Chapter Text
Norvos 300AC
“Didn’t expect the war to be that short,” Edric Storm muttered.
He, his master Jon Snow, and Asher Forrester had only just left the council chamber of the Norvosi magisters, where they had been informed that the war with the Ibbenese was officially over. Their final payment would arrive within the next few days.
Asher shrugged beside him. “That’s Essosi war for you. Most of them don’t last long.”
Truthfully, unlike the young squire, most members of the Company of the Rose had already suspected the war was ending when the Norvosi ordered them to withdraw from the Axe and return to Norvos.
The Axe was often called the disputed land of northern Essos. Norvos, Ibben, Lorath, Braavos, Qohor, and even the Dothraki had fought over it for centuries. That was hardly surprising. The region was fertile, rich in timber, amber, and gold, with abundant fisheries along its coasts.
“Still,” Edric said with a frown, “one real battle, a handful of raids, and that’s it.”
This was not the war he had imagined. Not the kind his royal father used to boast about: vast hosts crashing together beneath flying banners, thousands of men screaming across open fields while commanders sought one another blade-to-blade.
Instead, his first taste of war had been little more than a sharp clash followed by scattered raids or skirmishes, and he had missed even part of that.
The war at sea had belonged to the Sea Wolves, the company’s fleet under Aurane Waters. They had harried Ibbenese shipping relentlessly, cutting supply lines, seizing cargo, and raiding isolated settlements along the coasts of both Ibben and its mainland holdings.
The Sea Wolves themselves had been born from one of King Robert Baratheon’s wagers.
The previous year, Jon had slain a Dothraki khal near Myr, claiming not only the man’s Valyrian steel arakh, but somehow his khalasar as well. The blade had later been brought to King’s Landing, where Tobho Mott reforged it into something more fitting by Westerosi standards: a bastard sword Jon named Winter Fury.
By chance or fate, Jon’s arrival had coincided with a string of celebrations: the king’s nameday, the queen’s, and the Hand’s. As always, such festivities demanded tourneys.
Jon entered the melee.
He won the king’s melee.
Then the queen’s.
By then, Robert Baratheon, never a man capable of resisting a wager, had loudly declared that Jon could not possibly win a third.
Jon proved him wrong.
Five warships had changed hands that day, along with nearly a hundred thousand golden dragons, a Valyrian steel dagger, and Edric himself, handed over to Jon as his first squire.
“At least you saw a battle,” Asher said, breaking Edric’s thoughts. “Most wars are just raids and skirmishes.”
“Unlike Westeros,” Jon added, “where wars drag on for years and thousands die. In Essos, war is business. Profit decides when it starts and when it ends.”
“That our lord commander speaking?” Asher smirked.
Jon shot him a flat look. “Screw you, Forrester.”
There had been a time when Jon thought much the same as Edric. That war was glory and honor, just like the songs claimed. Essos had beaten that illusion out of him quickly enough. War was blood, screams, steel, and survival. There was no glory in it. Only victors and corpses.
“As you wish,” Asher replied with a grin. “Though if I could, I probably wouldn’t still be here.”
Edric snorted despite himself.
“As I was saying,” Asher continued, clapping him on the shoulder, “this is your first war. That alone’s worth celebrating.”
“There’ll be a celebration,” Jon said. “Norvos pays well when it wins.”
Edric nodded, though his thoughts lingered elsewhere. “What happens now?”
“We return to the Wolf Lair,” Jon answered. “And we wait.”
The Wolf Lair was territory held outright by the Company of the Rose under the quiet blessing of Braavos: one port town and twenty fortified villages lying between Braavos, Norvos, and Lorath.
It had not always belonged to them.
That credit belonged to Jon’s great-grandfather, Rodrik of the Wandering Wolves. Under his command, the Company had reached heights unmatched since the days of Brandon Snow. Rodrik secured the territory through careful negotiation, leveraging the company’s three-hundred-year relationship with Braavos and lucrative timber agreements with the North. More importantly, his leadership restored the Company’s long-broken ties with the North itself.
Those ties allowed the Company to recruit northerners once more, opening recruitment houses in White Harbor, Barrowton, and Winter Town, something they had been unable to do for nearly three centuries.
Every year, hundreds of northerners joined the company seeking coin, adventure, or escape. Their numbers swelled whenever winter came. Rather than remain behind to starve or freeze, many greybeards chose to sail for Essos instead, hoping to earn wealth for their families before death claimed them.
