He had been having the same dream for some time. He was standing on a sea, as it was boiling all around him, and bones of many dead were floating on the surface. The sky was dark red with black clouds, and grey mist surrounded him.
A great shadow swept over the clouds, and when he looked up, the shape was unmistakable: a dragon.
Its wings beat like thunder, each stroke driving storms before it. Scales black as midnight glistened with streaks of deep sapphire, catching the faint light with a ghostly shimmer. Blue fire smoldered in its eyes, cold and unyielding, and when its jaws parted, he glimpsed the glow of pale flame coiled within, hungry to be unleashed.
The air itself seemed to tremble at its passing. Smoke trailed from its nostrils, not grey but tinged with blue, curling like mist torn from the sea. Its cry split the sky, a sound vast enough to rattle bone, half roar and half storm-wind.
The dragon circled him before he came face to face with him, hovering in the air, as violet eyes met blue. For a long moment, it only regarded him, as if weighing his soul. Then its jaws opened, and pale blue fire roared forth.
He braced for agony, yet no pain came. The flame wrapped around him like a shroud, cold and searing all at once. It sank into his skin, into his bones, until he felt less flesh than ash and light.
The sea boiled harder. The bones of the dead turned to dust, scattered by winds that were not winds but whispers, voices rising from the mist, too many to count. Some cried out in grief, others in anger, and still others chanted his name though he had never spoken it. Above them all, the dragon's cry split the skies, a sound vast enough to shake the world.
Jon did not resist. He let the fire take him, let the voices surround him, until he could no longer tell where he ended and the storm began. In the heart of the flame, he glimpsed shadows moving, a crown of swords, and a wall of ice, beyond which eyes burned blue in the endless night. And through it all, the dragon watched.
Jon woke with a gasp, his mind still reeling with the weight of the dream. It had haunted him every night since their journey began, and though at first it had unsettled him, he had grown used to its presence. In time, he found it almost comforting.
Each morning, he woke stronger, as if some buried strength within him had been stirred by the fire and the voice that called through the storm. He no longer dismissed it as a mere dream. The dragon was not a stranger to him. It was bound to his blood, as surely as Ghost was bound to his soul.
He could feel it now, a summons. The beast was waiting for him, calling out through smoke and flame, demanding to be found, demanding to be freed.
He wondered if this was what it meant to be Targaryen, to be haunted by fire, to feel the pull of things long dead yet not forgotten. His Stark blood craved the silence of snow, the steadiness of the North, yet the dragon within stirred restlessly, whispering of crowns and ruins, of ancient oaths written in fire and blood.
At times, he feared it. At others, he welcomed it.
But always, it felt inevitable.
Rather than dwelling on the dreams, Jon decided to wash himself up and head to breakfast, as he had to check Illyrio's cargo before he could accept the job. He found Orbelo seated at a corner table in the tavern, a half-finished plate of eggs pushed aside, his attention fixed on a leather-bound book about trades and economy.
"Already at work?" Jon asked as he slid onto the bench across from him.
Orbelo looked up, the corner of his mouth quirking. "You have your sword. I have my books. We both sharpen what we're best at." He closed the volume with a soft thump, leaning forward. "Tell me, Corvus, what do you make of this job Illyrio offers us?"
Before Jon could answer, Kaelo strode in with two others from their band, weary from a late watch yet quick to smile at the sight of food. They crowded onto the benches, the tavern filling with the clatter of plates and the smell of fried fish.
They finished their breakfast in good cheer, the table alive with jokes and easy laughter. When the plates were cleared, Jon rose and chose Orbelo and Garth to go with him, leaving Kaelo behind with orders to rest after his long watch aboard the ship.
The three made their way through the busy morning streets to the docks, where Illyrio's vessel lay moored. Rolly Duckfield and Alek greeted them at the gangplank, broad smiles and practiced courtesy as Jon and his companions boarded.
Below decks, the air was heavy with spice and silk, the scent of saffron and pepper clinging to the planks. With a thought, Jon let the [Sight] wash over the cargo—no hidden traps, no concealed steel, only chests of rare silks and crates of exotic spices bound for merchant stalls.
Satisfied, he nodded. "We'll take the job."
Alek wasted no time, leading them ashore and through the winding streets to Illyrio's manse. Soon enough, they were stepping into the magister's study, the air thick with incense.
