ASOIAF : Creed

The dream began with the familiar scent of salt and damp stone, but this time it was mixed with the smell of stagnant water and the city's deep, cold breath. The setting had changed. Jon was not a passenger in the wolf's mind; he was at the helm. He was Ghost, a white shadow moving through the labyrinth of tunnels beneath the city. He was in the underbelly of Braavos, and the choices were his own. The primal urge to hunt the fat rats that skittered in the darkness was a constant pull. Jon acknowledged the wolf's simple desire, then firmly pushed it down. He had a purpose beyond instinct.

With a feat of mental dexterity that was exhausting even in the dream-state, he guided the wolf's body through arched sewer conduits and along the ledges of forgotten waterways. This was a far better training ground than their tiny room—a space where Ghost could run and leap, but remain unseen by the city above. He was learning to master this skill, to make the wolf's powerful form an extension of his own will.

The control was a constant struggle, a war waged in a shared skull. His human thoughts battled the wolf's simple, driving instincts. Prey. Chase. Kill. The commands were not words, but pure feeling. Wait. Watch. Learn, Jon countered, his will an anchor in the storm. His goal was to understand the city's layout from below.

He followed a main channel he knew passed beneath the palace grounds, his paws silent on the slick stones. He couldn't see the domed structure, but through the wolf's keen senses, he could feel the great weight of its foundations, mapping its footprint in his mind. For a moment, wolf and man were one, sharing a sense of covert mastery. Then the mental strain fractured the connection, and the dream dissolved into a dizzying fall back into his own body.

He woke with a gasp, a sharp spike of pain behind his eyes his reward for the effort. The cramped room in his cheap boarding house came into focus. Ghost, sleeping at the foot of the cot, lifted his head, red eyes blinking in the pre-dawn gloom. A wave of memory washed over Jon through their [Beast Sense] bond—the feeling of slick stone under his pads, the echo of dripping water, the oppressive weight of the city above. He was getting stronger. They both were.

Later that morning, after a breakfast of hard bread and cheese, he met Kaelo in their rented training room near the Drowned Mug. The air was close, smelling of sweat, rust, and oiled leather.

Kaelo lunged, his borrowed axe moving in a vicious arc. It was an overhand cleave meant to shatter bone, the kind of attack that had served him well in the fighting pits. Jon didn't meet its force. He pivoted on the ball of his foot, his practice sword a flicker of steel that kissed the flat of the axe head. The deflection was minimal, but it was enough. Kaelo's own momentum carried him stumbling past, his charge ending against the wall.

"All rage," Jon said, his voice calm, his breath even. "The pits taught you to kill, not to fight. You're wide open with every swing."

"It's how I survived," Kaelo grunted, turning, his face flushed with frustration.

"You survived because you were stronger than the other boy," Jon corrected. "What happens when you aren't? True strength is in balance, not the blow." For the next hour, he walked Kaelo through the foundational footwork of the Northern swordsmanship, a style built for battles. He taught him to use a parry not just to block, but to create an opening, turning aggression into a weakness. Kaelo was a quick study, his explosive power slowly being tempered by Jon's discipline.

As they packed their gear, their coin purses feeling dangerously light, Kaelo wiped sweat from his brow. "We need coin. This room, the food... it won't last."

Jon nodded. "I know. Tonight, we earn some." He met Kaelo's gaze, his grey eyes serious. "We're going to the Moon Pool. I'll fight. When they ask for a name, you give them one. Not Jon." He paused. "Tell them Corvus."

Kaelo frowned. "Corvus? A crow?"

"Crows watch," Jon said. "And they remember."

That night, they made their way to the Moon Pool—a circular plaza at the terminus of the sweetwater river, nestled between the Sealord's Palace and the looming facades of the Iron Bank. Though not officially sanctioned, the fights held there were no secret. Braavos, for all its laws, had corners where such things thrived, and this was one of them. The Moon Pool was a place where coin changed hands quickly and reputations faster.

The air was thick with the stench of cheap wine and desperation. Men stood on the stone tiers, their faces lit by the greasy, flickering light of torches, shouting bets in a dozen languages.

A burly man with a branded cheek acted as the crier. "Next up, a challenge!" he bellowed. "The Myrish Mink, undefeated in ten bouts!"

A wiry man with oiled black hair and twin stiletto blades swaggered into the center of the pool, bowing to the cheers.

"And his challenger," the crier squinted at the scrap of paper Kaelo had given him, "a boy ... they call him... Corvus!"

Jon, his face obscured by his hood, stepped forward to a smattering of jeers. He looked plain, nothing like the flashy bravos the crowd favored. The fight began. The Myrman was a dancer, his blade a blur of feints and lightning-fast thrusts. Jon did not get caught up in his flow. To the onlookers, the boy barely seemed to move. He weathered the storm of attacks, his [Perfect Parry] turning aside the rapier's lunges with an unnerving efficiency.

The jeering crowd fell quiet. They saw the famed duelist tiring, his attacks growing wider, more desperate. They saw the hooded boy, who had barely budged, who seemed to know where the blade would be before it was thrown. Finally, the Myrman overextended in a frustrated scream. Jon saw his moment. He didn't counter with a fancy riposte. He used [Wolf's Strike], a brutal, explosive lunge born of instinct. He shattered the Myrman's guard and slammed the pommel of his sword into the man's chest, sending him sprawling. His rapier skittered away across the stone.

Jon stood over him, the blunted tip of his sword at the man's throat. The silence was absolute. Then the crowd roared, a wave of shock and approval. He collected his winnings, a heavy purse of iron squares, and left without a word, Kaelo at his side. The name "Corvus" was now being whispered with a grudging respect.

They left the Moon Pool as the night deepened, coin in their pockets and silence between them. But the city did not sleep, and neither did opportunity.

They found a noisy tavern to count their winnings. It was there Jon saw him. The man sat alone in a dark corner, a lute with snapped strings on the table before him. The fine Lyseni silk of his tunic was dulled by grime, the cuffs frayed. This was Orbelo. Kaelo's earlier inquiries had pieced together his story: a favored scholar and musician in the household of the courtesan Zarrina, framed for theft by a rival, cast out, his name ruined. As a final cruelty, the ring finger of his fretting hand was taken, ensuring he could never again master the lute.

Jon watched him, activating his [Sight]. The man's aura was a storm of resentful red coiled around a core of desolate grey. [Intent: Vengeful. Broken]

In the man's despair, Jon saw not a victim, but an asset: a mind sharpened by grievance, an intimate knowledge of the city's elite, and a powerful motive. A potential member of his crew.

He left Kaelo with the coin. He approached the table quietly, careful not to draw attention. He sat down opposite Orbelo, his own face a mystery within his hood. The man looked up, his eyes dull.

"Orbelo," Jon said, his voice a low whisper that cut through the tavern's noise. "I hear you have a problem with the Lady Zarrina. I think, perhaps, we can help each other."