A chorus of seagulls beckon the arrival of the Hightower party as they descend the stone path into the docks of King's Landing. The lead horses have just stepped from shore onto the wood of the pier when Tessarrion's ears prick up on end.
"Do you hear that, Ser?" Ser Leyton Dunn calls from the rear guard. At the head, Gunthor brings their progress to a halt. Edward and Hela exchange a nervous glance. In the distance, behind them in the city, the low roar of a raging crowd can be heard.
"A mob?" asks Ser Hobart of the Honeywine, to Edward's left.
"Whatever it is, it's my sisters' problem now, not ours," Gunthor shakes his head. "We should move faster. I don't want to be caught up in whatever this pisspot of a city has…"
Before he can finish, a line of horses emerges from the alley in front of them, each taking a place in turn until their path onto the docks is completely blocked. Tessarion begins a low growl, drawing nearer to the feet of Edward's mount. The last horse to appear stands in the lead, its rider's elaborately shaped flowery armor unmistakable – Loras Tyrell.
"What is the meaning of this?" Gunthor lifts his visor, not believing his own eyes.
"We stand on Lord Renly Baratheon's command to return the boy Edward Stark into his care," Loras lifts his own visor, flashing a defiant smile.
"We stand on the command of King Robert Baratheon! Or has your dear Renly forgotten who still sits upon the Iron Throne?"
"Ser Gunthor," Loras draws his sword with a flourish. "Don't make this more difficult than it needs to be. No one need get hurt."
"Everything is fine," Gunthor looks back to assure the children. But when he turns back, he lowers his visor, and draws his own sword.
"No, no, no, no, no," Hela quivers in her saddle, eyes looking desperately down the dock, tauntingly close, to where their ship waits, moored beside the Cinnamon Wind.
"Stay by me, little ones," Jalabar Xo commands, goldenwood bow already in hand, moving his horse forward to obscure the view of the Tyrell men behind a wall of bright feathers. He slowly pulls an arrow from his quiver. Hela reaches out a shaky hand towards Edward. He clumsily takes it. Maybe if we're both shaking together, she won't see how afraid I am. The closest Edward has ever been to true battle was that horrible day by the Trident with Joffrey. As he begins to sweat, gritting his teeth to steady his hands on the reins, the scar begins to burn with memories of that day and his pulse starts to pound.
"Don't do anything you'll regret, Hightower," Loras calls back. "Or have you forgotten who still rules the Reach? Your father is still hiding away in his tower, is he not? Do you think he'll climb down to save you now? I heard he didn't even come to your wedding."
At that taunt, something in Gunthor snaps. He yells, and his horse lurches forward. Loras gives his own shout to his men and flicks his reins to charge. But in the instant that his horse takes the first step, Tessarion is charging with a snarl, crashing out of the crowd. Before Loras can react, the direwolf has struck, sinking its teeth into his horse's offending leg. With a shrill whinny, the horse goes down, and Loras crashes onto the dock with a metallic crash. Hela shrieks, startling her pony. It turns hard to the left and, with another shout, she is falling into open air. Almost forgetting she is still clutching his hand, Edward is shocked when the sudden jolt comes on his arm, yanking him down from the saddle, the cobblestones rushing up to meet them. There is a splintering pain in the back of his head.
For a moment, everything goes black and silent. Then, he jolts upright and the world comes rushing back with a fury. His vision is blurry, but he can feel blood, wet and sticky, in his hair. The sounds are deafening – panicked horses, furious battle-cries, the ringing of steel on steel, and the furious barks of Tessarrion rising above it all. He rolls over to see Hela still lying beside him, head cradled in her hands. He reaches out, pulling her close and prying her arms free. Her eyes are panicked, mouth gaping in shock and face dirty, but no blood.
"We have to run!" Edward shouts, though it barely comes out, the breath still knocked out of him. He grabs Hela's arm and looks wildly about for an escape. He sees his and Jalabar's pile of luggage, knocked over and broken open on the ground. Lurching onto his feet, he sprints blindly for the crates, dragging Hela along behind him.
