As the only acknowledged bastard of Lord Eddard Stark, Jon Snow had received a formal education in Winterfell. Despite his shadow-cast status, the tutors and advisors of House Stark had never neglected his lessons. Maester Luwin had once lectured the Duke's children on the Free City of Braavos, yet as Jon stared at the horizon, only fragments of those lessons remained. He remembered it as a flat city, unlike King's Landing which clung to its hills; a place where the only heights were built by hand from brick, granite, bronze, and marble.
However, the reality hitting his eyes felt alien. It took him several minutes to realize what was missing: walls. When he pointed this out to Romond, the boy let out a hearty laugh.
"Our walls are made of wood and painted purple," Romond explained. "Our fleet is our wall. We have no need for stone cages."
A sharp groan of deck-timber announced the arrival of Romond's uncle, Ezra Berry. The Captain wore a heavy doublet of purple wool, his gray beard trimmed short and neat against a square face reddened by a lifetime of salt spray. Jon had seen him joke with the crew during the crossing, but the moment his brow furrowed, the sailors scattered like birds before a gale.
"The voyage ends," Ezra said, his voice a gravelly rasp. "We moor at the Checkered Quay. The Sea Lord's customs men will board to tally the cargo. They'll take half a day, but you needn't wait for them. Gather your things; I'm dropping a skiff. Quincy will row you ashore."
Jon hesitated. "Is it a trouble? We can wait for the main gangplank."
The Captain shook his head. "You and Thoros are messengers of the heavens. You shouldn't be tangled with the ledgers of common men. You have a mission, I believe. Time is a coin you shouldn't waste on my account."
Jon considered this, then nodded. "Then let us go."
Ezra touched two fingers to his brow and whispered, "Valar Awn-Shay." He added, "Remember Ezra Berry, and the hand he offered."
"I will," Jon replied solemnly. Despite the Captain charging them for three full passages, Ezra clearly viewed his hospitality as a personal favor.
Jon and Thoros returned to their shared cabin to pack. In truth, Jon had little to gather. The Green Fork had swallowed most of his belongings when the Freys forced him into the torrent.
Since crawling from the mud as a feigned peasant, he had slowly re-equipped himself with the help of the Brotherhood. His pack was still light—a few changes of linen, a small pouch of coin, the gifts the crew had pressed upon him, and the two blades at his belt: a dagger on his left and the longsword Ellie on his right. It was enough to restore the dignity of a warrior.
He knelt, scratching the ears of Ghost. The direwolf was lethargic from seasickness, curled by the bunk with eyes full of weary irritation. "Up, Ghost," Jon whispered. "No more hiding. It's time to touch the earth again." The wolf groaned, dragging his massive frame upright, and followed Jon out of the cabin with a slow, swaying gait.
Quincy, the Captain's eldest son, was waiting by the rail. He was several years older than Romond and far more taciturn, maintaining a distance from Jon and Thoros as if they were wreathed in a dangerous heat. Jon waved one last farewell to Romond and climbed down the rope ladder into the bobbing skiff.
Quincy pulled at the oars with practiced strength, the skiff peeling away from the Daughter of Love. As the galleas shrank behind them, Braavos sharpened into focus. To the right was the frantic pulse of the harbor—wharves and slips packed with Ibbish whalers, swan-ships of the Summer Isles, and thousands of local galleys. Jon tried to count the masts, but they were a forest too dense to tally before the boat moved past.
To the left lay a second harbor, separated by a low-lying strip of land where the buildings seemed to sit below the waterline, roofs poking out like a cluster of floating islands. Jon had never seen such density. If the Wall was the most magnificent man-made thing in Westeros—vast and raw—Braavos possessed a score of temples, towers, and palaces, each more intricate than the last.
As Quincy rowed them north, they entered a broad, green canal. It stretched straight into the heart of the city, a great artery carrying the lifeblood of the islands. They passed beneath an arched stone bridge carved with dozens of species of fish, crabs, and squids. A second bridge was draped in stone vines; a third was covered in a thousand painted eyes that seemed to track their passage.
Smaller channels branched off like capillaries. Some houses were built directly over the water, turning sections of the canal into tunnels. Thin, snake-like boats—braavos-gondolas—slipped through the dark, their prows painted bright and their sterns high. The boatmen, dressed in cloaks of gray, brown, or deep green, propelled them with long poles with an elegant, rhythmic grace.
Jon also saw flat-bottomed barges laden with crates and casks, and strange floating houses with stained-glass lanterns and brass figureheads. High above the rooftops, a massive gray stone aqueduct supported by three tiers of arches stretched toward the southern mists.
"What is that?" Jon asked, stroking Ghost's ears to calm the wolf as the skiff rocked.
"The Sweetwater River," Quincy replied with a trace of pride. "It spans the bogs and mudflats to bring the fresh water from the mainland to our fountains. Without it, we'd be drinking the salt."
They moved deeper. The lagoon vanished, replaced by the canal banks lined with massive stone statues. They were solemn figures in brass robes mottled with bird droppings. Some held books, others daggers, others hammers. One held a golden star aloft; another tilted a stone jar from which a constant stream of water poured into the canal.
