A few daring seagulls begin to pick at the bodies of Stark, Hightower and Tyrell men that still lie where they fell upon the King's Landing docks. Kevan Lannister pays them no heed as he hurries, hood raised over his head, to the small fisherman's boat awaiting him. Behind him, his three surviving guards stand watch as Jaime Lannister pushes along a cart of netting, beneath which lies the still-unconscious form of Prince Tommen.
Jaime's hands clutch the handles of the cart so tightly that splinters are slowly beginning to grind into the palms of his hands, but he pays the pain no heed. There is a far deeper pain burning inside of him now. Cersei is dead. His sister. His love. Slain by his son, no, their son. He had watched the boy lash out, the sword cut and the blood begin to flow. He had watched her fall to the ground. She had done terrible things, made him do terrible things, but none so terrible as to kill his love. But he loves his children, too. Can he truly hate Joffrey? He tries to picture the boy's face, but he only sees Cersei, her long golden hair and glistening eyes only a memory now and evermore.
The cart jolts to a halt as it slams against the bottom of the boarding ramp.
"Addison, stow the boy," Kevan commands the lone survivor of the three Swyft knights who had first accompanied him into the city. The man silently obeys, heaving the little prince, wrapped in netting, onto his shoulder and climbing aboard. Jaime does not move, hands still holding the handles. Kevan shakes him free. "We have no time to waste, get aboard."
Jaime lets the cart drop, but turns back, staring at the towers of the Red Keep, looming high above the city. What if she still lives… the fantasy leaps across his mind and dies as quickly as her lifeblood had soaked through Barristan's white cloak.
"Come," Kevan grabs him by the arm and he does not resist, letting his uncle pull him up the ramp and onto the small vessel. "I need you strong, Jaime. We must get the boy to safety. A safe harbor has been allotted for us across the sea. There we can put your father's plans to action. You will yet have time for your revenge."
Revenge? Yes, Jaime ponders as the ropes tying them to the dock slip free and their oars hit the water, slowly propelling the boat out onto the choppy bay. He stumbles, clutching the rail for support as the expanse of water grows between him and his old home. The Kingsguard, the court, Cersei… it's all gone. It's only another city now. On who shall we be avenged?
Gunthor Hightower coughs up blood onto his gauntlet. There is a horrid pounding inside his skull, his vision still blurry from being thrown against the wall by Tessarrion. When he had finally come to, there was no sign of the direwolf nor either of his charges. Only bodies littering the dock, his niece and the Stark boy nowhere to be found. At least Loras Tyrell and the rest of his men had disappeared with them, leaving no one left to fight, only frightened smallfolk peering down from their boats and out through their windows.
His first instinct had been to flee to his ship, still moored awaiting his departure. But no. He had to find Heleana. Father would be furious if he returned to Oldtown without Edward, but he had committed worse follies as a youth. But to lose the only daughter of the heir to the Hightower… His whole family would surely line up to throw him into the bay, shackled to a dozen boulders.
He limps back into the alley the Stark men had appeared from. Perhaps they had made off with the children. But instead, he only finds Ser Leyton Dunn propped up between a wall and an empty fish barrel. The burly knight's armor lies cluttered at his feet, stripped off to treat a bloody wound in his side.
"Ser!" Leyton gasps. "I thought for sure the wolf had killed you!"
"I thought so as well, until I woke up," Gunthor grimaces from the pain in his head. "Hela, did you see her?"
"No. The boy's gone, though. His wolf, too. That Prince Jalabar took off with him one of those swanships. Whole crew of his people, feathers and all."
The Cinnamon Wind, Gunthor remembers. "But Hela wasn't with them?" Leyton shakes his head. "Damn! Perhaps the Tyrells?"
"Excuse me, good sers!" A deep, calming voice calls out from behind them, richly accented with the tones of the East. Gunthor turns and, seeing the speaker, is unable to keep his jaw from dropping. There, standing in a dark crimson gown, is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen – long fiery hair framing a pale, sharply curved face. A golden band around her slender neck dangles a large red crystal just above her breasts, full enough to make their size known even beneath her loose dress. And, most unbelievable of all, her eyes – red – staring back at him with color never seen nor imagined, as if containing untold secrets. Perhaps I am dead, Gunthor thinks. But the woman speaks again. "I believe this is what you are looking for."