"What's happening?" she cries as they dive for shelter.
"I don't know! That's Ser Loras!"
"I know that!" Hela scoffs, broken for a moment from her panic by the offense that she may not recognize the Knight of Flowers. "But why is he attacking Uncle Gunthor? What does Renly want with you?"
"I don't know!" Edward shouts back again, clasping his hands over his ears, trying to silence the chaos. Think, Edward, think! He looks down at his knees – That's my shirt! He looks closer at the broken crate – my canvas, my paints! Which means… He begins to dig about in the pile of jostled clothes, prying free more pieces of the broken chest.
"We need… we need to get somewhere safe," Hela is thinking out loud, half-crying, half-screaming, but trying desperately to stay calm, to cling to her ever-rational brain. She begins to tug irritably at her elaborate hair, ruined in the fall, until it finally tumbles free down over her shoulders. "We have to get to the boat. My uncle can hold Loras off. Can you swim?"
Edward looks up from the crate – he's found it, his bow, and the quiver of weirwood arrows. He extends them to her, as if this is an answer. She shakes her head. "Can you swim?"
"No, um, no, not well," he stammers.
She shakes her head in frustration, looking back across the pier to the line of shops and shanties that mark the edge of land, rising back up into the city. "Then we have to go back."
Edward nods, but turns back to the chest one last time, swiping up Gaheris' old book on skinchangers and tucking it securely behind his belt, then looping the strap of the quiver over his shoulder. Finished, he takes her hand once more. Together, they lock eyes on the same alley, rise and run.
It seems like an eternity to get back across the pier. All the while Edward is imagining a stray arrow or hurled spear to fall from the sky to cut them down, or a bloody knight to ride in, swinging a deadly axe. But nothing comes, and they are safe, bent over panting around the corner of a small net-mender's hovel, windows and doors locked shut to keep the violence on the outside, where it belongs. As his breathing eases and his scar begins to soothe, Edward scratches the back of his head, almost forgetting his wound. His hand comes away bloody.
Now what? He wonders, looking to Hela for an answer. But she is looking at somewhere else, her eyes plastered wide in fear. He follows her line of sight until they see the same thing – six more men, not knights, but in light armor, weapons in hand. But wait, no. These men he knows. They're all members of his family guard. And leading them -
"We're here to take you home, Ed," Fat Tom drops to his knee. "E'rything's gonna be alright."
"Edward what's happening?" Hela tugs at his arm.
"This… this is Tom. These are my guards," Edward looks nervously back and forth between Hela and the Stark men, the sound of battle behind them drawing nearer. "I don't understand…"
"Can you take us to our boat?" Hela asks, stepping between them.
"I'm sorry, little lady, but we've got our own boat," Tom tries to put a comforting hand on her shoulder, but she pulls away. "Don't worry, we ain't gonna hurt you. We can drop you off back at the Keep with your aunts. But we've got to hurry."
"No, Edward's coming to Oldtown, with me!" She starts to back away, back out the alley, pushing Edward along with her.
"Tom, I don't understand what you're doing," he protests, beginning to feel dizzy. His head is screaming in pain. Am I still bleeding?
"Look, Jory will explain everything once we get you safe," Tom slowly follows, making the same kind face he used to make when he would hide food behind his big, bushy beard and make it appear like magic when Edward could barely walk. But now he doesn't know who to trust. "We're taking you home, all of you, just like your father wanted."
Edward opens his mouth, but it's too late. Hela yanks him out onto the dock, so hard he loses his footing and is again falling. He hits the ground and rolls, holding his bow tight.
"Hela!" he hears Gunthor shout.
"Wait, stop!" Tom is shouting now, and then a sickening, ugly sound and Hela is shrieking and there is blood on the ground. But not Edward's. He looks up in horror to see Gunthor pull his sword back out of Tom's belly, the fat guard dropping heavily to the ground, empty eyes staring accusingly at Edward as he cowers, forever emptied of mirth.
