Part 8 – Adrift

Jeyne (II) - November 18.

Jeyne lifted her head from the round, wooden bucket she'd just vomited into. After a valiant twenty minute effort to stave off nausea, her stomach finally betrayed her; emptying itself of the morning's skimpy fare. The hope that after most of a night, an entire day, and another night at sea her body would adjust to the rocking motion of the galley proved futile. With the heaves ended, she found the least abused corner of a ratty cloth and dabbed her lips. Jeyne picked up a mug and swirled her mouth with tepid, colored water before spitting that too into the disgusting bucket.

"Better?" Sansa asked in half a whisper, half a moan. A half hour earlier, simply the smell of the eggs and ham brought them had caused her lord's daughter, and her best friend, to spew up the empty contents of her belly.

"A little," Jeyne answered guiltily for having lost control of her body again. She forced a tentative, fake smile to her lips, hoping to make her statement true.

"Here, have a little wine. It's still a smidge warm, it might settle your tummy," Sansa suggested from her supine position on the lower berth of a very narrow bunk bed built into the wall of the repulsive, foul compartment they'd been trapped in since almost the very moment they came aboard.

Jeyne, from her perch atop a chest, reached across the small cabin and took the mug. She tentatively put it to her lips and let a small amount dribble into her mouth. The dregs of a red stuck in her throat and she fought hard to swallow what little she had tasted.

Hard, loud knocks startled both girls, causing them to jerk upright in fear. Arya, laying semiconscious in the upper bunk, only moaned slightly at the noise. A key turned in the lock and the door to the dank room swung open, disclosing the Hedge Knight the Seven in their infinite wisdom had granted them as a protector. The middle aged man gave a perfunctory bow, revealing a full head of greying hair above his square head and squat body.

"My apologies for not attending you sooner, my ladies," he declared in a deep voice. "But we've been worried about pursuit. Captain Qos tells me the morning shows no hint of danger. Would you care to take a stroll above deck while the captain's boy cleans your cabin?"

Sansa stood up to give a dainty curtsey. "Ser Lothor, I thank you for coming. Perchance word has reached you from the servant who brought our meal that my sister Arya is seriously injured; the blow to her head at the docks, you see."

"Is she awake?" he asked, concern evident in his tone.

"She drifts in and out," Sansa replied. "She eats nothing and we barely can get her to drink even a sip."

"If you would allow me?" Ser Lothor inquired.

"Please do." "Yes," the two girls answered, stepping back in the cramped space to allow the stocky knight through to the bunk bed.

The man sniffed at the filthy remnants of vomit, urine, and blood that Jeyne, the one least affected by the swaying of the boat, had been unable to remove from Arya's clothes and small things. He snapped his fingers in front of her long horse face, and then used his thumb and index finger to open up one lid to peer straight at her eye. Finally he let go and gazed a moment at the ceiling before addressing them.

"She has a concussion. Not unusual in a blow to the head. She will come around in a day or two," he pronounced amiably. Then, as the ship tilted to one side, Ser Lothor stated kindly, "I see sea travel has been rather harsh for you both."

"Oh, it's not so bad," said Sansa, putting on a brave face.

"Yes," Jeyne agreed. "At night, the steady beat of the oars is almost soothing. Only, just during the day, the boat shifts and rolls so much more."

The older man smiled at their polite lies. "By day, the rowers mostly rest and the captain raises the sails, putting us at the mercy of the winds blowing off the land. Come, the fresh air above decks will do the both of you good."

"Gentle Ser, I could not leave the side of my dear sister. But we would gladly stay out of the way should a servant come to clean, and perhaps bring us our clothes."

"Unfortunately, none of your things made it on board. I will see what fresh cloths can be scrounged up for you. And someone will come to clean," Ser Lothor announced. He bent slightly at the waste and slipped out of the cabin. A key turned and they were again locked like song birds in a rusted cage.

November 19.

Sansa ate a little of the plain porridge, avoiding the plump, sugary raisins liberally sprinkled throughout. Jeyne gulped her portion down greedily, but refrained from touching left for Arya, sitting untouched. The young girl had moaned and thrashed through much of the night, her body hot and sweaty. What little brackish water or thin wine they tried to trick down her throat came back up as soon as the next trembling spasm wracked her thin body. Both girls had begged the swarthy skinned, brown eyed cabin boy who brought them breakfast to find Ser Lothor or to bring the captain to look at poor Arya.

