Chapter Text
Jon stared out at the endless blue horizon, the rhythmic slap of waves against the hull doing nothing to calm his roiling stomach. His hands gripped the railing of the ship, knuckles white as he fought the seasickness that had plagued him since they set sail. The food didn’t help. Salted meat and stale bread—he could hardly stomach it. How could anyone get used to this?
He hated the sea, hated the way it churned both beneath and within him. But more than anything, Jon hated the questions that came with it, the thoughts that gnawed at him with every passing day.
He wasn't meant for this life.
A bastard with nothing to inherit, no name, and no place in the world. His uncle had tried to make him understand that early on. Jon remembered how Ned Stark would look at him sometimes—like he was some duty that weighed too heavily on his heart, something that had to be managed. And Lady Stark... Her icy glares, the way she spoke to him when she had to, with barely concealed disgust. It would have been easier for them all if Jon had just joined the Night’s Watch like his uncle had once proposed. A simple, honorable solution to rid Winterfell of its embarrassing secret. He could still hear her voice in his head, urging Ned to send him away.
Of course, she would have liked that.
He’d almost gone, too. Maybe he should have. But that wasn’t the life he wanted. Jon had never asked to be born this way, to bear the shame of someone else’s mistakes. And yet, here he was, carrying it with him across the sea to a land that didn’t even know his name.
His stomach twisted, and this time, it wasn’t just the sea. His thoughts turned to his mother—the woman who had brought him into this world but had left him with nothing but questions. She had been a foolish girl, a dumb teenager swept up in a love she didn’t understand. And his father... He was no better. A lovesick fool obsessed with prophecy. A man who had sacrificed everything for the sake of a doomed dream—dragons and fire and the fall of a great house.
Jon clenched his fists, feeling the bitterness well up in his throat. He was supposed to be a part of that legacy, wasn’t he? The Targaryens. House of the Dragon. And yet, what did he have to show for it? His father’s paranoia had led to the destruction of everything. And now, here Jon was, sacrificing himself for a world that would never love him. Sacrificing his own comfort, his own desires, for the sake of those who didn’t care whether he lived or died.
He had tried. Tried to be what his 'father', his uncle, his family had needed. He had given up so much for the sake of peace. For Robb, for Lord Stark, for Arya. But what had it ever gotten him? He was still a bastard for others, still the one on the outside looking in. Even after all that, his uncle hadn’t bothered to send anyone to check on him. Ned Stark hadn’t even cared enough to send scouts when Jon had left the North. What did that say about his worth?
The anger bubbled up in him, hot and fierce. And like always, there was someone nearby for him to lash out at.
Jojen had been the target of Jon’s temper more than once during the journey. The boy’s cryptic mutterings about the future and his dreams grated on Jon’s nerves more than usual. It didn’t help that Jojen always seemed so calm, so sure of everything, while Jon felt like his world was spinning out of control.
“You don’t know what it’s like!” Jon had shouted at him earlier, his voice breaking through the quiet of the ship’s cabin. Jojen had merely looked up at him with those steady eyes, offering no retort, no argument. It only made Jon angrier. “Stop talking about what’s going to happen. You don’t know anything about me!”
The words had hung in the air, sharp and cutting. Meera, already seasick and pale, had winced at the sound, her discomfort made worse by Jon’s temper. He’d snapped at her, too, though the reasons were less clear. She hadn’t done anything but exist in the wrong place at the wrong time. But Jon was angry—angry at everything—and Meera just happened to be there.
The apologies came later, of course. They always did. Half-hearted, mumbled words that did little to take the sting out of his outbursts. “I didn’t mean it,” Jon had muttered under his breath, barely loud enough for either of them to hear. But they both knew it wasn’t really an apology. Just like they knew the anger wasn’t really directed at them.
It didn’t change the fact that Jon was miserable. His head ached, his stomach churned, and the constant rocking of the ship only made it worse. Sleep was no comfort either. His dreams were haunted by fire and blood, by dragons and shadowy figures he couldn’t quite make out. Prophecies, visions—none of it made sense. But the more he thought about it, the more he lost belief in it.
His father had given everything for this. And now, it was Jon’s turn . To hatch the dragon. For a world that hated him, he has to sacrifice his child?
