The Wayfarer cut through the choppy waters of the Narrow Sea like a blade through silk, her sleek hull designed for speed rather than cargo. Jon stood at the bow, one hand on the rail, feeling the salt spray on his face as he watched the coast of Braavos fade into the grey morning mist. Behind him, he could hear the steady rhythm of his crew at work - the creak of rigging, the snap of canvas, the low voices of men learning to work together.
Ten days out from Braavos, and already the ship felt different. Not just a vessel, but a home. Their home.
"Captain," Kojja Mo's voice carried the musical accent of the Summer Isles, though his tone was all business. "Wind's shifting. Coming around from the south-east now."
Jon turned from the rail, his eyes automatically going to the sails. In the past fortnight, he had absorbed everything Kojja and his brother Sona had been willing to teach him about reading wind and weather. The knowledge sat in his mind alongside sword forms and lockpicking techniques, another tool in his growing arsenal.
"How long until we reach Pentos?" Jon asked, moving toward the ship's wheel where Kojja stood.
"Four days, maybe six if the wind turns foul," the Summer Islander replied, his dark hands steady on the wheel. "But Captain, may I speak plainly?"
Jon nodded.
"This crew... they have improved much since we left port, but they are still learning the sea's ways. If we encounter rough weather, or worse, hostile ships..." He left the sentence unfinished.
Jon understood. Twenty men did not make a navy, no matter how much they had improved over the past ten days. "Then we continue making them sailors," he said simply. "And we make them better fighters than any crew we might face."
He called out across the deck. "All hands! Gather round!"
The men came quickly now, their movements showing the confidence that came from days of practice. Jon watched them assemble, his [Sight]automatically cataloguing their auras. Garth's bitter red had softened considerably since joining them, the suspicion now almost entirely replaced by grudging respect. Sten's mournful grey had grown much lighter, touched now with something that was definitely hope. The others - a mix of former sellswords, dockworkers, and desperate men seeking a new start - showed the steady confidence of men who had found their place.
"Ten days ago, Kojja told me half of you had never been to sea," Jon said, his voice carrying easily across the deck. "Look at you now. Desmond," he pointed to the thin former pickpocket, who now moved through the rigging with the ease of a born sailor, "show them what you've learned about reading the sky."
Desmond grinned and scampered up the mainmast with practiced ease, calling down observations about the cloud formations and wind patterns that would have impressed a veteran navigator.
"The sea has tested us these past days," Jon continued. "Storms, calm winds, that merchant vessel that thought we might be pirates until Orbelo convinced them otherwise with his languages." A few chuckles rippled through the group. "But your brothers beside you have proven they know their business when lives depend on it."
He gestured to Kaelo, who stepped forward with his usual grin. "Every afternoon, we continue to train. Not just sword work - though we've done plenty of that. Ship fighting. How to board an enemy vessel. How to repel boarders. How to fight when the deck is rolling under your feet."
"And every morning," Orbelo added, "we continue learning the craft of the sea. Advanced knots, sail trimming, coastal navigation. A man who truly understands his ship is worth two who don't."
Jon watched their faces, saw the quiet confidence that had replaced the earlier apprehension. Good. They had earned it.
The afternoon's lesson was more advanced now than those first desperate sessions. Jon had Kojja set them through a complex series of maneuvers while he led the men through boarding drills using ropes and grappling hooks. What had once resulted in chaos now flowed with practiced precision, each man knowing his role and executing it smoothly despite the ship's movement.
"Again," Jon commanded as they completed a mock boarding sequence. "But this time, Garth, I want covering fire from the stern while the boarding party advances. Sten, you're the anchor - hold the gangway against counterattack."
By the end of the session, they were still tired but no longer exhausted. Their bodies had adapted to the constant motion of the sea, their skills honed by days of practice.
The crew's growing confidence was tested on their eighth day out when tensions finally erupted. Jon was below deck checking their provisions when he heard raised voices from above, followed by the unmistakable sound of a scuffle.
He emerged to find Garth and a stocky former sellsword named Willem facing off near the mainmast, both men's hands hovering near their weapons. The rest of the crew had formed a loose circle around them, some looking eager for entertainment, others clearly uncomfortable.
