4
Notes:
1) WARNING: A NON-GRAPHIC SCENE OF ATTEMPTED SEXUAL ASSAULT ON A CHILD. IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO SKIP THIS SCENE, IT IS THE LARGE CHUNK OF ITALICS IN THE SECOND SECTION OF THE CHAPTER.
2) Say hello to the timeline, it will be your friend.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Timeline
283 AC/4E 187: Robb Stark is born; (two months later) "Jon Snow" is born.
286 AC/4E 190: Sansa Stark is born; RS-3, "JS"-3.
289 AC/4E 193: Arya Stark is born; Theon Greyjoy (10) arrives at Winterfell; RS-6, "JS"-6, SS-3.
290 AC/4E 194: Bran Stark is born; TG-11, RS-7, "JS"-7, SS-4, AS-1.
295 AC/4E 199: Rickon Stark is born; TG-16, RS-12, "JS"-12, SS-9, AS-6, BS-5.
296 AC/4E 200: Direwolves are found; TG-17, RS-13, "JS"-13, SS-10, AS-7, BS-6, RS-1.
297 AC/4E 201: Robb Stark turns 14; (two months later) "Jon Snow" turns 14; (one month later) "Jon Snow" runs away from Winterfell/appears in Skyrim; TG-18, SS-11, AS-8, BS-7, RS-2.
299 AC/4E 203: Jon Whitewolf sends a letter to Winterfell; TG-19, RS-16, JW-16, SS-13, AS-10, BS-9, RS-4.
300 AC/4E 204: Lord Eddard Stark asks Jon to return to Winterfell; TG-20, RS-17, JW-17, SS-14, AS-11, BS-10, RS-5.
302 AC/4E 206: Jon Whitewolf receives Arya's letter; TG-22, RS-18/19, JW-18/19, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.
Jon IV
"PIRATES OFF THE PORT SIDE!"
Jon leaped to his feet, knocking his chair over in his haste. He chucked the book in his hand towards his bunk before snatching up his ebony sword, and darted towards the main deck of the ship. Bursting through the door to the ship's interior and hurdling over the railing in one smooth motion, he landed in a crouch and brought his blade up just in time to block the ax of a pirate already on board.
The man was probably older than Jon by about ten years, but his peeling pox-marked skin, mangy hair, and rotten teeth made him look much older. He leered at Jon, baring his yellow, chipped teeth in a filthy snarl of a grin. "Hey there pretty boy, how'd you like a—"
Whatever vulgar thing the criminal had in mind was cut short when Jon thrust his blade into the man's abdomen, before finishing him with a slash to the throat. With one final gurgle, the pirate fell to the deck of the ship, blood pooling beneath the fresh corpse, leaving Jon to run off in search of a new opponent. Turning a corner he found Enzo fending off three pirates on his own with just a broomstick and a bored expression. Deciding to leave the giant Redguard to his fun, Jon scanned the deck. The battle was going well, as sailors for the East Empire Trading Company were almost always experienced fighters in their own right, and these pirates were clearly amateurs at best, swinging their weapons wildly and without technique.
' Not that it makes them any less dangerous ,' Jon noted as he felt an arrow fly by only inches from his head, embedding into the taffrail a mere foot from where Adelaisa was battling against two pirates. The sound of the arrow hitting wood was enough to distract her for only a second, just enough to give her foes a potential opening to strike.
"Get back!"
The captain understood his warning and threw herself backward, out of the path of the lighting that arched from Jon's left fingertips to both of the pirates. They dropped to the deck almost instantly, one completely still and the other switching; or, rather, he was twitching until Adelaisa brought her sword down on his neck. That matter solved, Jon turned his attention in the direction that the arrow had come from, only to see a pirate ready another arrow and let it fly straight at Jon.
"TIID KLO UL!"
Sound muted, color faded, and time slowed, bowing to the power of Jon's Thu'um.
He reached up and caught the arrow that hung in the air before him. Then, with a flick of his wrist, returned fire with a deadly ice spike. After sixteen seconds, the world returned to normal and a dying cry of pain rang out as the enemy archer was impaled through the chest. But Jon had gotten too complacent, and failed to properly take advantage of that free time to look around, and he had let himself become unaware of his surroundings. This meant that when an arm caught him in a chokehold from behind, he was caught off guard.
"What the hell are you, boy?" The rancid breath of his assailant, an older, brawnier pirate, was hot against Jon's cheek as he struggled, trying to drive his elbow into the man's stomach.
"Fuck you," Jon snapped, throwing his head back and crushing the man's nose with a satisfying crunch! The pirate swore loudly as he stumbled back, bringing his hands up to shield his shattered nose on instinct and inadvertently releasing Jon, who took the opportunity to spin around and stab his sword straight through the man's head.
A strong hand landed on his shoulder, and Jon whirled around, sword raised to slice the head off of an attacker, only for Enzo to catch Jon's sword against his own. "That was the last of them. It is over."
Jon let himself relax. "That was quick," he commented as he wiped his blade clean on a dead pirate's shirt. "How many did you manage to kill with that broom?"
"Five," Enzo shrugged. "I think they were more upset about how little effort I was putting into the fight than anything else. Not my fault though, I've faced skeevers more dangerous."
Jon wrinkled his nose at the mention of the filthy creatures and turned his attention to Adelaisa, who was ordering her men to gather up the bodies and search them for anything of value before turning to the pair.
"Jon, Enzo, it's good to see you on your feet. Did you have any trouble?"
Enzo scoffed at the notion. "Against these sorry excuses for pirates? Not a chance."
Jon rubbed his throat. He might wake up with a bruise or two in the morning, but it would be gone by sundown "I'm none the worse for wear. Were there any crew casualties?"
The captain shook her head. "No, thankfully. A few cuts, one of them fairly serious, but the ship healer is seeing to those. We also have two busted noses and a broken wrist, yet nothing that can't be healed with a spell or potion. All that is left is to clean up and get rid of the bodies."
"Need any help?"
"That isn't necessary. You should probably go change your shirt and wash the blood off."
"My shirt? What's wrong with— damnit!" Jon looked down in dismay to see that at some point during the battle, blood had gotten smeared down the front of his pale gray tunic. Thankfully it wasn't anything new.
"What are you planning to do with their ship? You could always tug it into the city and sell it." Enzo inquired, tilting his head in the direction of the pirate ship.