She steps aside, revealing Hela, her green dress dripping wet, long hair plastered tight to her scalp and hanging unkempt over her face. Gunthor extends his hand and she hurries to his side. He brushes her hair aside, looking for wounds. But while she shivers, cold and wet, she appears unharmed.
"We are in your debt, my lady," he looks back up to the woman. Ser Leyton, entranced, has not looked away since she appeared. "We thank The Mother you found her."
"No," she, shakes her head, walking past them to the shore, her feet seeming to glide over the rough cobblestones. "Thank the Lord of Light."
"The Lord of what?" Gunthor blinks, confused, but follows her path, pulling Hela along behind him. "What is your name?"
"I am the Lady Melisandre." She stops at the edge of the dock, staring out towards an approaching ship on the horizon. Gunthor squints to read its banner. She places a hand on his shoulder – he swears he can feel her warm touch even through his armor. So close to her now, she smells of nutmeg and cloves. He breathes in her presence deeply. "Gunther of House Hightower, you say you are in my debt. Do not make such a vow lightly. What debt you owe to me you must also owe to my master."
"What House do you serve, my lady?"
"I serve a power greater than blood. If you wish to repay me, wait here. This city is full of darkness and treachery. Lord Stannis will have need of loyal men, and he is nearly come."
The steps of the Red Keep are littered with bodies – Lannister men, Tyrell men, Goldcloaks... But the battle is over. Lord Renly Baratheon stands at the top of the steps, before the open doors to the keep, gazing down at his victory. His green armor is stained dark with blood, cloak in tatters, his ruined helm lying discarded on the stone at his feet. And beside it rests the legendary warhammer of Robert Baratheon, its huge head sticky with gore.
It is mine, now, Renly thinks. Robert will never lift it again. Now, when the bard's sing of it, they shall sing my name in his stead. It was me who saved the throne from the Lannisters, not him. Not Ned Stark. Me. He runs his hands through his sweat-matted hair, letting the thick black curls breathe air again, letting the suffocating stench of death dissipate.
"Lord Renly!" An unmistakable voice rumbles behind him and he turns to see Ser Balerion Horpe approach, Ser Aron Santagar striding beside him, the three bastards in tow – Edric, Gendry and Mya.
"Come, come!" Renly beckons the youths to the edge of the stairs, presenting the tableau of war beneath them. "The traitors have been vanquished, the day is won!" He watches as they react – Gendry and Mya scowl slightly, examining the piles of bodies and blood on the stone. But Edric's face turns clammy. He quickly looks away. The boy is younger than the others, and highborn, Renly thinks. He has not seen the cruelty of the world yet. But he must. Our war is only beginning. To be true, this was his first battle as well, but he has forced down the bile in the back of his throat all this while. Kings are strong. They must see me as a king.
Mya awkwardly tries to place a comforting hand on Edric's shoulder as he stands frozen. They continue to watch as the guards drag body after body down the steps to be sorted in piles in the yard, divided in death as they were in life. Renly is about to lead them down to look closely upon the bodies, but Balerion's huge hand on his shoulder pulls him back. Turning, he sees the grim look on the huge knight's face – not unusual – but a pall has fallen over the normally flippant Ser Aron as well. These are not the faces of victory.
"The king is dead, my lord," Balerion speaks low and plain, his words hitting as if etched in stone. And for the first time since the battle began, Renly falters.
"No… Impossible," he gasps, steadying himself for a moment against the man's frame, but quickly pulling back. No weakness, not now… But it wasn't supposed to be like this. Not yet. We had time, damn it! More time! "I don't understand. How?"
"He was found in the small council chambers by one of our men," Aron answers. "Bled out and draped with a Kingsguard's cloak, surrounded by six dead Tyrell guards, Garrett Flowers among them. The Maidenvault was breached as well – Cersei and the children are missing, and Thaddeus Oakheart slain. We believe that they've retreated within Maegor's with the rest of the Kingsguard and raised the bridge."
"No…" The Dornishman's words are only so much wind to Renly. All he hears is that his brother is slain. All this time waiting for Robert to die. But the Father was meant to take him, a peaceful, natural death from his wounds, not butchered by Lannister bastards.
"My lord!" It is Mace Tyrell calling to him now, walking towards them with his personal guard, Lords Florent and Caswell at his side. I cannot speak to them now. His words burn in his throat.
