#blade's fine. silver wolf is like his niece now or something he can just go take her to mcdonald's he doesn't need a husband again

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A Song for Dragons: Chapter One - A Beginning

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THE CYCLES OF THE SONG

And it would come to pass, just as in the age of ruin, that the weight of sin would weigh on the empires of man. The green would fade, and the crop of corn would wither. But in the wake of such evil would men cry out, and women would weep in desperation, O Lords of the Heavens, O Masters of the World, let the Dragon be born again; let the Dragon be born of the salt, let the Dragon be born to the flame. Let the Dragon melt away the coldness of the world, let the Dragon lift the darkness from men's hearts. Let the Dragon summon forth the banners, woven from their hunger insatiable. Let the Prince of the Dark call forth his courage; let the Queen of Light find her purpose. Let the mountains quiver in their coming; let them soar above all else in the world. May the Dragon ride the waves of glory to the End of Creation.

From Asyrio Topamtes, Introduction to the Second Age of Heroes of Westeros  

 SON OF WHITE HARBOR

 For any son of the Mander, nothing tasted of home like the salt-licked sea. He was across the Narrow Sea, he was standing on the Pentoshi harbors, but Wendel Manderly was only half-certain he wasn’t home. It felt same in all the ways that White Harbor would. The heavy breeze pulling at his hair, the whipping of the masts, the yells of sailors and shiphands as they load casks and crates. It was all a thousand different sounds that were music to his ears.

Wendel turned and saw Jon Snow taking his first steps off of the ramp. The boy had the Stark looks; the dark hair, the solemn face, the eyes that were gray steel in one light and silver in another. At the boy’s hand was a sword, a gift from Lord Eddard. Fine northern steel, with a thick and durable pummel. He saw the blade itself only once, and he saw the markings of a snarling wolf near the hilt. Jon Snow kept it close in hand.

If only the boy wasn’t bastard born, he would have had the prospects of the entire North. Wendel had no doubt that his nieces would have had an eye or two on him. If his name was Stark instead of Snow, Lord Eddard would need to wrestle with marriage proposals up to his shoulders. And all of his sons, it was only Jon that took on the Stark looks. Every lord in the North would want their next generation to have the gray eyes of the sons of Winterfell.

And to sweeten all that, Jon had a face to be proud of. It was a strong, sweet face that no doubt a serving girl dreamed of kissing. And maybe even some of those Southron flowers, now that Wendel thought on it. After three years, I’ll eat a clam’s shell if you don’t have a bastard of your own.

“Jon Snow, how goes your first step onto Pentos?”

Jon Snow looked around, eying his surroundings. His eyes were drawn to a man robed in green and gold astride a zorse. “Can I say unreal, Lord Wendel?”

Wendel smiled and laughed. “That you can. I can remember the first time I sailed to Essos. I thought the same as you. That this place is unreal, a place of fancy.”

“Almost as if the Night’s King will step from the shadows any moment.”

“By the true gods, let’s pray that won’t happen.” Wendel pulled at his long whiskers. “Where’s that wolf of yours?”

Jon turned towards the ship. “Ghost, to me,” he called, and from behind the railings of the Ice Wife Wendel could see the white furs of the direwolf. When Wendel Manderly arrived in Winterfell for the King’s feast, the direwolf pups were the size of a small dog. A month later, and Ghost looked like he could eat a runt. Lady Catelyn was wed to the north for near on twenty years, but Wendel doubted that prepared her for the direwolves. I don’t think any but the Starks are prepared for the direwolves.

Ghost padded to Jon, ever close to his master. Wendel could not count a moment when the two were far apart. Jon’s eyes were gazing everywhere, and Wendel could hardly blame him. Wendel had crossed the Narrow Sea half a dozen times. With White Harbor being the largest port in the North, it fell on the Manderlys to make sure trade flowed through the Stark domain. Sometimes that required a son of White Harbor to do business with one Essosi cheesemonger or another.