"Ah, Corvus," Illyrio said, rising half an inch from his cushioned chair as if to honor the meeting before sinking back into its embrace. His forked yellow beard gleamed with scented oil as his fingers idly twirled it. "I trust you found the cargo pleasing? The silks, the spices… they are but a whisper of the treasures that pass through my hands. You see now why I sought men of… discretion."
"Yes, my lord," Jon said evenly. "We will take the job."
"Excellent." Illyrio's smile broadened, though his eyes never softened. "I confess, the last men I entrusted with such matters were… disappointments. Too hungry for coin, too blind to see the greater game. You, however..." his voice dipped, heavy with unspoken meaning, "...I suspect you are not so easily distracted."
From a drawer of carved ebony, Illyrio produced a rolled parchment bound with a scarlet ribbon and sealed with his own sigil. He let it rest between them, his fingers lingering just long enough to remind Jon whose hand it came from. "Sign, and let us begin our little partnership."
Jon took the quill and marked the parchment without hesitation, though his jaw tightened as Illyrio's gaze pressed on him. He set the quill down with care, bowing his head as a hired man should.
"If that will be all, my lord," he said, his voice even.
Illyrio's jeweled fingers fluttered in a gesture of dismissal, though his smile lingered like perfume. "For now, Corvus. For now. We will speak again soon."
Jon inclined his head once more, then turned on his heel. Orbelo and Garth followed him out, the heavy doors of the manse shutting behind them with a dull echo.
The morning sun hit his face as they stepped back into the streets of Pentos, though Jon felt none of its warmth. He drew in a slow breath, steadying himself, before glancing at Orbelo.
"Gather everyone on the Wayfarer within the hour," Jon ordered.
Orbelo adjusted the strap of his satchel. "Aye, captain," he said without hesitation, already calculating how best to spread the word.
Jon set his course for the docks, the decision made.
By the time Jon returned to the Wayfarer, Orbelo had done his work well. The company was gathered on the dockside, twenty of the old hands who had carried them from Braavos, and fifteen new recruits. Eight he had already accepted, the rest he would weigh again, with sparring steel in hand and, if need be, the [Sight].
They stood in loose ranks, a jumble of sailors, swordsmen, and drifters lured by coin. Some looked eager, others wary; a few bore the hard eyes of men who had killed for less than pay.
Jon's gaze swept over them. One by one, he checked with Orbelo and the veterans, listening, measuring, before giving a single nod. "They'll do."
He turned to Kaelo and Garth. "Take them in hand. The ones worth keeping, sharpen. The rest, I'll see for myself soon enough." Both men nodded, already breaking the recruits into knots for training.
Then Jon stepped forward, his voice carrying across the murmur of the harbor.
"You've signed on for gold, and you'll have it if you live to collect." His eyes swept the crowd, unblinking. "The job is to see Magister Illyrio's cargo safely to Tyrosh. Sounds simple. But it will not be. Sellsword companies have been vanishing in those waters. Caravels taken, men gone without a trace. Whatever stalks the sea cares little for banners or coin."
A ripple went through the recruits, some uneasy, some defiant, a few glancing at each other with the look of men reconsidering their bargain. Jon let it settle before continuing.
"If that frightens you, best you walk away now. Better to lose your pride than your life. But if you stay, know this: we do not scatter like sheep when wolves come. We hold fast, we watch each other's backs, and we fight as one. Do that, and you'll earn your share and live to see it spent."
Silence held for a heartbeat, then Kaleo's voice cut through with a steady, "Aye, captain." Garth and Orbelo echoed it, and soon the others joined, rough and uneven but enough to bind the moment.
Jon gave a single nod. "We sail within the week. Be ready."
He stepped back, watching as Kaelo began barking orders, Garth hauling two green lads into line. The company moved, slowly finding its shape.
He was pulled from his reverie by the familiar flicker of a system notification.
[ Quest Update: Shadows of the East ]
[Objective Completed: Establish a foothold in Pentos. Gather intelligence on local power structures and secure a contract for The Hidden Blade]
[ Reward Unlocked: Increased reputation, +3 SP, +2500 exp ]
Jon's eyes lingered on the glowing words before they faded, only for another prompt to appear.
[ New Quest: The Vanishing Blades ]
[Objective: Safely transport Illyrio's cargo to Tyrosh. Investigate the disappearances of sellsword companies along the route and uncover the force behind them]
[Reward: Alchemical knowledge of wildfire, knowledge of blood magic, +5 SP, +4000 exp]