Jon didn't claim to know much about boats, but he knew enough to recognize that it wasn't worth the trouble. The ship was smaller with a single sail. Though dark in color any paint it might have once had was long since stripped away by the elements. Perhaps it had been a good, sturdy vessel once, but now it looked barely seaworthy.
Adelaisa seemed to agree with his mental assessment. "Not worth it; we'll search it for anything of use, then load the bodies on it and set it adrift. We're close enough to the mainland that I'm sure it'll wash up on some shore eventually."
"How close are we?"
"We've made good time, and the navigator says we'll be coming to Braavos' Purple Harbor in two days' time, so be ready. You'll have three days there to do what you need to before we head to White Harbor."
"You know, all-and-all, this trip has not been at all eventful. That little scuffle was a nice little distraction from the monotony, though I do wish they were more skilled." Enzo commented once they had returned to their quarters.
The cabin was not large, barely having enough space for the two narrow bunks, a writing desk, and the pairs' many chests. In one corner, Ghost had his own 'bed,' a large wicker basket filled with scraps of cloth for cushioning. Like the temporary tiny direwolf, the Redguard warrior hadn't been enjoying the boat ride, mostly because the bunk he had been provided was a good eight inches too short, leaving his feet to hang off the end. Such a thing caused no small amount of grumbling from the hardened warrior, and no small amount of amusement from Jon; never before had the Dragonborn thought to be grateful for his lesser height.
"Let's just be glad no one was injured too greatly. Besides, I've had enough excitement to last me a lifetime; several, if I'm lucky," Jon mused. He stripped off his tunic and scrubbed away at the drying blood smears covering his torso with a washcloth dampened with collected rainwater. Thanks to magic, the precious liquid was hardly as scarce as it would be for other ships.
"You say that now, but we both know you would go mad if you had to spend your days sitting around quietly. You and I? We're men of action; we live for battle and adventure. Yes, the occasional reprieve is nice, and one must make time for scholarly pursuits, but men like us are destined to fight and win until the day we die."
"Have you ever considered writing poetry?"
"Oh, I already do." That was no surprise to Jon, as for all that his friend gave the impression of being 'just' a warrior, over the years he had come to learn and appreciate the subtle depths to him.
Breaking through that reflection, Enzo then asked, "What kind of coins are these?"
Jon looked over the small pile of gold and silver coins Enzo had dumped out on the bunk from a pouch he had received as his spoils from the battle. He picked one coin up to examine it. "These are Westerosi currency. The silver ones are called silver stags, and the others are golden dragons, both high denominations. How many of each do you have?"
"Twenty-seven of the stags and five of the dragons. Will that get me anything in your homeland?"
"I'd say so. When I was younger, my allowance was ten stags a month, and that was enough to buy me almost anything I wanted. Especially if I saved up for a month or two." Jon pulled on a fresh shirt, inspecting the soiled tunic to confirm it was beyond saving. ' Maybe it can be cut up into rags .'
"That is good, I will need to have some coin of my own. I would like to inspect your country's arms and armor to see if there is anything worth bringing back with us."
"Enzo, I told you, when we get to Braavos I'm going to the Iron Bank to exchange some of my gold and silver bars for Westerosi coins. I'll have more than enough for anything either of us wants. You're more than welcome to it, we're family after all."
The Ebony Warrior smiled softly. "Yes, we are, but I would still prefer to have my own. Do not worry your pretty little head, I brought a few pieces of jewelry and some gemstones to sell. Besides, you need to save that money. I am sure there will be plenty of glistening trinkets and interesting baubles for you to buy when we reach port next."
Enzo slapped the empty space on the bunk next to him, urging the magically pint-size Ghost to jump up onto the mattress. The direwolf clearly didn't enjoy the alteration to his size, and made his displeasure known by refusing to acknowledge Jon for the first three weeks of the voyage. However, that didn't stop him from taking advantage of being allowed up in beds once again.
That had been a bitter and hard-won struggle, yet Jon had been sick and tired of being shoved off of his bed and onto the floor for the umpteenth by a certain mountain of fur.
No, it was not as funny as everyone else made it out to be.
"Are you ready for that?"
The question cut through Jon's ruminations and left him confused.
"For what?"
"Do not play daft with me, you know well what I mean. I have seen you fidgeting your hands when lost in thought. Calculating how much longer until Westeros even though you know darn well. That fight was the most I have seen you be you in days.
"Are you ready to see your homeland, to see your family again? I will not judge you if you say no; we can have yourselves a holiday in Braavos before returning to Skyrim, and never speak of this again, but I need you to say so. We are rapidly approaching the point of no return. You have never told me why you left your home, not completely anyway, and I never cared to push you on it. Nor will I do so now, but if you ever wish to tell me, then I will listen."
Jon didn't answer his friend, instead, he simply retrieved his book, The Amulet of Kings, from where he had flung it and resumed his reading. Enzo took Jon's silence as an answer, rolled his eyes, and settled in for a nap before supper was served.
Jon sighed internally. For the past week, they had been sailing around the coast of Westeros. On days when the sky was particularly clear, Jon could even see land from the upper deck of the ship. Every time that happened, without fail, his stomach dropped and he felt sick. Jon spent most of his time below deck now, reading, writing in his journal, working on wood-carved figurines, or helping the cook prepare meals.
When Enzo had asked why they simply didn't dock somewhere on the west coast of the continent and travel by land up to Winterfell, Jon had responded that traveling by horse and wagon over such a great distance with only two of them would be difficult and dangerous. When Enzo hadn't believed him, Jon was forced to begrudgingly admit that he didn't have any idea how to navigate the roads of Westeros as he had never been outside of Winter Town before running away. Nor did he know what the road conditions were like, or how available they were.'
Even trips into Winter Town were rather rare events, at least when was young, and they became notably more scarce after the incident when Jon was eight. The same incident that first taught Jon about the dangers that lurked outside the high stone walls of Winterfell.
He had gone into town that day with Robb, Theon, Jory, and Ser Rodrik, Jon couldn't remember what for or how he had gotten separated from the group, but he had somehow found himself standing alone outside a butcher's shop. He had looked around for them, calling out their names, and when no one came, had begun to tear up in fear that he would get in trouble with Lady Stark for causing problems.