The Seven heard Jeyne's prayers and now both men stood at the entrance to the tight cabin as she and Sansa scrambled to place their meals on a slender shelf on the bulkhead opposite the bunks. Captain Qos appeared the exact opposite of Lothor Brune; a tall and reedy torso supporting garishly colored clothes that hung off his sparse frame, with a long hooked nose drawing the eyes away from his half bald pate of jet black hair. "For what do you ask after me, princesses?" he asked with an exotic lilt to his high tenor voice.

"My sister, noble captain, she grows worse. She grows feverish," said Sansa.

An almost claw like hand poked out at them, "Step aside, please," the Braavosi requested. The Hedge Knight and the Captain both shuffled forward and peered at Arya's pale face. Ser Lothor performed the same ministrations as the previous morning to draw a response from the girl. Captain Qos lightly slapped her cheeks too. The two men exchanged a long look with each other, until the captain spoke again. "She lives. Maybe she soon visit the Many-Face God. Maybe she wait many years to see him." He shrugged his bird like shoulders.

Sansa gasped at the insinuation and stuttered, "No-o-o-o ... no," as tears welled out of her deep blue eyes.

"Can't you land the boat? Or turn around?" Jeyne squeaked. "Lord Stark would pay any price for a Maester to nurse his daughter back to health."

"Yes, yes he would," sobbed Sansa in agreement.

"She is a treasure beyond price," Ser Lothor stated firmly.

Again, the two men looked at each other for a moment, communicating somehow without speaking words. Once more Captain Qos shrugged with an avian, vulture like swoop to his shoulders.

"Are any of your crew skilled in healing?" Jeyne begged.

"It is a concussion. She improves or she does not. What is there to be done?" the Braavosi answered with philosophical resignation.

"Please," Sansa wept.

Ser Lothor's boot nudged Captain Qos' foot.

"For you Lady, I will do this looking," he sighed, and then promptly left.

"Would either of you care to walk the deck? No?" Ser Lothor smiled kindly, bowed, and departed as well, but not before making sure the door to their cabin was again locked from the outside.

November 20.

The swarthy cabin boy returned as usual in the morning, but this time not with their breakfast. Now he brought to the young ladies Captain Qos, Ser Lothor, and another Braavosi from the Wind Witch's crew.

"Has your sister improved, my lady?" the gray haired knight asked in a deep, solicitous voice.

"No. She hardly wakens and her fever burns," Sansa whispered with dread.

"I have man, some skill," announced the captain, as he waived a claw at the sailor to come forward into the confined space of the cabin.

"Ladies," the sailor bald beneath a bandana and sporting a swath of short stubble on his cheeks cheerily announced. "Let us see what my eyes tell me. This child, she was struck in the head, no?"

Sansa and Jeyne nodded despondent 'yeses' to the question.

"Just so." He stepped up to the bunk bed and gazed down at the motionless form in the top berth. Jeyne saw the man's eyes quickly change to a shade of concern. Gently one strong hand lifted Arya's head and the callused fingers of the other hand began to tentatively comb through her mass of hair, tenderly massaging the scalp beneath; all the while during the examination the man clicked his teeth together. "Ahhh, my fingers see," he finally said. He paused and investigated a spot on the lower back of the girl's skull a bit longer before laying Arya smoothly back on to her small pillow.

"Well Florio?" the captain asked intently.

"The bone of the head, it is broken and chipped. Is not good. Must be taken out, and soon."

Sansa began to weep at the deadly seriousness of the situation. Ser Lothor and the Captain's eyes both grew quite narrow at the startling news. Jeyne's eyes grew wide as saucers, she'd never truly believed in her heart that Arya might die. She felt small and petty inside, remembering moments when she'd treated the rambunctious Arya with disdain and petty taunts.

"Can you … ?" Jeyne asked.

"No!" pronounced the Captain. "He is only a barber."

"Only a barber?!" Jeyne cried, outraged.

"Ah, child not know world," the main proclaimed. "Barbers do many things. Cut hair and trim beard yes, but also set bones and sew up wounds. In Braavos, every drunk sailor think he know the water dancing. Many stabs and cuts to mend each morning. I much practice."

"Is this true?" Sansa wheezed in a hard breath.

The man clicked his teeth again. "Of course."

"This is no simple wound. Have you done this before?" Ser Lothor asked menacingly.

