The sea was their first love, the only childhood sweetheart they ever had. Now she threw all her fury against the ships daring to conquer her. Despite all fears Yarrow clung to their love for her. Was there greater beauty than the force of nature? They might be a descendant of Garth Greenhand but the ocean followed them beyond death.

A gull cried out. Andrew placed his hand on their shoulder. "Feeling better?"

Yarrow grimaced. They were seasick at first, but now they'd grown used to the swaying of the boat. "Yes, thank you." They sighed and stared at the horizon. A pale line covered it, surrounded by black clouds. Let it not be a storm. Yarrow hated storms. The Ironborn did too, they chuckled, they feared the Storm god. A dead god.

A low tune was sung in the distance, disturbed by the crash of another white-crested wave against the ship. "Always so polite" grinned Andrew and ruffled their hair. Yarrow grumbled and tried to rescue their haircut. "Do you have to do that?"

He laughed. "Just like your mother!"

They sighed. Despite everything, being at sea felt good. Only the coming combat worried them. Yarrow wasn't that bad at fighting, but also not that good. They'd never killed before, well, killed a human. Spilling the blood of animal to test out whatever new idea they had, had become ordinary. It was strange to be cut off nature. They missed the forest, the great oak trees, the lake and their apple tree. They should not be here.

Shouting pulled them out of their thoughts. Against grey clouds clashed sharp edges and dead trees. Fog rolled in and covered the stony shore. In the dim light a pale spectre danced over the waves. Yarrow shivered. The Dead called out to them.

"Stay at my side." commanded Andrew and unsheathed his sword. As if called, rainfall started. Cold and heavy, it made the pebbles beneath their feet even more slippery. Their sword in hand, they struck at the nearest Ironborn. The blade found weakness in the gap between helmet and breastplate, the man chocked and then he died. Blood was on their hand. They stared at the corpse.

Andrew pushed one Ironborn back, ducked out of the way of an axe and swiftly killed another. Yarrow barely escaped the next man. Holding against the might of the strike, they all to much felt their youth. The man herded them backwards, a cruel grin on his face. Yarrow could see what he thought on his face. They grimaced. Yarrow stumbled. They saw the sword coming, the edge glinted in the low light and then -

A sword struck through his neck. Andrew didn't say anything, only helped them up. Blood turned the tide red, life bleeding into the sea. Yarrow could feel it. There was a power to it, they could taste it, hear it, feel it in their heart. Their sword cut a deep gash over shoulder and neck, the Ironborn fell to the ground, dead. They inhaled. The flame went out.

Suddenly, lightning stroked and thunder growled. Once. Twice. Thrice. Light flashed across the sky, blinding white against storm clouds. The Ironborn grew nervous. Their enemy, the Storm god, was here. Yarrow flinched at another lighting strike.

Their next enemy was a man with a ragged scar across his face and an axe ready in his hands to kill them. They took a step back. The Ironborn grinned, showed his crooked teeth, bloodlust in his eyes. What a terrible sight. Yarrow gripped the sword tighter and made to attack the man. A sharp sound rung out. Before they knew it, the Ironborn attacked and drove them back. Yarrow panted. They just couldn't find a weakness in the heavy armour!

Another step and another and then, they felt the ground move beneath their feet. No, no! The pebbles, wet with blood, made them slip – barely they caught their footing. The Ironborn laughed. "Greenlanders."

They felt a breeze at their back. Yarrow eluded another strike and felt the edge beneath their boot. Fuck. The Ironborn pushed against them and they felt the chasm call to them. No way back, so forward! With a cry Yarrow rushed towards their enemy, not to kill but to escape. The axe was heavy against their sword. They were thrown back, right against the ragged stone and groaned. Get up!

Yarrow struggled to get up, their hands wet and slippery, red with blood. Fuck. The Ironborn waited, let them get up and prepare for another attempt. Cruel. With barely any effort, the Ironborn forced them over the edge. "Greet the drowned god for me."

Oh fucking hell, no! Desperate, they grabbed for anything to hold on -

Yarrow cried out at the sharp pain. The ragged rock cut deep into their hand. Shit! Their arm burnt from exertion. Another wave crashed against the stone with a furious scream. Salt burned in eyes and wound alike. Fuck! The wet rock slipped beneath their fingers. The sea kissed Yarrow – pain, darkness and nothingness.

Andrew cursed. Where was Yarrow? The boy was supposed to stay at his side! They ready to breach and he'd lost him in the heat of battle. He looked back. The kid had short legs, it was easy to fall behind. Right?

No red hair, no blue tunic. Fuck. He couldn't loose him too. He couldn't. No, Yarrow was right there, waiting, like a sensible child.

"Maybe the lad just ran off?" suggested a fellow knight. Andrew glared at him. "He is a sensible boy! He wouldn't."

"Not if his blood is calling." Another threw in. "All boys want to prove themself."

No, that was Aspen. Aspen wanted to become a great warrior, a new legend, the Knight of the Crane. All Yarrow wanted was to read and dream. But what if – No. He had to trust Yarrow. He had to trust his abilities.

"I need to find him."

Oh, they weren't finding him! Damn him to the seven hells! He'd lost his sister's boy. His boy.

"Yarrow!" he shouted. "Yarrow!"

Andrew climbed over a sharp rock. What if he laid there, bleeding out?

No one had seen him in hours. Reality was stetting in. No. He couldn't think -

"Yarrow!"

"Have you seen a boy in a tunic with a crane?"

"My squire – wears the same colours as I do."

"He is a boy of fourteen – yes, I asked the maester already."

"Yarrow!"

As the last body was turned around, the corpses gathered, Andrew fell to his knees. He was gone.

Father, have mercy on him. Mother, I ask you to protect our son. Warrior, stand guard over him. Crone, I beg you, show me to path to him. Smith, let his armour hold. Maiden, please watch over him. And as the last, the unnamed, I call on the Stranger. Spare him, spare my boy. If you have to take one, take me.

He took a shaking breath. Not far off cheers of victory and celebration resounded but happiness never felt further away.

Mother have mercy.