The butcher had found Jon like that, and after taking him inside the shop to warm up by the fireplace, asked what was wrong. After listening to the explanation Jon had forced out through his sniffles, the man had offered him a deal.
"You help me stack some crates in the rear, and I'll help you find your brother, alright? I'll have you back so fast he'll have never noticed you were gone."
Jon, a shy but helpful child, had agreed, following the butcher to the back of his shop. He helped the man with the task, eager to get back to Robb and the others. But when they seemed to be done, instead of taking him back to Robb as promised, the man had him sit down on one of the crates.
"Do you want a treat, Sweetling?" The butcher asked as he smiled down at Jon.
"That would be nice, thank you. But I really need to get back to my brother, Ser."
"Yes, of course. I'll take you there soon. But a little treat first wouldn't hurt, would it?"
Jon knew that the longer he was away, the more trouble he'd get in. But the butcher had also been so nice to him, and Jon didn't want to offend the man, so he shook his head no. The man then stepped closer then, putting one of his hands on Jon's shoulder and petting his curls with the other; he started to say something when Jon heard the front door of the shop open and a familiar voice call out his name.
"Theon, I'm back here!"
The door to the back of the shop was flung open violently and Theon - only just turned three-and-ten, tall, stick-thin, and constantly in a state of either grouchiness or randiness- stood in the doorway. He took in sight before him, particularly the now frozen man who still had one hand buried in Jon's hair. Theon's face twisted angrily and he closed the gap between himself and the butcher in two long strides, punching him square in the jaw and sending him sprawling on the floor.
Jon jumped up with a gasp, ready to demand an explanation as to why his father's ward had attacked his new friend, only for Theon to seize him by the bicep and forcibly dragged him from the shop. The older boy refused to answer any of Jon's fervent questions, instead growling things like, "-can't believe you were so stupid," and, "-should go back there and cut off his-" under his breath. Eventually, Theon pulled him to where Jory, Rodrik, and Robb were waiting by the stables.
"I found the brat," he grumbled, shoving Jon at Robb, who wrapped his brother in a tight, relieved hug.
"Jon, where have you been?" Jory asked, eyes full of concern. "You had us worried, you know it's dangerous to go off on your own."
Jon opened his mouth to explain but Theon cut him off. "Curly here got lost and wandered into a butcher shop. I'll explain the rest later." That last part he hissed quietly to the two adults, who exchanged troubled glances.
"Are you sure you're alright, lad?" Ser Rodrik crouched down until he was at eye level with Jon, taking the boy's face between his hands as if to inspect the dark-haired boy for injuries.
"I'm not hurt," Jon assured him. Then he meekly added, "Please don't tell Lady Stark."
Winterfell's master-at-arms face fell sadly for a moment as he gently rubbed his thumb against Jon's chapped cheek., "Of course, lad. This will be our little secret, okay? There's a good boy. Come on, let's head back to the castle and get warmed up."
As far as Jon knew, then men had kept their promise not to tell Lady Stark, but they certainly told the Lord of Winterfell. Later that day, after a round of warm drinks and sweet cakes, Lord Stark called Jon into his solar to speak with him.
"Am I in trouble?" Jon asked, worry pouring from his eyes and into his words.
"No, no. You're not in trouble, I swear. I just need you to tell me about what happened."
Jon had done what was asked of him, and relayed the events for the day, not understanding the true implications of what transpired. However, he could see the dread and anger that filled the Warden of the North's face as the story went on. But when Jon asked the man he thought to be his father what was wrong, he was merely hugged and told it was just a misunderstanding.
That was the first time Jon realized that adults lie.
That his father lied.
Such a revelation was not an easy one, and unsettled Jon so deeply that he had to skip supper that night, claiming a headache when Robb asked. Once he came to terms with the fact that the man he loved and admired above all others had lied to him, Jon had felt the great urge to discover the truth of what happened. He knew Jory and Ser Rodrik would be no help, so, instead, he went to Theon. The older boy hadn't wanted to tell him at first either, but eventually, Jon wore him down. With a defeated sigh, Theon had pulled Jon into his room, locked the door, and explained in a hushed voice, the best he could, what some adults wanted to do to young children.
Jon hadn't liked Theon when they were younger, thinking him to be crude and rude. Nowadays he understood that just as Jon had hidden his hurt and troubles behind a blank face and strict standards of honor, Theon had hidden his behind vulgar japes and lewd exploits. Yet, even before he came to that realization, Jon had always been thankful to Theon for what he had done that day. Both for saving him from the butcher, and for being the first to educate Jon about the perils that existed outside the cradle of safety and naivety Ned Stark had crafted for his children.
It had been a lesson Jon had taken to heart.
"Jon?"
The Dragonborn jumped slightly, startled out of his memories by the sleepy voice of his friend. "What is it?"
"What is the first thing you want to do when we get to Braavos?"
Jon tugged at a lock of his hair and tried to ignore the queasy feeling in his stomach, "Find a bathhouse." He paused then, his recent memory and the lesson he had taken from it reminding him of the trouble secrets could cause. "Enzo?"
"Yes?"
"I'd like to tell you the whole story now, if you'd care to hear."
"I do not like this place, it has negative energy. Do you think there are daedra inside?"
"No, just bankers."
"Oh, so vampires then?"
"No."
"Huh." Of course, the man looked disappointed.
The Iron Bank of Braavos loomed over the duo like an imposing gray sentry, looking just like Maester Luwin had always described. Three stories tall with domes on the roof that towered even higher, decorated with strong columns and statues made of smooth white stone. The inside lobby was no less impressive with high arched ceilings, hanging chandeliers, stained glass windows, elaborate tapestries, and wall sconces that lit the way for visitors —very different from the stark efficiency of most banks in Skyrim. The pairs' footsteps echoed through the innards of the eerily silent building as they approached the front desk.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen. Are you here to make a withdrawal or a deposit? Perhaps to discuss a loan with one of our representatives?" Asked the portly clerk, as his watery blue eyes scanned Jon and Enzo, inspecting them for signs of wealth.