Jon’s grip tightened on the railing as a wave of nausea washed over him. The sea air was supposed to be refreshing, but all it did was remind him of how far he was from home. If he could even call Winterfell that anymore. He wasn’t sure where he belonged. But one thing was clear: he didn’t belong here.
With a low growl, Jon turned from the railing and made his way back inside the ship.
The ship groaned beneath his feet as he walked, and Jon wondered, not for the first time, if they would ever reach their destination.
The ship creaked and groaned under the weight of its cargo as it sliced through the dark waters of the Summer Sea. Jon stood on the deck, his hand resting on the hilt of his longsword, feeling the salt spray on his face, the tang of brine sharp in the air. The crew moved like shadows around him, their low voices carrying on the wind, but he paid them little mind. His thoughts were elsewhere—far from the wooden ship and the endless expanse of water.
His breath misted in the hot air, a reminder of the bitter cold he had left behind at Winterfell. Even in the sweltering Essosi sun, the chill of the Wall never seemed to leave him. He glanced over at Vandis, the great brute of a man who had challenged him earlier. The fight still rang in his bones, a memory that ached as his muscles stiffened from exertion. Vandis was a hulking figure, all bulk and brute force, with the grace of an aurochs on ice. Jon had bested him, as he had done with so many others, but victory brought no satisfaction here.
Jon’s hand tightened around the hilt of his sword as he remembered the clash of steel. Sweat had soaked through his wool and leather as Vandis lumbered toward him, sword held high, a blow that was as clumsy as it was powerful. Jon had moved like water, slipping past the strike and catching Vandis behind the knee with a swift cut. The brute had stumbled, but not fallen. Jon had pressed the attack, feeling the thrill of combat pulse through him, a fleeting moment of dominance over his opponent.
But the victory had been hollow. Vandis might be larger, might have the strength of an ox, but there was no skill in his fighting, no finesse. Jon had won because he was quicker, more disciplined, but the ease of it left him feeling empty.
As the crew went about their duties, Jon found himself thinking back to the Wall. Mīsio vala had chastised him for his arrogance, as he always did. The words echoed in his mind, cutting through the silence of the sea. “What you are is weak,” Mīsio had said, his voice cold as the wind beyond the Wall. Jon had protested—he had won, hadn't he? He had bested every opponent set before him. But Mīsio saw through it. “No. Vandis lost.”
Jon could still feel the sting of those words. Even in Essos, leagues away from the North, from Mīsio’s hard stare and the scornful words that cut deeper than any blade, Jon couldn’t shake the feeling of inadequacy. He had been a boy at the North, untested, untried, but he had thought himself ready. Ready to be a man, ready to be a ranger, ready to prove himself worthy of the Stark blood that ran through his veins, now a Dragon? But now, on this ship, surrounded by strangers.
He sighed, looking out over the endless sea, feeling the weight of his name settle on him once more. Jojen had warned him about life in Essos, about the dangers that lay ahead. “This is not Winterfell,” Jojen had said. “In Essos, a man gets only what he earns.” The world was bigger than Jon had ever imagined, and the sea stretched on, an unforgiving reminder of how small he truly was.
The sound of steel drew Jon’s attention back to the deck, where the crew members were sparring. He recognized them—Nēdenka, Doru-borto, Nākostōbā haeriña, and Dōron bartos—men he had fought alongside, trained with, but never truly known. They were all hardened by their time on the ship, each man with his own scars, his own story. Nēdenka was quick, darting in and out like a shadow, but hesitant when the blows came too close. Doru-borto wielded his sword with the precision of a dagger, light and swift, but lacked the strength to land a killing blow. Nākostōbā haeriña was weak, easily overpowered by anyone with enough force, and Dōron bartos, for all his strength, was slow, leaving himself open to attack.
The sparring ended with Dōron bartos knocking Nākostōbā haeriña to the deck, sending the smaller man sprawling in the floor. Jon stepped forward, his hand still on his sword. The men looked at him with wary eyes, unsure of what he would do. Jon hesitated. He could fight them all again, prove himself once more. But to what end? What would another victory gain him here?
Instead, he turned and walked away, back toward his cabin. He could feel their eyes on him as he left, but he didn’t care. Let them think what they would. He had more important things to consider.