Wendel had seen Qartheen milk men, Dothraki raiders, dealt with the Iron Bank, witnessed YiTish in their tailed hats, and even met a shadowbinder in Qohor. It was all almost dull to Wendel by now, but Jon was like a maid here. Eddard Stark’s instructions were clear as glass: “Escort my son across the Narrow Sea. Find him a noble merchant to be a guard for, or failing that, a mercenary company of repute for him to contract his sword to.” Once Wendel had fulfilled his lord’s commands, then he could return home.

It was a tall order, but Wendel knew he was up to the task. White Harbor was not so remote as the Southron flowersuckers would believe, and the name Manderly and Stark was not so reclusive that people would look at him with bewildered eyes when he made introductions. Even if both were true, Jon had been trained by a Master-at-Arms since a boy could be instructed. He was not some lice ridden fool with a sharp blade. He was a more than capable swordsman, with the knowledge and form to back it up.

He knew the name of some of the magisters that ruled Pentos. Arelos Menartis, Julien Solarno, Alergio Turaktos. But never Illyrio Mopatis – that one had been scorned by the magisters and the Prince of Pentos ever since some scandal with his second wife. Wendel was half certain he took a bed slave as a wife, or something along those lines. Jon Snow needed a good repute, and it would not do to have him protect one who was cut off from the other rulers of the city. Even if his “crime” was something Wendel could hardly see fault in.

And even beyond all that, there was still the possibility that Jon Snow wouldn’t find favor with any of the magisters. Unlikely, for Wendel had pride in how he could sell any deal, but it was still there. If so, he would need to set Jon up with one of the mercenary companies. That didn’t sit well with Wendel. Mercenaries flew with the wind, going to which purse jingled the loudest. Jon could be fighting for a noble cause one moon, and then be killing for the prosperity of a vile man the next.

The Golden Company was ever in the back of his mind. The Blackfyre were wiped out, despite how much Aegor Bittersteel swore to put one on the Iron Throne. The Company had nothing more to fight for, no reason to cross the Narrow Sea. Well, more than a share of noble bastards had made up their ranks, so perhaps that was cause. But Wendel just could not see it. The Golden Company of today just was not the same legion that threatened Westeros a near half dozen times.

It was an option. A point of consideration. A bitter salve to swallow. The Company would not invade any time soon, or ever, but the North has a long memory. Signing Jon up with them would not sit right with anyone – least of all the bastard himself. Sending Jon into the ranks of sellswords was a last option, and the Golden Company was the very last of those options.

No, no, not the Golden Company, not today, not ever. Wendel could not see the fruits being so barren that the vineyard of Bittersteel was the only option. But even then, the idea that Lord Eddard had to send his bastard across the Narrow Sea was difficult to grasp. Had any other lord sent his baseborn son to Essos? Wendel could not find an answer.

What Eddard Stark did with his family was his business, Wendel knew that as well as any other man. Father’s ravings over him never taking a wife were the stuff of legends in White Harbor. But Jon Snow had options – he wasn’t just any lord’s bastard, he was the bastard son of the Lord of Winterfell. Wendel knew for a fact that Father had offered a squireship to Jon on more than a few occasions, and surely the other honored lords of the North gave the same offer. There weren’t even any betrothals set for his oldest, Robb – and he will be Lord of Winterfell when Lord Eddard passes from the world.

It was always said that Eddard Stark was a cautious man. Very considerate of his choices, it was said. Still, how little Eddard seemed to be laying the groundwork for his house was queer. But what did Wendel know? He was just the second, wife-less son of the Lord of White Harbor. No doubt the King’s feast had brought more than a fair share of offers that Lord Stark was mulling over.

Offers that he would be mulling over in King’s Landing. Robert Baratheon had made Lord Eddard his Hand, and if Wendel could be honest to himself, it was a long time coming. Eddard Stark was half the reason it was Robert Baratheon was on the Iron Throne in the first place, and not that raper and traitor Rhaegar Targaryen. The wolves could not howl loud or fiercely enough for the murder of Lyanna Stark.

But that was all in the past. The bones were buried, the ash was swept away by the wind, and Wendel was entrusted to guide Jon Snow into Essos. He was nothing if not a dutiful son, and a lord that remembered his duites.