"Do they know?" he asks. Aron nods. "Go with them, take Edric and the others to look upon the bodies. One day they will have power, and it will be their words sending men to their deaths. They must see what that looks like." The men silently leave him, and beckon the Reach lords to follow. Soon, Renly is alone, centered in the entrance to a vast keep that now feels empty, hollow… lonely. He steps back into the shade within, out of sight of all, and his knees at last buckle beneath him. He catches himself against the wall, staring down at the blood-stained floor, and vomits out the last of his weakness.
The bridge to Maegor's Holdfast is raised, its gates sealed tight. Within, the halls are silent, disturbed only by the sound of slight, trembling footsteps, as if even echoes fear to speak. In the royal solar, the bodies of slain guards have been stacked neatly in the corner. But one still lies where she fell, Cersei Lannister, covered by Ser Barristan's bloody cloak. The Lord Commander himself now stands vigil over the body, alone with nothing but his failure for company. His helm rests empty beside the slain queen, his hair looking greyer, his wrinkles deeper. A single tear hovers delicately on the tip of his eyelid.
The doors swing open and Ser Arys enters, still in his full white armor, the guard Tallad behind him. "We've searched all levels, my lord. Nine guards remain, and around a score of servants. All have sworn to serve and defend King Joffrey."
"Very good." Barristan does not turn to face them. "And our provisions?"
"Enough to last a short siege. A month, perhaps, but not much more."
"We can discuss strategy later, ser. How is his grace?"
"Shaken still, of course. His squires are with him, trying to get him to eat."
"Good. He must be strong for what comes ahead."
"Ser…" Arys steps forward. Realizing the conversation has shifted to private matters, Tallad exits silently. "Are you sure we made the right choices? The accusations against Cersei…"
"If the Tyrells had Robert killed, it can only mean they intend to crown Renly. What choice do we have? Let a kinslayer steal the throne? Daeron the Second was called a bastard, yet made a great king."
"And do you think Joffrey will be a great king?"
For a long, heavy moment, Barristan does not answer. He continues to stare across the room, as if willing the far wall to collapse and bury them all. In the long closed-off corners of his mind, he can hear Queen Rhaella's screams, see the wildfire glow in King Aerys' eyes as his mad grin grew wider…. "It is not our oath to question. Only to serve."
The king himself sits that very moment in the Queen's Ballroom, gulping down a goblet of dark Arbor wine. The hall is dimly lit – the light of the waning sun slowly retreating back through the windows from whence it came. Maris Hightower passes along the sconces, slowly lighting each in turn, their flickering flames reflecting off the silver mirrors behind them and setting shadows to dance over the carved wooden walls. Her brother Peremore sits beside Lyman Darry, opposite Joffrey, watching their new liege as he finishes his drink and drops the cup back onto the table beside an untouched spread of fruit, bread, cheese and salted meats.
"More," he demands, stifling a belch. Neither squire moves. Thrice his goblet has been filled, and his pale face is already flushing red. "No, wait, look for ale. Wine was mother's drink."
"Your grace, you must eat," Lyman insists. Joffrey scowls.
"You have to be strong," Peremore returns the new king's glare with equal intensity. "Everyone will be looking to you. Renly has been telling the realm that you're weak, a bastard and a craven. You must be able to show them that he lies." Begrudgingly, Joffrey grabs a loaf a bread and gnaws off a large chunk of it, chewing angrily.
"If you need to talk to us, we're here to listen," Lyman offers. "About anything."
"What would I need to talk about?" Joffrey dismisses his squire's sincerity in between bites of stringy salt pork, sticking in between his white teeth. His eyes are dull and his voice void of emotion. Lyman and Peremore exchange a troubled glance. "Father is dead. Mother is dead. My brother is taken. And I am king. I will do my duty to the realm and to my father. He will be avenged. My mother was a traitor. I will not rest until every last traitor joins her in the Seven Hells." He stands, looking to the two squires and then to Maris. "We are alone here, with none but lowly knights and servants to defend us. You must be my lords and ladies. My first Small Council. Are you with me?"
"To death, your grace," Peremore and Maris answer in unison.
"Yes," Lyman answers, a moment later, though his pause has not gone unnoticed. "I will serve you as I served your father. He will be avenged."
"Good." Joffrey takes a bite of strong cheese and recoils, nose flared by the taste. He sets it down and grabs the bread instead. "Now I'm eating, so bring me more ale. And bring some for yourselves, we must plan."
