Stranger in a Not-So-Strange Land

Prologue: Shipwreck

The storm first appeared on the horizon late in the afternoon of the second day of the Iron Fleet's voyage to Essos, looming menacingly in the west. Ulf Ironmaker raised a hand to shade his eyes as he stared out at the fast-approaching dark clouds, pursing his lips.

"Doesn't look good, that," he commented to the steersman of the Foamserpent. The other man merely grunted in response, occupied with handling the massive steerboard. Ulf made a face. "Looks like a night of rowing for all, I think."

"Probably," the steersman said, keeping his eyes ahead.

"I'll get my place ready," Ulf said, checking and tightening the leather straps that held his weapons on his back. Satisfied that there was no danger of them slipping off as he rowed, he made his way up the longship to his place at the oars, halfway down the starboard side. Nodding at the ironborn already rowing, Ulf dragged his sea chest out from where they were tucked in under the gunwales and shoved it into place beside the one the other man was sitting on. Around him the rest of the crew hurried around, doing the same as they prepared for the oncoming storm. As Ulf sat down on his chest and took a firm grip on the oar a three-fingered hand came down on his head, ruffling the mop of thick black hair that hung down past his shoulders.

"You'd best brace yourself, young Ulf," the hand's owner said. "These southern storms are some of the worst I've ever seen."

Ulf half-turned and looked up at the man standing beside him, his uncle Eirik Ironmaker, the massive, grey-haired captain of the Foamserpent. "Do you think the fleet will make it?" he asked.

"Not all of it," Eirik replied grimly, gazing out at the storm clouds that already covered half the sky. "Not all of it. Pray to the Drowned God, lad, that he has places enough for all of us down below." With that he moved off down the ship to the stern, to his place by the steerboard.

"Pray we don't lose the fleet, more like," Ulf's oarmate muttered, as he paused a second to let Ulf catch the pace. "We're hardly going to steal away that Targaryen girl with only one ship."

It wasn't long after that the storm broke. Waves higher than the highest peaks of Pyke reared over the sides of the Foamserpent, blue-black against the cloud-covered evening sky, white foam flickering faintly on the peaks. Spray slashed across the deck, stinging the exposed faces of the crew. The timbers of the ship creaked and groaned as they flexed and twisted with the battering of the waves, and the crew roared and shouted their defiance at the Storm God as they fought the oars with all their might, but the sounds of the storm – winds not howling but bellowing, waves thundering like great rocks tossed about in an avalanche – all but drowned out even Ulf's oarmate's cries in his ears.

Straining against his oar, Ulf clenched his eyes shut as water slashed across his face with the force of a whiplash, roaring with effort together with the other ironborn as the ship flexed and begun to climb another wave.

"Pull!" came the cry of the starboard rowmaster, and Ulf threw himself backwards, using his weight and all the strength of his arms and shoulders in tandem with his oarmate, jaw clenched and lips curled back in a grimace of extreme effort.

"Ready!" the rowmaster cried, and Ulf threw himself forward and down, forcing the oar up and back in preparation for the next stroke.

Time dragged on. He no longer had any idea what time it was or how long they'd been rowing and fighting to survive the storm that raged all the harder. No ironborn was a stranger to storms, and this was not even the hardest storm he'd ever encountered while afloat, but the sheer effort it was taking to ride it out was beyond anything Ulf had ever experienced before. His world had shrank to him, the oar in front of him, and the shouting of the rowmaster over the howl of the wind and the roar of the rain. Every muscle in his body was screaming at him, liquid fire burning his flesh with every movement, and he was so exhausted that staying awake despite the pain and the cold, wet, and wind was a constant fight. For a second he relaxed in a lull after another pull on the oars, before the voice of the rowmaster – almost a shriek, so high and panicked it sounded – set him throwing his weight against the oar in a frenzy.

"Back water, back water! Back water, or we're done for!"

Lightning split the sky, throwing everything into sharp relief – his mail-clad arms, gauntleted hands gripping the oarshaft, the back of the man in the row ahead – and then darkness returned again as thunder boomed out. It drowned out the cries of the ironborn and even the roaring of his oarmate right in his ear as they forced the oar through the water with all their strength. With a gasp more akin to a scream, Ulf relaxed his muscles as the oar attained its maximum reach, pushing the oarshaft down and swinging back for the next stroke. Taking in a deep breath, he gritted his teeth and thrust upwards, feeling the instant tremors run through the wood as the blade sank into the foaming waves, tensing all his muscles to keep the oar from bucking out of his grip.

Beside him he felt his oarmate tense as well and together they leaned forwards, arms rising awkwardly as they pushed their weight onto the oar shaft, not used to rowing the opposite way. Slowly they bore forwards, Ulf keeping his eyes on the back of the man in front, seeing the distance between the shaft and the other ironborn dwindle – then all the resistance vanished, the oar seemingly light as a feather in his hands, and he was face-first in his shipmate's back.

The rowmaster screamed in shock as the sounds of wood shattering and splintering echoed across the ship, and suddenly Ulf was on his back as the great mast of the Foamserpent swayed crazily over to the left and the ship's proud tail rose up higher even than the masthead. Then there was water and cold, so much cold, and he was sinking and flying as the waves threw him about like a terrier worrying a rat, and then something hard hit him in the stomach and then the face. He threw up in the water, gagging as some of it splashed back over his face and even in his mouth, but still let go of the oarshaft, seizing hold of the piece of wreckage with both arms, and then it was just water and cold and the storm everywhere, flinging him around relentlessly, until…

The storm was over, the sea calm now. Night had come and then passed, and now the day had dawned weak but clear. Arms spread wide, fingers clinging to the sides of the piece of wood, Ulf bobbed up and down with the swell of the sea. His eyes were closed, salt encrusting his skin and hair and sticking his eyelashes together when he mustered what little energy he had left and tried to open them. He was only vaguely aware of the sunlight shining through his eyelids and the faint warmth of the watery sun on his skin. Time no longer held any meaning for him in the exhausted stupor he'd fallen into during the night and he didn't have the strength left to wake from it, just hovering between waking and sleeping. Slowly he could feel himself slipping away, a warm and comforting darkness creeping in at the corners of his mind. He was tired, so very tired, but he couldn't give in, mustn't give in to sleep…he was tired, and cold, and the darkness was so warm and inviting...

Something touched his back, grabbing his hauberk and yanking hard. Voices sounded in his ears, speaking words loudly to him.

"…on…wake…grab…steady…"

He relaxed, and gave in to the darkness.

There we are, prologue done. Next time, on Stranger In A Not-So-Strange Land: Ulf meets Berk. And dragons. Wait...dragons?!

With thanks to iviscrit and pygmypuff8 for beta-ing this.