In the distance, a faint light pierced the heavy sea mist, flickering near the horizon like a beacon calling to a lost traveler.
"The stars," Jon whispered, his eyes fixed on the glimmer.
"The stars of home," Romond replied, a note of nostalgia in his young voice.
Romond's uncle was shouting orders from the quarterdeck, his voice echoing over the roar of the wind. Sailors scurried up and down the three towering masts, their hands calloused and quick as they adjusted the riggings and the heavy purple sails. Rowers sat in double banks, their long oars rhythmically biting into the water, causing the ship to heel slightly with every stroke. The deck groaned and creaked as the triple-masted galleas, the Daughter of Love, turned slowly to starboard, preparing for port entry.
The stars of home.
Jon stood at the prow, one hand resting on the gilded figurehead—a maiden holding a crystal vial, the silent guardian of the vessel. For a fleeting second, he allowed himself to imagine that home lay just ahead.
Childish, Jon thought, shaking his head. Bitter reality rushed back. His home was a ghost. His father was dead in the capital, and his mother remained a shadow he would never know. Except for Arya Stark—his little sister, huddled on some ship somewhere on this vast water—his siblings were gone.
Why didn't she go to the Wall?
Before she had traveled south with Lord Eddard, Jon had already departed with Uncle Benjen. All of Winterfell knew he had taken the black. He had said a formal farewell to Arya and given her Needle. It was thicker than the pins Old Nan taught her to use, but Arya had loved it. She was good with it.
Will I find her in Braavos?
Jon's thoughts drifted like the sea foam. For a long time, nothing had gone as he intended. He wanted to stay in Winterfell, yet he ended up at the edge of the world—the Wall, filled with ice and dregs. He swore a sacred vow before the heart tree, only to be handed over to Aldric Cerese the next morning. He followed his teacher to join Robb's host, seeking justice, only to break with the North in a battle devoid of honor. Finally, he had defied Aldric's will to ride for the Twins, hoping to mend his brother's wounds with the Light, only to witness the Young Wolf's throat opened to the sky.
Braavos might be his only chance. Arya was here. Here, no one knew his name, and no one cared for his past. He had laid down every burden, every duty, for the sake of a sister.
Great Anshe, have mercy. Let me find her in this strange land.
Jon prayed silently, his fingers brushing the hilt of his sword. It was Ellie, the blade Kevin had lent him before they parted. The name was so close to Arya's—Elia, the common tongue for it—that it felt like a lucky omen. Kevin had told him the blade was forged by the Master's own hand; a reminder never to forget the teachings, to walk in the Light and never stray from the righteous path.
Jon didn't know if his journey from the Wall to the Riverlands, and now across the infinite sea, was "straying," nor what waited for him beneath the foreign stars.
Ever since he had used Solar Grace to save a sailor who fell from the mast, the crew's attitude toward him had shifted. Some avoided him in fear; others brought him small gifts—a silver fork, fingerless gloves, a soft wool cap lined with leather. They taught him sailor's knots and filled his cup with fire-wine. Those who sought his favor would thump their chests, repeating their names until Jon could pronounce them perfectly.
Here, they simply called him Jon. On the sea, there was no Snow.
The last evening star vanished, leaving only the pair of glowing orbs directly ahead.
"They are stars after all," Jon murmured.
"They are eyes," Romond corrected. "The Titan is watching us."
The Titan of Braavos. Jon remembered Old Nan's stories in Winterfell. The Titan was as large as a mountain; whenever Braavos was in peril, he would wake with fire in his eyes, swinging stone limbs to crush enemies in the surf. Old Nan's tales always ended the same: "The Braavosi feed high-born children to the Titan, for their meat is pink and tender."
Sansa would always let out a little shriek, while Arya would scoff with disdain. Maester Luwin had been firm: the Titan was a statue, and Old Nan was full of nonsense.
Jon reminded himself that Winterfell was gone. Even if it still stood in the center of the North, it was no longer his home. He was a Snow, not a Stark. Old Nan and Luwin were likely dead. Bran and Rickon were ghosts. Yet, he still reached for them in his mind.
During the rescue of the sailor, Brell, Jon had recited the prayer for Anshe's Grace. Afterward, the curious crew asked him for the words. One sailor had translated the phrase into Braavosi, teaching it back to him. Jon had learned the basics—please, thank you, sea, star, fire-wine—but the one he used most was "Anshe protect you." Every time he spoke it, the sailors would beam with joy, momentarily forgetting that a massive white wolf—Ghost—was hidden in Jon's cabin.
On this journey across the Narrow Sea, Jon had only Thoros of Myr and Ghost for company. The warriors Lady Catelyn had sent to help him find Arya had been taken back by Kevin. Jon had tried to leave Ghost behind, but when the wolf lowered his head and nudged Jon's thigh, he realized Ghost was his only kin left in the world. He had paid an extra gold dragon for the wolf's passage and promised the captain no one would be eaten.
Only Romond, the captain's nephew, dared get close to the direwolf. Romond was a happy, plump boy of twelve who managed his uncle's ledgers.
"I hope your Titan isn't hungry," Jon joked to the boy.
Romond looked puzzled. "Hungry?"
Jon smiled. "Never mind."
In truth, he worried the Titan might have swallowed Arya. But then he shook his head. The last time he'd seen her, she was all skin and bone—hardly "tender meat." And statues didn't eat people; that was just a winter-tale.
"Is the Titan the god of Braavos?" Jon asked. "Or do you follow the Seven?"