Inside his cabin, the small quarters felt cramped, the walls pressing in on him. Jon sat on the narrow bed, his sword resting beside him, and thought of Winterfell. The cold stone walls, the warmth of the hearth, the smell of pine and snow. He missed it, more than he had thought possible. He missed his brothers—Robb, with his easy smile and quick temper; Bran, always curious, always wanting to join in whatever Jon and Robb were doing; And Arya... he missed her most of all, her wildness, her laughter, her defiance.
Jon closed his eyes, feeling the weight of it all settle on him. The sea, the ship, the crew—it was all so far removed from the life he had known. He had thought he could escape his past, that he could leave Winterfell behind and find his own way, but now, here in the middle of the sea, he realized how much he had lost. His family, his home, his place in the world.
He thought of Jojen, of the cryptic words the boy had spoken before they had left for Essos. “You are not who you think you are,” Jojen had said, his green eyes dark with knowledge Jon could not understand. “There is a greater destiny for you, beyond the Wall, beyond Winterfell. You will not be the boy you were, Jon. You will become something else.”
Jon didn’t know what to make of Jojen’s words, but they haunted him all the same. What was he becoming? What lay ahead in Essos, on this ship, in this foreign land so far from everything he had ever known? He had no answers, only questions that gnawed at him, questions he could not shake.
He lay back on the narrow bed, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the creak of the ship and the distant sound of the waves crashing against the hull. The sea was endless, the horizon always just out of reach.On the ship, Jon’s altercation with Vandis and his group begins with the boy's accusation.
"You broke my wrist, bastard boy," Vandis growled.
Jon looked up, his grey eyes meeting Vandis'. The boy loomed over him, thick-necked and red-faced, with three of his cronies behind him. Jon recognized Newt, short and ugly with his squeaky voice. The other two—rough sailors brought aboard during a stop in the Fingers—were unfamiliar, faceless threats Jon scarcely bothered to remember. He’d kept his distance from them, men without honor who thrived on bullying the weak.
Jon stood, his hand instinctively drifting to his belt. “I’ll break the other one if you ask nicely.”
Vandis was older and taller than Jon, a head at least. The other three weren’t much smaller. It didn’t matter. Jon wasn’t afraid. He’d beaten each of them in the sparring yard, and that knowledge simmered like a fire inside him.
One of the sailors spat. “Maybe we’ll break you.”
“Try,” Jon replied coolly, fingers brushing the hilt of his sword. But he didn’t draw. Not yet.
A hand clamped on his arm, twisting it behind his back before Jon could react. Pain shot through him, but he bit down, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a scream. They may be bigger, but he had fought worse.
“You make us look bad,” Newt muttered, stepping closer, his piggish eyes gleaming with malice.
“You looked bad before I met you,” Jon shot back.
The one holding his arm twisted it harder, sending another sharp bolt of pain down Jon’s spine. Still, he said nothing, only locked eyes with Newt. His opponent smirked, a sick smile twisting his lips.
"The little bastard’s got a mouth on him. Is that your mother’s mouth, bastard?" Newt leaned in, his breath rancid. "What was she? A whore? Tell us her name. Maybe I’ve had her once or twice."
Laughter echoed among the group. Jon’s blood boiled, but his training kept him still. He wouldn’t give them the pleasure of seeing him react.
Quick as a viper, Jon twisted, kicking down on the instep of the sailor holding him. The man cried out, and Jon was free. He lunged at Newt, knocking him back onto a bench and pinning him there, hands wrapped tight around his throat. Jon’s knuckles whitened, the force of his grip slamming Newt’s head back against the hard wood.
The others jumped in. Jon was pulled away and thrown to the floor. Vandis began to kick at him, landing a blow to his ribs. Jon rolled, dodging the next hit when a voice cut through the chaos.
“STOP THIS! NOW!”
Jon looked up, gasping for breath. Ser Barristan stood at the cabin’s entrance, his expression cold as winter steel. The old knight surveyed the scene before stepping inside, his presence alone commanding silence.
“The deck is for fighting,” Ser Barristan growled. “Not my cabin. Take your quarrels there, or I’ll make them my quarrels.”
The room stilled. Newt gingerly touched the back of his head, his fingers coming away slick with blood. “He tried to kill me.”