He would find them too. Neither warrior had dressed in particularly extravagant clothes, but the trained eye of someone who worked at the Iron Bank would be able to discern the fine quality and expert cut of the cloth, the craftsmanship of the weapons, as well as subtle bits of expensive jewelry they both were wearing. They were also freshly bathed. True to his word, as soon as they made port Jon had founded the nicest bathhouse in walking distance with Enzo at his side. He didn't have any Braavosi money, but the three gold rings he pressed into the attendant's hand had gotten them a private room with more soaps than could ever be used in one wash.
"Currency exchange, actually. This for him—" Enzo gestured to the large chest he had been carting behind him and then to Jon before pointing to the pouch latched to his belt "—and this is for me."
"Excellent." The clerk paused to wave over two guards. "These men will escort you to the proper offices. However, I must ask that you turn over your weapons, including any others on your person. You'll get back when you leave, of course."
Jon handed over his sheathed ebony dagger (affectionately nicknamed Frostbite, called so because of the frost damage enchantment he had placed on it) without much issue. After all, it wasn't like he needed a weapon to be dangerous. But Enzo, who similarly didn't need a weapon, loathed to turn his over, only doing so with great reluctance.
Jon coughed loudly in his fist, to which Enzo rolled his eyes but pulled another, much longer, dagger out of his boot, grumbling all the way. The clerk stared at the giant Redguard with wide eyes for a moment but gestured for them to follow the two guards, one of whom took Jon's cart. They were separated, and Jon was taken to an office where a lean, gaunt man with a narrow face, dark eyes, and a beard so long that it nearly reached his waist sat behind a desk. The man gave the guard a nod of dismal before standing to shake Jon's hand. Wearing a high-collared, purple robe, Jon noted that while the man looked physically frail, he carried himself with an aura of power and control.
"How can the Iron Bank of Braavos assist you today, my Lord?"
"Whitewolf, Jon Whitewolf. I'm no lord."
For all his titles and responsibilities, that was one Jon had not been burdened with.
The man's eyebrows raised as if he was surprised by something; what that was, or if it was even an honest gesture, Jon didn't know. "My apologies, it was simply a courtesy. My name is Tycho Nestoris. Now, how may I be of service?"
"I have some precious metals and gemstones that I would like to exchange for Westerosi currency. Is that possible?"
"Oh, of course. There will be a cost for the conversion, however. You will only receive 9/10th of the value of a gold bar, for example. Now, if you agree to these terms, I'd like to see what you have to exchange."
Jon couldn't help but smile with pride as he opened the chest and stepped back, "I'd like coins in each denomination, please. Oh, and some Braavosi money too."
"...This may take some time, my Lord."
"I hope this amount is satisfactory. If you had sent us word ahead of time we would have had the full amount, alas with your arrival being on such short notice—"
"It's no issue, this is more than enough. In fact, it's probably a good idea to keep a few bars while I travel, and I'm sure I can find a use for the gems. You have been most helpful, Mister Nestoris. I thank you."
Jon was cheery as he looked at the sacks full of coins that now filled his chest. Why shouldn't he be? He had more money than he could probably ever spend while in Westeros, in addition to the purse full of iron Braavosi coins tied to his belt, and he still had bars of precious metals to spare. He hadn't even needed the gemstones.
"Of course. Is there anything else, Jon Snow? Would you like to access your personal account?"
Jon froze at the name, just long enough that he could get control of himself. He didn't like lying, which was horrible because he knew well that he'd be spending the next month or so doing a lot of it, but understood the value of lies. Moreover, like so much else in the past five years, he had learned to be good at telling them.
With a carefully blank, if slightly puzzled expression, he turned back to the banker. "I'm sorry, who is Jon Snow? You must have me confused with someone else. I've never been to Essos before today, let alone have an account here."
"Perhaps the account is under a different name then?"
Now Jon actually was confused. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean. Now, if you don't need anything else of me, I would like to go and find my companion."
Tycho Nestoris stared Jon down for a long moment, as if waiting to see if the younger man would break and spill some great secret. But eventually... "Ah, yes. I need you to sign these papers before you go."
Enzo was leaning against a pillar waiting for him at the entrance of the bank. "Did you get what you need?"
"Aye. You?"
Enzo held up his own sack of coins as an answer.
"Good. Let's get out of here; you were right about this place."
"It is run by vampires?"
"No, but something one of the bankers said unsettled me."
Enzo's face grew grave and, with a heavy hand on Jon's shoulder, led him away from the looming Iron Bank and into an alcove where they wouldn't be overheard. "Explain. Now."
"The banker, Tycho Nestoris, he knew my name. No, not Jon Whitewolf, called me Jon Snow, the name I was raised with."
"How could he have known who you are?"
Jon shook his head. "I have no idea! I suppose it's possible that someone from the North came here about a loan and mentioned something about Lord Stark's missing bastard. Nestoris could have made the connection if he knew the common Stark appearance, but that sounds outlandish even to me. And that's not all. When I denied being Jon Snow, he then asked if my account was under a different name ."
"What could that mean?" Enzo asked, the lines of his face growing deeper with every moment that passed.
"I wish I knew. I mean, ever since I learned that Ned Stark wasn't my father I've considered the possibility that Jon Snow wasn't my birth name. But I don't know what it would be, and I have no clue what that business about 'my account' was, or if it's even related."
Enzo looked dark and pensive. "I think," he said, voice heavy and serious, "that is a good thing we will only be spending a few days in this city."
Jon agreed. "Yes, we should avoid drawing attention to ourselves. Still, I'd rather not spend the next three days cooped up in our cabin. Do you want to get supper at a restaurant?"
The Redguard stared up at the sun that was setting over the harbor, "Yes, though not quite yet. It would be foolish to walk around carrying our whole fortune, I am going to take it back to the ship. We can meet at that statue over there, do not wander far."
"I'll just wait in the marketplace, poke around in some shops."
"You better not come back with an entire library's worth of books, you hear me?"
With a rude gesture in the direction of his friend, Jon headed off to the marketplace and one store in particular.
"I've seen you go in and out of half a dozen stores, buying something each time, and, yet, your purse still clinks like it's full of coins. Surely you wouldn't mind sharing."
Jon cocked his head to the side in bemusement. The man addressing him was of similar age to young Dragonborn, dressed in extravagant parti-colored clothing with a long slender blade at his hip. The man was handsome enough, smelling faintly of perfume, and possessed the same overconfident swagger that many of the young recruits had when they arrived at Castle Dour.