"He called me a coward," Garth snarled, his face flushed with anger. "Said I hide behind my bow like a woman."
"You do," Willem shot back, his scarred face twisting into a sneer. "Real men fight with steel, not picking off enemies from a hundred paces like some craven—"
"Enough." Jon's voice cut through the argument like ice. Both men turned toward him, and he could see the challenge in their eyes - testing whether their young captain would favor one over the other, or if he was strong enough to maintain discipline.
"Willem," Jon said calmly, "show me your archery skills."
The sellsword blinked, clearly not expecting that response. "I... I don't use a bow, Captain. Never learned."
"Garth," Jon continued, "show me how you'd fare with a sword against Willem in close quarters."
Now it was the archer's turn to look uncertain. "Captain, that's not really my -"
"Exactly." Jon stepped between them. "Willem, you're strong and skilled with a blade. In a boarding action, you'll be invaluable. But when we need to disable an enemy ship's steering, or take down their lookouts, or provide covering fire - that's when Garth's skills keep us all alive." He looked at each man in turn. "A wise person uses every tool at his disposal. A fool throws away perfectly good tools because he doesn't understand their purpose."
He gestured to the crew around them. "Look around you. Kojja knows navigation, Orbelo speaks six languages, Desmond can pick any lock or scale any wall. Are they cowards because they use different weapons than yours?"
Willem's anger was cooling, replaced by something that might have been shame. "No, Captain. I... I spoke in anger."
"We all have," Jon said, his voice gentler now. "But anger directed at each other weakens us all. Save it for our enemies - they'll give us plenty of reasons to use it."
He looked at Garth. "And you - a man insults your courage, you don't need to prove it with your fists. Your arrows speak loud enough."
Both men nodded, the tension bleeding out of their postures. Willem extended his hand first. "No offense meant, archer. Your skills have kept us fed with fresh fish more than once."
Garth clasped the offered hand. "And your watch-keeping has let me sleep sound. We're even."
The crew began to disperse, but Jon called out one more time. "Tomorrow, Willem teaches sword work to anyone who wants to improve. Garth teaches basic archery to anyone willing to learn. We make each other stronger, not weaker."
That evening, as the sun set in a blaze of orange and gold, Jon made his way around the ship, speaking with each man individually. It was something he had learned from watching Ned Stark for years - a lord's responsibility to know his people, to understand what drove them.
He found Garth at the stern, adjusting the new bowstring he'd crafted from materials Orbelo had procured in their last supply stop.
"How are you finding the longer shots?" Jon asked, settling beside the archer.
"Better each day," Garth replied, looking up with something that might actually have been a smile. "Shot a gull at a hundred yards this morning while you were below. Never would have managed that our first day out."
"Show me something new."
Garth's eyebrows rose. Over the past week, these evening demonstrations had become a friendly challenge between them. The archer nocked an arrow and pointed at a barrel they'd tossed overboard that morning for target practice, now floating perhaps eighty yards off their port side. But instead of aiming directly, he drew and held, tracking the barrel's movement through the swells.
"Watch," he murmured, and loosed just as a wave lifted the barrel high. The arrow struck it at the peak of its rise, a shot that required precise timing and prediction.
"Excellent," Jon said, genuinely impressed. "And your students?"
"Coming along. Won't make expert marksmen in a few weeks, but they can put arrows where they need to go." Garth paused, then added, "You know, I thought you were mad that first day, talking about making warriors out of dock rats and cutthroats. But these men... they've found something worth fighting for."
"What's that?"
"Each other. This." He gestured at the ship around them. "A place where what you were before doesn't matter as much as what you do now."
Jon found Sten near the bow, as had become his custom. Ghost was stretched out beside the big man, and over their journey, the two had become unlikely companions. As Jon approached, the direwolf lifted his head and padded over, nuzzling against Jon's hand in silent greeting.
"Worried about anything tonight?" Jon asked, settling across from them. It had become their standard greeting, born from their first honest conversation.
Sten chuckled, a sound Jon rarely heard from him. "Less each day. These men have surprised me. They've surprised themselves, I think."
