The Bite - 265 A.C. / 1860 A.D.


The waters just off the coast of White Harbor were famous for their strong winds that could famously topple even the most well-built of galleys. Rain, sleet, and snow were common phenomena throughout the Bite, but between the mouth of the White Knife and the isle of Longsister, storms seemed to come second to rolling tempests. But fishermen like Errol remained unfazed by the constant shifting of the waves. His family had been fishermen as far back as the days of the first Blackfyres and he himself had been navigating this part of the Bite for nearly thirty years, so he'd be damned if he let some rough seas discourage him from bringing his catch back to Sisterton.

"Seven hells, man!" A voice behind him yelled. "We've got to turn back!"

"Dammit Ryam! If we turn back now, that's a month's worth of pay gone!" He grabbed hold of the till and prepared to shift it. "We may be able to head around this storm if we sail southeast and shift back north before we hit Longsister!"

If there was any opposition to the idea, it was all but drowned out by the crashing of another wave over the boat. A snap of thunder echoed across the rolling waves, as if to make his point. Errol knew turning southeast was a risky move, but if there was a chance that he and his partner could make it through this storm he would take it with both hands.

"Errol! There's a- "

Another wave crashed over the length of the ship, silencing his friend, and filling his eyeline with stinging saltwater. When the boat crested the top of the wave, his friend was no longer where he once was. Errol immediately began scanning the sea around him, hoping to catch a glimpse of his friend somewhere in the churning seas. But all he saw through his rain-soaked periphery was miles and miles of ocean.

"Ryam! Ryam!"

The sound of splintering wood, brought him out of his daze as he looked up just in time to see the mast of his boat crash down onto the bow of his boat, knocking him into the ocean.

Struggling to keep his head above the water, he could just about make out the sight of his boat slipping beneath the sea. Another series of waves swelled under and above him and threatened to drag him under. Pulling on his last reserves of strength, he hastened his legs to move and started swimming away from the cresting wave. It felt like the weight of the sea landed on top of him as he was almost knocked unconscious.

The storm seemed to only grow with intensity as he floated helplessly among the torrents of the Bite. Tired and weary, and with no flotsam to hang onto, his hope ebbed away and his last thoughts going to the wife and children he would be leaving behind.

As he closed his eyes and prepared to enter the sweet embrace of the Stranger, he thought he could hear the voice of someone crying out through the howl of the tempest.

Willing his eyes to open he could see through the rain and sleet, a small boat. It seemed to be manned given how he made out a number of oars shifting in unison. His eyes soon felt too heavy to keep open and the world seemed to fall away. And from behind the smaller boat, he could make out the silhouette of a ship.

As his mind receded into darkness, he bore no thoughts to the voice that called to him.


Errol's first waking thoughts were that he was still alive. Getting up from the berth, his eyes cautiously drifted around the room. He took a moment to steady hid breath as the memories of what had happened slowly came back to him. He recalled Ryam falling overboard, waves capsizing his boat, and the sight of a distant ship sailing toward him.

With a groan he sat up in his bed and for the first time really looked at his surroundings. There was a door at the far end of the room and at the adjacent corner, a desk strewn with papers and a cabinet above him. But what drew Errol's eye was the lantern above the desk. It was alight, but there was no candle in the wick. And yet it seemed to burn brighter than any lantern he had seen.

Perhaps he had been picked up by a ship from the Free Cities. He had heard tales from Braavosi whalers how the oil from certain types of whales would burn longer than any candlewax.

The sound of three bells from the deck above seemed to jolt him from his reverie. With a calm pace he slowly opened the door and was immediately greeted with the chaos of a ship's crew. He had traveled across the Narrow Sea a few times on carracks, and each time the crew of the ships seemed to always scramble about in such a way when something of import was occurring.

Deciding to follow the men, he noticed that all seem to dress very strangely. Each sailor was clad in a dark blue tunic, trousers, and cap. But the choice of clothing alone was not what he found strange. It was the fact that they were all wearing the same tunic, trousers, and cap.

Errol followed the sailors, until he could finally see a set of steps that seemed to lead up to the deck.

With a sigh, he shakily made his way up the stairway and was greeted with the blinding light of a clear day. The sun was shining down in a way that he had never known it to in his life as a Sisterman, and the ocean was calmer than he had ever seen. That serenity was shattered with the piercing shriek of what he assumed was a large horn.

Following the source of the noise, he was greeted with sight of dozens of men scurrying about the deck, pulling ropes, and climbing masts. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he looked up and realized that the men were rolling up the sails.

Errol frowned for a moment and wondered if the sailors were green boys, still unused to the wider knowledge of sailing, or if they were just plain mad. To hoist up the sails in the middle of the open ocean seemed like suicide, especially given how quickly the Bite tended to live up to its namesake. But a large speck of brown and green soon deprived him of his worries.