“Will we be waiting long?” Edric asked.
Asher shook his head. “This is Essos. We’ll probably have another contract before the moon turns.”
The celebration began at dusk.
The magister’s manse overlooked the lower city and the river beyond. Though grand, it lacked the extravagant decadence of the other Free Cities. Norvosi nobility favored austerity: dark stone halls, heavy timber, and thick tapestries depicting ancient victories and solemn bearded priests conducting sacred rites.
As with all things in Norvos, the feast began with prayer.
Nothing happened in the city without the blessing of the bearded priests. Eating, labor, celebration, and even sleep were ruled by their decrees and the tolling of bells.
The prayer itself dragged on endlessly, but once it ended, the feast finally began.
“There,” Asher said, nodding toward a familiar figure moving through the crowd. “Our Lord of the Waters.”
Aurane Waters moved easily among nobles, merchants, and sellswords alike. Here in Essos, his silver-gold hair barely drew notice. Valyrian features were common enough in the Free Cities, unlike in Westeros, where they marked a man immediately.
“Screw you, Forrester,” Aurane said with a grin as he pulled the other man into a brief embrace.
“Why does everyone keep telling me to screw myself?” Asher asked with wounded dignity.
“Because you’re annoying,” Aurane replied.
“Can’t deny that,” Asher admitted cheerfully.
“Aurane.” Jon clasped forearms with him.
“Jon.”
Jon handed him a cup. “I know you must be thirsty.”
“Very much so,” Aurane answers while taking the cup
Asher leaned in with obvious amusement. “That’s Norvosi nahsa.”
Aurane paused.
He disliked Nahsa. Fermented goat’s milk belonged in a stable more than a cup, in his opinion, but wine was difficult to come by in Norvos.
“You know you can drink water, if you don’t like it?” Asher asked smugly.
“I can drink anything,” Aurane declared before swallowing the cup in one gulp.
His face tightened instantly.
Edric burst out laughing.
“So,” Asher asked eagerly, “How did the fleet fare?”
Aurane wiped his mouth. “Well enough.”
Asher groaned. “Don’t be vague.”
Aurane smirked faintly. “It’s still a small fleet.”
“Not as small as before,” Jon cut in.
Aurane nodded. “True enough.”
“How many ships?”
“Ten more taken,” Aurane answered. “Five of them are whalers. Strong hulls, excellent cargo capacity.”
“That’s not bad at all,” Jon mused.
The additional ships would make the Sea Wolves far more profitable. The Company of the Rose had always been a land-based force, but Jon’s wager with Robert Baratheon had allowed the company to expand into sellsailing and maritime trade.
The decision had not been popular. Ships were expensive, and many believed the fleet would bleed the company treasury dry. Instead, it had proven its worth almost immediately. Braavos contracted the Sea Wolves to patrol stretches of its eastern coastline, while the fleet also escorted timber and trade shipments from the North, Lorath, and Braavos.
“We’ll need more men,” Jon added. “Send word to Crackclaw Point and Driftmark.”
Most of the Sea Wolves’ crews came from the Crownlands and the islands of the Narrow Sea, hard and experienced sailors who had suffered under Robert Baratheon’s rule due to lingering Targaryen loyalties. Many had been pushed aside as royal favor increasingly flowed toward stormlanders.
“I already have,” Aurane replied. “Crackclaw and my brother both.”
Asher lifted his cup. “To a profitable war.”
Aurane laughed softly. “Very profitable. Norvos paid generously, the Ibbenese left plenty to loot, and every noble and merchant with holdings in the Axe practically threw protection coin at us. That’s before our share of the mines.”
Jon raised his own cup. “To profit, then.”
They drank.
A moment later, Aurane spoke again, almost casually.
“Did you know the Prince of Dorne’s wife is from here?”
Jon frowned slightly. “Doran Martell’s wife?”
Aurane nodded.
Asher waved a dismissive hand. “And why do we care?”
Aurane tilted his head subtly. “Because she’s walking toward us.”
Jon rose as she approached. “Princess.”
Mellario of Norvos smiled faintly. “I have not heard that title spoken warmly in some time.”
The men exchanged brief glances.
“I hear you are the reason this war was won,” she continued.
“It was not our victory alone,” Jon replied. “Many fought for it.”
