[A quick reminder that the story's title will be changing to 'Under the Ice Dragon's Eye' starting from next chapter]
"Fire! Fire! The Outworlders set Flea Bottom on fire!"
Carl's blood chilled. Even through the thick oaken gates, he could hear the angry Flea Bottomers' cries. Was that what they thought of the Alexandrians? That his people would stoop so low to burn their homes? There was only one way they could be placated now. "Open the gates, then everyone fall back!" He ordered.
"Lord Carl-" Humphrey Waters started. He was eyeing the gate with a worried look on his face. Nor were his Northman and Alexandrian counterparts any less concerned. Ser Wylis Manderly and Sam Fairbanks closed in around Carl, readying their sword and gun respectively to defend the boy at a moment's notice.
"Did you hear what I just said?" Carl shouted again. "The more time they have to make shit up, the more riled up they'll get." The Northmen began loading their muskets under Wylis' orders. The gold cloaks formed up in front of them, spear-tips leveled at the gate. Boom, boom, boom. Something heavy crashed into the gate, but it held all the same.
"I said, open the fucking gate!" Carl shouted for a third time. When neither the Northmen nor the goldcloaks moved, Carl went to the gate and pushed at the wooden bar with all his strength, his muscles straining against the heavy lock. The bar finally rose, up to about the width of Carl's forearm, then came back down again with a dull thud. The exhausted boy staggered backwards and fell onto the cobbled floor.
Humphrey helped Carl back onto his feet. "It's too dangerous, my lord," the commander explained. "When that gate opens, the smallfolk will swarm in. They might overrun the barracks, but more likely they will be driven back. Either way the Flea Bottomers will die in droves, perhaps some goldcloaks and Northmen too. Isn't avoiding bloodshed what you want, Lord Carl? Let them bash at the gates for a bit. The gates will hold, they will tire, then we will open the gates and you can talk to them."
Yet the smoke rising above Flea Bottom had grown thicker and darker, engulfing the Dragonpit with a black smog. The Guildhall of the Alchemists was further away. Even if the alchemists could eventually spot the fire, it might be too late by then. "Can you guys send a crow to the Alchemist's Guild or something? We need their help." Humphrey shook his head.
"Then I really need to talk to the Flea Bottomers," Carl insisted. "We gotta get to the Guildhall, that's where the fire engines are."
"A wicker basket might work," suggested Humphrey. "We'll lower you from the walls, but you will stay in the basket until the smallfolk are convinced. If they mean to harm you, we'll simply pull you back up."
"I will take over the defenses in the meantime," Wylis offered.
"Fine. We'll do it your way," Carl decided. "But I might have to get out of the basket anyway if shit hits the fan."
Sam Fairbanks unshouldered her shotgun, grabbed a fistful of cork bullets from her pouch, and shoved both into Carl's hands. "Take these at least, if you want to get out. It'll buy time for you to run back into the basket."
The crowd had grown even more restless by the time the basket was ready. They said little to Carl while the basket was being lowered from the walls, but even at this distance he could more than readily make out murmurs of arson. Most of the Flea Bottomers had already accepted his father's offer, yet if the rumours were not quelled this instant they would spread even faster than the flames now leaping their way across the slum's many roofs and narrow alleys. Carl silently cursed his luck. Two riots in two months, and now a fire at the worst possible moment!
The basket landed on the ground with a dull thud. Shit had hit the fan long ago, judging from the Flea Bottomers' hostile stares, so Carl hopped out of the basket and paced towards the crowd until he was close enough to address them. "We didn't burn your fucking houses, simple as that. And the fire isn't going to put itself out no matter how it started. So why don't we deal with that first and point fingers later?"
"These are some timely fires, m'lord. Right when you Outworlders want the land our houses are on and we don't want to move out," one of the Flea Bottomers shouted. "Smallfolk we may be, but we don't have bowls of brown for brains," another cried. "Did you high lords think we would not see through your ruse? All the better if we too perish in the flames. Fewer smallfolk in the way to pester your plans, that's all."
