After bidding Thoros farewell, Jon stood by the canal, watching the shattered moonlight dance on the ripples. He needed a way to remain in Braavos for the long term—a proper identity that would allow him to watch over Arya without being a ghost at her shoulder. Smothering her would only drive her further away.
He sought counsel from Mark, the clumsy bravo he had mended.
"It's simple enough," Mark said, parrying Jon's practice stick with a wince. "Your sister sells oysters? Sell oysters yourself."
"And steal her trade?" Jon flicked the wooden blade, tapping Mark's forehead and leaving a red welt. "A poor idea."
Mark rubbed his brow. "Then go to the wharves. Be a porter. The docks are a hive, and the shell-stalls do the best trade; your sister has to pass through every day. You sit there, and whether you carry a crate or not, you'll see her. You'll know if she's fed. And if some gutter-rat tries to lay a hand on her, you're already there to break his wrist."
Jon nodded. The logic was sound. Out of gratitude, he rewarded Mark with an extra hour of grueling combat drill.
The next day, through Mark's introduction, Jon met Sariel, the head of a docker's guild. For the price of a silver stag and a promise to pay a fifth of his earnings to the guild, Jon was granted a pole and a pair of hemp ropes.
His clothes, provided by the Brotherhood back in the Riverlands, were already tattered and stained—the perfect uniform for a man of the shadows. No one would have guessed that the sweat-soaked porter hauling spice-crates was the acknowledged son of a Warden of the North. It was a life Jon had never imagined.
In Winterfell, he was high-born, living off the labor of smallfolk. With Aldric, he was a soldier, earning coin through steel. But his teacher had once told him: Labor is the forge of the world. Humans didn't become masters of the earth through magic or blood, but by the work of their hands. In the sun-baked chaos of the harbor, Jon felt the weight of those words. These men were rough, bickering over every copper of their day-pay, but their shoulders held up the city's trade. They were the lifeblood of Braavos as much as any Sea Lord in his palace. To blend in, Jon spent his wages drinking and eating with his fellow porters. To them, he was just "Jon."
But in the underworld, he was becoming something else.
Jon had mended several bravoes who had been gutted in the Moon Pool or failed in their dark contracts. Slowly, a rumor spread through the stinking alleys: for a gold coin or two, a broken leg could be made whole. For ten, a man on the brink of the Stranger's embrace could be pulled back. The duelists kept the secret close; in a city where steel was law, an unkillable edge was a weapon too precious to share with the Guard.
Jon didn't hoard the gold. He used it to buy rounds for the porters and help the families of the dockworkers when the winter-fever hit. He gave just enough to change a life, but not so much that they would grow suspicious of his wealth.
Despite his new life, he never lost sight of Arya. Her cart appeared at Ragman's Harbor every day for a few hours. She would board the whalers from Ib or the wine-sinks from Lys to hawk her catch. He watched her overturn a rival's cart on the steps of the Palace of Truth and saw her trade with customs officers at the Checkered Quay.
When Arya first saw her brother hauling a crate of cinnamon from a ship, she nearly tripped over her own feet.
"Stupid Jon!" she'd hissed once, kicking his porter's pole when no one was looking. "I'm not going back! You can haul fish until you turn into a seal, I don't care!"
Jon didn't argue. He just watched. Their shared glances across the crowded wharves became a silent pact.
But the silence was broken one afternoon.
Walking past the Happy Port after his shift, Jon saw a crowd forming. Two garishly dressed men were beating a fat youth in black wool. Jon recognized one of the assailants—a bravo he had mended weeks ago.
Violence was the currency of the Happy Port, as common as wine. Jon intended to wait for it to end, but then the two men lifted the fat boy and heaved him into the canal.
The boy hit the water with a splash and began to thrash frantically. He can't swim, Jon realized. He dove in immediately.
The boy was sinking like a stone, his eyes wide with terror in the cold, salt-dark water. Jon grabbed him by the neck, hauled him to the surface, and dragged him to the quay. A massive, dark-skinned sailor reached down and helped haul the water-logged boy onto the stones.
The Summer Islander turned the boy onto his belly and pounded his back with a fist the size of a mallet.