“He broke my wrist,” Vandis added, thrusting the injured arm forward.
Ser Barristan glanced at it briefly. “A bruise, perhaps a sprain. Nothing more. Healer Āeksio zaldrīzes will see to it.” He nodded toward Newt. “Go with him. You’ll want that head looked after.”
Reluctantly, Vandis and the others trudged out, their eyes promising vengeance. Jon sat, watching them go, his arm aching. When they were gone, Ser Barristan turned his pale blue eyes on Jon.
“ You gain no honors killing him.”
Jon’s anger flared. “He insulted my mother—”
“I heard him,” Ser Barristan cut in. “He said she was a whore. So what?”
Jon’s fists clenched. “My mother was a highborn lady.”
Ser Barristan’s voice was sharp. “Did that prevent your life as a bastard?”
Jon’s face flushed, his anger simmering beneath the surface. “Can I go?”
Ser Barristan caught him by the chin, forcing Jon to meet his eyes. “You’ll leave when I say so.”
Jon scowled but said nothing, watching as the smoke curled from the brazier. Ser Barristan, though older, was still formidable, his presence overwhelming. “Words don’t make your mother a whore,” the knight said, his tone low. “She was what she was, and nothing Newt says can change that. There are men in the Kingsguard whose mothers were whores, and they still stand beside kings.”
Not my mother, Jon thought stubbornly. He knew little of her; Eddard Stark never spoke of her. But in his dreams, she was always beautiful, kind, with the eyes of a noblewoman.
Ser Barristan sighed. “You think you had it hard, being the bastard of a lord?” He gestured toward the door. “Most of these boys have it worse. That one sailor, Egrio, is the son of a tavern wench. And yet, he commands a ship now.”
“I don’t care,” Jon spat. “I don’t care about them, or you, or any of this. I hate it here.”
“It’s hot and hard and mean,” Ser Barristan said. “That’s the world. Not the stories you were told in Winterfell. The sooner you learn that, the better.”
Jon glared at him, refusing to yield. “Life,” he muttered. What did Ser Barristan know of his life? He was a legend, knighted in his sixteenth year. He’d fought in battles Jon could only dream of. Even now, when his glory days were behind him, he was still Ser Barristan the Bold.
Ser Barristan sighed again. “A long life or a short one, it’s up to you, Jon. But keep walking the path you’re on, and one of those men will slit your throat in the night.”
“They hate me because I’m better than they are.”
“No,” Ser Barristan’s voice was firm. “They hate you because you act like you’re better than they are. You shame them. You leave them no pride.”
Jon said nothing, but inside, the knight’s words gnawed at him. He was proud when he won. Why shouldn’t he be? He was younger, smaller, and still bested them in every fight.
Ser Barristan leaned in. “Think on this, Jon. None of them ever had a master-at-arms. They learned to fight in the alleys, aboard ships. You, you had Ser Rodrik Cassel to teach you. You were trained. They weren’t.”
Jon felt his pride falter, the truth of Ser Barristan’s words sinking in. “Don’t call me ‘Lord Snow,’” he muttered.
Ser Barristan shook his head. “You’re a hidden prince, not a lordling. Remember that. Now go.”
By the time Jon left the cabin, the sun hung low in the sky, casting a dim light across the waves. He turned away from the darkness and lifted his gaze to the vast sea, which darkened soon. Even after weeks of travel, the sight still sent shivers down his spine.
“The largest statue ever built by the hands of man,” Ser Barristan had called the Titan, long ago, when they first glimpsed it in the distance. Jon recalled the way Barristan had spoken with such reverence, but even the legendary knight had fallen silent as they approached Braavos, for the great city was a sight to behold, its towers and domes shimmering in the sunlight, announcing itself as the heart of trade and intrigue.
By the time Jon left the cabin, the sun hung high in the sky, casting a brilliant light across the waves. He turned away from the brightness and lifted his gaze to the vast sea, which sparkled like a myriad of gems in the sunlight. Even after weeks of travel, the sight still sent shivers down his spine.
“The largest statue ever built by the hands of man,” Ser Barristan had called the Titan, long ago, when they first glimpsed it in the distance. Jon recalled the way Barristan had spoken with such reverence.