"You're wrong. We're moving our factories into the Dragonpit because it's near where you guys are, and you Flea Bottomers will be the people running these machines one day!" It wasn't the only reason of course, after all there weren't many structures in King's Landing that were as large as the Dragonpit. But at least Carl didn't have to lie. "And… and the machines won't just be making guns and swords and all that sort of stuff for Alexandria. They'll be making horseshoes and pots and nails too, stuff that you will use!"
"If you Outworlders mean no harm, why did your people shoot at us?" A woman screamed. "Half of poor Pate's teeth were knocked out by your cursed guns, the same ones that those… things in the Dragonpit will soon be churning out! What justice will we ever get, when the lions came in with swords and spears, and now your kind-"
"Is that what you want? To get back at us, for hurting your people?" Carl aimed his shotgun and emptied it at the barrack walls. Then he loaded up the gun again and laid it on the ground. "I am an Alexandrian and the son of our leader. This is a shotgun like the one used at Flea Bottom, and it's loaded with five cork bullets too. Here's your justice, if anyone wishes to take it!"
Suddenly a sharp kick struck at Carl's foot and sent him sprawling onto the cobbled ground. When he crawled back up on scraped elbows and knees, he saw a man with his chin wrapped in linen, his eyes stern as he levelled the shotgun at Carl's chest.
Carl closed his eye. This is gonna fucking hurt. Time seemed to freeze, until…
Blam. Blam. Blam. Blam. Blam.
When Carl opened his eye again, the linen-bound man was pointing the shotgun at the barrack walls, just as Carl himself had done moments ago. Guttural sounds creaked from the man's throat. Go, go, go.
The crowd parted. Hundreds of fingers pointed west, towards the road which led to the Guildhall of the Alchemists. And then the barrack doors swung open. Goldcloaks marched out and began ushering the crowd inside. "Clear the streets! We need them free for the injured!" Humphrey's voice boomed from an Alexandrian megaphone. "Lord Carl, I will handle things from here. Now go!"
And Carl ran. For Flea Bottom, for King's Landing, for this new realm which he had grown to love.
The crowds besieging the barracks soon melted behind him, replaced by the usual hustle and bustle of King's Landing as he made his way north of Rhaenys' Hill. The houses here were smarter than Flea Bottom's rickety structures on the other side of the hill, with proper streets instead of narrow alleys. Still he had to jostle through tight crowds. "Lemme through, lemme through," he shouted. Few moved out of his way soon enough. With his grimey top and mud-caked hair, the Alexandrian leader's son seemed little different from the city's many street urchins at first glance.
Almost an eternity later, Carl finally pushed through to where the long climb up Rhaenys' Hill began. Reaching all the way to the Dragonpit's entrance, every establishment along the Street of Silk was even more insane than the last. A column of spearmen in grey garb marched down the street, eyes drawn left and right towards the scantily clothed women who were leaning out of every window and balcony, waving pieces of cloth at the pedestrians below. The Northmen's captain seemed more alert, however. His hawk-like eyes darted around the street, looking for the first signs of trouble.
"Son of a whore," one of the Northmen muttered when Carl approached.
"Mom's not a whore. Unlike yours." Carl would have argued further, but the Flea Bottomers' lives were at stake. So he turned to the captain instead. "I need a fucking horse."
"There aren't any breeding mares here," one of the spearmen shouted. The rest of them laughed along. A couple of pennies landed at Carl's feet. "Move along, boy-"
"Do you think this is fucking funny?" Carl almost shrieked. "I don't need to fuck a horse. I need a fucking horse-"
"I'm afraid-" The captain's eyes drifted down to Carl's sneakers - they suddenly widened in surprise, and his friendly smile turned into a grimace. "You're too young to be here amongst these crowds of.. ill repute."
"Don't you think I fucking know? I'm here because I'm trying to get to the Alchemist's Guild for their fucking fire engines because fucking Flea Bottom's on fucking fire!" Carl spurted out. "And I can't get there fast enough without a horse!"
"Lewen. Go find a horse, I'll need it for this… 'son of a whore'. Then you have the rest of the day off to pray at the Sept of Baelor," the captain ordered calmly.
"Why?" the confused guard asked.
The captain placed his hand over Carl's long, dirty hair that hung over his eyepatch and combed it back. "So that you can pray for Lord Manderly to be in a very good mood when he returns from Dragonstone."