"I'm sorry, are you trying to rob me?" he asked, trying not to laugh.
"No, no, no," the young man replied."Nothing so uncivilized. Usually, I wouldn't even bother with a man not carrying a sword, but the way you carry yourself, and that dagger on your hip, tell me you've seen your fair share of combat. Yet you're not Braavosi. Are you a traveler?"
"Of sorts, this is my first time visiting Essos."
"That explains your High Valyrian. It's rough, though decent enough if you plan on traveling the Free Cities. I assume you're self-taught? That is quite an accomplishment."
It was true; Jon had learned all the Valyrian he knew from the few books he had swiped from Winterfell's library when he fled, figuring he'd need them if he was planning on going to Pentos. Thankfully, most of it had stuck.
"Thank you for the compliment, but do you need something? I need to meet a friend for supper," Jon said, gesturing in the general direction of the city square
"Oh, yes, please excuse my poor manners," he said with a flourishing bow. " I, Jorelos Eranion, challenge you to a duel to first blood for the price of fifty coins."
"Sorry, I don't have time for that."
"What?"
"My apologies, but I have somewhere I need to be. Excuse me." Jon turned to leave when Jorelos grabbed him by the strap of his knapsack, yanking it off and spinning Jon around as his recent purchases spilled out all over the ground.
"What the— "
"You dare to refuse a duel? You shame us both! Stand and fight!" The Braavosi slipped into a sideways fighting stance and drew his weapon, a light, slender sword that was edged and looked to be better suited for swift thrusts and stabs than slashing. Idly, Jon wondered what this type of blade was called, and if perhaps he could add one to his collection.
"Look, I'm not going to— " Jon dodged a sword jab and danced to the side in order to avoid a second one.
"Fight me like a man!"
Jon let out a growl, forcing down rising anger. "No, I have things to do! Will you just listen— "
"By the gods! I cannot ever leave you on your own, can I?"
The sound of the Ebony Warrior's annoyed voice paused the one-sided duel, and he, after giving Jorelos a quick once-over, snorted and hit the fiery young swordsman with a paralyzation spell.
When the Braavosi fell to the ground like an overturned statue Enzo turned to Jon. "What was that all about?"
Jon knelt by the immobilized man, checking to confirm he had a pulse before grabbing him under the arms, and pulling him into a nearby alleyway. "He tried to fight me because I refused to duel him, not sure what sense that makes."
He tucked Jorelos in between two barrels, placing the man's sword across his lap and covering him with a stray tarp so he wouldn't get cold.
"What are you doing now?" Enzo asked, sounding ever like a long-suffering martyr.
"Well, we can't just leave him in the streets like this, can we? Will you please grab my knapsack and the things that fell out of it? I just purchased those items and I don't want to see them ruined." He turned to Jorelos, whose eyes were wide with fear, and tried to give him a reassuring smile, "Sorry about this. It will wear off soon, I promise."
With a final pat to the man's knee, Jon turned to exit the alley only to find Enzo standing there, knapsack in one hand, and Jon's new copy of The Jade Compendium in the other. "You really do refuse to listen to anything I tell you."
Jon just smiled at his friend, and held out his hand.
" The Jade Compendium, Battles and Sieges of the Century of Blood, Before the Dragons, The End of the Tall Men, Engines of War, Fire Upon the Grass, The Glory of Volantis, On Miasmas, The Origins of the Iron Bank and Braavos, Rubies and Iron, Ruined Cities, Stolen Gods, True Account of Addam of Duskendale's Journeys, and all four volumes of The Life of the Triarch Belicho . Wait, why do have two copies of some of these?"
"The merchant had versions in both Common Tongue and the original language," Jon commented gleefully as he attempted to sort his new purchases so that they'd fit into one of his already straining chests, though he wasn't having much success. ' I'll probably need to buy a trunk or two when we get to White Harbor .'
"You might have a problem, my friend."
"Well, I didn't just buy books . I bought some dried fruits, powdered spices, dyes, and even some seeds. I'm determined to see if I can get different types of fruits to grow in Skyrim, even if it's just in greenhouses."
Enzo chuckled, resting his back against their cabin's wall. "Fresh fruit is a joy; it makes children grow hardy and strong. Your new friend back there could have used some. Did you see his face when I paralyzed him? One would think he had never seen magic before."
"He probably hadn't. I certainly never saw any before my arrival in Tamriel."
Enzo raised his eyebrows in surprise. "These lands truly have no magic? How strange, in Hammerfell the art is reviled, but even there are still those who secretly practice it. Myself amongst them, for a time."
Jon shrugged. "I can't speak for Essos, but, as far as I know, there isn't any magic in Westeros. Perhaps it existed there once, if you believe the stories, yet it died a long time ago with the dragons."
"Dragons?" Enzo was excited now. "Your homeland has dragons?"
Right, they had not gotten to that part of Jon's abbreviated family history.
"Had. It had dragons," Jon replied. "The last of them died over a hundred years ago. They belonged to the Targaryens—-the family that used to rule Westeros— who bonded with the beasts and mounted them like horses. These dragons weren't like the ones of Skyrim though. Going by the stories the old nanny at Winterfell told us, they once grew bigger than any I've ever encountered; the largest one was known as Balerion the Black Dread and is said to have been able to swallow a mammoth whole. But they were more animal-like than the ones we're used to: they bred and ate and could die of old age. Nor could they speak or use written language."
"If they were so large, why did they die out?"
"I don't know; no one really does. But as the years passed, they grew smaller -only to the size of a hound- and sickly. Eventually, they stopped producing viable eggs. When that happened, the Targaryens started to lose power. Now they are gone too."
"For the most part," Enzo added quietly.
"For the most part," Jon agreed. "Whatever happens, you can't go around using magic in public. In fact, there can be absolutely no mention of magic whatsoever. Adelaisa agrees with me and has told the crew the same thing."
"As you've said. I can also assume that means we will not be telling your family about your...little adventures."
" No . Never. Not in a thousand years. At best, they'd think I'm a liar, and at worst they'd think I'm mad."
"Alright, but there is a bit of a problem. What about the enchantments on our weapons and armor, how do we stop that from being noticed?"
Not that Enzo would really be totally upset with messing with people over displays of 'impossible' magic, yet Jon knew his friend did not want to mess up this whole family reunion by accident.
