As the moon climbed to its zenith, the lanterns of the taverns and brothels surrounding the Moon Pool flickered out one by one. Even the sounds of revelry began to thin. Yet, in the deep shadows at the edge of the plaza, young men began to gather. They wore flamboyant silks and carried slender rapiers at their hips, talking in low, hushed tones punctuated by sharp, suppressed laughter.
Among these peacocks were a few older men in sober gray-brown doublets. They stood alone, their gazes heavy with experience. The younger duelists looked at them with a mixture of reverence and the hidden ambition to eventually replace them. These veterans didn't care; they had carried that same ambition once.
Jon was ignored. In a city like Braavos, a curious foreigner watching the Moon Pool was as common as a seagull. He leaned against his stone wall, watching as the moon began its slow descent. Finally, two figures stepped into the center of the plaza.
"Mark, I've had my fill of your insults," the shorter of the two said. "Today, before the Palace of the Sea Lord, I take my due."
His opponent, a tall, spindly youth, sneered. "Your due? You stole a commission of two gold dragons by undercutting me and slandering my name to the merchant. The guild should know your nature."
"A debt-collection of two gold? You dared charge one for the service! You're the one breaking the code of the bravos."
The taller youth shook his head impatiently. "Enough. Only cowards talk when steel can speak. Come, I'll give you a lesson you won't live to remember."
The short duelist drew his blade, closing the distance with two rapid, sliding steps. The damp marble floor caught the moonlight as their breath condensed into white mist in the chill night air.
The tall bravo lunged, twin daggers flashing toward his opponent's throat. The swordsman parried, the spine of his blade catching the left dagger just as the right point hissed toward his ribs.
Clang!
The short man caught the thrust, but the tall duelist used the edge of the Moon Pool to vault, his boots finding purchase on the stone rim. He launched himself like a stone from a sling. The swordsman raised a desperate guard, but the twin blades sheared past—the left blade slicing the ribbon of his head-wrap, the right biting an inch into his leather grip.
Suddenly, the air was filled with the frantic clink-clink-clink of steel. Seven thrusts were parried in a heartbeat. As the swordsman retreated, his heel found a patch of salt-slicked moss. In that moment of imbalance, the tall bravo surged forward. His left dagger feinted for the eyes, while his right point struck like a viper toward the heart. The swordsman twisted to avoid the kill, but it left his flank wide open.
The copper tang of blood filled the air. The tall bravo kicked his opponent's wrist, sending the rapier clattering into the pool. Before the splash even settled, his left blade was pressed against the man's throat.
The tall bravo stepped back as the tide lapped against the third step of the pool. He had only a few scratches on his bracers; his loose black hair brushed against a tunic that remained unstained by blood.
The shorter man, Mark, slumped to one knee. He began to cough—wet, bubbling sounds that sprayed foam-flecked blood onto the marble.
"Go," the victor sneered, wiping his blade with a silk handkerchief. "Find a healer. Perhaps the Stranger isn't ready for you yet."
Mark cast a look of pure hatred at his rival, then scrambled toward a nearby alley, clutching his chest. As the other bravos gathered to congratulate the winner, Jon slipped into the shadows, following the loser.
Two alleys deep, Jon found Mark slumped against a damp stone wall.
"A vulture seeking the dead," Mark wheezed as Jon approached. He coughed violently, clutching his right lung. "Take what I have... but give me the mercy of a clean end."
"The other man told you to find a doctor," Jon said, stopping at a respectful distance.
Mark let out a hollow, rattling laugh. "You think he was being kind? He pierced my lung but wouldn't finish me before witnesses. The Red Hands can't fix a hole like this." His breathing became a series of wet whistles. "It's getting... hard. Do me the favor. Kill me."
"If I mend you, will you do me a favor instead?"
"Mend me? Ha... cough... if you can fix this, my life is yours to keep."
Jon shook his head. "Life is a gift from Anshe. I have no right to own it."
He stepped in, kicking the man's discarded blade aside. He placed a hand over the bleeding chest. "May Anshe grant you wholeness. Valar Awn-Shay."
In the stinking dark of the alley, a flash of pure golden Light erupted.
After a moment of searing heat, Mark gasped. He touched his chest in disbelief. The pain was gone. He coughed up a final clot of dark blood, and suddenly his lungs filled with air—clear and easy. He scrambled to his feet, pulling a hidden dagger from his belt and backing away.
"What sorcery was that?"
"I healed you. Nothing more."
Mark looked at his body, checking for missing pieces. Nothing was gone. He lowered the knife. "You said you wanted a favor. Speak."
"I seek my sister. Arya Stark. She came on a ship called the Titan's Daughter. Find her, or spread the word that her brother Jon is looking for her. Anyone with a true lead gets a mending like the one I just gave you."
"The Titan's Daughter? She's a regular trader," Mark said. "But she sailed five days ago. If you want to wait for her return, you'll be here two months. As for the girl... a mending is worth a lot in this city. I'll spread the word among the shadows."
Over the next few days, Jon fell into a rhythm: wandering the city by day, and rescuing the losers of the Moon Pool by night. He learned that Braavosi duelists fought for any reason—or none at all. To touch a sword hilt in the wrong tavern was an invitation to a dance of death.
One night, after watching a bloodless bout, Jon was intercepted in an alley by a youth slightly taller than him, but with a frame like a willow branch.
"I see you every night," the youth said. "A jackal following the blood. You never duel, but you follow the losers."
"I follow to help them."
"They need the mercy of the Many-Faced God, not a scavenger."
"You must be new," Jon noted. "The men I've saved call it something else."
"Hmph. I see a sword at your hip. Enough talk. Defend yourself."
The youth lunged with a thin rapier. Jon didn't even draw Ellie. He had seen this kind of footwork in the monastery barracks among the rawest recruits. He simply pivoted, extended a foot, and tripped the boy into the mud. He finished the "duel" with two sharp kicks to the lad's stomach.
"Talk to Mark or Harris," Jon told the gasping youth. "They'll tell you the truth."
The next morning, the youth showed up at Jon's inn.
"I... I was wrong to stop you," he stammered.
Jon waved it off. "You didn't hurt me. Is that why you're here?"
"No. Harris said you'd pay for news of a girl. A Westerosi girl."
Jon grabbed the boy's shoulders. "Speak."
The boy's name was Pascal Neck. He had been a thief since his father, a spice merchant, had been ruined by pirates. He had tried to be a bravo to regain his honor but lacked the skill. Now, he wanted to serve Jon in exchange for training.
"I saw her," Pascal said. "At the Ragman's Harbor. I bought an oyster from her. She looks like you, and she has the accent of the sunset lands."
They reached the harbor an hour later. Pascal pointed toward a small boat where a girl was hawking oysters to a group of sailors.
Jon saw her. Her hair was a tangled mess, and she wore a rough, oversized coat stained with salt and brine. When a sailor made a crude comment, she snapped back with a vulgar gesture that would have made Septon Mordane faint.
Jon felt a lump in his throat that nearly choked him. He walked toward the girl as she was shaking a bottle of vinegar over a shell.
"Arya."
The girl flinched violently, the oyster slipping from her fingers and hitting the stone. She leaped back, a slender dagger appearing in her hand as if by magic. She spun around, her gray eyes wild and guarded.
"I don't know any—Jon?!"
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