[A/N] - I know it's a bit late, but here's a picture of Lady Zarrina. I've also included one of Daenerys in the Characters Auxiliary Chapter.
Let me know what you think of the story, and thanks for reading!
The Sealord's laughter echoed in the vast, airy chamber, a sound of genuine, booming amusement. Jon stood his ground, his face a calm, neutral mask.
"Very well," the Sealord said, his eyes still twinkling with mirth. "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." He turned to the clerk at his side. "Send for him. Tell Qarro Volentin I have a matter of interest for him in the main audience chamber."
The clerk bowed and scurried away. The Sealord then gestured to one of the guards. "Take our guests to the antechamber and see that they are comfortable. The Lady Zarrina and I have matters to discuss."
They were led to a smaller, though no less opulent, room, its walls hung with tapestries depicting the founding of Braavos. Kaelo was practically vibrating with a nervous energy, his hand resting on the haft of his axe. Orbelo, his face pale, simply looked at Jon with an expression of pure, unadulterated disbelief.
"Are you mad?" Kaelo hissed, his voice a low whisper. "The First Sword of Braavos? He's a living legend! They say he can cut a fly in half mid-air."
"I need to know how I measure against the best," Jon said simply, his voice calm.
They both looked at him as if he was insane.
They did not have to wait long. A few minutes later, the guard returned. "The Sealord requests your presence."
They were led back into the main chamber. The Sealord was still on his weirwood throne, but now, standing at the foot of the dais, was another man.
He was not what Jon had expected. The tales of the First Sword spoke of a phantom, a blur of motion. The man before him was tall and unnervingly still, his posture relaxed but radiating a quiet, coiled lethality. He was older, perhaps forty, with a lean, weathered face, a sharp jawline, and eyes the color of a stormy sea. His hair was black, shot through with threads of silver at the temples, and tied back in a simple knot. He wore no armor, only a simple, high-collared tunic of dark grey silk and soft leather boots. The only weapon he carried was a long, slender rapier at his hip, its hilt unadorned, its purpose purely functional.
This was Qarro Volentin, the First Sword of Braavos.
Jon activated The Sight. The man's aura was unlike any he had ever seen. It was not the simple red of an enemy or the blue of an ally. It was a deep, calm, and incredibly dangerous violet. The System's text was stark and simple.
[Intent: Neutral. Assessing. Lethal]
"Qarro," the Sealord said, his voice holding a note of amusement. "This is the young man I told you about. Corvus. He has done the city a great service, and for his reward, he has asked for the honor of a spar with you."
Qarro Volentin's stormy grey eyes turned to Jon. They were not contemptuous, like Thorne's, or curious, like Mormont's. They were the eyes of a master craftsman assessing a piece of steel. He looked at Jon's stance, the way he held his shoulders, the calluses on his hands. His gaze was so intense, so analytical, that Jon felt as though he were being weighed, measured, and found wanting.
"He is a boy," Qarro said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone. It was not an insult; it was a simple statement of fact.
"A boy who has a bite," the Sealord chuckled. "He wishes to test his skills."
Qarro's gaze did not waver from Jon's. "The training yard is for boys to test their skills. A true test is something else entirely." He finally looked away, turning to the Sealord. "As you wish, my lord. But I will not use blunted steel. If he wishes to learn a true lesson, he will face a true blade."
A tense silence fell over the room. Kaelo's hand tightened on his axe. But Jon simply nodded. "I would expect nothing less."
The Sealord grinned. "To the water court, then!"
They were led to a vast, open-air courtyard paved with sea-smoothed stones, a series of shallow pools and fountains creating a constant, gentle music. The Sealord, Zarrina, and Jon's companions took their seats on a marble bench to watch.
Jon and Qarro faced each other in the center of the court, twenty feet of damp stone between them. Jon drew his longsword, the wolf's-head pommel a familiar weight. Qarro drew his rapier, the slender blade a whisper of steel in the afternoon light.
For a long moment, they simply stood, assessing each other. Jon saw a man with perfect balance, a stillness that was the mark of a true master. Qarro saw a boy, yes, but one with a warrior's eyes and a stance that was a strange, effective fusion of different schools, built for speed and reaction, not brute force.
Qarro made the first move. He did not charge. He simply glided forward, his rapier a flicker of light aimed not at Jon's chest, but at his sword hand. It was a test, a question asked in steel. Jon's [Perfect Parry] reacted instinctively, his own blade coming up to meet the rapier in a sharp, ringing ting.
The duel began. It was a clash of styles, a battle of philosophies. Qarro was water, fluid and ever-moving, his blade a constant, probing threat, always seeking the smallest opening. Jon was a wolf, his style a dangerous, adaptive dance that shifted with his opponent. Against a brawler, he was all reactive defense and precise counters. But against a fencer like Qarro, he met speed with speed, his blade a constant, aggressive presence designed to disrupt the Water Dancer's rhythm. He struggled at first, his own developing style feeling unrefined against Qarro's effortless grace.
But Jon was learning. With every parry, every block, his body and style was adapting. His [Blade Proficiency]allowed him to match the man's speed, his [Perfect Parry]the key to neutralizing the endless series of attacks. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the tide began to turn. Jon's defense was no longer just a reaction; he began to anticipate, his own footwork becoming a mirror of the Water Dancer's, blending his innate speed with the principles of the dance.
