ASOIAF : Creed

The mist came first, a thick, grey blanket that clung to the sea, swallowing the world and muffling all sound. For a full day, the Sea Serpent crept through the fog, its horn blowing a long note every few minutes. Then, out of the grey, a shape began to form: two great, mountainous legs of dark stone and bronze, and a colossal body looming above them, its head lost in the clouds. The Titan of Braavos.

It was more immense than any story had ever described. As their small ship sailed between its legs, Jon tilted his head back, taking in the great, burning beacon in the Titan's eyes. He saw the murder holes lining the legs, the massive portcullis hidden in the stone skirt. This was not just a monument; it was a fortress, the most formidable gatehouse in the world.

The mist cleared as they entered the lagoon, and the city of Braavos was revealed—a sprawling, impossible labyrinth of hundred small islands connected by a web of stone bridges and arches. There were no trees, no open fields, only the endless, shifting grey of the water and the weathered stone of the buildings. Gondolas and small skiffs moved silently along the canals, and the air, though salty, was damp and cool.

He and Kaelo disembarked, Ghost a silent presence at his side, his white fur drawing more than a few curious glances. The docks were a chaotic symphony of different languages, the air thick with the smell of fish, tar, and strange, foreign spices. Jon pulled the hood of his cloak lower, keeping to the shadows.

"First things first," Kaelo said, his eyes scanning the crowds with a practiced, wary gaze. "We need a place to stay that doesn't ask questions, and we need to turn that silver into something a Braavosi will accept."

Jon nodded. This was Kaelo's world, the world of the streets. He let his friend lead. They found a small, clean inn in a quieter part of the city, a place called "The Drowned Mug." The innkeeper, a fat, cheerful man, was more interested in the weight of Jon's purse than the wolf at his side, and for a few coins, they secured a small, private room.

"He stays here," Kaelo said to Jon once the door was closed, nodding to Ghost. "He's too damn big for the markets. He'll scare off half the city—and attract the other half." Jon could feel the wolf's unhappiness through their bond, a low thrum of restless energy.

Their next stop was the money-changers. Kaelo, using the street-smarts he had learned in his time wandering, identified a man who was known to be fair. Jon, using The Sight, confirmed it. The man's aura was a steady, professional green—cool and direct, like someone used to fair trade and firm dealings. They exchanged a portion of Jon's silver stags and the gold from Captain Tregar for a small, heavy purse of square iron Braavosi coins.

That evening, as they ate a simple meal of black bread and fried fish in their room, Jon looked at the former pit fighter across from him. Their friendship had been forged in the chaos of the pirate attack, a bond of shared survival. But Jon knew he needed more than a friend. He needed an ally.

"Kaelo," Jon said, his voice quiet but serious. "You told me you wanted to join a real company. To be a warrior by choice."

Kaelo stopped eating, his eyes wary. "Aye. What of it?"

"I am here to build something," Jon said. "Not just a sellsword company. An intelligence network first. A small, elite group. We gather information, we learn the secrets of this city, and then we use that knowledge to gain power. This is the first step. The end goal... the end goal is to build a force strong enough to return to Westeros. We'll need allies when that day comes."

Kaelo stared at him for a long moment, his gaze intense. He had seen Jon's skill on the ship. But this... this was a different kind of ambition. "You talk of returning to Westeros, of building a company," he said, his voice low and laced with the cynicism of a man who had seen too much. "I've followed men with big promises before, Jon. It got me scars and a slave brand. We're two boys with a bag of coins and a wolf. That's not a company; that's a tragedy waiting to happen."

"We start small," Jon admitted, his gaze unwavering. "We start with what we know. Information. Stealth. We build from the shadows. I'm not asking you to grab a sword—I'm asking you to help build something. You'll fight, sure. But first, you'll be a founder. My second-in-command."

The smirk faded from Kaelo's face, replaced by a look of contemplation. A partner. Not just a soldier, but a leader. He looked at the strange, quiet boy who fought like a master and spoke with the certainty of a magister's son. It was a mad gamble. But his life was already a mad gamble.

"Aye," Kaelo said finally, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Alright, Snow. Let's build a legend."

With their partnership solidified, Jon's true work began. He was not here to find a home; he was here to understand the board. For the next few weeks, he and Kaelo scouted different locations. They walked the city from the canals of the poorest districts like the Ragman's Harbor to the grand plazas of the powerful. Jon was taking in everything like a sponge.

He spent days simply observing the factions that truly ruled the city, his [Sight] his greatest tool. He stood in the shadow of the Iron Bank, a building more imposing than any keep in Winterfell, its grey, windowless facade a monument to pure, unassailable power. He watched the powerful men who came and went, their auras a cold, calculating blue-green. He saw how even the most arrogant merchant captains and bejeweled magisters bowed their heads as they entered. This, he realized, was the true power in Braavos, a power built not on steel, but on debt.

He and Kaelo would sit in taverns frequented by sailors and sellswords, listening to the flow of information. He learned to distinguish the accents, to parse the web of commerce and conflict that was Essos. He heard a Tyroshi merchant with a forked, green-dyed beard complaining about the rising price of Lysene silks, blaming the endless, petty skirmishes in the Disputed Lands. He listened to a Pentoshi cheese monger whisper about the growing arrogance of the magisters in his home city. From a grim-faced Qohorik sellsword, he heard tales of the Dothraki, the horse lords who were the terror of the eastern plains. He learned of the famed Water Dancers of Braavos, swordsmen whose fighting style was as fluid and deadly.

He learned of the city's shadow power. One night, while tailing a corrupt merchant Kaelo had identified, he witnessed something that made his blood run cold. From a high perch on a rooftop, he watched the merchant walk through a crowded plaza. A plain-looking girl, no older than Arya, bumped into him. A moment later, the girl had vanished into the crowd, and the merchant collapsed, dead, with no visible wound.

Jon's [Sight] had flared as she passed, but her aura was a shifting, unreadable void. He felt not fear, but a surge of intense, professional curiosity. This was a level of stealth, a mastery of the art of the kill, that was beyond anything he had seen. The Faceless Men, he thought, the name from Old Nan's stories and the Maester's books.

Just as the thought crossed his mind, the girl, now a hundred feet away on the other side of the plaza, stopped. She paused for a fraction of a second, her head tilting almost imperceptibly, her gaze sweeping up towards the rooftops, directly at the spot where Jon was hidden. She couldn't possibly see him. But he felt her gaze like a physical touch, a cold, knowing acknowledgement. Then, she turned and melted into the crowd, gone.

The System's notification was stark, a chill running down Jon's spine. [Warning: High-Level Assassin Guild Detected: The Faceless Men. Methods are unknown. You have been observed] He knew then that he was not the only assassin in this city, and that there were powers at play he did not yet understand.

They were two boys, alone in a dangerous city, but they were learning. Jon was no longer just a traveler. He was an intelligence agent, patiently, methodically mapping out the new, complex world he had entered. He knew he could not stay in Braavos forever. His path lay south, to the sellsword companies and the wars of the Disputed Lands. But he would not go in blind. He would go armed with the most powerful weapon of all: knowledge.