"Done? No. Seen? Oh yes, seen several times. And the doing is first in the seeing. I see very well," the barber said with a tone of certainty.

"Can't we wait Captain? You could find a port with a Maester?" Sansa begged, clearly not wanting to trust in the braggadocio coming from the jumped up Braavosi sailor or barber or whatever.

Florio gave a sad nod of no. "The brain, it is like a sprained ankle. It swells. But in here," and he tapped his own head, "no place to swell. So it push into chips of bone, hurts self. Already three, four days now. Not good wait longer."

In the end, the barber's certain attitude moved Ser Lothor and the Wind Witch's captain to reluctantly agree to the desperate surgery. Boiling hot water, clean cloth, fine string, needles, and cutting knives were brought to the cabin from the galley kitchen while Florio calmly shaved all the hair from the side and back of Arya's head. Sansa ran to the passage way to throw up when the barber demonstrated how bone fragments under her sister's scalp moved about when pressed on. It turned Jeyne's stomach too, but she stayed in the cabin, frightened, but beating back her nausea.

"Girl," he commanded. "Wash hands in first pot, then put all knives in second one. When I ask, you hand, yes?"

Jeyne, the only one still left in the cabin, gulped. "Yes," she whispered and proceeded to follow the barber's orders. She clenched her eyes shut when at last the barber seemed satisfied and brought a sliver of a blade to Arya's skin.

"Now, new knife. Sail cutter."

Jeyne opened one eye, purposefully avoiding any look toward Arya, and reached down to the bowl and pulled out a blade.

"No, no. Sail cutter."

Jeyne reached again, pausing with her hand over the pan of hot water.

"Over."

Her hand moved slightly.

"Over."

Her hand moved slightly again.

His teeth clicked. "Just so." And he accepted the curved, palm sized knife from her. The tip of the blade seemed to pry around the small bloody hole Jeyne unintentionally spotted in Arya's scalp. The sound of a repulsive, bone crunching snap filled the quiet cabin. "Ahhh," sighed the barber.

Then Jeyne watched a sliver of bone, no bigger than her pinkie tip, slip out of the wound. She thought she should be sick at what she saw, but her stomach, for the first time in days, stayed completely placid.

"Threader," Florio commanded, handing back to her the blood stained sail cutter.

Jeyne handed him a narrow, finger length blade. His hand moved delicately, but quickly, pulling more tiny fragments of bone out of Arya's scalp, clicking his teeth the entire time. He paused once, when the ship banked slightly in the water, tilting the floor to a different pitch, but resumed prodding as soon as a new equilibrium was reached. When he finally stopped poking with the delicate knife, at least ten tiny fragments had been removed.

"Kneedle," he commanded. The barber proved he was certainly very skilled at sewing up flesh wounds. In less than thirty seconds he was done. "Vinegar?" he asked. "Oh yes, there." He dabbed a clean rag into a jar of it and used the wet cloth to clean around the stitches, wiping away much of the blood that had drained profusely from the incision during the surgery. Finally he smiled, satisfied with what he saw. Florio kept his smile as he transferred his gaze over to Jeyne. "Come, we tell sister it go well. Then wine. You want wine? Yes?"

Jeyne answered his question with a relieved smile and quick bob of the head.

"Yes, thought so. I see you hold little blades well. Ever think of bigger blades?"

November 21.

A polite knock on the cabin door and the click of the lock announced the presence of visitors.

"Wait!" shouted Sansa, allowing Jeyne time to pull a second overly large, boisterously colorful sailor's shirt over her head. The sleeves drooped down to her finger tips and the waist came to her twelve year old knees. The captain's boys had brought the cleanish, ramshackle collection of clothes with their breakfast. The underthings, of which neither girl choose to partake, were better left unmentioned, though one pair was currently wrapped around Arya's head, capturing the dribble of pinkish colored serum slowly oozing from the stitches in her scalp. "You have leave to enter now," Jeyne's friend finally commanded with lady-like refinement.

The door opened to reveal the warm, smiling face of Florio the barber. As he entered the cell like space allotted the three girls on the Wind Witch, he cheerfully asked, "And how are you ladies this morning, eh? Is the wild child better?"

Sansa exchanged a queer glance with Jeyne. 'Wild' was the exact description for Arya. How did this Braavosi know that?

"Well enough, kind Ser. My sister seems better," Sansa answered politely.