"I actually thought about that before we left Skyrim." Jon pulled a bundle of thin leather strips out of a trunk and tossed them to the Redguard, who, upon closer inspection, noted that the strips all had small runes on each end. "I sent a letter by carrier hawk to Neloth Telvanni in Raven Rock asking him about it, and I got these back, along with a seven-page letter about his own greatness and ongoing experiments. These strips will, when tied onto a weapon or piece of armor, will bind any existing enchantment. It'll still be there, but won't be active. Those are for you; I've already attached them to mine."
Jon probably should have handed them out earlier, but life on a ship was busy. There were always things to be done, and Adelesia had not hesitated to put him and Enzo to work helping with the hundred little tasks that popped up on the ship each day. Neither had minded, both due to wanting to earn their keep on board, and because it staved off the boredom. Even for him, he could only read so much at a time. Entire days had passed where neither had even glanced at their weapons. The pirate attack had certainly changed that, but even then the enchantments had proved to be a boon. And it wasn't like there was anyone left alive who'd spilled their secrets of magic.
Enzo scoffed. "I do not like all this deception, but I will follow your lead."
With an amused snort at the hypocrisy there, Jon grabbed more of the leather.
The port city of White Harbor lived up to its name. Enclosed by high, thick walls and rising above the sea in neat rows of white buildings that gleamed in the mid-morning light. Despite the cold air and chunks of ice that floated alongside the cavalcade of fishing boats and merchant vessels, the harbor was bustling with constant activity. Appearance-wise, it wasn't dissimilar to the main harbor of Solitude, though it came close to the frigidness of Dawnstar. The mental comparison helped ease some of Jon's tension.
"So this is it?" Enzo asked. The giant man had donned a thick, hooded bear fur cloak over his normal black clothing, with matching gloves and boots lined with snow rabbit fur.
"Aye. White Harbor, the biggest city in the North and the location to New Castle, the seat of House Manderly," Jon replied, studying the city with curious eyes. He'd never seen it from this perspective.
"House Manderly, that is who Captain Vendicci is meeting with?"
"More or less. Lord Wyman Manderly —that is the head of the house, unless he has passed in the past five years— has almost certainly left for Winterfell by now with his heir and granddaughters. Adelaisa will probably be meeting with his second son, Wendel, or someone who works for the family."
"Tell me about them. Is this lord trustworthy, or could he be a problem?"
Jon paused, thinking over the question. "I… can tell you that the Manderlys are wealthy, influential, and the only noble family in the North who keep the Faith of the Seven. That makes them something of an outsider as most keep the Old Gods. I can tell you that my uncle thought of Lord Manderly as being equal parts kind and cunning, and always spoke highly of him. All when we assumed he would think little of a fat lord. And, as far as I know, there has never been a reason to doubt his absolute loyalty to House Stark. So yes, he is both trustworthy and a potential problem."
"Oh, so you did meet him before?"
"Three times, yes, when I was younger. He was nice to me, I liked him." Jon remembered Lord Too-Fat-to-Sit-a-Horse fondly; the lord had always been jovial and generous with gifts every time he visited. He had even brought some for Jon. Nothing fancy, a box of smooth beach stones, a collection of seashells, and a coat pin made using colorful sea glass, but it had meant the world to Jon at the time. The fat lord with sharp eyes and fingers like sausages had paid attention to Jon too, asking about his lessons, and insisting that Jon sit at the high table with the rest of the family, even though Lady Stark clearly disliked his presence.
The rest of House Manderly had always been good to him as well. Wylis was stern and serious, while Wendel was boisterous and friendly, and both were always willing to take Robb, Jon, and Theon fishing. Wylis' two daughters, Wynafryd and Wylla, had been cheerful, witty, and never once criticized Arya's wild ways, which won them Jon's approval. They had never treated him differently from Robb either, and Jon warmly recalled dancing with Wylla at a feast when he was young, less than half a year before he ran from Winterfell.
Enzo nodded slowly, clearly taking in this new information. Eventually, he grunted, "We need to prepare for the journey. You said it could be two weeks at the most, so we should get a supply of foodstuffs from the market. If we get everything packed away tonight, then we can head out on the morrow."
Jon nodded. "I can do that, but we also need to secure horses and a cart or sleigh, depending on the weather. If you check at stables, you'd probably be able to learn what would be best to use. Buy what you need to, I can always pay you back."
Enzo turned to him and with absolute seriousness in his voice said, "If you get yourself in trouble while on your own again, you will not be leaving my side for this journey."
The Dragonborn rolled his eyes. ' Enzo is always such a worrier .'
"Excuse me, Ser. We were hoping you'd come with us."
Jon looked up from the wares of a jewelry stand. It was funny, no one had been thrilled Jon was going on a several months-long trip, yet nearly everyone had demanded he bring them back something. So after he had gotten the necessary supplies and sent them back to the ship, Jon had decided to investigate the main square in hopes of finding the appropriate gifts for his friends back home. He had already picked up a dagger with a carved whalebone hilt for Aela, and been in the middle of admiring a sea glass hairpin for Elisif, when two armed men with the House Manderly sigil of a trident-wielding merman stitched on the breast of their jerkins had approached.
"Have I done something wrong?" Jon had no desire to be locked up in Wolf's Den for some unknown reason. Breaking out would be a hassle, and he'd never hear the end of it from Enzo.
"Not at all, we just need you to follow us."
Jon forced a polite smile of agreement and allowed himself to be led through the clean and well-ordered cobbled streets of the city while he tried to work out if he was being arrested. While his escorts were obviously guards, Jon definitely wasn't being treated like a prisoner. They made pleasant small talk, asking him how he liked the city, and if Jon would like to stop at one of the food stands. Yet it didn't escape his notice that they stood on either side of him as they guided him up toward the proud and pale castle of House Manderly.
' Enzo is going to kill me .'
Wyman Manderly I
Lord Wyman Manderly was old and fat and intelligent; he knew these things about himself. He also knew that most people only ever saw the first two traits, and he knew how to use this to his advantage.
"Would you like some heated honey wine, Captain Vendicci? I find it is the best way to warm the body on a cold day, and I suspect you're not used to such a cold climate."