“A careful answer,” Mellario observed. “As expected from one taught by both House Stark and House Manderly.”
Jon blinked in surprise. “You know of that?”
“The affairs of great houses are valuable knowledge,” she replied lightly. “Especially the Starks, who now have ties to three other great houses, not to mention their close relationship with the new king.”
She studied him for a long moment.
“Still,” she added, “I find fostering a strange custom. Sending one’s child away to be raised by another household.”
“Fostering is an old Westerosi tradition,” Jon answered evenly. “It builds alliances and understanding between families.”
“A barbaric custom,” Mellario said bluntly. “Though I suppose it should not surprise me. Even honorable Eddard Stark seemed eager enough to rid himself of his bastard.”
The air around them sharpened instantly.
Jon’s voice remained calm. “And yet it seems odder still for a wife and mother to abandon her family simply because she refused to understand the land she married into.”
Mellario’s eyes narrowed. “Careful how you speak, Snow.”
Jon met her gaze without flinching. “You should do the same, Lady Mellario. This is Essos. Titles do not protect people here as they do in Westeros.”
The tension lingered even after she departed.
Aurane exhaled slowly. “Was it wise to antagonize her? Her family is powerful.”
“Not powerful enough to matter,” Jon replied with a shrug. “And if Norvos turns against us, we’ll simply sell our swords to their enemies instead.”
“Forget about her,” Asher said, lifting his cup again. “Tonight’s for celebrating.”
The three of them spent the next few hours drinking and mingling with Norvosi nobles, merchants, and important figures.
Until an out-of-breath Edric Storm came hurrying toward them, clutching a letter.
“Lord Commander,” Edric said urgently, handing it to Jon. “A message from Riverrun.”
“Riverrun?” Jon frowned as he examined the broken direwolf seal. He allowed Edric to manage much of his correspondence, so the opened letter did not surprise him.
“Yes.”
Jon unfolded the parchment.
His eyes widened.
“Get the captains,” he ordered sharply. “All of them. My tent. Now.”
Asher immediately noticed the change in his expression. “What happened?”
Instead of answering, Jon handed him the letter.
Asher read it once.
Then again.
“I’ll help gather them.”
It took nearly an hour to assemble the captains. Half the company was drunk, while the other half was occupied with less respectable distractions.
By the Hour of the Wolf, the command tent was finally full.
“So why have you called us here, Snow?” Artos Snow demanded drunkenly.
One of the descendants of Brandon Snow and quartermaster of the Company of the Rose, Artos oversaw supplies, contracts, and coin. He was also Jon’s fiercest opponent within the company, the unofficial leader of the Old Guard.
For decades, the company had been divided between the Old Guard, the descendants of Brandon Snow’s original followers, and the New Guard, made up of newer recruits from the North, Crackclaw Point, the Narrow Sea islands, and even Jon’s Dothraki riders.
The divide itself is because the company of Rose is supposed to be where exiled Northmen who supported the North's independence go. But now most join the company for profit only.
Ironically, many of the Old Guard had become less northern than the newcomers after centuries in Essos. Artos himself was half Lyseni through his mother.
“A message from Riverrun,” Jon declared, holding up the letter.
“Why the hell are the trout sending a messages to us?” Artos muttered before taking another drink.
“Careful how you speak, old drunk,” Mors Umber growled.
Known as Crowfood, Mors was the leader of the New Guard and Jon’s strongest supporter among the captains. The uncle of Greatjon Umber had served with the company for decades and was among its oldest veterans.
“You’re older than me, Crowfood,” Artos snapped back.
Before the argument could devolve into another drunken brawl, Jon’s voice cut through the tent.
“It was not the trout who sent the letter.”
Silence fell.
“It was my brother.”
Several captains frowned.
“The King in the North.”
“There hasn’t been a King in the North for three hundred years,” Artos said slowly, disbelief spreading across his face.
“There is now,” Jon answered.
The tent erupted into stunned murmurs.
“Do we march?” Artos asked immediately, forgetting all the bad blood that he had with Jon in an instant. If there were once more a King in the North, then the war for Northern Independence would have already started.
Jon looked around the room.
For a moment, he saw not sellswords, sailors, or exiles.
He saw northerners.
“For three hundred years,” Jon said, his voice carrying through the tent, “the Company of the Rose has kept its vow never to return to the North until a Stark once more ruled as king.”