"Run!" Gunthor commands, and then a silver blur is on him. Tessarion charges with a howl, slamming the knight back into the wall. He crashes to the ground, a mess of limbs and armor.
"Edward!" Hela shouts to him, arms outstretched, but he cannot move, he can barely even breathe. Tessarion rushes to his side, smothering him in fur, and when he next sees clearly, his betrothed has turned away. Surrounded on all sides, Hela hikes up the hem of her dress and makes a mad dash, over the edge of the pier into the bay beyond and is gone in a splash.
So close, we were so close! Edward begins to cry again. Everything was going to be alright. Now Tom is dead, Hela is gone, Ser Gunthor… he clings tight to Tessarion's side, wrapping his fingers deep in the wolf's fur, willing himself into try and complete the bond. If he could only warg now, he could be gone, bounding over walls, free from the city and its swords and blood. But the world is too loud, and he is thinking too hard. He is still just a boy and the wolf just a wolf. But then…
"Hold tight, boy!" An unfamiliar voice commands him, deep with the melodic accent of the Summer Islands. Two huge, black arms wrap around him and suddenly he is lifted into the air and hoisted over the shoulder of this new stranger. He goes limp, unable to fight any longer. His vision begins to blur and the sounds of battle fade, replaced by a singular pounding in his head. They are moving. Upside-down, he sees Tessarion running along behind them, and another man – Jalabar? Then they are rising – climbing? Up, up and over.
The strange man is lying him down now, lowering a skin of water that splashes cold over his face, but he does not move. His strength fades...
His eyes flash open and he is back on the pier. Tessarion. He feels the rush of adrenaline coursing in the wolf's veins, tastes the bitter hint of what can only be blood. He turns in a circle, alone here on the edge of the water. In front of him, the knights are still brawling, several bodies scattered, bleeding out into the bay through the cracks in the dock. Behind him, one of the northmen is still hunched over Tom's body, two more are giving chase, running towards him. He looks to the water – no sign of Hela. But he does see the Cinnamon Wind – the swan ship from the Summer Isles. It's huge white sails are unfurling, its mooring lines hastily pulled up.
Somehow, instinctively, he knows that is where he belongs. But… what happens if he leaves? His world here is shattered, but the world beyond the end of the pier is an empty void of questions with no answers. The northmen are almost upon him now but, suddenly, in their way, is Loras Tyrell – helm torn off, the delicate flowers of his armor flattened or broken away. He is in a fury, and the guards are no match. Before Edward can move, the Knight of Flowers has cut them both down, joining Tom in death. And now Loras comes for him. I should stop him, avenge them, Edward thinks. But he can barely fight in his own body, much less this one.
The ship is leaving now, slipping silently free of the dock, out to freedom. Too late? No. The wolf turns, bounding out down the dock. The loading ramp is still there, if he can make it in time… Behind him, Loras begins to run, cursing angrily at the fleeing ship, but slow in his heavy armor. Too slow. But Tessarion is fast. Strong legs bound up the ramp as the high rails of the Cinnamon Wind pass by. And then he is in the air, leaping over the water, crashing down onto the edge of the boat at the last moment.
He looks around, taking in his surroundings, and then he sees himself – a small ragdoll of a boy, sprawled out on the deck of a foreign ship, sailing into open water, destination unknown, the huge Summer Islander kneeling over him barely seems to notice the direwolf that has just bounded onto his deck.
"Hurry!" he is shouting. "Get Xondo more water and bandages! The prince's boy needs help!"
The prince's boy… Is that who I am now? None of them even know my name. Only Jalabar. Edward lets Tessarrion's body relax onto the wooden planks, the rush of battle slowly fading, replaced with exhaustion. He never breaks eyes with his limp body, not until the darkness of sleep takes him and, lost somewhere between boy and wolf, begins to dream.