It is a new month and I am trying to get momentum for this story. More readers, views, and engagement. So I need your guys help to do it.
There is no free lunch in the world so I am making it a win-win for everyone...Bonus chapters. You guys scratch my back & I scratch scratch yours there will be bonus chapters once we hit our goals.
This week we have 3 bonus chapter goals. And the objectives is collections. I do not think we can hit the power scale since the lowest is 100s powerstone so let's do something easier. Right now we are at 81 collections so let's get it up.
1st bonus chapter: 100 collections
2nd bonus chapter: 120 collections
3rd bonus chapter: 150 collections
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Aurane moved across the deck with practiced ease as they sailed out from White Harbor in the dead of night, he issued instructions to sailors who obeyed without hesitation. Jon followed him closely, absorbing every motion, every command, every glance, every adjustment to the sails and lines.
He had always imagined sailing and read them in Maester Luwin's tomes, but the reality was harsher, louder, and more demanding than he had ever imagined. The wind tore at the rigging, the cold bit into the skin, and the ocean seemed alive, testing him constantly.
At first, Jon's days were consumed with learning the basics. He climbed the ropes, learning to read the sails, to adjust them for the wind, and to steer with the rudder. Aurane was patient, but exacting. "A ship is not a horse," he reminded Jon, "it is a living thing. You must feel it, not command it. If you fight it, it will break you before the wind ever does." Jon took the words to heart, and each day he practiced, first with small tasks, then with heavier responsibility.
The mornings began with hauling lines and checking the rigging, the salty wind stinging exposed skin, the sea spray clinging to his hair and beard. The afternoons were spent learning to read the clouds and currents, the signs of approaching storms, and the subtle differences in wave patterns that indicated depth or hidden reefs. Aurane made him study the charts carefully, learning the currents of the Narrow Sea, the safe passages past reefs and shoals, and the patterns of the stars for navigation.
Food was simple, salted meats, hard bread, and dried fish when available. Jon learned to fish, casting lines into the waves and waiting patiently for the bite. Ghost learned as well, padding silently across the deck, ears alert for anything that moved in the dark, and settling near Jon in the night, a silent companion against the loneliness and cold.
Weeks passed. The ship battled winds that seemed to come from nowhere, storms that tore the sails and sent waves over the deck. Jon learned to tie himself to the rigging during the worst of it, to move with the ship rather than against it, to bail water and keep the cargo from washing away. The crew treated him as a student at first, then as a fellow hand, showing him the knots, the signals, and the rhythm of work.
Pirates were a constant threat, though the first real encounter came as they sailed closer to the narrow channels near the Sisters. Jon had never seen men so desperate, so unbound by law or mercy. Aurane handled the confrontation with practiced elegance, rallying the crew, giving orders, and luring the pirate ship into a trap where the tides and reefs worked against their favor.
Between these bursts of violence, the days were long and filled with smaller lessons. Jon learned to measure distance with the sun, to estimate the speed of the ship by the wake, to keep the bilge clear of water and rats, to mend torn sails and frayed ropes. The smell of tar and pitch became familiar, the groan of the timbers a constant lullaby, the taste of salt and wind a permanent companion.
He discovered the camaraderie of the crew, men who had seen death at sea and survived, who told tales of sea serpents and ghost ships, of whirlpools that swallowed whole vessels, of storms that rose from nowhere like black mountains of water. Jon listened carefully, noting which tales were warnings, which were exaggerations, and which held the kernel of truth.
The nights were often the hardest. The open sea could be infinite and empty, and Jon found himself staring into the black horizon, imagining the threats that lurked beneath. Ghost would sit at his side, ears twitching, muscles coiled, as if sensing things beyond Jon's comprehension.
At times, Jon allowed himself to close his eyes and practice his small Nature magic, coaxing tiny sprouts of growth to sprout made of moss and seaweed to cling to the damp ropes, giving the faintest touch of life to the otherwise barren deck. It was not much, but it kept him tethered to the truth that life persisted, even on the coldest, harshest waves.