The room grew still.
“For three hundred years, you waited for the North to stand independent again, as it had for thousands of years before the Conquest.”
Jon drew Winter Fury and planted the blade into the wooden floor.
“Now the time has come.”
His grey eyes swept across every captain in the tent.
“Will you follow me home?”
The answer came as a roar.
“Aye!”
“Stark!”
“For the North!”
Aurane stepped forward then. “I am no northerner,” he said, “but I’ll follow you, Jon.”
The Sea Wolf captains nodded in agreement.
Then Rakharo rose.
“We made blood vow with you, Khal Jon,” the Dothraki declared. “We cross poison water for you. We kill your enemies for you.”
Jon stared at him in surprise. For the Dothraki, crossing the sea was unthinkable.
Then Mors Umber slammed his axe against the table.
“War!” he roared.
“WAR!” the captains thundered back.
Even with the full support of the Company of the Rose, it took months for them to reach White Harbor. The distance between Norvos and the North was vast, and by the time they arrived, the war was all but over.
Robb Stark was dead.
So too were most of the House Stark.
Still, Wyman Manderly welcomed his old foster son with open arms, granting the Company of the Rose quarters within White Harbor itself.
“I expected to find you here.”
Wynafryd Manderly said to Jon, who stood overlooking the sea from New Castle.
“You know,” Jon said quietly, eyes fixed on the sea, “I always imagined my destiny lay in the east. That’s why I left, even after your grandfather offered to let me stay.”
Wynafryd smiled faintly. “If you had stayed, you wouldn’t have become the Great Dessert Wolf.”
Jon huffed a soft laugh.
Then the humor faded.
“If I had stayed,” he murmured, “perhaps my brother would still be alive.”
“Or you would have died beside him,” Wynafryd answered gently.
Jon said nothing.
“You cannot keep thinking about the past, Jon.”
“Then what would you have me do?” Frustration crept into his voice. “I want vengeance. I want blood. I want every enemy of House Stark buried.”
“And thousands more will die for it.”
“Thousands will die regardless,” Wynafryd replied. “Do you think the Boltons will simply sit quietly now that they hold Winterfell? The Ironborn still control much of the North Western Coast. The Lannisters still choke the realm.”
After a long silence, Wynafard spoke again.
“You know my grandfather wishes us to marry.”
“I know.”
“And?”
Jon glanced at her. “Are you truly willing?”
Wynafryd snorted softly. “We are nobles, Jon. We do our duty. Besides, I would rather marry you than some Frey.”
A dangerous look entered Jon’s eyes.
“You needn’t worry about the Freys,” he said coldly. “I intend to kill them all.”
Wynafryd blinked in surprise. “So you’ve decided.”
“There was never really a choice.” Jon straightened. “An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth.”
He turned toward to leave and go toward his old foster father Solar, to discuss their next move.
“Where are you going?” Wynafryd ask
“To speak with your grandfather,” Jon said
“What is your decision, Jon?” Wyman Manderly asked as Jon entered his solar.
“I will have my vengeance,” Jon replied. “And I will have the North.”
Wyman studied him for a long moment before nodding slowly.
“Then we must prepare for both wedding and war.”
“You handle the wedding,” Jon said. “I’ll handle the war.”
“That is agreeable.”
“How many men can you raise?”
“Two thousand immediately,” Wyman answered. “Another two thousand after.”
“The Company of the Rose numbers five thousand fighting men,” Jon said. “The Sea Wolves add another two thousand sailors and marines.”
For the first time that evening, Wyman looked genuinely surprised.
“Seven thousand men,” he murmured. “That is no small force.”
“No.”
“What is your plan then?” Wyman ask
Jon stepped toward the map table.
“I’ll have the Sea Wolves transport four thousand men to the Dreadfort.”
Wyman’s eyes widened slightly. “A seaborne assault?”
“Word of my return should not have spread yet,” Jon replied. “We still have surprise on our side.”
“And the rest of the army?”
“Asher will take the Dothraki and secure Winterfell. The remaining men will march on Moat Cailin and retake it.” Wyman stroked his beard thoughtfully.
“It is a bold plan.”
“It’s the only kind worth making.”
The wedding was a swift affair before the heart tree in the Wolf’s Den, followed by a brief feast. By dawn, Jon Snow sailed toward the Dreadforth for war.