"And me? Still think I'm just a boy playing at being a captain?"
"Oh, you're still a boy," Sten said with a grin that took the sting out of the words. "But you're a boy who listens to his men, learns from his mistakes, and puts their lives before his own glory. That matters more than age."
"Even if I lead them into danger?"
"Corvus," Sten's voice grew serious, "danger was coming for all of us anyway. You've just given us the tools to face it together, and something worth protecting while we do."
Their morning navigation lessons had evolved as well. Jon now stood beside Sona at the wheel in the pre-dawn darkness, calculating their position from the stars with increasing accuracy.
"Your people's spirits have been good guides," Jon said as they watched the first hint of dawn touch the eastern horizon.
Sona smiled. "The stars have led you true so far. But tomorrow, we will see the coast of Pentos. Then the real test begins."
"What do you know about Pentos that Orbelo hasn't told us?"
"The scholar knows the politics and the history," Sona replied thoughtfully. "But the docks... the docks tell different stories. There are whispers of troubles brewing in the Disputed Lands. Several companies have taken contracts and never returned. The magisters are nervous, offering higher payments but asking more dangerous work."
Jon nodded, filing the information away. "Then we'll need to be very careful about our first contract."
By their fourteenth day at sea, their routines had become second nature. The crew moved with practiced efficiency, each man knowing his role whether they were adjusting sail trim for changing winds or running through combat drills.
"Pentos is a free city in name only," Orbelo explained during their evening briefing, his maps and books spread across their small galley table. "It's ruled by a Prince elected from among the forty families, but the real power belongs to the magisters. Rich men who made their fortunes in trade."
"What kind of trade?" Jon asked, though their weeks of conversation had already given him much of the answer.
"Anything that turns a profit. Silk, spices, slaves when they can manage it discreetly. They're always looking for sellsword companies to protect their interests in the Disputed Lands, but lately..." He paused.
"Lately what?" Kaelo leaned forward.
"Lately, the work has been getting more dangerous. Three companies have taken contracts in the past year and simply disappeared. No word, no survivors. The magisters are offering twice the usual rates, which means they're either desperate or the jobs are twice as deadly."
Jon considered this alongside Sona's dock gossip. "We'll listen to offers, but we're not desperate enough to take suicide missions. Our first contract needs to build our reputation, not end our story."
Later that evening, after the others had gone to their hammocks, Jon found Orbelo in his small cabin, carefully tuning a delicate travel harp with silver strings.
"I was wondering," Jon said quietly, "if you might teach me to play."
Orbelo looked up with interest. "You've never played before?"
"No. But I've always wanted to learn." Jon didn't mention the stories of Rhaegar Targaryen and his silver harp, the prince who could make grown men weep with his music. Some things were better left unspoken.
"The basics, then," Orbelo said, patting the small bench beside him. "First, how to hold it properly..."
For the next hour, Jon struggled with finger positioning and simple chord progressions, his calloused sword-hands clumsy on the delicate strings. But there was something peaceful about it, something that reminded him of better times.
During their sailing days, the crew had developed their own musical traditions. Work songs rose from the deck as they hauled lines and adjusted rigging - Kojja Mo teaching them the complex rhythms of Summer Isle chanties that helped coordinate their efforts. Sten's deep bass voice would anchor their chorus during the evening watches, while Desmond surprised everyone with his knowledge of bawdy sailing songs learned in the taverns of Ragman's Harbor.
"Heave away, me hearties!" they would call out in unison, their voices carrying across the waves as they worked. The songs made the labor lighter and bound them together in ways that mere orders never could.
That night, as the ship rocked gently under a star-filled sky, Jon stood watch at the bow. Ghost padded up beside him, the wolf's white fur ghostly in the moonlight. Behind them, he could hear the quiet conversations of his men - no longer the nervous chatter of strangers, but the easy talk of friends who had learned to trust each other.
The wind picked up, filling their sails and pushing them faster through the dark waters toward Pentos and whatever waited there. Jon pulled his cloak tighter against the chill and smiled. Let the wind carry them forward. After two weeks at sea, he was ready for what came next.