After nearly two months at sea, Braavos finally appeared on the horizon. The city rose from the waves like a vision half of stone, half of water. Its walls were pale and smooth, gleaming white in the afternoon sun, reflecting on the black-green canals that wound through the city like veins. Bridges arched high, some carved with stone lions and griffins, others as simple and functional as rope and timber.
But it was the Titan of Braavos that dominated the skyline, its towering bronze form standing sentinel over the harbor, sword in one hand, arm outstretched in warning and protection. From leagues away it seemed impossibly massive, a god forged in bronze, its eyes distant and unreadable, watching over ships and men alike. Jon felt the weight of it in his chest, a mixture of awe and apprehension, here was a guardian of men.
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Aurane guided them into the canals, past merchant ships, patrol boats, and ferries, until they reached a quieter dock where the crew could disembark. "Welcome to Braavos," he said, voice low. "The city of masks, secrets, and gold. Keep your head, your wits, and your sword. You'll need all three here."
Jon wandered with Ghost at his side, moving carefully along the canal walls. The cobblestones beneath his boots were worn smooth from centuries of footsteps, waterlogged in places, moss creeping along the edges where the tide licked at the stone. Small boats rocked gently in the harbor, their hulls painted bright red or blue, names carved into prow or stern, some decorated with carved animals, others with only simple markings. Men shouted, laughed, and cursed, calling prices for silks, spices, or fine steel. Lanterns hung from every corner, reflecting in the canal like gold.
Jon spent the first few days moving quietly, watching, learning the rhythms of the city. He noticed the subtle hierarchy of the docks: merchants who owned their own boats, captains loyal to no one but the coin they were paid, smugglers who could disappear into the alleys and vanish into shadow, the guards of the Sealord moving in measured patterns, and the common folk, who went about their business. Every alley had a story; every doorway held secrets.
He visited the shops and markets, testing the city's waters without drawing attention. It was a chaotic, dangerous, and mesmerizing place. Every day, he learned something new about how the city worked, about which merchants and captains could be trusted, which spoke lies, and which men were best avoided.
The Titan dominated the skyline wherever Jon went. At night, when lanterns glimmered along the canals and the wind made the water ripple silver and black, he would find a high point and stare at it, imagining its bronze eyes surveying every corner of the harbor, the city, the surrounding lands. In the distance, the sea opened beyond, a place of possibility and danger, where storms, pirates, and the unknown awaited. He thought of Volantis and the fire he sought, and felt a chill of excitement and fear.
Weeks passed with Jon asking discreetly about ships bound for Pentos, the next step toward Volantis. Finally, he found a merchant ship preparing to sail east, laden with silks and spices for Pentos. The captain, a broad-shouldered man with a keen eye and a sharp tongue, inspected Jon closely, noting the direwolf and the faint northern accent. "You've a look about you," the man said, a half-smile on his lips. "Braavos isn't safe for a boy wandering alone, but maybe you've got the luck of the gods. You may come aboard, if you can pull your weight."
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The ship cut through the Narrow Sea like a knife through dark water, sails full, masts groaning, and the spray sharp on Jon's cheeks. The ship left Braavos behind, the white towers shrinking into the horizon, the Titan standing sentinel over the waterways as Jon and Ghost looked back one last time. Now the real journey began: south along the western coast of Essos, through cities, islands, and waters that could kill as easily as feed, toward Pentos and the fire he sought.
Jon had learned much from Aurane Waters in Braavos, but nothing could prepare him for the full scope of the Free Cities, their chaos, and the fragile peace that hung over a land ruled by money, cunning, and steel rather than kings or honor. The journey would be long and grueling, spanning weeks upon weeks of wind, storm, and heat.