When he finally made it to the top of Rhaenys' Hill, Carl caught a fleeting glimpse of the fires. Thick black smoke engulfed the southern slopes of the Hill, leaving little to be seen save for the five chimneys of smoke that were nearly tall enough to touch the Dragonpit's broken dome. The middle chimney was slightly higher than the rest, as if it were flipping Carl the bird in mockery.
Too late, too late, it's too late for Flea Bottom. Carl's arms ached, his legs hurt, he was ready to topple over any second now.
A lone tear fell from the boy's lone eye, only to be carried away by a crisp breeze that washed over the hilltop. Another gust of wind wiped away the sweat on his brow and arms, and brought up the many smells from the lower parts of the city. The acrid smoke, of course, but there was also the stench of pigsties, the stink of tanner's piss, the odours that smelled of home to the Flea Bottomers. The clouds parted ever so slightly, just enough for Carl to spy a dark line stretching towards City Square and the Iron Gate. The Flea Bottomers are fleeing!
Yet his heart sank when he looked west. The Guildhall stood at the other end of City Square, but City Square itself was all the way down the hill, on the other end of the Street of Sisters. And the Street of Sisters was as long as all the streets he had walked on, combined.
Carl turned around. The Dragonpit was much closer. As were the westermen under Tyrion Lannister, paving the roadway that led to the ruined structure. And they had buckets after buckets of sand.
"Flea Bottom is on fire! Flea Bottom is on fire!" Carl frantically gestured at the smoke columns. "Help! Help!"
"We were told to work on the Dragonpit, and that's what we are doing." Tyrion peered down the slope and took in the burning sights below. "Tis' a ghastly fire. Your father the Lord Protector should have put us on fire fighting duty," the dwarf uttered in an almost regrettable tone. "I'll ask Lommy the Lame to head over to the Red Keep. Let's hope Lord Rickard's orders will change once he knows about this."
"You guys don't need Dad's permission to pick up buckets of sand and make your way to Flea Bottom," Carl observed. "More people will die, Tyrion, if you guys don't help. Please."
"And why should we help you, lad? It's your city, not ours," Tyrion observed.
"Because you Westermen tried to burn the city before, this is your chance to make up for it. Because the fire engines of King's Landing could one day be used in Lannisport." Steady now, Carl told himself. "And because all of Westeros will one day remember what you and your men do here today in this great fire. Maybe by those who are alive today, or their children or yours, or maybe grandchildren. I can't stop you from standing aside. But do you want even more grudges between the Westerlands and the rest of this continent? Or do you want to set a good example for your nephew, to make sure King's Landing is a city where Tommen can grow up in peace?" Even at this height, the fires were hot enough that sweat poured off Carl's hair. "I have no time for word games, Tyrion. Meet you at Flea Bottom. Or not."
Carl felt someone tapping at his shoulder. The captain he met at the Street of Silk was back with a horse in tow. "I am Captain Walter of White Harbor, Lord Carl. My men are marching down to City Square so that we can help the wounded there. As for the man who insulted you earlier-"
"I don't want him to be punished." Carl muttered. "I-" He tried clambering onto the horse, but the horse was too tall, the stirrups too far up...
"My lord?" The captain asked, before Carl fell into the captain's arms.
Carl woke up to a wet piece of cloth on his forehead.
"Had a nice nap?" Dr. Carson asked in a pleasant tone. "You need to drink more water so you don't get heatstroke-"
Carl sat bolt upright in the bed. "Fuck!" he shouted. How long was he out for? Did the alchemists know about the fires ravaging Flea Bottom? "Flea Bottom's on fire! Flea Bottom's on-" His eye rested on the massive sigil that adorned the closed door, a wildfire burning fiercely in a metal cauldron. The sigil of the Alchemists's Guild.
"We know." Hallyne's voice this time. Carl turned his head and stared straight at the smiling alchemist. "The first fire engines are heading to Flea Bottom even as we speak."
The door creaked. Even from this distance, Carl could tell from the heavy footsteps who it was. Sure enough, fingers the size of sausages gripped the door as it opened, followed by an all too familiar face. "Wyman!"
