The transition was smoother now. He woke not with a gasp, but with a slow and quiet merging of two worlds, the scent of the sea breeze from the open window replacing the phantom stench of salt fish and refuse from the docks. For the last hour of the night, Jon had not been in his own body at all. He had walked as Ghost, a pale shadow gliding over the rooftops of Tyrosh, moving unseen through a city that slept uneasily. He was no longer just a passenger in the wolf's mind. He was a pilot, steering their shared consciousness with a deliberate, focused will.
The control was still exhausting, a constant tug-of-war between the sharp edges of his human thoughts and the primal force of the wolf's instincts. Ghost wanted to run, to hunt, to sink his teeth into living flesh. Jon forced direction, caution, purpose. It was a battle, but one he was learning to win. He could use Ghost's keen eyes and ears to watch from afar, slipping into places he could never enter himself. A week ago, a quiet chime had confirmed his progress.
[Beast Sense (Tier III) has reached maximum proficiency.]
He had smiled at that. One more tool sharpened, one more advantage claimed.
Now, the morning sun painted the harbor in shades of copper and gold, its light stretching across the sails of ships bobbing lazily on the tide. But Jon felt none of its warmth. He stood at his window, staring out at the city that had given him no rest since his arrival. The Trial of Tides was three days behind him, yet the phantom weight of Edward Kenway's memories still pressed against his thoughts. Reckless hunger for freedom, the thrill of danger, the refusal to kneel to any man, those pieces of Edward still clung to him. They warred with his own patience and restraint, with the part of him that measured risks and calculated outcomes.
Today, he told himself, the real preparation would begin.
His first steps took him deep into the Market of Whispers. It was a place where honest trade blurred into shadow and lies. The air was thick with the scent of saffron and cinnamon, but beneath it lay other smells, animal fat left to rot, mildew from damp stalls, unwashed bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder. Voices hissed in half a dozen tongues, some bargaining, some threatening, some whispering secrets for coin.
Jon moved like a shadow through the chaos until he found what he sought: a crumbling shrine to forgotten Valyrian gods, now home to a crooked wooden stall run by an ancient Myrish woman. Her hands shook as she arranged jars of dried herbs, but her eyes were sharp, like knives that had cut too much to ever dull.
Jon stepped forward and placed a purse on her counter. "Sweetsleep. The highest quality you have."
Her cloudy eyes fixed on him, studying him longer than was comfortable. "A dangerous medicine, young lord. Too much, and the patient sleeps forever."
"I am aware of its properties."
The crone disappeared into the shadows of her stall and returned with a vial of pale purple crystals. "Ground fine, it vanishes in wine. Three grains for peaceful dreams. Six for a sleep without waking."
Jon tucked the vial into his doublet, careful not to rattle it. Sweetsleep would be his foundation, but never enough on its own. By the time the sun was high, he had become a dozen different men. A Braavosi sailor buying nightshade extract from a spice trader. A Lysene perfumer's customer, testing powders from rare mushrooms. A passing traveler curious about resin that burned with a bitter smoke. Every purchase looked innocent when viewed alone. Together they formed the skeleton of something more dangerous, a poison that would move like rumor through a feast, unseen, unstoppable.
The blood cultists would not even know death was at the table until it claimed them.
A second hidden blade was harder still. He could not simply commission a weapon without drawing suspicion. A true assassin left no patterns. So Jon wove himself into different masks. To a blacksmith near the docks, he was a sailor ordering a powerful spring for a ship's rigging. To an armorer in the merchant's quarter, he was a nervous squire asking for small steel plates to mend a gauntlet. To a bladesmith renowned for his art, he was a merchant's spoiled son buying an ornate stiletto as a gift for a lover. None of them saw the full picture.
When evening fell, Jon returned to his small chamber and laid the pieces out across the table. Ghost settled in the corner, red eyes catching the candlelight, silent and watchful. Jon's hands moved with confidence born not only of practice, but of memory.
Piece by piece, the mechanism came together. The blade was shorter than his first, meant not for spectacle but for clean, quiet work. The housing hugged his forearm so close it felt like skin. He tested the slide once, twice. Steel whispered out, gleamed like moonlight, then vanished back with a faint click. He allowed himself a small smile. Perfect.