The roads of Essos were dangerous in ways the North had never been. Beyond the walls of the Free Cities themselves, the countryside belonged to sellswords and brigands, warbands that fought over nothing more than a few fields or a river crossing. Villages were fortified or abandoned, farms patrolled only when the threat of a rival company was high, and even the local families needing sellswords squads and platoons to carry the crops back to the cities.
Jon learned that land travel meant constant vigilance. One misstep on a country road could mean a band of cutthroats, or worse, a clash between rival companies that would sweep him into the middle of a battle he could not control.
So the sea became the highway here. Ships were still not entirely safe, pirates were everywhere, prowling the straits and coves, preying on lone merchants, inexperienced sailors, or those who showed hesitation but the risks could be mitigated with speed, careful navigation, and a sharp eye.
Jon earned his lodging on multiple occasions as he sailed down the west coast of Essos from ship to ship as he fended off multiple raiding parties alongside Ghost. He was an invaluable help.
The passage to Pentos was long but relatively straightforward. The Narrow Sea was crowded with merchant vessels, war galleys, and smaller privateers. Pentos appeared one morning like a vision, white towers glinting under the rising sun, the harbor crowded with ships from every corner of the known world. The city stretched across hills and valleys, golden and white, with domes and spires catching the light, streets crowded with merchants, travelers, and guards. The air was thick with the smell of salt, fish, spices, and smoke from the forges and bakeries. Jon felt the familiar mixture of awe and caution. Here, wealth was visible everywhere: carved stone façades, fine cloth spilling from stalls, and gilded gates that guarded palaces and merchant houses alike.
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Pentos was ruled by the Magisters, a council of merchant lords whose wealth and influence were the only laws that mattered. They lived in palaces along the hills, watching the harbor as carefully as the captains watched the waves.
Jon spent days moving carefully through the city. Ghost followed, alert but silent. He observed the merchants' tactics, the sailors' routines, and the movements of the city guards. He noticed the contrasts: opulence next to squalor, merchants dressed in silks and gold beside beggars and children chasing scraps. Even in a place so crowded, Jon felt the pulse of hidden dangers; pockets of crime, secret alliances, and men who would kill without hesitation for coin or opportunity. He lingered in taverns, listening, asking only the safest questions, learning which captains might take him south.
From Pentos, the next ship he found turned southwest towards Myr. a city smaller than Pentos but no less formidable in character. Myr was built along the river that fed into its harbor, its streets narrow and winding, crowded with workshops and forges. Towers of black and gray stone rose above the rooftops, some leaning slightly as if the city itself leaned into the river for support. Bridges spanned canals that carried goods and waste alike, and the smell of smelting, dyes, and wet timber mingled with salt and smoke.
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Myr was a city of craft and industry, known for its glasswork, lace, and weapon-forging. Its people were pragmatic and hard-eyed, shaped by necessity and trade rather than by nobility or inherited titles. Guilds held power here, their members passing knowledge from generation to generation, while mercenary companies moved in and out of the city with quiet understanding, offering their services for coin.
Religion was less grand here than in Pentos: temples were small, functional, and scattered, dedicated to gods who rewarded craft, survival, and cunning. He explored workshops, watched sailors repair ships, learned the sound of glass being blown, lace being woven, and steel being struck into shape.
From Myr, the ship's course turned eastward, cutting through the narrowing waters that led toward Tyrosh. Beyond the Stepstones, the city rose from the coastline like a fortress carved from the earth itself. Unlike Pentos' glimmering white towers or Myr's industrious reddish streets, Tyrosh was draped in sober tones: walls of weathered stone, brick, and dark timber, painted in muted shades of grey and brown, accented only by the occasional banner. Even from the deck, Jon could sense the city's character, it was a place built for discipline and defense, where beauty had been tempered by the necessity of survival and war.
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The harbor was smaller than Pentos or Myr's, but it was heavily fortified. Bastions jutted into the water, ballistae positioned to command the narrow channels. Here the Archon ruled, the supreme military leader alongside the noble families of the city.