As they sailed closer, the shadow of Braavos loomed in the distance, a city of wonders that promised adventure. Jon remembered his uncle's words; it was not a true castle, but rather a place of opportunity and danger. He could feel the weight of expectation pressing down on him, mingling with his desire for freedom and adventure.
“Wonder what lies beyond,” said a voice that broke Jon's reverie.
“Jojen,” Jon muttered, surprised. “I thought I was alone.”
Jojen Reed stood bundled in warm clothing, his eyes glinting with curiosity. “There’s much to be said for taking in the sights. You never know what you might discover.”
Jon frowned. “You won’t learn anything from me.”
“Oh, I learn things everywhere I go.” Jojen gestured toward the horizon, where the outline of Braavos rose above the sea. “Tell me, what do you hope to find in this city of wonders?”
Jon shrugged. “There’s nothing special. Just bustling markets and strange folk,” he replied, keeping his true desires hidden. He longed for adventure, to wield Darksister in battle, to carve his name into history. But it was better not to speak of such things.
“And the legends of the old city?” Jojen asked, his tone teasing. “Let us not forget those!”
“Don’t call me Snow,” Jon snapped.
“Would you prefer Lord Snow instead?” Jojen raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “Let them see that their words can hurt you, and you’ll never be free of mockery. Take their names, make them your own, and then they cannot harm you.”
As they walked together, Jon felt a familiar warmth in his chest despite his irritation. The wind whipped around them, causing the ship to sway gently. Nearby, the sound of waves crashing against the hull echoed in the stillness.
“I don’t see Darksister,” Jojen said, breaking the silence.
“I’ve kept it safe in the cabin during our training,” Jon replied. “The sword stays close to me, though. I want it at hand when we reach the city.”
“Ah, the blade that belongs to the Targaryens?” Jojen asked, a glimmer of interest in his eyes. “A fine choice, but be cautious. The streets of Braavos hold many secrets.”
Jon nodded, feeling the weight of the sword at his side. “It’s better that I’m prepared,” he said stubbornly. “I’ve faced enough challenges already, and I won’t let my guard down.”
Jojen smiled knowingly. “You’re learning, Jon. But there are whispers that our path will be fraught with more than just swordplay.”
Jon's stomach tightened at the thought of the unknown dangers awaiting them in Braavos. “What if our enemies are waiting?” he admitted, glancing away. The fear of failure gnawed at him. “We’ve already encountered enough trouble on this journey.”
“I hear a good many tales of what lies in wait for those who dare to seek their fortune,” Jojen said thoughtfully, a hint of caution in his voice. “We must remain vigilant.”
Inside the ship, the atmosphere buzzed with anticipation, even as they prepared to disembark in Braavos. Jon accepted a bowl of stew from the cook, the warmth of the food contrasting sharply with the chill around him. He noticed the other crew members gathered nearby, laughing and sharing stories, their camaraderie filling the space with an air of excitement.
For a moment, he hesitated, then chose a spot at the far end of the table, well away from them. He wanted to be alone, to ponder the weight of his identity and the looming uncertainty of the days ahead.
Across from him, Jojen lifted a brow at the stew. “Barley, onion, carrot,” he sniffed, assessing the meal with a critical eye. “Not the finest fare, but it will sustain us.”
“It’s better than nothing,” Jon replied, feeling the warmth rising from the bowl. The smell made his mouth water as he dug in, grateful for the simple comfort it offered.
As he ate, Jon’s thoughts drifted to the future—of Braavos, the mystery of what lay beyond its gates, and the strength he needed to find within himself to face whatever lay ahead.
“Snow.”
I recognized Mīsio Vala’s voice but sensed something different in it, a curious note that made my heart race. I turned slowly, dread pooling in my stomach.
“The old man wants to see you. Now.”
For a moment, I froze in fear. Why would Ser Barristan want to see me? Panic shot through my thoughts. Had they heard something about me? My mind raced, chasing shadows of possibilities. Was I in trouble? “Is it me?” I blurted out. “Am I safe?”
“The knight is not accustomed to waiting,” Vala replied, his tone sharp. “And I am not accustomed to having my commands questioned by bastards.”
Jojen swung off the bench, his presence grounding me. “Stop it, Vala. You’re frightening him.”
“Keep out of matters that don’t concern you, frog. You have no place here.”