"Out of the frying pan, and into the fire. But I will not get too close to this fire myself. Fat burns well, and it would be a shame to see this tub of lard go up in flames." Lord Manderly patted at his belly. "You shouldn't go to Flea Bottom either, Lord Carl. Fires aren't kind to young boys any more than they are to fat men."
Carl frowned. After running all the way from the East Barracks, it seemed as if he wasn't needed here at all. "I'll be careful," he promised. "But I still need to see what's going on at Flea Bottom."
"You've never tried fighting a proper fire before, apart from that little stunt when you melted down the Iron Throne. When was the last time you used a fire hose, or buckets of sand, or even a fire extinguisher?" said Dr Carson. "You'll just get in the way of the firefighters."
"But I-"
"There are more than enough people in the city who can put out a fire. You are not one of them. But you are good at other things, and Westeros cannot afford to lose you. Surely you're old enough to realise that," Manderly stated. "Perhaps there will be something for you to do in the square."
Despite the crowds, City Square was not nearly as chaotic as Carl feared it would be. Goldcloaks directed the masses of people swarming in from Flea Bottom, the injured towards makeshift tents under Visenya's Hill, those coated in soot towards the Sept of Baelor all the way up the hill. Still others were led to a line of people at the eastern end of the square.
Carl glanced around. He did not know where to go next, so he went up to the nearest goldcloak and asked for their captain. Humphrey Waters had made it to City Square and was now in charge, Carl was told, so he waited until the captain arrived.
"How many injured? How many dead?" Carl asked. Humphrey's face was covered in specks of dust and charred wood, and there were a few new tears in his coat.
"Hundreds, even thousands were injured, but most suffered no more than a few scrapes and bruises when fleeing Flea Bottom. A few were hurt more badly, broken bones and burns, but nothing that our maesters and your doctors couldn't treat. As for the dead…" the Dragon Gate's commander allowed himself a brief smile. "We know of none so far."
"None?!" Carl's heart leapt at the news. "B-but how? I thought all of Flea Bottom was burning when I looked down from the Dragonpit!"
"Some of the Flea Bottomers had already moved out after accepting your father's offer, and the holdouts were busy besieging the East Barracks. Most of the smallfolk still in Flea Bottom were clever enough to drop their belongings and run. Some remained or had trouble getting out, but luckily my men got to Flea Bottom fast enough to evacuate the rest of them," Humphrey explained. "Things could have been worse. City Square could have been clogged up with Flea Bottomers and stopped more of them from fleeing, or caused a stampede. Neither happened though, and for that you need to thank Tyrion. He and his westermen set up a line of people, passing buckets all the way from the River Gate back up to Flea Bottom. Our fire engines have enough water to fight the flames, and we won't have to worry about all these smallfolk getting in the way."
"What can I do now?" asked Carl.
"You've already done more than enough, my lord. We have the fire engines that you ordered built, run by fire-men whom you had the alchemists recruit. But if you still want to make yourself useful, we're organising a second line, to bring the buckets back to the docks for refilling. The empty buckets should be light enough for you."
Try as he might, Carl couldn't find anything to rebut Humphrey with. The goldcloak was right. Moving buckets was about the only thing a nearly-thirteen-year-old could do against a raging fire. So he weaved his way through the crowds, towards the line Humphrey pointed him towards, until a familiar voice caught his attention.
"Tommen! Pass me the bucket!" Arya! She and Sansa were here too, and so were their maids, standing next to Margaery and her own entourage. And on Arya's other side were Tommen and Podrick Payne and a few squires from the Westerlands.
"You guys got room for one more?" Carl slipped between Arya and Tommen, took the bucket from his betrothed, and passed it into Tommen's hands.
A second bucket followed, and then a third. Bucket after bucket after bucket made their way down the chain. Though they were made of iron or wood, the buckets soon felt as if they were made of stone and lead. How many more? Carl could barely feel his arms anymore. At least he was doing his part. And he did not envy the other line, the stronger Kingslanders and Northmen and Westermen who were passing filled buckets rather than empty ones.
Fire engines raced in and out of the nearby Guildhall, bells clanging to the clap-clap-clap of their horses' hoofbeats. The torrent of Flea Bottomers slowed to a trickle before drying up entirely. Now men ran back into Flea Bottom with ladders and axes.
