The dream was not of a wolf.
There was no scent of pine or snow, no thrill of the hunt, no feeling of paws on the earth. There was only a profound, absolute silence and a cold that was not of winter, but of the empty spaces between the stars.
He stood in a landscape of impossible geometry, a palace of shimmering, pale blue ice that seemed to shift and reform with every heartbeat. The air was filled with a soft, ethereal light, and the silence was a song, a high, thin note of pure crystal. He was not afraid. He was mesmerized.
They moved through the crystalline halls, their forms tall and graceful, their armor like polished, moonlit ice. They carried swords that seemed to be made of pure, living cold, blades of pale crystal that shimmered with a faint, blue light. They were beautiful, in a way that was both perfect and terrifyingly alien. They were the Others. He knew it with a certainty that went deeper than thought.
He watched them, a silent observer in his own dream. They spoke to one another, though not in words. Their language was a series of sharp, crystalline sounds, like the cracking of ice on a winter lake, yet he could feel the weight of their intelligence, ancient and cold and vast. This was not a mindless horde. This was a civilization.
Then, one of them stopped. It turned its head, its movements impossibly fluid. Its eyes, the color of blue stars, looked directly at him.
It saw him.
Not the dream. Not the vision.
Him.
The world shattered. The beautiful, silent song became a deafening, psychic scream. The cold was no longer just a temperature; it was an active, malevolent presence, a needle of pure ice driving into his mind.
He woke with a strangled gasp, his body drenched in a cold sweat, the scream still echoing in his skull. He sat bolt upright, his heart hammering against his ribs. Ghost, who had been sleeping at the foot of his cot, was on his feet, a low, guttural growl rumbling in his chest, his red eyes fixed on the darkest corner of the room, as if he had seen the same enemy.
Jon took a series of deep, shuddering breaths, forcing the terror down. This was not a [Wolf-Dream]. This was something else. A message? A warning? Or had the enemy he was destined to fight just become aware of him?
The cold sweat still clung to his skin, but outside the city was stirring.
The sun was rising, its pale light filtering through the grimy window. He pushed the dream away. He had work to do.
They broke their fast in the common room of The Drowned Mug, a simple meal of black bread, hard cheese, and watered-down ale. The easy camaraderie they had started to build was a welcome anchor after the cold horror of the dream.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Kaelo said, tearing off a chunk of bread.
"Something like that," Jon replied, his voice rough.
"He is always seeing ghosts," Orbelo remarked, daintily cutting his cheese with a small knife. "It is the curse of the thoughtful man. Now, if you were a simpleton like Kaelo, you would sleep the sleep of the blissfully ignorant."
Kaelo scowled. "And if you were any more thoughtful, you'd starve to death trying to decide which piece of cheese to eat first."
Jon let out a long, weary sigh, rubbing his temples. "Just finish your meal," he said, his voice tired. "We have the training room for the morning."
The room was a small, dusty space above a weaver's shop that Jon had rented for a few coins a day.
"You swing too wide, Kaelo," Jon said, easily parrying another of the boy's wild, furious axe blows. "You pour all your strength into every strike, but you leave yourself wide open."
He shoved Kaelo back, his own movements precise. "The pits taught you to kill with rage. Your anger is a weapon but only if you control it. If it controls you, any good fighter will use it against you. Focus."
He spent the next hour walking Kaelo through a series of grueling drills, forcing him to focus on his footwork, on his balance, on controlling his breathing. It was a frustrating, difficult process, but slowly, Jon could see the change. The raw fury was still there, but it was now being channeled, focused into a tighter, more controlled, and far more deadly fighting style.
Orbelo was a different challenge entirely. He had the basics of swordplay and archery, but he had a scholar's hesitation, a reluctance to commit to the brutal reality of a fight.
"You think too much," Jon said from behind him at their makeshift archery range. "You calculate the wind, the distance, the arc of the arrow. That's good. But you're forgetting the most important part."
Orbelo frowned, still aiming. "What's that?"
"The target," Jon said quietly. "You're not just trying to hit a mark, Orbelo. You're trying to end a life. See the man, not the target. Read his movement. Feel his fear. That's how you strike true."
He began to teach them not just how to fight, but how to think. He would draw crude maps of the tavern they had just left and make them plan a hypothetical infiltration. He would describe a political situation he had read about in the library and make them devise a strategy to exploit its weaknesses.
He was not just training a warrior and a scholar. He was forging two sides of the same blade. He was building his team. And as he watched them, a new, cold resolve settled over him. The dream had terrified him, but it had also given him a gift. A face for his enemy. He now knew, with an absolute certainty, that this was not just a game. He was preparing for a war. And he would be ready.
