"Your father isn't here," Kerys said fiercely, grabbing his face. "This isn't the North. This is survival. Maelor hurt hundreds. He destroyed lives. You stopped him. That is not murder. That is justice."
"Justice feels like blood," Jon said bitterly. "It feels like guilt."
"The first kill is always the hardest," Yezzan said. "You will remember him forever."
"Good," Jon said. "I should remember. So I never forget what it means to take a life."
Volantis at Dawn
The Long Bridge of Volantis stretched across the Rhoyne, a massive structure covered in shops, homes, and temples.
Jon stood at its center as dawn broke. He watched Volantis wake up 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," the merchant said quietly.
Jon tensed. "Are you—?"
"Turning you in? No. Maelor was scum. And you defended someone under your protection. That is... honorable, in its way."
"You aren't angry?"
"Disappointed you were reckless. I'm impressed you survived. Both." Belicho handed him a sealed letter. "I sail for Braavos next week. You are welcome aboard, but I know y"You won't come with me. This is for a merchant in New Ghis." He will give you passage to Slaver's Bay."
"Why help me?"
"Because you are unusual. Perhaps special. And the world needs special people, even if it tries to crush them." Belicho's violet eyes were serious. "Jon Snow, heed this: the East is more dangerous than here. Dothraki. Slavers. Warlocks. You have skills, but you are still a child."
"I know."
"Then be smart. Learn when to fight and when to flee. And remember—power without wisdom is just violence."
"I will remember."
"Good. Go find your Yi Ti. Maybe you will make a difference there."
After Belicho left, Jon stood alone on the bridge.
He could still feel Maelor's blood on his hands, though he had washed them a dozen times.
I killed a man. I am seven years old, and I am a killer.
Marcus's memory 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 have lost yourself.
Jon turned east. Toward the rising sun.
Somewhere beyond the horizon lay Slaver's Bay—Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen. Cities built on chains. Then Qarth. Eventually, he reached the Jade Sea.
He was seven. He had crossed seas and rivers. He had stolen. He had fought. He had killed.
He carried the memories of Marcus Chen—three lifetimes of knowledge, combat, and loss. And now he carried his scars.
"The only way forward is through," Marcus whispered.
Jon took a deep breath.
Inhale. Water for endurance.
Hold. Thunder for power.
Exhale. Beast for instinct.
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.
He would breathe. And the world would feel it.