Carl glanced at the other line from time to time. Fewer buckets were making their way up the other line towards Flea Bottom. And then the dark clouds above Flea Bottom began to grow brighter and brighter. The thick grey gave way to a wispy white. Finally the smog cleared, leaving behind a sunny blue sky - and enough time to address the crowd before the sun went down.
"This fucked up fire is now over," Carl started. Not the best starting line, but it caught the crowd's attention nonetheless, especially when said from a megaphone that could be heard across the whole square.
Best save all the fancy speeches for Dad, the boy decided. For the well-beloved Rick Grimes was better at rhetoric anyway, indeed better at anything that did not require two hands. So he went straight for the promotions. "For those who do not live in Flea Bottom, thank you for your help in putting out the fire. All of you will be rewarded in the coming days, but I wish to thank two people specifically now that all of us are gathered here. Captain Humphrey Waters, take off your helmet and step forward."
"I… I…" Despite the reluctance in Humphrey's voice, Carl could see the ambition in his eyes. So he picked up the helmet Tobho Mott had forged out of Qohorik steel, in the days when Carl and his 'court' were under siege, flanked on both sides by golden wings fashioned into the shape of an eagle's, and placed it upon Humphrey's head. "Congratulations on your promotion, Humphrey Waters, Commander of the City Watch of King's Landing."
Tyrion Lannister was next. The bucket lines were a neat trick, and Humphrey had praised him highly for organizing the firefighting efforts, yet more importantly he had led the Westermen in helping the Crownlanders, fighting flames side by side with the Crownlanders and Northmen until only smouldering embers were left of the raging inferno. "You've barely had a proper job ever since… ever since the year began," Carl stated diplomatically. If Tyrion had moved out of the Red Keep in a bid to escape the attention of Varys' 'little birds', the dwarf would be sorely mistaken, for the Alexandrians received daily reports of the dwarf's activities in his spare time. At times he was seen with his nephew when they were walking along the docks or the Red Keep's river walk. More often than not Tyrion roamed the city alone, staggering along the city's streets with a cup of wine in hand, or wasting his allowance in the many establishments along the Street of Silk.
"Rebuilding the Dragonpit is a proper job, Lord Carl. And I doubt I can climb much higher in King's Landing or even all of Westeros, being a Lannister and all," the dwarf replied.
Carl set down the microphone and knelt until he was at eye level with Tyrion. "What about setting up waterworks in King's Landing? I've heard some westermen speak well of what you did in in Casterly Rock." It wasn't Carl himself who heard that, of course. He doubted if there was a place in King's Landing that was beyond Varys and his spy ring. "I was thinking if you can do the same here."
Tyrion's face darkened. "My Lord Father - oops, my father - did not put me in charge of the Rock's drains and cisterns for his appreciation of my abilities, Lord Carl. He meant it as a jape when I told him I wished to tour the Free Cities."
"I… I didn't mean it this way," Carl hurriedly said. "The Flea Bottomers will need water to drink when the houses are rebuilt, and Eugene's machines will gobble up water like crazy. We need good sewers too. I can tolerate the smell of shit and piss now, but I don't think any of us Alexandrians will ever get used to it."
"Why not put an Alexandrian in charge, if this is so important? Designing the drains would be child's play for a people of such might," Tyrion replied.
"None of them have managed a whole city before, and King's Landing is a Westerosi city, not an Alexandrian one. Some of us might volunteer, but they'll be working under you. But first you should come visit Braavos with us. We're going to see the Titan roar!"
The dwarf patted Carl on the shoulder and smiled. "If you insist. I shall pack my clothes and books, Lord Carl."
"Cool! Pack this too if you want. You will be in charge of more than just the pipes and sewers." Carl picked up the silver-winged swan helm Tobho Mott had also prepared, and gently set it on Tyrion's head. "Tyrion Lannister, I name you head of the fire service and Deputy Commander of the City Watch," he announced from the megaphone. The crowd clapped and cheered… and waited.