It had been a surprise to receive the letter emblazoned with the East Empire Trading Company logo. He had heard of the business of course, though he couldn't claim to know much about them. He did know, however, that they had never traded with any of the ports in Westeros, and only stopped in Braavos occasionally, despite having to literally sail around Westeros to get there.
The exact reason for this avoidance was unknown. All of his own attempted, and expensive, correspondence with the company had been ignored. Perhaps they simply preferred the products available in Braavos. Perhaps the company had a bad business experience with Westeros in the past. Wyman wondered if he could get an explanation from his lovely guests.
Certainly, it would be a real feather in his cap if he could arrange trade between them and White Harbour while they continued to ignore the much closer Lannisport.
"No thank you, Lord Manderly. I prefer to keep a clear head during negotiations, and I assure you, I'm quite hardy despite my age. Though, I also must admit that I didn't expect to be meeting with the head of your house directly." While the captain politely refused the drink, the first mate, Wyman noticed, accepted with great enthusiasm.
Captain Adelaisa Vendicci was a handsome woman of about forty with shortly trimmed silver hair and the kind of raw, earthy features that were pleasant to the eye, even if they could never be described as beautiful. Her face had the distinctive look of a lifelong sailor, worn from the sun and the salty sea wind; it was stern, but there was an underlying feeling of strength and warmth. The same was true of her dark eyes.
She also spoke the truth, he noted. Her back was straight and even under the furs she had donned, he could tell her arms and legs were strong with lean muscle. The sword at her hip told him even more that she was not a woman to be taken lightly. In most of the ports in Westeros, except those in Dorne, she would have been met with scorn to her face or laughter behind her back. Wyman was smart enough to know that was both a terrible business strategy and a horrible way to get information. And Wyman wanted information.
"I had originally planned to leave on a short trip two days ago, but when I received your request to negotiate trade, I knew I had to see to this matter personally. So please, let us begin, I'm sure you're as eager as I am."
Most Paramounts would doubtless consider his delay to be a slight against them and their son for risking being late for the latter's nameday. Lord Stark however would be far more upset if one of his liege lords passed over the chance to better provide for their people in favor of pampering the man's ego.
' And how curious that she knew I was supposed to be absent ahead of time.'
"It's been a long time since I've had a meal like this," the first mate, a plain-faced man by the name of Mecico Chenadia, commented as he tucked into a pork pie.
"Nothing but best for such honored guests. Please help yourself, I've had the cooks prepare the local delicacies for you to enjoy." Wyman smiled pleasantly as he waved for a servant to refill the man's wine goblet, this time with something slightly stronger than what he had originally offered. "And please speak up if you have any meal restrictions or preferences. I'd be happy to have something else made for you."
After a long afternoon of in-depth, if rather relaxed, negotiations, a break had been taken for luncheon. The Lord of White Harbor had ordered a spread of boiled eggs, crab soup, capons, grilled eels, stuffed lampreys, pork pies, buttered bread rolls, and fruit pies brought out with the addition of several fine bottles of Dornish Red. When Captain Venicci, who Wyman had come to understand was a thoroughly pleasant but incredibly astute woman, had excused herself from the room for a moment to stretch her legs, he knew he had his chance.
"I was wondering though, why the East Empire Company decided that now was the time to stop in Westeros, especially in my humble city?"
"Oh, we didn't plan on it originally. But after Whitewolf suggested to the big wigs that you might be a prosperous port, they decided to have us swing up here after we stopped in Braavos. The lad has friends on high, and is owed a lot of favors, so it wasn't hard to convince management to add an extra six weeks to this voyage. I'm not complaining though, could use the extra pay," the sailor shrugged.
The name was unfamiliar to Wyman, so he pushed further. "How interesting, I wonder why this Whitewolf fellow suggested White Harbor as a trading port instead of a larger one like , Oldtown, Lannisport, or King's Landing?"
Chenadia continued to dig at his meal. "Apparently Whitewolf was raised here but left some years ago. He hitched a ride on the ship so he could visit for some party. Last I saw him he was heading to the marketplace to buy supplies for the trip. Maybe you've heard of him. Does the name Jon Whitewolf sound familiar?"
Wyman froze. ' It couldn't be, could it? Jon is a perfectly common name, but the circumstances are almost too much of a coincidence… And the name, Whitewolf, didn't the boy supposedly have a direwolf with completely white fur? Still, it's best to be sure. '
Getting anything from Tamriel was rare, so a series of letters that came through here a few years ago had drawn his interest greatly. Even more so when the letters started to come from Winterfell in return. He hadn't pried, especially not into his liege Lord's letters, as that would not be productive or proper. Still, it had been obvious this meant a great deal to the frugal, if pragmatic, Ned Stark. So he had done his deductions, taken his notes of what he could, and waited for the moment he could learn more. Now seemed like the time.
"The name does tickle my memory, but I'm unable to recall any specifics, I'm afraid. Can you tell me about him? It may help this old man remember. And, if nothing else, I want to properly thank the man for sending this opportunity in my direction," he assured when the first mate gave him a suspicious look.
The sailor eyed him warily for a moment before ultimately shrugging again and returning to his meal. "He's young, less than twenty; dark hair and eyes but pale skin. Slender and not extremely tall. I'll tell you what though, I've never seen his like with a sword or a bow. Wielding those, you'd swear he wasn't human. He is also fairer than my sister and both nieces combined."
The man paused to chuckle and take another swig of wine before continuing. "He's an all-around good lad, I'd say. Richer than a king but not afraid to roll up his sleeves and do the grunt work. No, he hasn't given us any trouble whatsoever. Him, his large friend, or his wolf."
Wyman considered himself a man of great restraint —except when it came to his favorite dishes— yet he could scarcely stop himself from leaping out of his chair and bolting for the door. Instead he, very calmly, stood and politely excused himself, leaving Mecico Chenadia to all the food and wine he wanted.
Once a safe distance away he grabbed a trusted guard by the shoulder and pulled him close. "Listen," he whispered urgently, "I want you to take another guard down to the marketplace. Find a young man named Jon and bring him here. He'll be younger than twenty with dark curly hair, eyes, and pale skin. He'll have the Stark look, do you understand?"
Perfectly professional, the man gave no reaction to the implications beyond a sharp nod. "Yes, m'lord. What are we to do if this young man doesn't want to come with us?"
"Then persuade him, whatever it takes. But you're not to harm one hair on his head, do you understand? He is to be our special guest."