I felt my pulse quicken, the tension thick in the air. “I have a place at night, though,” Jojen interjected with a grin. “A word in the right ear, and you’ll die a sour old man before you get another boy to train. Now tell Snow why the old man needs to see him. Is there news of his troubles?”
“No,” Ser Barristan replied, his tone stern. “This is another matter entirely. Something that concerns his family.”
The weight of those words hung in the air, and I felt a sense of dread wash over me. “Something’s happened to the Starks,” I breathed, scrambling to my feet.
Jojen laid a hand on my arm. “Jon,” he said softly, “I am truly sorry.”
I hardly heard him. I brushed off his hand and strode across the deck, urgency driving me forward. I could feel the chill of the sea breeze on my skin as I dashed for the cabin, my mind racing with worry. I took the steps two at a time, my boots thudding against the wooden planks.
When I burst into the presence of Ser Barristan, I was wild-eyed and panting. “Ser,” I gasped, “what does it say about the Starks?”
Barristan, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stood with a raven perched on his arm, feeding it kernels of corn. The bird flapped its wings, startled, and flew to the window, watching us with bright eyes. Before I could speak again, a sailor from White Harbor entered, his face flushed with excitement and urgency.
“Snow!” the sailor called out, his voice cutting through the air. “I bring word from the White Harbour! He’s sent his heir and first daughter to White Harbor for fostering, his little son to the Vale to his grand uncle, Blackfish, and his little daughter to Bear Island. He’s been searching for his Bastard day and night! They say he truly cared for him and loved his mother deeply.”
My heart soared at the news. The thought that my uncle had cared enough to seek me out sent a rush of warmth through me. “He cares,” I whispered, barely able to contain my joy. I had always been made to feel like an outsider, a shadow in my own family, but this news reminded me that I was not entirely alone.
I ran down the stairs, a smile spreading across my face as the news echoed in my mind. “My uncle cares!” I shouted to the guards. They exchanged glances, momentarily surprised.
Bursting back into the common hall, I spotted Jojen just finishing his meal. The joy bubbled inside me as I grabbed him under the arms, hoisting him up into the air. “My uncle cares about me!” I whooped, spinning him around in a circle.
Reed looked startled, his eyes wide as he took in my exuberance. I set Jojen down and thrust the news toward Reed. “Did you hear that?” I urged him. “He cares about me!”
Others were gathering around us, their curiosity piqued by my excitement. I noticed Vandis standing a few feet away, a thick woolen bandage wrapped around his hand. He looked anxious, discomfort etched on his face, but not menacing at all. I walked over to him, my heart still racing with the news I wanted to share.
Vandis edged backward, raising his hands defensively. “Stay away from me now, you bastard.”
I smiled at him, trying to ease the tension. “I’m sorry about your wrist. Robb used the same move on me once, only with a wooden blade. It hurt like seven hells, but yours must be worse. Look, if you want, I can show you how to defend that.”
Vala overheard me. “Lord Snow wants to take my place now,” he sneered, a contemptuous glint in his eye. “I’d have an easier time teaching a wolf to juggle than you will training this aurochs.”
“I’ll take that wager, Vala,” I replied, meeting his gaze without flinching. “I’d love to see a wolf juggle.”
The room fell silent as I heard Vandis suck in his breath, shocked by my boldness. Then Jojen guffawed, breaking the tension. Three of the sailors joined in from a nearby table, and soon laughter spread up and down the benches until even the cooks joined in. The sound filled the hall, lifting the weight of worry from my shoulders.
Finally, even Vandis began to chuckle, the tension between us dissipating.
Vala glared at me, but I held my ground, fueled by the joy of knowing my uncle cared for me. The laughter around us slowly faded, and I turned my focus back to Jojen, who was smiling widely.
“I don’t think you need to worry about me, Jojen,” I said, the grin still plastered on my face. “My uncle cares about me. That’s all that matters right now.”
“I’m glad for you, Jon,” he replied, his voice sincere. “You deserve this happiness.”
I nodded, absorbing the warmth of his words. In the midst of the chaos and uncertainty, I found strength in the bond I shared with my friends. No matter what challenges awaited us in this unfamiliar land, I would face them head-on. After all, I was Jon Snow, and I was not alone.