"All gods are respected in Braavos," Romond answered. He told Jon of the Sept-Beyond-the-Sea, where Westerosi sailors worshipped. But Jon knew the Seven were not his gods, nor the Starks'. Though Aldric claimed Anshe and the Seven were one, Jon believed Anshe was the True Source. If the Seven were real, why had they not shielded Robb at the Twins?
Jon wondered if there was a Godswood in Braavos. He trusted the Old Gods more. The heart tree's sap could replenish his mana in times of need. Romond might know, but Jon couldn't ask. He was a sellsword from the Riverlands; why would a mercenary follow the gods of the North?
The Old Gods were gone, just like his father and brothers. He recalled Lord Eddard's words: "When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives." It felt like a cruel joke. Jon, the lone wolf, lived, while the pack had been hunted and flayed.
"The Moon-Singers led us here to escape the dragons of Valyria," Romond explained. "So their temple is the grandest. We also worship the Father of Waters, but his palace must be rebuilt every time he takes a bride. The rest are on an island in the center. But no one has heard of an 'Anshe.' Does your god know the Lord of Light? Perhaps they are just two names for the same fire."
"No," Jon said firmly. "The Lord of Light and Anshe are not the same."
Thoros of Myr appeared behind them. "There is a temple for the Lord of Light there, Jon. My brothers are within its walls. Will you go, as an emissary of Anshe? Your teacher once told me Anshe's Light outshines R'hllor's flame. You could see for yourself."
Jon thought for a moment. "If there is time, I will. But I must find Arya first. She is a girl alone. Where the Light does not reach, the dark is full of terrors."
"The Temple of the Red God has influence you cannot imagine," Thoros pressed. "If you convince the elders to help, your search will be shortened by half."
Jon felt a spark of interest, but then he deflated. "I am just a student. I do not have the Master's blessing for this. He has deeper truths in his heart that he guards with care. I cannot speak for him."
"It matters not," Thoros comforted. "The priests have hungered for Azor Ahai for too long. I thought it was Beric, but I was wrong. If a Savior exists, he should be one who grants life, not one who is granted it. Your teacher is the closest thing I have seen to that definition."
Thinking of his time with Aldric, Jon finally nodded. "Fine. I will see your temple."
"Jon, look!" Romond grabbed his arm.
The fog vanished as if cut by a blade. The prow of the Daughter of Love split the grey curtain, entering grey-green waters. Above, sea-birds shrieked. A row of jagged rock ridges rose from the sea, topped with soldier-pines and black spruce.
Between the mountains was a gap. And there stood the Titan.
His eyes glowed with internal fires; his green hempen hair whipped in the gale. His legs spanned the gap, each foot planted on a separate mountain, his shoulders brushing the rugged peaks. His legs were made of stone, fused with the black granite of the reefs.
He wore a war-skirt of green bronze, a bronze breastplate, and a crested helm. One hand rested on a ridge, bronze fingers gripping a massive boulder; the other reached for the sky, clutching the hilt of a broken sword.
As the galleas approached the surging waves beneath the ridges, the Titan grew terrifyingly vast. The captain's voice boomed as sailors scrambled up the ropes. Jon looked at the arrow-slits in the Titan's breastplate—scars of ancient wars. He saw the arms and shoulders mottled with the white stains of sea-bird nests. This stone giant looked like it could step over the walls of Winterfell with a single stride.
Suddenly, the Titan roared. A sound so thunderous it drowned the sea and the wind. Thousands of birds took flight in a panicked cloud. Jon recoiled, his hand flying to his sword, until he saw Romond laughing.
"He's announcing us to the Arsenal!" the boy yelled. "Don't be afraid!"
"I'm not afraid!" Jon shouted back. "I'm alert!"
The wind drove the ship into the strait. The double banks of oars churned the sea into white foam. The Titan's shadow swallowed the sun, plunging them into a cold, artificial night. For a moment, Jon felt they would be crushed against the stone feet.
The seawater sprayed his face, tasting of salt and metal. He had to crane his neck until it ached to see the Titan's head. Old Nan's story flickered in his mind, but one child wouldn't fill that stone belly. He'd need to serve every high lord in the Seven Kingdoms on a platter to sate a beast this big.
They passed beneath the war-skirt. Jon saw murder-holes and iron bars. Behind one, he saw a pale face watching them, a silent sentinel that made his skin crawl.
Then, they were through.
The shadow vanished. The pine ridges receded. The wind died down as they entered a great lagoon. Ahead, a reef rose like a spiked fist. Its ramparts were crowded with catapults, scorpions, and fire-spitters.
"The Arsenal of Braavos," Romond beamed. "They can build a war-galley in a single day there."
Jon scanned the docks. Dozens of ships were moored or in the slips, their colorful figureheads peeking out like hunting dogs in a kennel—lean, mean, and hungry for the hunt.
"The power of industry," Jon breathed. He remembered Aldric's lectures—that war was won by logistics and production, not by the individual valor of a knight. He hadn't fully grasped it in the Riverlands, but here, seeing the Arsenal, he understood why his teacher spent so much time in the forge.
Two row-barges approached them, skimming the water like dragonflies. Their oars moved with a grace that made the Galleas look clumsy. A captain shouted across the water, and the Daughter of Love's captain shouted back. A horn blew, and the barges veered away. They were so close Jon could hear the rhythmic drums within their hulls, beating like a living heart.
The Arsenal fell behind. Ahead lay a vast expanse of aquamarine water, like a sheet of rippled glass. In the center sat the city—a forest of domes, towers, and bridges in shades of grey, gold, and red. This was Braavos of the Hundred Isles. A place of mystery. A place where Arya might be found.
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