The Hightowers nod silently and turn to leave towards the cellars. As they pass beyond the hall and out of earshot, Maris looks at her brother.
"I still don't understand. The gate was locked. I saw to that myself. How did the Lannisters get in?"
"You already know the answer, don't you?"
"But why? You couldn't have known what would happen. Did Aunt Leyla have another dream?"
"No." Peremore shrugs as they descend the steps into the wine cellar. He stops an ancient, dusty barrel. Taking hammer in one hand and a wooden tasting cup in the other, he breaks open the tap. With a thin smile, he offers his sister a drink. "I simply wanted to see what would happen. To make sure we were on the right side."
"And are we?" Maris takes a short sip, the dark red staining her pale lips.
"You heard him. We're his counsellors. Whether we like it or not, this is our side now. And so it is the right one."
"And all we need is to destroy the two most powerful families in Westeros to stay there."
The gates to the Red Keep raise to let Ser Loras Tyrell come careening into the yard. The Knight of Flowers' horse nearly crashes into a pile of bodies as he leaps down, hair askew and tangled. He spies Renly, looking very pale, standing tall over the three bastards, Aron Santagar and Guyard Morrigan. Even from a distance, Loras can recognize the look of anger on his lover's face when he sees the knight has returned alone.
"My lord!" he shouts. Renly is already marching toward him.
"Where is the boy?" Renly bellows. "Where are your men?"
"The Hightowers fought! And we were ambushed by Stark men! The wolf went feral and…"
"But where is he? Did the Northerners take him?"
"No!" Loras gasps for breath. "They were all slain. I don't know where Edward went."
"Then why are you here, and not out there looking for him?"
"I had to tell you…"
"Tell me what?" Renly shouts, grabbing Loras by the shoulders and pulling him close enough to be splattered with his angry spittle. "That you failed? Robert is dead, Loras! He's dead, the queen is missing and the princes are locked inside of Maegor's! The Tower of the Hand was looted, the Stark girls are gone! We need Edward, we must have Edward!"
"I know!" Loras snaps back, finally losing composure. He shakes himself free. "You don't need to tell me that, I'm not a fool! But I need to tell you..."
"What?"
"It's Stannis! His ship was spotted while I was still in the harbor! He's nearly here!"
Black stags dance against burning hearts as the evening winds whip the pennants of Lord Stannis' ship back and forth in the darkening sky. The crew is unsettlingly quiet as they hurry to tie down the vessel and lower the boarding ramp. It is as if the solemnity of their lord has plucked the sound from their lungs.
Stannis himself spares no time in appearing at the top of the gangplank. No trumpets herald his coming, no banners follow behind him. He stands in simple leather, pointed beard neatly trimmed, bald head red from the sun and dusted with the salt of the bay. A dozen knights stand at attention behind him, but at his side is the humble Davos Seaworth, grey-haired but standing strong as if to challenge any who dare to question the man whom he serves. It is Davos who first sees the red woman waiting for them. The wrinkles on his brow deepen as he catches his crimson gaze with a cold glare. And then Stannis sees.
Melisandre stands with Gunthor Hightower and Leyton Dunn to her left and right. Hela grasps her uncle's hand. But Stannis only sees the woman. He grits his teeth and stiffly takes his first step down, his feet shaking the gangplank from the severity of his strides. Melisandre draws in to meet him, almost as if to bar his path. But he pays little heed, only stopping when he stands upon the stone of the dock. His eyes speak accusingly, but his tongue remains silent, letting the rising tide and circling gulls be his only summons.
"I ordered you to stay on Dragonstone," he speaks at last.
"I had a vision in the flames. I could not let my lord face the darkness alone." Her hand rises to caress his shoulder, but he shirks from her touch.
"I know more than enough of the darkness facing me here." Stannis marches past her, but stops when he realizes that this small group are the only people waiting upon his arrival. "Who are these men? Where is Renly? Has his grace sent no one to receive me?" His prow furrows further at the perceived slight.
"My lord, we had strong wind in our sails, perhaps we arrived sooner than expected," Davos suggests. "I am certain Lord Renly will…"
"Lord Renly is no doubt sealing himself within the Red Keep as we speak," Melisandre cuts him off, the pendant around her neck offering a faint glow.