The fight reached a new, breathtaking level. They were no longer a boy testing a master; they were equals. Steel rang on steel, a constant, deadly song echoing through the water court. Jon parried a lunge and countered with a [Wolf's Strike], a move of explosive, linear power that was completely alien to the Braavosi style, forcing Qarro to give ground for the first time. The First Sword, his eyes now alight with a fierce, joyful respect, simply smiled and renewed his attack.
They were tied, a perfect balance of fluid offense and reactive defense. Jon knew he could not win this way. He could fight to a stalemate, but he could not win. He needed an edge. He needed to become more than just a skilled fighter.
He took a deep breath, and as Qarro lunged again, Jon reached for the power he had forged through multiple phantom deaths.
[Activating Skill: Sword Song]
The world sharpened. The sound of the fountains, the gasps of the onlookers—it all faded away. There was only the dance.
He was no longer just parrying; he was anticipating. He met Qarro's next attack with a block so perfect it sent a jarring shock up the man's arm, staggering him for a fraction of a second. It was all Jon needed. He moved forward, his blade a blur of motion, a relentless, perfect storm of critical strikes. He was no longer defending; he was overwhelming.
Qarro, for the first time in the fight, was on the defensive, his own incredible skill barely enough to hold back the tide of Jon's assault.
The final move was a work of art. Jon parried Qarro's rapier, his own blade flowing into a bind. With a sharp, leveraged twist that was a perfect fusion of strength and technique, he tore the rapier from the First Sword's grip. The blade went spinning through the air, landing with a clatter on the stone floor several feet away.
Jon's own longsword came to rest a hair's breadth from Qarro Volentin's throat.
A stunned, absolute silence fell over the water court. The Sealord was on his feet, his mouth agape. Zarrina's eyes were wide with a look of pure, unadulterated shock. Kaelo and Orbelo just stared, their faces masks of disbelief.
Jon looked at the best swordsman in Braavos, his own chest heaving, the effect of the Sword Song fading, leaving him with a trembling, adrenalized exhaustion.
"Yield," Jon said, his voice quiet but firm.
Qarro Volentin looked from the sword at his throat to the boy's violet eyes, which burned with a cold, focused fire. Then, a slow, genuine smile spread across his weathered face. "I yield," he said, his voice holding no shame, only a deep, profound respect. "A beautiful fight, Corvus. Beautiful and deadly."
The tension shattered. From the marble bench, Kaelo and Orbelo erupted into applause, their whoops of victory echoing in the stunned silence.
The Sealord and Zarrina recovered from their shock and walked towards them, their own faces masks of disbelief and awe.
"By the Titan's beard," the Sealord boomed, his voice full of a new, powerful respect. "I have not seen a duel of such skill since I was a boy. It was a duel for the ages, Corvus."
Zarrina's obsidian eyes swept over Jon, a slow, predatory smile returning to her lips. "It seems, little crow," she purred, "that you have more secrets than even I imagined."
Jon simply nodded, his chest heaving, the effect of the Sword Song fading, leaving him with a trembling, adrenalized exhaustion. He had won. He had measured himself against the best, and he had not been found wanting.
The Sealord clapped Jon on his back and turned to Jon's companions. "You three will dine with me tonight. In my private hall. We will celebrate this victory!"
That evening, Jon, Kaelo, and Orbelo found themselves in a dining hall so opulent it made the Lady Zarrina's garden look like a pauper's yard. The Sealord introduced them to his wife and his two sons, all of whom looked at Jon with a mixture of awe and disbelief. The news had clearly spread through the palace like wildfire. Whispers followed them, the story of the quiet boy who had bested the First Sword of Braavos growing more legendary with each telling.
After the meal, as they sipped on sweet wine, the Sealord turned to Jon, his expression serious. "Corvus," he said, his voice now that of a ruler, not a cheerful host. "A man of your skill, your cunning... you belong in the service of a great house. I would offer you a place here, in my own retinue. A captain of my personal guard, perhaps. Your friends would be given positions of honor as well. You would want for nothing."
It was a generous offer, a path to a life of comfort and power beyond anything Jon could have imagined just a few months ago. But it was another cage, however gilded.
"You are gracious, my lord," Jon said, his voice respectful but firm. "But my path lies elsewhere. I wish to see the world, to make my own name in it. I cannot bind myself to one city, not yet."
The Sealord studied him for a long moment, then nodded, a look of understanding on his face. "A worthy goal. Youth is for adventure, not for sitting in a palace." He raised his cup. "Then I wish you the best of luck, Corvus. Know that you will always have a friend in Braavos. Should you ever tire of your travels, my offer will stand."
As they were leaving, the Lady Zarrina caught up to them in the hall, a knowing, predatory smile on her face. "Your ship will be ready in a month's time, little crow," she purred. "As will your coin. Do not be a stranger in the meantime. A man of your... talents... is always welcome in my home."
Jon simply nodded, and they left the palace, the cool night air a welcome relief. He had won. He had measured himself against the best, and he had not been found wanting. The name "Corvus" was no longer just an alias. It was a legend in the making.