There was no retinue in their stead, all to Father’s aggravation and to Wendel’s relief. It was Wyman that preferred to be surrounded by his servants and attendants. For all of Wendel’s faults, he could pamper himself just fine. And he doubted Jon Snow would have wanted to be attended to every minute he was in Essos. “Are your legs as cramped as mine, Jon?”

He nodded. “Two weeks on a ship.”

“Two weeks on a cog, as exciting as that sounds. What did my Lord Father stuff into your mouth, Jon Snow?”

There was a lustful look in Jon’s eyes. “Crabs and lobsters, clams and salmon. I never knew the sea could be so delicious, Lord Wendel.”

He smiled. “A barrel of butter will make anything delicious, Jon. If my memory serves me right, there is a little hole we can rest for the night. And on the morrow, try to figure what we do next.

For once, his memory proved him true. The Golden Zorse was right where he remembered it, a small slice of a building cramped between two larger ones. The inn had many qualities, and by far the greatest was its discretion. The serving wenches would not pester the fat man in his fine velvets what his business in Pentos was. However, Wendel had to be honest in that their cod had far too much salt for his pallet. Salt was such a delicate thing, after all. Too much and the meal is ruined, but just a pinch and you might as well be sprinkling air. Much like conversations, a delicate hand was needed.

“You’ve been quiet,” he observed as he wiped the salty grease of the honeyed chicken from his whiskers. “You speak only unless spoken to, Jon Snow. I knew your Uncle Brandon.” Jon Snow picked his eyes up from the spiced lamb. “That man was the first in everything. The first to speak, the first to laugh, and the first to bed what wench he saw, if I remember true.”

“I don’t know much of my uncle,” Jon admitted. “Or my grandfather. I know what happened to them.” The entire realm remembers what happened to them. “But Father would never speak of them.”

“In just a few years, your Lord Father lose nearly his entire family. I would be quiet too, if I were him. Or you, if I had to leave my brother behind while he was dying.”

There was a sharp look in Jon’s eyes then. “Bran isn’t dying.”

“No. No he’s not. You Starks are hard to kill. When you return home, your brother Bran will be waiting for you. Mark my words, Snow.”

“Consider them marked,” Jon said. Then he cut into his lamb.

The next morning had a faint chill to it. Even in the summer, when the snows were light, the seas drew in a cold frost in the air that would rush through your bones. There was something about the sea that gave no damns about the summer heat. Perhaps that’s how us Manderlys proved so resilient over the years. The sea made us stubborn as hell.

“Of all the Free Cities, why Pentos?” Jon ripped through the apple, and the juices flowed down his lips. “You said it a hundred times, Ser. Pentos is the most unremarkable of the Free Cities.”

“No doubt because Pentos is the closest city to White Harbor.” Of all the Free Cities, Pentos was the one that enjoyed the majority of Westerosi patronage for that very reason. It was the gate into the east for many of the merchants and nobles of Westeros. “And it is the richest. Well, behind Braavos and Volantis, but it is not far off. There are countless magisters who could use a sword of good repute. We just need to find a willing purse.”

“And just how willing will the purses be?” Jon wiped at his lips.

Wendel rubbed at his hands. His pudgy fingers were feeling stiff in the morning cold. “Willing enough. You are a noble’s son. That comes with the expectation of a capable sword. You may need to best a guard or two in mock combat, but that won’t be too hard I’m certain. Nothing compares to Northern steel.”

“Lord Wendel,” Jon spoke in a serious tone, “I can take this from here. You have already guided me to Pentos. You do not need to do this on my behalf.”

“Nonsense. I swore to your Lord Father that I would see you into capable hands, and I mean to hold myself to that oath. What is a man not for his word?”

“He is nothing at all. It was just, I have been gone for only a few weeks and I can only imagine how much you long for home.”

“And I’m sure you do as well. It is a rare thing, to see a bastard be so beloved by his kin.”

A rare smile spread to the bastard’s face. “It will be a long three years, Lord Wendel.”

“It need not be,” he smiled. “There are wonders to be seen in Essos. I have never crossed past the hills of Norvos. You could tell me of the golden woods of Qohor. Perhaps you will even return with a wife to keep you warm in the winter?”