"Of course, m'lord. I'll take Galdon and we'll have him here shortly. Do you want us to take him to the guest quarters, or—"
"No, just bring him to my solar. Now off with you!"
The guard bowed and left, leaving Wyman to his thoughts. 'Lord Stark's bastard son has returned to Westeros after all these years, but why? Surely not for something as simple as his brother's nameday celebration.'
Wyman thought back on all of his memories of the boy. He was a shy thing, sad but so sweet. He watched the child play with his siblings, and then he watched Lord Stark look at him with poorly hidden, melancholy-laced affection. It was after that he insisted the boy sit up at the high table with everyone else, despite having already brought a gift for the bastard boy and risking the ire of Lady Stark, and that was surely a further insult. Regardless, Wyman knew he had made the right choice. Jon was clearly beloved by the majority of his siblings, and quietly adored by his father. When Robb Stark grew to be the Lord of Winterfell, he'd want the brother he was closest to by his side.
The Lord of White Harbor had made the offer to foster the boy the second time he visited Winterfell, telling Lord Stark that Jon could become a knight in White Harbor and create his own name. Wyman had seen how his liege lord had been sorely tempted to accept, but ultimately refused the idea. So the third time he visited he instructed Wylla to dance with the boy and report back to him her opinion.
"What did you think of Jon, Sweetling?"
"He's so shy, Grandfather, he could barely look me in the eye. But he was extra careful not to step on my feet while we danced, and I like his hair.
They were both young then, too young, but in a few years' time, Wyman could have suggested... Alas, the boy vanished without a trace less than a year later, leaving behind devastated siblings and a heartbroken father.
'And now he is back under a different name carrying a king's fortune and I want to know why.'
Satisfied, he returned to the table at the same time as the captain, and he deflected suspicion with a few harmless questions about their homeland. Comparing the weather, describing dishes, asking if female sailors were common while being complimentary, that sort of thing.
The guards didn't even bother knocking when they flung the doors to Wyman's solar open, startling all the occupants, and hurriedly ushered a dark-haired youth dressed in simple but very finely made clothes of a similar fashion to the sailors with him.
"Jon!" This time Wyman did leap up from his seat, as did the captain and her first mate. "By the Seven, where have you been boy?"
He seized the lost son of Winterfell by his shoulders so he could inspect him further, astonished by what he found.
When he was a boy, Jon Snow was said to be a young Ned Stark's twin, but that was certainly not the case now. It was true that he was dark of hair and eyes, yet both were darker than Lord Stark's by several shades. The hair was also thick with curls tamed by pulling the top part of it back with a red strip of leather, with several other things braided within, each decorated with colorful yarn woven in or glass beads at the end. Lord Eddard Stark was a man of simple taste, and would have never worn his hair in such an elaborate style. His features also didn't quite fit. They were long, yes, but polished to a type of elegant sharpness. The young man didn't even have the typical Northern build, as where most Northerners were tall and broad with thick muscle, Jon was slender with a sleek build. Still, he could feel the muscle in those shoulders.
'Those may be the colors of a Stark, but the face and body are something else entirely.'
"Lord Manderly, I—" the youth's attempts to awkwardly bow, while also pulling away were interrupted by the doors to the solar being kicked open. Wyman watched in amazement as a dark-skinned giant of a man entered the room. He had one of the gate guards tucked under his arm in a chokehold, and was pulling New Castle's steward along by the man's ear.
"What in the nine hells— Guards ! Get in—!"
"Lord Manderly, it's alright! I swear, Enzo, you put those people down right now!"
The giant looked at Jon, who scowled at the man fiercely. "Boy, if you get in any more trouble I swear, I will tie you down and shave you bald."
Then, surprisingly, he did as he was asked and released both men. The guard turned to his former capturer like he wanted to say something, but one glare was enough to send the grizzled veteran skittering away.
The man then shifted his attention to Wyman. "You must be Lord Manderly, yes? Jon spoke about you. I am Enzo Vlast. Would you care to tell me why you kidnapped my companion?"
Vlast offered none of the bows or courtesies that would be expected of a man addressing a lord, but Wyman got the impression that Vlast wasn't a man who particularly cared for courtesies of any sort. He would also be quite interested to later question his men on how exactly this giant had slipped past all of the keep's security without a word being heard until now.
Clearly someone not to be underestimated, and manners aside he approved of this giant watching out for Jon.
"Rest assured, no one was kidnapped. I merely sent out two of my men to investigate someone that I had cause to believe was my liege lord's missing son, and as it turns out, I was correct. Perhaps the situation was easy to misread; I simply want to ensure this young man's safety." Out of the corner of Wyman's eye, he noticed Venicci shoot Chenadia a look so scathing that he considered asking the man if he needed a maester.
Jon slipped from Wyman's grasp, and went to stand by Vlast. "Thank you for your concern, Lord Manderly. But I assure you, I am quite safe. Enzo and I will be heading to Winterfell first thing in the morning and we can handle ourselves."
"No, no, no! I won't hear of it, you and your...friend absolutely must travel with me and my family."
Jon's eyes went wide, "That is not necessary, my Lord!"
"Of course it is! I could hardly face Lord Stark and tell him that I had his lost son safe in my home, only to let him go and meet his end at the hands of some brigands. Oh dear, we have to send your father a raven immediately! He'll be so delighted to hear your back, safe and sound."
"No!"
At that Wyman paused to stare at the boy curiously, only to watch him school his face into an innocent-looking smile. "I don't want you to let him know by letter, my Lord, because I was hoping to surprise him and my family."
'Oh, but there is more to the story than that.' Wyman smiled. "That sounds like a wonderful idea. You and your companion will stay here in New Castle, I'll send someone down to collect your belongings off the ship right away. Then you both will travel with my party and I to Winterfell together."
Jon Whitewolf, the young man formerly known as Jon Snow, forced a grin — 'He is good,' Wyman thought, 'the untrained eye would never be able to tell'— and said, "We would be honored, my Lord."
Next Chapter: Reunions, gifts, and avoiding eye contact.
Notes:
I'm sorry to those of you who felt uncomfortable during the scene in the butcher's show, I swear I'm not trying to make light of something so horrible by including it in my story. The purpose behind the scene was to display traits about Ned that come into play later.