"Stop," the boy wheezed, spitting out salt water. "I'm not drowned. I'm not drowned."
"Nay, you are not," the sailor grinned, his black skin glistening with water. "But you owe me many feathers. The salt has ruined my best cloak."
The boy looked at the wet, stained plumage on the man's giant shoulders. "I never... learned to swim."
"I see that," the sailor laughed. "You flap too much. A fat man should float." He pulled the boy upright. "I am Quhuru Mo, mate of the Cinnamon Wind. I saw you hit that singer inside. I heard your talk." He smiled, his teeth brilliant white. "I know of the dragons."
Jon sat on the ground, gasping for air. "What dragons?"
"Spitting fire," Quhuru said.
Jon didn't understand the context, but he turned his attention to the fat boy. "You are from the Seven Kingdoms?"
The boy shivered. "I... I am a man of the Night's Watch. I thank you—"
"Why are you here?" Jon interrupted, his voice sharp. "Crows are forbidden from leaving the Wall. Without a warrant from the Lord Commander, you're a deserter. Any lord can take your head."
The boy panicked. "I'm no deserter! We seek a ship for Oldtown! Commander Mormont's orders!"
"We? Who else?"
"Maester Aemon... and Gilly and her babe... and Dareon." The boy wiped his face. "But Dareon... I think he's staying. He's making gold here with his songs."
Jon's brow furrowed. "Dareon? The singer? He took the vows with me."
"Yes, yes. How do you know him?" the boy asked, blinking.
Jon didn't answer. "What is your name?"
"Samwell Tarly."
Jon stood up, his gaze turning cold and authoritative. The porter was gone; the Deputy Commander of the Dawn had returned.
"I'll bring him out," Jon said. He walked into the brothel.
He found Dareon draped in silk, his head resting on the lap of a girl who was rubbing a damp cloth over his bruised face. His black cloak, the symbol of his life's vow, was crumpled in a corner like a discarded rag.
"Ow, ow... careful," Dareon whined.
A bravo sat nearby, peeling an apple. "You're useless, singer. Can't even fight a pig. Sell your sword before someone takes it from you in the dark."
"Ha! I don't want it!" Dareon scoffed. "Give me a lute and this city. Braavos is a place for a man of my—"
"For a singing crow?"
The voice was both familiar and terrifying. Dareon looked up. He saw a man in rags, but the eyes were hard as winter.
Before he could speak, his bravo friend dropped the apple and stood up. "Master Jon! What brings you to this sink?"
Jon looked at the bravo, recognizing him. "Bertram Dean. Gut-wound, six days ago. You're moving well."
Bertram bowed. "I rested as you commanded. I was fit by sunset."
"Jon?" Dareon stammered, his face turning pale. "Jon Snow? The Lord Commander said you went on a secret mission... years ago."
"A very secret mission," Jon said, the air around him feeling heavy with pressure. "And you? Is it your mission to sell your cloak for a whore's smile?"
"I... we were ordered to Oldtown," Dareon whispered.
"Who is 'we'?"
"Maester Aemon... and Sam Tarly. The fat boy who joined after you left."
"Where are they? I wish to see them."
"But I... I have a performance... my friends are waiting—" Dareon tried to stall, but Jon simply stood there, silent and unmoving. The brothel guards looked on but stayed back; they knew "Master Jon" was someone the duelists protected.
Bertram Dean looked at Dareon, then back at Jon. "The singer seems reluctant, Master. Shall I assist?"
Jon shook his head slowly. "Dareon is a clever lad. I think he knows he's going to put on his cloak and follow me. Don't you, Dareon?"
Dareon remembered Jon Snow as a sullen high-born boy with a better sword-arm than most. But the man standing before him now spoke with the weight of a veteran of twenty years. He didn't have the courage to refuse.
"Fine. Fine! I'm coming."
Dareon snatched up his black cloak and hurried out. Outside, Samwell and the Summer Islander were waiting.
"Dareon!" Sam said, surprised. "You're coming back with us?"
Dareon cast a look of pure venom at the fat boy, but Jon kicked the back of Dareon's knee, forcing him to his joints.
"Lead the way, Sam," Jon commanded, ignoring the singer's groan of pain. "Let's see Maester Aemon."
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