Disclaimer: Westeros and its world belongs to George R R Martin; I'm just using it as a whetstone while I create my own.

So this week I've managed to write three chapters, unfortunately only one of them is a part of A Canvas of Crowns, but better one than none right! Jon is off on his little excursion in Essos, and I promise that it won't involve him acting as Dany's living shadow with Jorah for those like me who've read that one once too many times already.

Anyway, enjoy...

Chapter 16 - Jon

'You're out of gold, my friend,' the captain told him as Jon looked out onto the last and greatest of the cities of Slaver's Bay.

'Mereen,' Jon said, staring out at the row of pyramids beyond the walls. One of them towered over the city, a monstrous mountain of a monument, and seat to a vast bronze harpy that watched over the city.

'The Dothraki sea lies on the other side of the river to the city,' Aqytho told him. 'That-' he pointed at the golden domed building across from the great pyramid '-is the Temple of the Graces.'

'Another red temple?' Jon asked, making a mental note not to get within a hundred metres of it.

Aqytho chuckled. 'No. You'll be relieved to learn there is no temple of R'hllor in Mereen.'

Jon nodded, and stepped off the boat onto the pier. 'I like this place,' he decided wryly. Ghost shook himself, then leapt down onto the quayside next to Jon, sniffing the air cautiously.

The red priest calmly followed, the few things he owned in the bag over his shoulder, and Jon suppressed a sigh at the knowledge that he truly did seem resolved to follow Jon wherever he went.

At least we have a truce.

For the last days of the journey Aqytho had done his best to make less mention of his Lord of Light, and in return Jon had not thrown him overboard like he'd become sorely tempted to from the first few hours after leaving New Ghis. Instead the red priest had taught him valyrian, both high and not, some history of Essos, and whatever else he'd thought Jon should know.

The captain waved them goodbye as they were encouraged off the dock by the harbour guards.

Back off to Pentos, Jon suspected. Illyrio will be disappointed I have not sought out his sellsword, and his Dornish septa.

'Where now, Jon Snow?' Aqytho asked, as they reached where the edge of the city.

'Aren't you supposed to already know?' Jon countered dryly.

'I saw a woman with the wings of a bat, and the tail of a scorpion,' Aqytho said softly. 'She cradled a whip, and carried shackles in her claws.'

'The emblem of Yunkai,' Jon noted, he'd learnt something of the city on the journey here. 'Yet this seems to be Mereen.'

Aqytho was unruffled. 'Sometimes to go west-'

'You must go east, I remember, but I thought you didn't want to go to Asshai,' Jon cut in. 'And if you keep going east, that's where you end up.'

'A man can err when he stares into the flames,' Aqytho admitted.

'Have you?' Jon asked, genuinely curious this time.

If he has erred, then surely Thoros could have easily done so.

Aqytho paused, and spared him a small smile. 'No.'

Jon frowned, then smiled and put Thoros' words on blood and fire as far from his mind as was able. 'I wanted to see Yunkai anyway,' he shrugged.

'Sellswords follow their contracts,' Aqytho reminded him. 'There's little time for sightseeing.'

'I'll have to save up for a bit before,' Jon conceded, crooking a finger at Ghost. 'Now, I'm going to go investigate. I assume you're going to follow me.'

'The Lord of Light showed me you,' Aqytho said.

'I'll take that as a yes,' Jon replied dryly, setting off into the city.

Ghost and Aqytho trailed after him through crowds that for the most part were more than eager to be out of his way.

'Do you have anywhere specific in mind, Jon Snow?' Aqytho asked, as he hurried after Jon.

'No,' Jon answered. 'And will you please just call be my name.'

'There are fighting pits, pleasure houses, and more, Jon,' Aqytho said, though he seemed to stumble over the informal version of Jon's name. 'It depends what you want.'

'I'm not all that keen on either fighting pits or pleasure houses,' Jon said, trying not to flush, and failing spectacularly.

'What do you want, then?' Aqytho inquired smoothly.

To go home, Jon thought. To go home, and have it proud for me to be there.

'I don't know,' he said, ignoring the desire he still held for that lost dream of a white cloak, the honour it would bring him, and the dishonour of his birth it would wash away.

'Sellswords, if you're still of the mind to set your blade to inglorious work for silver and gold, are easily found,' Aqytho promised him. 'We will have to go towards the pleasure houses though, Jon.'

'Fine,' Jon said, annoyed that the man had read his discomfort so easily.

'This way, I think,' Aqytho said, leading Jon down a set of smaller streets. Ghost loped calmly after him.

Traitor, Jon thought sourly as the direwolf trailed at the red god's man's heels, but followed the priest all the same.

Aqytho was quiet as he led them through the streets. He seemed to roughly know the way, thought Jon felt there was perhaps a little more wiggling back and forth than necessary.

'The Spice Market,' he finally said, pointing down the street towards an open square. Ghost whined, and tucked his muzzle into Jon's thigh, proof enough that Aqytho knew where he was.