"What?" Stannis glances between her and the towers of the Red Keep looming above the city in the distance. "Speak sense!"
"My lord, you must understand, what the flames showed me has already come to pass. I am so very sorry. But you are too late."
"Too late for what?"
"The man you came to serve no longer sits the throne. The mark of the Hand is already passed to another. Your brother, the king… He is dead."
In the cramped network of servants' quarters beneath Maegor's Holdfast, Lyman winces as his head smacks against the low stone ceiling. The seamstress, Eliza, arms wrapped around him, sees his pain and kisses him again, slowly pulling him down onto the lumpy straw mattress atop her too-small bed.
"Don't worry, the others will be gone until I send for them. Most of the girls have found their own lovers anyway. The guards' quarters have more room. But here, we have this all to ourselves." She smiles up at him as he lies over her, propped upon his elbows. But his face, darkened by an uneven stubble on the cusp of manhood, offers no joy in return. She begins to untie the laces of his breeches, but finds him unaroused. With a sigh, he slumps over onto his side, crammed beneath her body and the cold, jagged wall.
"It's not your fault!" she insists, kissing his neck, but he rolls over, scraping his face as he presses it tight against the wall. "There's nothing you could have done to save him."
Part of Lyman, deep down, knows she is right. I could never have known the attack was coming. And even if I had stayed with him, seven Tyrell men against just me, the maester and a crippled king? I'd only be lying dead at their sides. And Cersei… Well, Cersei deserved what was coming to her. And who could have predicted Joffrey… But his mind keeps returning to the image of Robert lying dead on the floor. He had never taken the duties of a squire seriously, he knew. It was a chance to drink fine wine, to woo girls into bed and to finally escape the dull fields of his home. When Barristan had dismissed him, he had not fretted over dishonor. But something has changed, and his new failure weighs down, crushing him. For all Robert's faults, he had sworn to serve his king. And he had saved his life once but, at the moment of greatest need, he wasn't there. And now what am I to do? Serve a half-mad boy that may not even be the rightful heir?
"Please, come," Eliza tugs on his shoulder, and he slowly turns to look into her cloudy hazel eyes. Her face has grown rounder and now, he sees, it is wet by tears.
"I'm sorry." He leans in to finally return her kisses. She smells like oatmeal and tastes like soap. He tries to let the familiar touch chase the horrors of the day away, but they stick hot and burning to his back like tar.
"No. No, do not be sorry," she whispers back. "Thank the Mother that she has kept us here, together, and not torn apart." She takes his hands in hers and runs them over the curve of her stomach, pressed tightly against the seams of a dress quickly growing too small as their child grows within.
Now we'll all die together, he thinks. But instead he buries his face between her breasts and kisses the rough-hewn cotton covering them. "I love you," is his muffled murmur. Another vow. Will this one hold any truer than the others?
"I love you," she echoes him and begins to slowly pull his pants free from his waist, then down his legs until…
A loud crash sounds in the hall. In a flash, Lyman is rolling off the bed and scrambling to his feet. Eliza lets out a short shriek of shock before clasping her hands over her mouth. Have they come for us already? He snatches his sword belt from where it hangs on the wall and hastily wraps it back around his waist. Only when he feels its cold touch does he realize that his pants are still around his ankles. Yanking them up with one hand, he presses the other against the door and slowly swings it open.
Glancing out into the dim hall, the first thing he sees is a gaping black hole in the wall across from them. A door of some sort, opened through what had seemed solid stone. And then he sees the figure crumpled in a pile, halfway through the door.
"Bring a torch!" Lyman shouts as Eliza steps hesitantly into the hall behind him. He leans down over the body – the man is alive, he can hear ragged breathing, though he nearly gags at the smell of death. His hands touch robes crusted with dry blood. The light behind him grows brighter as Eliza returns with a flame, and the face of the mysterious man becomes visible – swollen, bloody and bruised so badly Lyman would scarcely have recognized him if not for the silver streak running through the auburn hair plastered to his scalp. It is the face of, Lyman had believed until this moment, a dead man. Maester Gaheris.
"The king…" Gaheris gasps, his voice rasping with pain and thirst. "The king is…"
"Dead, I know," Lyman takes the torch from Eliza. "Fetch water and send someone to wake Ser Barristan! Tell him Gaheris is alive and… here." He looks into the dark hole in the wall and his questions begin to grow. "How?"