Streets were wide enough for formations of soldiers, lined with watchtowers at every intersection, and fortified gates marked each entrance. Statues of generals, past Archons, and famous battles dotted the city squares.
Jon spent days observing the rhythm of Tyrosh, moving carefully with Ghost at his side. He saw soldiers drilling in the plazas, merchants haggling under watchful eyes, and sailors unloading cargo while guards counted each crate.
From Tyrosh to Lys, the journey took the ship through the Stepstones, a deadly archipelago. The waters were shallow, rocky, and infested with pirates. Each island was a potential ambush, a trap waiting to crush the unwary. Jon's nerves sharpened as the ship navigated through the labyrinth of reefs, hidden coves, and twisting channels. Storms whipped through the islands unpredictably, and the ever-present threat of pirate attack kept him alert.
Even seasoned sailors spoke of the archipelago with a mixture of fear and respect. Pirates emerged from fog and islands alike, black sails and sharpened blades flashing in the sun. Jon helped brace the deck, haul lines, and fight alongside the crew.
The islands themselves were eerie, almost haunted. Rocks jutted like skeletal fingers from the water, black against the waves, and seagulls circled endlessly, shrieking warnings. Occasionally, Jon glimpsed strange shapes in the water; dark, rolling shadows that could have been whales or perhaps something more sinister.
During the weeks in the Stepstones, Jon's days became a steady rhythm of survival, learning, and observation. By the time the Stepstones fell behind them, the waters ahead were calmer, and the ship turned toward Lys, gleaming in the distance like a jewel along the coast.
The first sight of Lys was like a jewel rising from the sea. White marble walls painted red, purple, and pink glimmered under the sun, and delicate bridges arched gracefully across the many canals that threaded through the city. Palaces rose in terraces along the hills, their facades decorated with mosaics of gold and colored glass, catching the light in dazzling patterns. Palm trees swayed along the streets, their shadows rippling across fountains and open courtyards.
From a distance, the city seemed almost unreal; so pristine, so deliberate in its beauty, that Jon felt as though he had stumbled into a dream after months of storm-tossed seas, pirate ambushes, and the harsh grays and browns of Tyrosh.
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The harbor was wide and busy, ships of every shape and size rested on calm waters: sleek Lyseni galleys with curved prows, merchant vessels from the Summer Isles, and Naath traders with brightly painted hulls.
Jon felt immediately that Lys was a city alive with pleasure, wealth, and leisure, a place that existed to be admired as much as it existed to endure.
The streets themselves were a feast for the senses. Pavements of polished stone reflected the sunlight, and fountains gurgled along avenues lined with perfumeries, spice merchants, and cafes where women and men draped in silks sipped sweet wines or fragrant teas. The air was thick with scents: jasmine and sandalwood from incense, citrus and pomegranate from fruit stalls, and the distant perfume of flowers cultivated in lush gardens spilling over terraced balconies. Musicians played lutes and flutes in open plazas, their melodies floating over the water, while dancers and acrobats entertained crowds beneath the arches of marble bridges.
Jon wandered cautiously through the streets with Ghost at his side, still alert from weeks spent in the Stepstones, but even he could not ignore the sensuality of the city. Women draped in silks of every color passed by, laughing and speaking softly in melodious tongues. Perfumes clung to the air, mingling with the warm sun and the tang of saltwater. Even the architecture seemed indulgent: arches carved in delicate filigree, balconies jutting over the canals, mosaics of lush gardens and exotic beasts, and palaces whose terraces spilled over with flowers in every shade of red, yellow, and violet.
The Lyseni themselves embodied the city's ethos. Citizens moved with elegance, their gestures deliberate and measured. Merchants conducted business as if it were performance, their hands moving in flourishes to accompany words that were as much poetry as transaction. Sailors lounged in shaded squares, playing dice and drinking from silver cups. Guards patrolled in finely polished armor, but their demeanor was less martial rigor than graceful authority.