'I thought we were going towards the pleasure houses,' Jon remarked, far from disappointed that they hadn't. Theon he was not.

'The Second Sons seem to have some men over there,' he pointed to a shabby looking wine parlour at the other end of the street to the market, past a winesink with a purple flower upon its sign, and a handful of colourful men drinking on tables at the edge of the gutter.

I am my father's second son, Jon thought, and he smiled a little at that irony, his mind made up.

Aqytho waited, then strode after him as he made his way past the winesink.

'Hey,' one of the men called, in bastard valyrian. 'Hey, boy.'

Jon ignored him until he stood up, and shoved his chair over into Jon's path. He was tall, as tall as Jon was, blue-eyed and blue-haired, in weathered leather and bright silks.

'I was talking to you, boy,' he said, quaffing the last of his wine and tossing the cup aside.

'So?' Jon asked starting to step round him, but the man stuck out an arm to block his path.

'That sword,' he said. 'I want it, a boy like you shouldn't have such a thing wasted on him.'

'Jokin,' a man called softly, his gold teeth glinting as he spoke, 'don't be a fool, the boy needs his weapon, every sellsword does.'

The man turned to the blue-haired speaker, and grunted. 'You can have my arakh,' he conceded to Jon. 'A trade, from one mercenary to another.'

'A poor trade,' Jon said, his bastard valyrian good enough for that, and Ghost slunk round his legs to bare his teeth at the man, red eyes glowing. Aqytho kept his distance, unconcerned.

No doubt he thinks his red god will save me if he needs me.

'I'll just take it then,' Jokin said, brushing his long blue hair out of his eyes, and drawing the arakh he'd offered.

Winter Queen slid smoothly from its sheath into Jon's hand, his fingers tight about the face of the laughing tree. 'You can have it,' Jon promised, as the arakh snaked out at his hip.

Jon checked the stroke, and stepped inside to thrust his fists at the sellswords face, but the man swayed aside and struck again.

Winter Queen caught the strike between them, and Jon stepped back, parrying a second blow, then a third. The cobbles were slick with spilled drink, and he nearly slipped, but caught himself on the table behind him in time to duck the vicious stroke of the curved blade that would have taken his head.

Jon's counter drew a line of torn leather and red all down the man's side, and the sellsword flinched back, pushing the table in between them and swearing in half a dozen different dialects.

'That's going to scar,' he grunted. The other sellswords cheered, and Jon glimpsed silver exchanging hands amongst them as he kicked the table aside.

Jokin stepped right, then lunged left, but Jon read the strike from his eyes, and reversed the grip on his blade to catch the arakh between his blade and his hip, then twisted away, wrenching the blade from the sellsword's hands.

It clattered across the street next to the wine cup as the sell sword hurled himself onto the cobbles to avoid the strike he thought was coming. Jon spared Jokin a thin satisfied smile as he sheathed Winter Queen, leaving his opponent on his knees on the street.

The other sellswords roared with laughter, and Jokin's face reddened as he pushed himself back to his feet, his hands on his shins.

'Jon!' Aqytho warned.

He spun in time to see the thin stiletto slide from Jokin's boot as he threw himself forward.

There wasn't enough time to draw Winter Queen before the sellsword hit him, but he managed to get an arm between the two of them, and the stiletto tip failed to penetrate his mail. Jokin swore, and smashed his forehead into Jon's sending him reeling back, his vision full of bursting stars.

Something white darted past him with a low growl, and the sellsword screamed.

Jon's vision cleared just in time to see Ghost rip the man's hamstring out with his teeth, dancing back to try and avoid the wild slash of the stiletto that followed, but not evading it completely. A thin red line welled up upon Ghost's muzzle, and the direwolf whimpered, backing away.

You should have pushed that blade right through my neck, he remembered the Hound saying, and he cursed himself for not listening.

Jokin retrieved his arakh from the cobbles, but Jon was already upon him before he could attack. His desperate parry stopped the first stroke, but he was too hampered by his injured leg to turn as fast as Jon circled him, and with a simple twist of Jon's wrists he opened the man's throat to the bone.

Jokin took one more step towards him, then sank onto the street like summer snow, his eyes as wide and still as glass.

'A good fight,' the gold-toothed man declared, gathering silver from his fellow sellswords with a wide smile.

Jon warily watched him rise as he cleaned the last inch of Winter Queen, but he didn't sheath the blade. Jokin had been confident, but he'd not carried himself so easily as this man, his swagger had been more of a sway, and the arakh that lay on the street was a pewter knife compared to the pair of gold-hilted blades at this man's waist.

'You have a name and a company?' the man asked. 'If you're a Second Son, lie, the Titan's Bastard is prick.'

'Jon Snow,' Jon replied. 'And the only company I have is Ghost… and Aqytho,' he added, after a moment's thought.