Wendel had meant it as a well meaning jest, but a serious look had taken hold in Jon’s eyes. “No woman would ever wed a bastard.”

“Essos is not Westeros. I remember the command that Lord Eddard gave you. He wanted you to find happiness, Jon Snow. A woman could surely be a part of that. Surely he would have a place for you upon your return.”

Jon shook his head. “Three years across the sea to find a place for me? There is a place in Westeros where even a bastard would be welcomed. An honored institution.”

“The Wall,” Wendel realized. “You are a man of twenty, Jon Snow. Trust me when I say your father had the right of it. You do not realize what you would be throwing away with a vow taken so young.” Every boy in the North knew of the Night’s Watch. The sworn brothers of the black that kept the realm safe from Wildling invaders. But the Night’s Watch of today was a distant thing from the order that was visited by Queen Alysanne atop Silverwing. Wendel had amused the notion of joining the order. Briefly. Father made sure to rip that prospect from his mind forever.

“My Uncle – “

“Had just survived a war which took the lives of nearly his entire family. I imagine the Wall had some appeal. But you have a full life ahead of you, bastard or not.” He laid a steady hand on Jon’s shoulders. “Take advantage of it. Take the ripe fruit into your mouth and have a mouthful.”

Jon’s steps came to a stop. For a moment, the boy said nothing. “I want to believe your words, Lord Wendel.”

“Then do so.”

“But I will always be a bastard. Any son and daughter of mine will be a Snow.”

“Aye, that is true. But they will have the Stark blood flowing their veins, just as you do. Think on that, when some pretty Lyseni girl smiles at you. Mark my words Snow, Essos will find itself in hell and fire for slavery. But the fact that the rank of bastard does not exist here should not go pass your notice.”

In the distance, high above the walled estates and the Sunrise Gate, Wendel could make out the red temple to R’hllor. The pink walls of the city were lit aglow by the nightfires set by the red priests. Wendel could have considered their songs beautiful, if they didn’t do such a damnably good job to keep him awake. “One word of advice bastard, that I pray you heed.” Jon turned to him. “Beware those red priests.” He remembered the first time he had heard a sermon. Beware the night, for it is dark and full of terrors. The way the woman with skin like ash looked at him…well, Wendel would never forget it.

They made their way down the Street of Pedals. Wendel could hear the faint moans coming from the brothels that gave the street its name. “You will be spending quite some years in this country. Best learn of it. No better place to do so than in the Court of Baubles.” Wendel was amused to see how Jon tried to avoid the tempting looks of a woman with silver hair. No doubt she was a daughter from Lys. “It is a giant bazaar, where merchants and travelers from all over pilfer their goods and services. If we don’t hear one bit of intriguing gossip, I will swear off fish forever.”

“Ser Wendel, I cannot imagine you without a bit of lobster hanging from your beard.”

“Then it is a good thing that lobsters are not fish. Keep your wolf close, Jon. I want a keep a good pace.” With a quick command the wolf was at the boy’s side and they weaved through the shining streets. If the boy had a careful eye, he’d notice than many of the stones had a different flower carved in. Many a brothel owners used these to indicate where guests could find some more exotic and repugnant stock.

Wendel took a quick glance into the brick windows of the street. Women of pale skin, dark hair, flaming manes, blue eyes, golden eyes, they were all slaves. True, Braavos waged a dozen wars on Pentos, and by the end of it the city was forced to renounce slavery forever. But only in name. How little were these bedwarmers paid, and how much were their lodgings and meals? Slaves with collars unseen.

The Street twisted into the Court, but Wendel heard it before he saw it. The Court of Baubles may have been a yard at some point, but now there were makeshift walls of timber and shacks that has divided it. It was a whirling maze of auctions and negotiations. Wendel was almost reminded of the Deck of Seals in White Harbor, except home had the smell of the sea and fish. The only thing that Wendel could smell were spices and perfumes.