That afternoon, a messenger arrived from the Lady Zarrina, a perfumed note summoning them to her manse. The time had come.
They walked to her manse, not as intruders in the night, but as invited guests in the bright afternoon sun. The panther-helmed guards at the gate, their faces unreadable, simply bowed and let them pass.
They found her in the same southern garden, a vision in a gown of sea-green silk. She rose as they approached, a slow, languid smile playing on her lips as her eyes fixed on Jon.
"Corvus," she purred. "You have returned. And you have brought your pack."
She turned her gaze to Orbelo, and the smile became one of perfect, practiced sympathy. "Orbelo, my dear. I have heard the most terrible news. It seems I was deceived. Tricked by a viper I welcomed into my home." She glided towards him, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "Can you ever forgive me? I would be honored if you would consider returning to my service. Your old rooms are waiting for you."
Orbelo, who a few weeks ago would have wept with gratitude, now stood tall, his face a mask of polite refusal. "You are gracious, my lady," he said, his voice steady. "But I know where I stand now. My place is with Corvus. I've sworn him my service and my loyalty."
Zarrina's eyes flickered with a brief, almost imperceptible flash of surprise before her charming smile returned. She laughed, a sound like silver bells. "A loyal man. A rare and valuable thing." She turned back to Jon. "Well then, it seems our business is not yet concluded. We must go to the Sealord's palace. Tregarro's crimes were not just against my house, but against the city itself. It is only right that we present our proof to the Sealord." She looked at Jon and Kaelo. "You two will act as my personal guard. It will be easier to explain your presence that way."
The Sealord's Palace was a massive, domed structure of white marble that seemed to float on the canals. They were led through a series of opulent halls to a vast, airy chamber where the Sealord of Braavos, a man named Ferrego Antaryon, sat on a simple, throne-like chair.
"Lady Zarrina," the Sealord said, his voice calm and powerful. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"
"A grave matter, my lord," Zarrina began, her voice full of a practiced solemnity. "I have uncovered a traitor in my household. A man named Tregarro, who has been selling secrets concerning your own trade negotiations to a rival."
The Sealord held up a hand, stopping her. "Yes," he said, his eyes sharp and intelligent. "Magister Borro's little spy. I am aware." He gestured to a clerk at his side, who held up a familiar-looking scroll—Orbelo's copy. "A letter reached me last night, detailing the entire conspiracy."
Zarrina froze, her composure finally breaking as she stared at the scroll, then back at Jon, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and a dawning approval. Jon had not just trusted her to keep her word; he had put a dagger to her back to ensure she did.
"The letter also spoke of a great injustice," the Sealord continued, his gaze falling on Orbelo. "It seems you were wronged, Master Orbelo. On behalf of the city, you have my deepest apologies. Your name is cleared of all suspicion."
Zarrina recovered with the grace of a practiced dancer. "Indeed, my lord," she said smoothly. "And it is this brave young man you have to thank for uncovering the truth." She gestured to Jon. "Corvus. The one who caught the serpent in my garden."
The Sealord's sharp gaze turned to Jon, truly seeing him for the first time. "Corvus," he said, the name rolling off his tongue with a new weight. "It seems I owe you a debt as well. Magister Borro has grown too ambitious. He covets this chair. The information you uncovered is a weapon I can use to ensure he never gets the chance."
The Sealord is not a king, Jon remembered from his studies. He is elected for life, chosen by the Magisters and Keyholders of the city. A man like Borro could not make a direct move, but he could use secrets and blackmail to secure the votes he would need when the time came.
"You have done a great service for the security of Braavos," the Sealord continued, his voice now holding a note of genuine gratitude. "For that, you have my thanks. And my protection. Should you ever have need of it." He paused, his gaze thoughtful. "Is there anything you would ask of me? A reward for this service, within reason of course."
Jon thought for a moment. He had a ship, he had coin. He had his own small, growing power. What he lacked was measure of his own skill against the best this city had to offer.
"My lord," Jon said, bowing his head slightly. "I have heard many tales of the First Sword of Braavos. They say he is one of the finest duelist in the world. I can think of no greater honor than to test my skills against such a master. I would ask for the privilege of a friendly spar."
The Sealord stared at him, his expression one of surprise, which then slowly broke into a booming, genuine laugh. "By the Titan," he chuckled, "you are a bold one, Corvus. Others ask for coin or comfort. You ask to test yourself. That says much." He looked at Jon, his eyes full of a new, intrigued respect. "Very well. Your request is granted. I will arrange it. But be warned, boy. My First Sword does not know the meaning of the word 'friendly' when he has a blade in his hand."