"Are they gods?" Jon asked.
"They are the Sea Lords of the past," Quincy explained. "The Isle of the Gods is just ahead. See? Six bridges more and to the right—the Temple of the Moon-Singers."
Jon looked where he pointed. A magnificent palace of snow-white marble rose in the distance, its silver dome gleaming like a fallen moon. Milk-white glass windows showed the phases of the moon, and pairs of marble maidens supported the crescent-shaped gates.
Further on was a temple built like a fortress of red stone. Atop its central tower sat a massive iron brazier, twenty feet across, filled with roaring flames. Smaller fires burned beside the brass doors, casting dancing red reflections across the water.
"The Temple of the Lord of Light," Quincy said, glancing at Thoros. "Shall I put you in at the quay there?"
Thoros looked at Jon, seeking his lead. Jon stared at the flames for a long moment, then shook his head. "Find us an inn first. I am not ready to meet the followers of the Red God quite yet."
Thoros hid a flicker of disappointment but nodded. "An inn then, Quincy. Somewhere with a solid floor."
They passed a moss-covered brick building that Jon would have mistaken for a warehouse if not for Quincy's narration. "The Sanctuary," Quincy said. "Where we house the gods forgotten by the rest of the world. Some call it the Holy Scrap-Heap."
The skiff turned through a dark tunnel and emerged into the light once more. More shrines lined the water, some overflowing with flowers and offerings.
"I never knew the world had so many gods," Jon murmured.
Quincy looked up with a reverent gaze. "If any of them had half the power of your Anshe, Jon, they wouldn't be hiding in these corners."
The boat rounded a bend and passed beneath another bridge. To the left rose a small, rocky hill. At its summit sat a windowless temple of dark gray stone. Stone steps led from the doors down to a covered dock below.
"The House of Black and White," Quincy's voice dropped to a low whisper. "If a man is broken by the pain of living, he walks through those doors to seek the mercy of the god."
"What mercy?" Jon asked.
"The mercy of a painless death," Thoros interrupted, his voice heavy with years of seeing it.
Jon's brow furrowed. "Why would there be a god for such a thing?"
Thoros looked at the young Sunwalker and sighed. "Jon, when living is nothing but agony, mercy takes many names. The old woman calls it the Weeping Woman. The rich man calls it the Lion of Night. The poor call it the Hooded Wayfarer. The soldier prays to Bakkalon, the Pale Child. The sailor looks to the Moon-Pale Maiden. And in Westeros, the knights call it the Stranger. In the end, it is all the same: Death."
Jon watched the closed doors of the temple. "My Master taught me that life is the most precious thing we possess, for we are granted it only once. He says a man should live so that when he looks back, he feels no regret for years wasted in idleness, no shame for a life of triviality. He says at the moment of death, a man should be able to say: My entire life and all my strength were dedicated to the most beautiful cause in the world—the struggle for the liberation of mankind. I am a Sunwalker. I will die one day, but if I do not die in my bed, I will fall on a field fighting for Anshe's light, not seeking a 'gift' from a stone door."
Thoros nodded slowly. "Stirring words, Jon. Truly. But perhaps say them again after we are out of earshot."
As he spoke, a robed acolyte in black and white stood on the steps, watching their boat glide past with eyes as calm and cold as the canal water. The three men went silent.
They reached a bustling market quay. The harbor was packed with small boats unloading mountains of vegetables and fruit. Merchants screamed prices, and commoners huddled around crates, haggling over the evening's meal.
Quincy backed water, the skiff bumping gently against a stone piling. He grabbed an iron ring to steady them. "This is as far as I take you. This is the heart of the city's trade. There are inns nearby for travelers. If you have the coin, you can find a room with a hearth. But if you mean to stay long, Jon... find work. A man with your hands can make a fortune in Braavos."
Ghost lunged onto the stone quay before the boat was even tied, sending a crowd of fishwives screaming and scattering. Jon grabbed the ring and hauled himself up.
"You remember my name?" Quincy asked from the boat.
"Quincy Berry," Jon said.
"Valar Awn-Shay," Quincy said, pushing off. He disappeared into the shadow of a bridge.
"Come, Jon," Thoros said, stepping up beside him. "Your dog is too big for the street. Let's find you a bed before the city watch decides the wolf is a threat."
"For me?" Jon frowned. "Are we not staying together?"
"I am an acolyte of the Red God, and I have been away from my hearth for many years," Thoros said. "The temple is on the next island over. I must go back to my brothers."
"But Lady Catelyn—"
"I promised to help find the girl, and I will," Thoros assured him. "But I will be more useful within the temple walls. We split our resources, Jon. We cover more ground. I will find you tomorrow."
Jon looked at the white wolf and then at the strange, beautiful city. He felt the weight of being alone for the first time since he left the Wall.
"You're right," Jon said. "Let's find a roof."
70+ chapters are available now and daily updates! @patreon.com/zefyrus