But there was more to the Court than just the stench. Jon and he walked past Tyroshis with their blue hair and golden beards, winesellers showcasing their casks of exotic arbors, sons and daughters of Lys with their hairs of silver and eyes of lilac, jewelers showcasing exotic jewels, glowing tiaras and belts of pearls to behold. Jon took in the sights, looking this way or that, catching the sight of a Norvoshi peddling his tapestries and carpets.

They heard a dozen things. The first was that the Dothraki were at war with one another. The son of a Khal Bharbo was waging war on the Dosh Khaleen of Vaes Dothrak. The Sealord of Braavos was dealing with an upstart named Tormo Fregar. The Volantanes had raised the tariffs on slaves from Mereen, and the Wise Masters had raised the taxes on all their slaves in return. A Myrman insisted that a council of the remaining Free Cities was to be joined to settle the matter.

Then they found out that the Targaryen exiles were in the city. “You are certain of this?” Wendel leaned in so close that he could smell the perfume on the Volantene. “The Targaryens are housed here? In Pentos? At this very moment?”

The man spoke in a confident tone. “Viserys and Daenerys, yes. I heard it was one of the magisters of the city that have harbored them. Can’t say for how long – perhaps a year, or less even?”

“Your Father would not have known,” Wendel said turning to Jon. “He would not risk it. If the Targaryens have the favor of a Pentoshi cheesemonger, they may demand your head.”

“If it’s true, then let’s be quick,” Jon said. “We should return to the Golden Zorse. There are other cities, surely."

Wendel placed a steady hand on his shoulders. “Calm yourself, Jon. It’s not like we lit a beacon announcing our presence. Pentos still has potential, and just because one magister has favor with the Targaryens does not mean all of them do. We should at least find out what more that we can. For all we know, the Targaryens have long since fled, and this nugget is just an expired rumor.”

He saw Jon frown at that. If there was one thing that Wendel noticed, it was that the boy never went into things head first. “And if I have a magister’s favor, then I may be able to do something.”

“Now boy, don’t be rash.”

“I’m not,” he said firmly. “But even across the Narrow Sea, I am still the son of Eddard Stark. If the Targaryens are here, I have to do what I can. Even just learning about what they intend.”

“We can decide on a course when we have something in our bellies. Come now, I smell something savory.”

As Wendel ripped through some speared sirloin, the dark pink juices rolling down his lips, the Qohorik argued that the Golden Company was bought out by Myr. “Qohor had hired them against Khal Drogo, but then the Black Priests saw only death if they went against the horselords. They sold us to the Golden Horde, and ended the contract to the Company. I hear they are marching south now. Trouble is rumbling in Myr, I hear.”

“Another quarrel in the Disputed Lands?”

“No doubt,” said the Qohorik. Wendel could not see a trace of hair on the man’s face. By all rights, Webdek should not trust a man without hair. But his appetite was too fierce a thing to ignore for long. Jon Snow took more considerable care as he nibbled on the cut.

“How are you so certain?” Jon asked.

“I have heard it a dozen times over. Once from a Lysene pleasure slave, who said she serviced a brother of Lys who served the Company. Then again from a Tyroshi that sold a decanter of wine to a Company man. My words are trustworthy. The reputation of Iargo Thoart is beyond repute.”

“Well, Jon, I suppose there are worse things than to rely on the reputation of a Qohorvik.”

“But what could the Company be doing in Myr?”

“Soldiers follow the purses that jingle the loudest.” They walked through the streets, Ghost trailing behind him. Jon took a careful look at his speared meat, then tore through a chunk of it and lazily tossed it to the wolf. Ghost ripped at it eagerly. “And Myr is always fighting over the Disputed Lands. They are the bread basket of the country, after all.”

“It’s a good thing Pentos is far off from Myr then,” Jon considered. “What if the Targaryens buy out the Golden Company?”

Wendel snorted. “I doubt it. Twenty years they had to buy them out, and that hasn’t happened yet. And the Company does not come cheap. I wonder if they came to this magister on bent knees, begging for shelter? Would be a welcome sight, and well deserved.

“No, Jon Snow, I think as far as the Targaryens are concerned, you have nothing to be worried about.”

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