"Tunnels," the maester croaks. "Ancient tunnels built by Maegor himself. Very few know of them…"
"Very few? Who else?"
"The Tyrells…"
"The Tyrells know about the tunnel?!"
"No, no, the Tyrells, they killed King Robert!"
"I know! The queen is dead, too." Lyman tries to hoist Gaheris up onto his feet. As they shift, something falls out of the maester's robes, clattering on the ground. He looks down at his feet – there lies Robert's crown, its golden antlers glistening in the shadows.
"The boy? Is he safe? Is he here?"
"The Lannisters took Tommen, but Joffrey is safe."
"Good, good." Gaheris wraps shaking hands around the crown and slowly, painfully stands, propping himself up against the wall. "He should have his father's crown. So that when the traitors see him, they shall know he is the one true king." As he forces a smile through bloody, chipped teeth, the violet flecks in his pale blue eyes dance in the torchlight.
Night has fallen over the Blackwater Bay as two slender merchant's ships sail into the night. If the sun was still hanging above them, the looming cliffs of Driftmark would be appearing over the horizon. But the only light remaining is the pale orange glow lingering for a few final moments on the Western horizon.
Sansa Stark sits alone on the stern of the leading ship, watching the day fade away. Lady lies by her side, the direwolf hovering on the edge of sleep, exhausted from a long day of blood and terror. Sansa runs her fingers through her wolf's grey fur. They still shake, from time to time, if she lets her mind wonder too far, back to the beach and the blood – the blood she can still taste in the back of her mouth, a grisly ghost of a taste left from her time warging. She had vomited into the sea thrice since they had departed the harbor on Littlefinger's ships. But still the taste remains.
She knows that Jory is still watching her. The Captain stands far back, naught but a shadow on this cloudy night, with no moon nor stars to light the deck. But she can feel him there, watching and waiting. Afraid she will do something drastic. The thought had certainly entertained her, as distance and darkness pulled the towers of the city from view. But she knew better. She could never swim so far. That was the fantasy of some girl who had moved to King's Landing with her father to marry the prince. But now Father was dead, and so was the stupid little girl he had brought south. She was changing, becoming someone new. She has to, to save her dream. And throwing herself into the sea wouldn't help that.
"Sansa?" Arya's voice startles her. She has not heard her sister's approach.
"What?" Sansa turns back, and sees that Jeyne is with her. Even in the dark, she can see both girls' faces glisten with tears. And for the first time in so long as she can remember, Sansa does not want to push Arya away. "Come sit." She beckons them to her side. They slowly, silently kneel beside her, with the wolf in between them.
"Is Father really dead?" Arya whispers.
"I think so," Sansa answers, and breathes out her last strands of hope as she speaks it.
"And Septa Mordane?" Jeyne tugs at the hem of Sansa's dress. She doesn't ask about her own father. They had all watched as he was cut down on the beach, the first to fall.
"Yes. But Syrio avenged her."
"Will the Lannisters come for us?"
"If they do, Syrio will kill them too!" Arya insists, but she pulls herself tighter to Sansa's side.
"Lord Baelish is taking us to White Harbor," Sansa slowly wraps an arm around her sister. She hears the padding of heavy paws on the deck behind them – Nymeria has followed her master up, growling, not threateningly, but in a queer, low, comforting way. "He will protect us. And so will Syrio and Jory and Yorren. And soon we'll be home in Winterfell with Mother and Robb and Bran and Rickon. We'll protect each other."
"The lone wolf dies but the pack survives."
"The Lannisters will never reach us there," Sansa promises. But our pack is not complete, she knows. Father is dead. Edward is missing. And she cannot stay in the North for long. She holds Arya and Jeyne tight, as they rest their heads upon her shoulders and the direwolves curl around them, giving warmth. Together, they rise and fall with the waves, breathing as one in the cold night air. Three frightened girls, two direwolves and a whole world of enemies waiting in the night.
A cool wind blows and the dark clouds shift. In the sky above the sparkling blue eye of the ice dragon appears, marking an ever-true path due-North.
"Look," Arya points up to it. "We are going home."
Your home, Sansa thinks, but not mine. Not anymore. She does not look to the stars, instead staring back longingly over the inky water. My home is with the throne, with a crown upon my head. I will return, no matter what. And this time, nothing will stop me.