In the distance was an island, dotted with plains of grass and what seemed to be woodlands further inland. But what stood out the most, was the sight of a massive sea cave that punctured into the face of a massive outcropping that jutted out near the end of the isle. It was large enough for the largest of galleys to sail through and then some. He wouldn't have been surprised if a small mountain could fit through it's opening.

A hand on his shoulder made him jump as he was greeted with the sight of an embarrassed-looking man. He had his hands up toward Errol in a way that was begging him to stay calm.

"Easy there, man. I didn't mean to scare you."

Well, he was certainly a foreigner, but he doubted from the man's accent if he was from Braavos or any of the Free Cities. Dressed in a more polished blue coat, gilded with brass buttons, strange yellow-bordered straps on his shoulders, and a more rigid blue cap. He seemed to be a noble of some regard.

"I meant to check up on you before we reached back to camp, but my talk with Doctor MacCrae went on longer than expected." He continued, his voice eerily casual.

"It's not a problem, milord." Errol answered tenuously.

"Oh, heavens! While I am flattered, I'm no lord." He snorted, before giving a nod of his head. "The only person on this ship who comes close is probably Commodore Sullivan up there."

Errol's gaze slowly turned up toward a rather stern-faced figure dressed more resplendently than the man he was talking to.

"Where are my manners? I'm Captain Stanley Erinmore of the USS Ogunquit." The man held his hand out to him.

"Errol. Just Errol." He replied, hesitantly shaking the proffered hand. "Ogunquit?"

"The name of my ship, Mister Errol." His smile seemed somewhat bemused. "Or rather the commodore's ship, for the duration of this expedition."

"Oh." It was a dumb answer, but given the circumstances, he figured he was entitled to a moment of plain bewilderment. "I s'ppose… I should thank you for the rescue."

"Your thanks should go to Doctor McCrae. We would've probably missed you entirely, had it not been for the good doctor's keen eyesight."

He would have to thank this Doctor McCrae once he had the opportunity. For now, he figured he should see if these strangers' gratitude could be stretched far enough to bring him back to Sweetsister.

"While I appreciate your generosity, I don't suppose you'd be kind enough to provide me with passage back to Sisterton or White Harbor at least?"

"Sisterton? Is that one of the islands in the bay?"

Errol could not help but to stare back at the captain in shock. He knew that Westeros was of little import to most foreigners, but a surely a sea captain should know well enough the major ports of the Narrow Sea.

Unless he was from the lands beyond Essos.

"Are you from the Free Cities?"

"No, not as such. Where we're from is actually quite a bit complicated to explain."

The blast from the horn sounded again, his ears piercing at the sheer noise it made. Turning around he saw what looked to be a massive chimney, smoke bellowing from its top, standing right at the center of the ship. And next to it, a vent of steam making the noise that had sounded like a war horn.

"Sorry about the whistle. I've been sailing for twenty years, and the damned thing still frightens the daylights out of me."

Errol's eyes soon drifted away from the chimney to the odd sight protruding from the side of the ship. A series of paddles attached to a massive wheel, like the ends of spokes, revolved forward seeming to push the ship along. Stepping closer to the railing, he could see that there were oars that aided in the ship's movement. And, as best he could see, no people moving the revolving wheel.

What sorcery could this be?

Turning around to face the captain, he could see he was talking to a similarly dressed sailor.

"Mr. Matthews, the beach is in sight. Prepare to disembark."

"Aye-aye captain."

Once the man had stepped away, Errol walked up to the captain and repeated his concerns about returning to Sisterton.

"We can certainly do that Mister Errol, but I'll have to have a word with the Commodore before any final decision is made." He started to walk toward the starboard side, gesturing for him to follow. "The complicated nature of our arrival means that we'll have to rely on your assistance in getting you back to your home."

Complicated nature? Arrival? The words swirled in Errol's thoughts as his confusion over these blue-clad strangers only increased. And at the forefront of his mind, only one question made itself clear.

"Mr. Denny! Raise up the colors!"

From the main mast, he could see a sailor attaching a banner of red, white, and blue to one of the lines. Errol's gaze slowly followed as the line was pulled and the flag of these sailor's house was raised.

Turning back to the captain, he asked him the question burning in his mind.

"Who are you?"

Saying nothing, Captain Erinmore's only response was to give a languid smile and bring his gaze up to the banner that had been raised. Errol followed suit and looked back up at the flag, its pattern now in full sight as it spread out against the wind.

Errol could only stand in wonder as the unfamiliar banner waved, showing itself to emblazoned with the unmistakable pattern of stars and stripes.


- Hail Columbia, happy land! -


A/N: Thank you for indulging my attempt at colliding Gilded Age America with Targaryen Era Westeros (This fic starts before the Gilded Age, but the series that I have planned is mostly set in it).