The bald, scruffily bearded man wearing a bandana clicked his teeth. "Let us check. Has she awake been?"

"No, but her fever is less. Her sweat broke during the night," Jeyne answered.

"Good, good." The man stepped up to the bunk to peer down at the sleeping form of Arya. "And what is this? Hallo kitty."

"The cat came in with the captain's boy. He must've followed the scent of our meal," Jeyne explained. "But he immediately hopped up and just lay on her. He's been there over an hour."

"Good boy," the barber murmured, petting the shaggy beast.

Jeyne and Sansa shared another odd look. The tom, which had mostly only hissed and spit at them when they came near, purred and stretched its sinewy body with evident pleasure up into Florio's hand. After half a minute caressing, he slid the same hand under the cat's belly and lifted the fierce creature to the deck, where it promptly started to snarl at Sansa and raise a clawed paw to her.

"Kitty," Florio admonished, prompting the tom to sit back on its haunches and start to calmly groom itself. Florio returned his attention to the patient. More teeth clicking as he unwound the underthing to gaze at Arya's shaved, blood stained head. Jeyne watched him poke gently around the stitches, causing a brief spurt of blood to flow. He leaned close to her skin and sniffed several times. He stood back up with a smile. "Is good. Small redness, inflame only a little. No festering."

"Will she wake soon?" Sansa asked hopefully, continuing in the past four days to show more concern for her little sister than Jeyne had seen her express in the last four years.

"Maybe yes, maybe no." Florio tapped his own skull. "Head tricky."

"But she will wake up. She must!" Sansa expressed with alarm.

The barber chuckled at the strongly expressed sentiment as he took out a small bottle, uncapping it. "Oh yes. Keep wound clean, give water, food. She alright." He poured some vinegar around the stitches and spread it around with the underthing, picking up swathes of pinkness, cleaning away sweat and dirt with the dried and drying blood. "You drink, eat too. Is important. Stay healthy. Come walk on deck, smell breeze." The barber took several exaggerated breaths. "Is good for lungs, muscles."

"Kind Ser," Sansa whispered anxiously, "Our door stays locked all day and night. How can we come when we are kept prisoners in this cabin."

Florio clicked his teeth. "Ah, just so. Sailors an unruly lot, is true. I will speak with Captain. Have him trust me guard beautiful ladies from too lonely men."

"Thank you," both Jeyne and Sansa answered.

Lothor Brune brought Jeyne above decks for the first time since that horrible night they desperately jumped from the docks onto the Wind Witch. The fresh sea breeze brought a smile to the girls face as it swept away the human generated stench from down below and left a wholesome salty scent in her nostrils. The Braavos ship appear to bob quite high in the water, allowing amble room to operate the three banks of oars on each side, though only one set currently rowed to a slow, regular beat. Up above, two triangle shaped sails flew smartly, puffed out from having captured the breeze, driving the ship further out into Blackwater Bay.

Sailors, not on duty, gathered in a circle around the forward mast, shouting and laughing. The Hedge Knight led Jeyne in that direction. Half way to the ring, the ship tilted unexpectedly. Jeyne staggered into a wobbling Ser Lothor. Several sailors tumbled to the amusement of their fellows. But Florio, standing with a sharp blade over a half shaven sailor sitting a stool hopped in the air and twirled his feet, coming down lightly in a perfectly balanced crouch. Jeyne crinkled her nose, scrunching her face in concentration. There was something familiar about the skip in the barber's step.

"Barber!" Ser Lothor called above the whistles and catcalls in the Braavosi tongue. "I bring you a ward."

"Yes, yes, I imagine so. Half a minute please," Florio called back in his jolly, accented voice. One, two, three, four, five more swipes of his sharp blade and the last of the soapy froth and stubbly beard were off his customer's face. The barber pirouetted dramatically to emphasize the completion of the task. The flair in how he moved his lower legs attracted Jeyne's attention again.

After some good natured bantering, the sailor satisfied with his appearance flipped a tiny copper penny to Florio, who snatched it from the air and then made several exaggerated mummer's passes to make the coin disappear and reappear several times to the amusement of the crowd. Well except for Ser Lothor, who finally said "here," and gave Jeyne a small shove towards the Braavosi.

"Glad to see you in sun, wind," he greeted her with a happy grin. "You pretty already."

"Th-thank you."