The man ran his fingers through the three prongs of his blue beard, and into his gold-painted mustachios. 'Why not join us?' He offered. 'We seem to have a space to fill-' there was muted grumbling behind him, but it cut off when the sell sword turned his clear blue eyes upon them '-you'd make a good crow, Jon Snow.'

'I was thinking of joining the Second Sons,' Jon admitted wryly.

'A good thing Jokin intercepted you before you made that mistake,' the sellsword jested. 'You've proved you have some skill, skill enough to take Jokin's place as my second in the Stormcrows, and none of these sorry sots will be able to take it from you so long as you watch your back.'

'And who are you?' Jon asked, as Aqytho drifted close in behind him.

'I'm Daario, Daario Naharis,' the man replied, half-bowing elegantly with a hand inside his bright silks, and the other on the hilt of his arakh. The blade had a naked woman for a hilt, the same as his stiletto, and Jon thought it looked wrought of solid gold. 'There's no finer sword you'll find in all of Essos,' Daario told him, though Jon wasn't sure if he meant his blade, or himself.

Jon glanced at Aqytho, who shrugged, a motion Jon took to mean he'd follow after him and be annoying regardless of what he chose. 'Ok,' Jon agreed. 'A Stormcrow I shall be.'

At least I have found something to pay for food and drink, he thought. A sellsword I may be for now, but one day I'll find my way home with honour enough to be welcome there.

Daario grabbed his arm and pulled him down into the seat across from him, keeping one eye on Ghost who curled up at Jon's feet. 'What is a red priest doing trailing a sellsword?' he asked curiously.

Aqytho didn't reply for a moment as he right the fallen table and settled himself at it. 'The Lord of Light shows me where to go,' he said eventually.

'Well if you're not going to take up a sword for us, we're not going to pay you,' the sellsword captain said bluntly.

'I am not following Jon Snow for gold, Daario Naharis,' Aqytho replied.

'Your red god,' Daario said. 'Well, him I understand, and the wolf too, though I've not seen one so large before, but what about you, Jon, are you here for gold, for glory, or something else? If you'd die, what would you die for?'

'Honour,' Jon replied straight away.

The sellswords close enough to hear laughed, and Jon flushed. 'In my experience, Jon, there are only two things men should die for, gold, and love, honour doesn't buy you wine, it doesn't keep you warm at night, and it won't weep for you after you're food for the crows.' The sellsword itched his long, curved nose, and topped up his wine cup. 'What would you kill for, Jon Snow?' Daario asked, after he'd taken a long drink. 'Aside from your lovely sword.'

'My family, my duty.' Jon decided.

'Family, duty, and honour,' Daario summed up, and Jon flinched.

Tully words, he realised bitterly. Lady Stark's words.

'You're a fool,' Daario told him good-naturedly, 'but you're young, and it's the joy of young men to kill and die for foolish things.'

'They're not foolish things,' Jon snapped.

Daario chuckled. 'Blood, and songs, and gold, and love,' he told Jon. 'You'll learn, you must be already. Sellswords aren't honourable, sellswords have no duty, and if you're here to sell that handsome blade of yours and not with your family, then you can't truly love them enough to die for.'

Jon grit his teeth. 'I am banished by my king, I can't be with them until I'm pardoned, but I'd gladly die for my brothers, my father, or my sister if my company didn't dishonour them.'

'Banished?' Daario poured a second cup, and shoved it across the table towards him. 'What did you do, sleep with the queen?' John flushed, the lingering fingers of the queen upon his cheek all too easily. 'A good reason,' Daario told him cheerfully. 'I've never had a queen.'

'Neither have I,' Jon growled, and Daario laughed, his gold-tooth flashing in the light. 'I did nothing, the king knighted me, and stuck me on a ship to Essos. He was half-mad and on his death bed.'

Robert probably thought it a mercy as much as anything, Jon reckoned. Better to die young in red waters than rule.

'A knight-' Daario looked him up and down, '-I've seen a few like you, the Golden Company has a few hundred men who call themselves ser, but they all have horses. If you march around in all that leather and mail you'll boil to death in the sun.'

'I don't mind the heat,' Jon dismissed.

'Suit yourself,' Daario said, pushing the wine cup a little closer to him. Jon took a reluctant sip, but found it wasn't so bad as he had feared. 'You'll have to wait to get paid before you can buy anything anyway, and we've just finished out contract here.'

'Where are we headed next?' Jon asked curiously, taking a second small sip.

'Yunkai,' Daario revealed with some aplomb. 'We depart on the morrow, so tonight-' he raised his cup, mirrored by his men '-we drink, find ourselves a girl or two, and a quarrel to make it memorable!'

Jon raised his cup half-heartedly, and took a gulp. He wasn't all that interested in finding any of the three.

Yunkai. He threw a look at Aqytho, who was looking far too innocent and pleased for his liking after his glimpse of the harpy in the flames. Damn him and his red god.

AN: Please read and review, thanks to all who do!