Carl waited until the claps died down. "For those of you from Flea Bottom, I have a few words for you too. I'm putting Dad's offer - the Lord Protector's offer - back on the table for those of you who were holding out. Thrice the value of your houses if you guys agree to sell right now. Thrice the value before the fire," Carl hastily clarified after he still saw a few unhappy, soot-lined faces amongst the crowd. Most of the holdouts' houses were destroyed after three quarters of Flea Bottom was reduced to rubble and became completely worthless.
Carl had offers of his own too after this ridiculously ill-timed fire. A few more weeks and most of the Flea Bottomers would have moved out to other places in the city. Or further yet to Driftmark, Duskendale, even Maidenpool after that town was repeatedly sacked in the War of the Five Kings. But now they needed work and coin and a roof over their heads. "Many of you had lost your livelihoods in the fire. We will help you replace your tools of trade, but before that happens I will pay one groat for every pound of wood, charred or otherwise, brought from Flea Bottom to the Alchemists' Guildhall."
"For those of you who are now without a home, all of the city gates and barracks will house as many people as they can take in, until we can find proper homes for you while Flea Bottom is being rebuilt. The Red Keep too, and Sept of Baelor if the High Septon allows." Carl waited for the crowd's gasps and murmurs to die down. "And when we start rebuilding the place, you Flea Bottomers will have a say in what you want your community to be like, from the colors of your houses to the names of your streets. We Alexandrians will help as much as we need to, nothing less, nothing more. But we will need you guys to work with us, to trust what we're doing so that everyone can be better off. Who's with me?"
Carl found himself back in the comforts of the Red Keep several hours later, in yet another council meeting his father had summoned. The boy yawned. At least it would be the last one before they left King's Landing. They would still hold court in Braavos and White Harbor, Rick had made that clear, but there would be new people to meet and new scenery for a change.
At least he wasn't the only one who felt bored, or tired, or a bit of both. Gyles Rosby looked as if he was about to doze off. Renfred was no better, nodding from time to time to make sure he stayed awake. Wyman was eyeing the door, ready to walk out at the earliest whiff of cooked food. Only the Iron Bank's envoy seemed alert as ever.
"Thrice the value for each house in Flea Bottom!" Noho Dimmittis flicked at the piece of paper in his hand. "It must be rather difficult on your coffers."
"Nowhere near enough to drain them." Gyles still looked pale and sickly, but his coughs were now few and far between. "Most of Flea Bottom's houses were barely worth anything in the first place. So little that the smallfolk will need our help buying their new homes after the area is rebuilt. New homes that we can now build, since all of Flea Bottom has finally accepted Lord Grimes' offer."
"All of them?!" Rick exclaimed.
"Every single household in Flea Bottom, Lord Protector," the treasurer repeated.
Noho Dimmittis raised his glass and clanged it against Rick's. "Well done, Lord Grimes,"
"It wouldn't have been done so quickly without Carl," Rick declared. It was nothing, Carl thought. He didn't do much at all, all he did was wait until the Flea Bottomers were angry at something else. That, and pass a few buckets when Flea Bottom took fire.
"But you managed to buy most of the houses from the Flea Bottomers, did you not?" The Iron Bank's envoy asked. "If you need coin to rebuild Flea Bottom, the Iron Bank is glad to be of service. But other matters first. The Sealord has heard about what happened in Westeros, and I've written to him about your visit. He would very much like to meet you." With a carefully rehearsed flourish, the Iron Bank's envoy slipped out a letter from his wide sleeve. "The Sealord invites you and your son to attend his feast at his palace, on the last night of the Uncloaking of Uthero. Along with your courtiers, of course," he added.
Wyman Manderly rubbed at his fat-filled belly. "No doubt it will be a feast to remember. But another feast awaits, at the Queen's Ballroom here in the Red Keep tonight, and we will not have much time to enjoy the food." The Lord of White Harbor rose from his chair. "Are the boxes ready, Lord Rykker?" he asked.
Renfred nodded. "The last one arrived yesterday. Do you want them loaded onto your galleys? I arranged for them to be brought to the River Gate for safekeeping."
Wyman shook his head. "We'll take them with us when we leave early tomorrow."
"Tomorrow? I thought we're meant to finish paying the Flea Bottomers before we leave?" asked Michonne. "It will take time to find them shelter too-"
"Maggie can deal with the rest after we're gone. Manderly says the Stormlanders are offering to surrender Dragonstone. We'd better get there before they change their minds," Rick explained.