"Here, let us step away from the riffraff," Florio gently took her arm and directed her towards the railing of the ship, above the triple benches of the rowers inside the hull below them. Jeyne's shyness overcame her and she looked down to avoid his strong, confident gaze. His feet took precise, graceful, dance-like steps, helping to assure her own balance on the gently rolling deck. "Ah, here you hold on. Not fall." The barber took Jeyne's hands and placed them on the railing. "Very beautiful, no?"

The girl turned her gaze outward to watch the white capped swells lapping against the boat, sending salty spray into the air. Grey gulls swooped and floated in the air, a few occasionally diving into the water in search of small fish, and others did dances in the air to earn the right to land atop the Wind Witch's masts. The sun passed from behind a willowy cloud to drizzle warmth on her rosy cheeks. 'This is so much better than being stuck below in that dingy, dark, smelly cabin,' Jeyne thought.

"There!" Florio called. "See?" He pointed out to sea.

"No? What?"

"That bird. The black one."

Jeyne flipped a palm over her brows to shade her gaze, trying to pick up what the barber's eyes had spotted. At last she saw a hint of movement. "Oh, a raven."

"Just so," Florio agreed. He clicked his teeth. "It goes to Dragonstone. I wonder …" his voice trailed off.

"You wonder?" Jeyne mimicked.

"Nothinnnnggggg!" shouted Florio. A gust burst over the ship. The masts creaked dangerously as the sails bent hard from the sudden blow. Jeyne's hair whipped around her face in a tangle. The wind snatched the barber's bandana from off his bald pate. The man leapt gracefully into the air and with a laugh just snatched it with finger tips before the piece of cloth fell out to sea.

A lead weight dropped in Jeyne's stomach. She knew this man. Or at least she thought she might. On the steps of the Hand's Tower, going or coming from Arya's dancing lessons!

"You stare at Florio so. Did I lose my nose to the breeze?" he joked.

"Noooo," Jeyne shyly replied, dropping her gaze down to the deck. "I …" she hesitated, unsure of what her gut was telling her brain.

"Yes?" Florio responded with a prompting smile.

"I have a serious question for you." Jeyne pointed at a small booth built into the gunnels. "Can't we go there to speak privately?"

Florio laughed. "Yes, that very private. Is head. Where sailors go to, uhm, well, you know."

The adolescent girl turned beet red in embarrassment at her mistake.

"No worries. Wind blows, is loud, no one to hear what wind keeps secret. Now what so important to tell Florio?"

"I think .. it's that .. well, are you …?" she stammered nervously.

"Ahh, shh-shh, smart girl say no more," the barber interrupted quickly. "You have eyes that see. This good thing. Sharp eyes, quiet mouth, keep girl safe, no?"

Jeyne gulped in shock, her guess was correct, but still so many things she didn't understand. "But how? The dock? And you're the barber?" she asked incredulously.

Florio, or whatever his name really was, smiled widely. "Ship big, many Braavosi, captain Braavosi. I also Braavosi. When come aboard during confusion, say running from to be killed. Many sailors like smooth head, I see no barber, so say I barber. Be friendly, useful. Easy to ahhh, how say, become one of crew," he proclaimed.

"But why not tell Ser Lothor or Captain Qos you were with us?"

The man clicked his teeth again. "Brune no see before, not ever in that other place. And Qos not such good man. When see him, remember man, many years, from who First Sea Lord take captain's torque. He and much of crew Braavosi, but ship not so. Braavosi paint hulls purple. You see purple? No. This ship, crew speak of Myr. Bad feeling here," Florio patted his belly. "So wait, watch, learn, prepare."

Jeyne wanted to shriek in terror at all she'd just heard, but she beat down the panic, though her eyes must have bugged out of her face at the effort. "Will you help us," she whispered plaintively.

Florio's natural smile grew very wide. "Barber very good with blade, no?"

"Yes," she giggled.

Lothor Brune soon loomed over the pair. "I hope your stay above deck was pleasant," he commented with polite indifference.

"Yes, thank you Ser Lothor," she answered with courtesy. "Must I return to the cabin now?"

The Hedge Knight nodded his head. "It is time for Lady Sansa to take a turn above. You will still be here?" he addressed the barber, who nodded in acknowledgement.

Jeyne wished Florio a good day and followed her jailor down below. When he unlocked and opened the door to her cramped sea borne prison, two more scruffy ship cats dashed between her legs and into the cabin. "My goodness," Jeyne declared.