Jon slowly settled into the city to rest from the months of travel and danger slip from his body and mind. The city was unlike any he had seen: vibrant, indulgent, and alive in every sense. Life in Lys moved at a slower, deliberate rhythm, and Jon allowed himself to step into it.
He spent mornings walking along the canals, watching gondolas and small galleys glide under the ornate bridges. Children splashed in the water while merchants shouted and bargained over fruits, silks, and spices.
He wandered into cafés tucked along quiet canals, where women in flowing silks served delicate pastries dusted with sugar and spiced wines poured from delicate carafes. He tasted the fruits of Essos; sweet figs from the Summer Isles, pomegranates red as blood, honeyed breads.
Occasionally, he would listen to music drifting from open plazas: the melodic lilt of flutes, the low hum of stringed instruments, dancers twirling and performing acrobatics on marble stages. Jon found quiet amusement in games. In shaded squares, sailors and merchants played dice, throwing small ivory cubes and laughing loudly at wins and losses. He found a thrill in the competition, the skill in reading people, and even in the occasional loss. It reminded him of training in Winterfell, only here the stakes were lighter, the bloodless, and the consequences more subtle.
The evenings in Lys were perhaps the most mesmerizing. Lanterns floated on the canals, their reflections dancing in the water like stars trapped beneath glass. Perfumes intensified in the cooling air, mingling with the faint tang of saltwater and the smoke of evening fires. Music swelled, laughter rippled across bridges, and Jon would stroll quietly, leaning against railings, watching couples glide in small gondolas, merchants closing their stalls, and the soft sway of sailors returning to their ships.
Jon allowed himself a small indulgence of curiosity and fascination, visiting perfumeries to learn the subtleties of scent and how merchants manipulated it to influence buyers, observing dancers and performers to understand the choreography of grace, and even speaking with sailors and minor captains about the trade routes, tides, and hazards of the Narrow Sea.
As night fell, Jon allowed himself to explore another side of Lys. The city's pleasures were many and varied, but the pleasure houses were the most famous, whispered about across the Narrow Sea, and for good reason. Their doors opened onto a world of soft music, candlelight, perfumed air, and luxuriously appointed rooms that seemed to exist to indulge every desire and curiosity.
The women of Lys were legendary, prized across Essos for their beauty, poise, and artistry. Some had hair of silver, white, or pale grey, their strands like threads of moonlight; others slaves brought from other corners of the world had deep raven or gold, each color and texture a thing of fascination. They moved with an elegance born of years of training, their voices a melodic accompaniment to the soft laughter, music, and scent that filled the rooms.
He became accustomed to the company of women from across the known world: Lys, Tyrosh, Myr, and even distant lands. They spoke different languages, sang different songs, and carried stories of cities and seas he had never seen.
Nights blurred in soft candlelight, the quiet swish of silk, and murmured laughter. Women guided him with gentle hands, sometimes bold, sometimes teasing, their bodies and words teaching subtle lessons of intimacy, consent, and control. He discovered pleasures of the body he had not known in the harsh, cold months at sea or in the shadowed streets of Tyrosh or Myr.
He discovered that the city's greatest lessons were not only in gold, skill, or politics, but in understanding people; desires, fears, ambitions, and secrets all laid bare in the hushed light of candlelit rooms.
By the end of his stay, Jon was renewed. Months of relentless travel, storms, pirate attacks, and the constant threat of danger had honed his body, sharpened his mind, and strengthened his resolve but Lys had given him something different: a chance to breathe, to watch, and to learn the subtleties of indulgence and human desire. He had walked its canals, tasted its fruits and wines, listened to its music.
Ahead lay Volantis, city of fire and ambition, and the next step toward the power he had glimpsed in his last life. The city faded behind him as he stepped onto the ship that would carry him along the orange coast, toward the spires, bridges, and secrets of Volantis.