They had dinner early, but hardly anyone got much sleep that night. Many last minute matters had to be dealt with, and many goodbyes were said between those going on the expedition and those staying behind at King's Landing. But finally all was said and done, and the great northern expedition assembled in front of the River Gate at the hour of the wolf.
There was a great deal of milling about. The youngsters were especially restless, shivering slightly under the coolness of night. It was autumn still, but each day was already growing colder than the last.
A long column of Northmen stood in front of the ramps leading to Manderly's galleys, each carrying a box in his hands. There were not nearly enough Stark flags to cover all of the boxes, so the Northmen made do with tricolours instead, strips of white sandwiched between blue and grey.
And in each box were the bones of a Northman who fell at Duskendale.
"Let us begin," Wyman ordered when all the groups were in place. The small Alexandrian brass band struck up the tune to 'Winter's Crown'. Then the Northmen started to sing as they carried the remains of their slain countrymen onto the galleys, beginning their long journey home.
Northmen behold, the Ice Dragon's eye calling,
Back home it leads, even as darkness falls...
Carl looked up. All the stars had disappeared save that sapphire-tinted star far to the north, as blue as his own missing eye, shining down on the expedition. Was it staring? Smiling? Or warning of more grave threats ahead? The boy wondered. After all the bullshit he and his companions had been through, it would be nice to have a proper vacation for once.
Finally the procession of boxes had made its way onto the galleys. Then Renfred marched forwards, towards Arya and her uncle the Blackfish and Wyman Manderly. In his hands was a carefully folded banner that was taken from the defeated Northmen at Duskendale.
"Your Grace. I believe this is yours," Rykker declared. Then he carefully draped the direwolf banner onto Arya's outstretched hands. "May peace reign between our realm and yours, now and forever."
"Now and forever," Arya promised.
Wyman took the flag and gave it to an attending spearman. "Bring it onto the Cinnamon Wind," he ordered. "Admiral Waters, we are now ready to leave."
"How long will it take to get to Braavos, Admiral?" Carl asked.
"Two days to Driftmark, where we will pick up Robett Glover and Harrion Karstark, and then a few hours to Dragonstone where we shall resolve the siege. From there it's another six days to Braavos, five if the winds are kind. If we manage to build better ships, travel times could be cut by a quarter or even a third," Aurane added. "Thanks to Prince Xho and Captain Mo over here, we already have the necessary measurements for a swan ship, and Eugene has given us the sail plans of your Alexandrian ships."
"Our sail plans should help, but building proper schooners will be better," Eugene insisted. "We don't need such a high forecastle or quarterdeck, for starters-"
"Your Companion we can copy. We can now build a swan ship with great difficulty, after paying good coin for the Cinnamon Wind to stay in port for two weeks. The next swan ship should be easier, and the one after that easier still. But you schooners and your other ships only exist on paper. First I need to train my shipwrights to read your 'schematics', then-"
"There will be plenty of time to argue on board," Rick interrupted, "and more time at the Sealord's palace if you two still haven't reached an agreement yet. Is there anything left in King's Landing for me to deal with?"
Maggie shook her head. "We'll take over from here. Go relax a bit, Rick, you and your family more than deserve it. I will hold down the fort till you guys come back, Renfred too after he's back from his holiday." Lord of Duskendale was accompanying the expedition to Driftmark, where he would take another ship home to visit his family.
It took another half an hour to board the ships. The sky was already starting to turn bright by the time the gangplank was pulled back from the Cinnamon Wind, bathing the walls of King's Landing with a pale red sheen. The sails caught wind and the swan ship moved off its moorings. All of the ship's youngsters were leaning on the wooden railings on the ship's port side, even some of the adults who had rarely or never been out at sea, looking back at the docks which were growing further away every moment.
Suddenly the city's walls and towers seemed to catch fire, glimmering with sparks of orange and red as they were kissed by the first rays of the rising sun. Then King's Landing sank out of sight, the city which Carl and many of the Alexandrians had called home for the past two months. The walls first, then the Red Keep, finally the Tower of the Hand slipped below the horizon. For the very first time in his life, all Carl had around him was a vastness of deep sea blue.