Across the bay, charting a course in the opposite direction, the elegant silhouette of the Cinnamon Wind cuts a smooth path through the uneasy night. Like his sisters, Edward Stark sits, arms wrapped around the neck of his direwolf, longing for the memories left behind in their wake. Sansa and Arya… are they even alive? They must be, he tells himself. He would have felt it, otherwise. Just as he knew Father was surely dead. The bond of the pack is strong. Especially when the pack is of wargs. Is Arya one, too? If she is, will I ever know? They may not be dead, but they are certainly in danger – on the run, or prisoners of the Tyrells. Why had Ser Loras tried to take him? He can't imagine why.
The attack on the docks remains mostly a blur in his mind. He had slept for hours as the swan ship made its hasty flight from the city, and awoken as the crew was going to bed. Now he is alone between dark waters and dark sky, with only Tessarion for company.
No. There is another. Footsteps on the deck. He turns, squinting through the dark – Jalabar Xo.
"They told me I'd find you here," the prince leans against the railing beside Edward. "How are you?" The melodic notes of his voice are as soothing as ever, as if fighting off a score of knights had been just another lazy afternoon.
"I'm fine," Edward insists, picking at the railing in front of him with a jagged broken fingernail. He winces as a splinter draws blood. "Where are we going?"
"Volantis. Friends of our captain there will care for you until you may return home."
"I'll be a prisoner." The hairs along Tessarion's back prick up. What if they sell me? The Lannisters and Tyrells are far richer than Father.
"No!" Jalabar is taken aback. "My little lord should not worry! Many ships sail to White Harbor. Word will be sent, once it is safe, and you will go home!"
Home. Edward sighs. Who will be waiting for him when he returns? "Good night, Jalabar."
"An oath was made to your father, boy. Jalabar Xo is a man of his word. No harm shall befall you so long as I live." With that, the prince slips back below deck as silently as he came, leaving Edward and Tessarion alone once again.
Edward reaches under the collar of his shirt, pulling free the pendant Heleana had given him – the carved weirwood with a dark ruby heart. The red gem almost seems to glow as he holds it in his hands. She said it would protect me. Will it still have power even on the other side of the world? A stiff wind blows over the bay, tussling his hair and dusting him with salty sea spray. He watches the clouds above shift with the breeze, rolling back to let the ever-piercing blue eye of the ice dragon stare down at him.
This morning I woke up, ready to sail south to a new home in a strange new place. Now I'm sailing east to another land, twice as strange, twice as frightening and twice as far from home. He holds Tessarrion tighter and watches the eye high above him, unwavering at its station in the heavens as the waves rock him back to sleep. He knows, as the dreams take him, that his sisters and brothers, his father and mother will be dreaming beneath the same watchful star. And one day, he vows, we will meet again beneath it. He lets that flickering spark of hope dance in his chest as his eyes slowly close and the comfort of sleep wraps around it, protecting it as the boy and his wolf sail on.
On, into the future.
A/N: THE END... for now. Thank you all so much for coming on this journey with me! I'm sorry it took so long for me to get these final chapters finished, but life has been crazy for me. It's always been my dream to have my writing published and produced, and I'll be taking the next big step towards that dream this fall when I begin studies for my Masters of English in Creative Writing. To that end, I'll be stepping away from Edward and the wild world of Westeros for a few months as I work on other projects, prepare for school and iron out the wrinkles of this big transition.
But never fear, I will return, and Edward, Sansa, Lyman, Jaime, the Hightowers and all the rest will be back for more adventures in 'The Windblown Wolves,' the second "book" of Edward's story. In it, we will see Edward meet a surprising destiny in the ruins of an ancient empire; Sansa fight to retake her place as the queen of Westeros, Jaime choose a new future, Stannis choose a side with all the kingdoms hanging in the balance and many more surprises! (Including one birthed by flame that many of you have already guessed at) It's going to be a blast, and the hiatus will allow me to better plan and streamline the story, so that it will be more focused and on-schedule than this book was.
Until then, I hope you've enjoyed the first part of this saga. A huge shoutout to sketchywolf for the inspiration and all their encouragement in the writing process. And, as always, all feedback is so greatly appreciated. I strive every day to become a better writer, and hearing from y'all is so incredibly helpful to my craft. Have a lovely summer, and, as our heroes here would say, may the grace of the old gods and the new go with you.