The robe came last. For that, Jon went to a man named Kelleth, a tailor with fingers as thin and precise as needles. His shop stood near the Bleeding Tower, its windows full of fine cloaks and embroidered silks, though Kelleth himself looked like a man who had known too much ruin to take pride in them.
"I need something made," Jon told him, settling into a chair across from the tailor's workspace. The shop was cramped but meticulously organized, bolts of fabric arranged by color and quality, tools laid out with military precision. "Traveling clothes, but with specific requirements."
Kelleth studied Jon with a professional eye, already reaching for his measuring tape. The man had survived the collapse of his former patrons by learning to ask no unnecessary questions, but his craftsmanship remained flawless. "What did you have in mind, my lord?"
"A robe," Jon said, choosing his words carefully. "Not like a ceremonial robes, all flowing and impractical. It should look respectable, like something a well-off merchant might wear, but it needs to work for someone who has to move quietly."
The tailor began taking measurements with quick, efficient movements. His fingers were soft but strong, marked with tiny pinpricks from years of needlework. "How long do you want it?"
"About mid-calf. Long enough to hide what needs hiding underneath, but I can't have it tripping me up when I need to run or climb." Jon paused, organizing his thoughts. "The hood is important too. When it's up, I want my face completely hidden in shadow. But when it's down, it shouldn't look threatening or draw attention."
Kelleth made careful notes on a slate, his movements economical and practiced. "The sleeves?"
"That's crucial," Jon said, leaning forward slightly. "They need to look normal at first glance, but I want them loose through the forearms without making it obvious. I need to move my arms freely, and I carry tools. The sleeves have to hide them without bulging or restricting movement."
The tailor's expression remained professionally neutral, but Jon caught the slight quickening of his writing.
The tailor nodded slowly, making additional notes. "When do you need this completed?"
"Three days."
"It will be ready."
When he returned three days later, the finished work exceeded even his exacting demands. The robe slipped over his frame like water, flowing with his every movement without so much as a whisper. The hood cast his face into darkness, yet left his vision clear. In the mirror, he no longer saw Jon Snow, the bastard boy of Winterfell. He no longer saw the exiled Aemon Targaryen. He saw Corvus. A shadow with a blade, built for a purpose.
That night, he stood again at his window, staring at the glittering lights of Tyrosh. Each one was a home, a family, a dream. Somewhere beyond that horizon lay Westeros, broken and unguarded. He told himself he was preparing to kill pirates and cultists, and it was true. But what lay beyond that? What end did this serve?
Justice for the dead, yes. Guidance from the System, certainly. But beneath it all, something he had tried to push away, something he could no longer pretend wasn't there.
He would need to take the Iron Throne.
Not the chair itself, that grotesque monstrosity of melted steel and swords, but what it stood for. The chance to steer the realm, to mend what was broken. To make certain no child froze in the dark or starved in the fields while lords fattened themselves on war and greed.
Yet the thought left a bitter taste on his tongue. Robert Baratheon had claimed the throne with his hammer and now let it rot under his weight. Was Jon any different for daring to think he might do better? Or was he just another bastard chasing crowns, one more name to be carved into a litany of ruin?
The North had taught him that winter always came, and he had seen what kind of winter waited beyond the Wall. The Others were stirring. He felt them in his marrow, cold and merciless. And when they marched, Westeros would tear itself apart squabbling over titles while death swept through their halls. Someone would have to hold the realm together. Someone would have to stand.
But why him? What right did he have? Rhaegar had broken kingdoms in pursuit of love, leaving fire and corpses behind. Could a son born of that ruin claim the throne without becoming the same kind of monster?
Jon closed his eyes. The weight of the hidden blades pressed against his forearms. Ghost's quiet breath filled the silence, steady and sure. Tomorrow, they would sail for the Stepstones.
A beginning. Perhaps a road to a crown, or perhaps to a grave. For tonight, it was enough to know his blade was sharp, his wolf would follow, and that he had not yet yielded to the hunger gnawing at his heart.
In the morning, the hunt would begin.