A final stroke of a paintbrush rises and falls across the canvas, matching the motion of the Cinnamon Wind as it rides at full sail on a swift course across the Narrow Sea. The brush's wielder tucks it behind his ear and takes a step back to admire his work. Edward Stark's painted face smiles back at him, surrounded by his whole family – Father and Mother, Robb and Jon, Sansa and Arya, Bran and Rickon. All together again, as they were meant to be.

"They look happy," Iz looks over his shoulder to see the finished work. "I think I like to meet them one day."

"You'd best bring a coat," Edward laughs at the thought of Iz in his baggy short pants and vest shivering in the North wind. Some day in a distant future, where he is home again, that no longer feels so impossible or far away. "One that's made of more than feathers."

"Maybe you can make them move south?" Iz shudders at the thought. "Xondo has told me of the North. Who would want to live there?"

"The Starks are the North." Edward carefully leaves the canvas clamped in place on its board to dry, turning to look to his friend. "It would fall apart without us. That's what Father always said. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell."

"So when are you going to tell me what happened?"

"About what?"

"Between you and Haccar!" Iz gives him a playful shove, eyes eager for answers. "You've been different these past days. Haccar has not bothered us at all!"

"I just…" Edward is quick to blush, his desperate boasting from the confrontation turning to embarrassment in memory. "I just got my painting back, is all."

"How? Did you pull a knife on him? Haccar isn't afraid of anyone but Xondo and the captain!"

"Well, he's afraid of someone else."

"You?" Iz laughs. No amount of friendship could make him believe that.

"No," Edward shrugs, turning away to the railing, looking back to imagine the long-vanished western shoreline. "Do you know what a squire is?"

"A nanny for a knight. Xondo said so."

"Oh. No, not really. Though I guess we do take care of them quite a bit."

"Were you a squire?" Iz' eyes grow wide. He hops up onto the railing.

"For a little bit."

"Why didn't you say that before? Xondo always talks of knights! Is that how you got your scar? In a battle with your knight?"

Edward's hand drifts up to feel the side of his face, the rough skin of the scar wrinkled further by long days beneath the burning ocean sun. The memory of Joffrey lashing out flashes through his brain. He hesitates, letting the sound of the waves drown it out. He looks up to see Iz eagerly waiting for an answer. "I was never in any battles. It was just an accident."

"But what happened to your knight?"

"He and my father had a… misunderstanding. I never saw him again. But he was a famous knight, from a great family. Haccar knew better than to make himself their enemy."

"Well, your secret's safe with me," Iz swears. "Let that crusty old archer be scared of a shadow. But come on, say more! Does that mean you can use a sword?"

"No," Edward sighs. "He never was able to teach me that."


Jaime Lannister leaves the manse of Illyrio Mopatis in the early hours of the morning, when only the faintest golden glow has emerged over the horizon. Save for the echoes of the servants bustling about in the kitchens, the huge estate is silent. Jaime slips into his new armor without a word, creeping down the marble halls and out the door alone. He leaves Tommen asleep, and his Uncle Kevan as well, to deliver the cruel news once the boy awakes. Jaime knows he has not the strength to say it himself. Even Tommen's nurse remains undisturbed in his bed. At least one of us got what we wanted, he muses glumly as he mounts his horse and passes through the gate, riding down into the great city of Pentos as it comes awake around him.

The earliest vendors are already awake, plying their wares in the streets. A stout old woman waves a steaming fresh bun in his direction. He flips a coin her way and she tosses the roll to him, caught with one hand without stopping. He bites in - a perfect crust, thin and crisp and buttered, adding flavor to the soft, flaky bread within. He could have lived here forever… eating rolls and drinking wine, romancing the women, plying his protection to one patron or another and watching Tommen grow into a man who knew his real father. In his mind's eye, the young prince grows to look much like him - the him that should have been, unsullied by a lifetime of blood and deception.

But as he swallows the last warm bite and licks the last traces of butter from his fingertips, he knows he must leave such thoughts behind. And as a flock of bickering gulls crudely welcomes him to the city harbor, he lets them drop. There is only one way forward. Impossible dreams will only drag him down to drown beneath the sea.

"Ser Jaime!" He hears Antario Jast's voice. Scanning the docks before him, he spies the knight clad in the puffy blue and gold shirt of a ship's captain, waving from the stern of a large, rickety looking galley. A flick of the reigns and he turns his horse towards him, dismounting as he nears the ramp. The ships are oddly quiet, with no sign of the ragged and raucous Brave Companions. He casts a confused glance up at Antario, and sees the disgraced maester Qyburn emerge behind him, a welcoming smile on his face.

"Where are the men?" Jaime asks.

"Come, come aboard!" Antario beckons. Without another painful glance back to the city, Jaime obeys, guiding his horse up the ramp, where a scruffy deck boy eagerly waits to take the reins.

"It is good to see you again, Ser Gerold," Qyburn extends a respectful hand in his direction. Jaime takes it, having forgotten until now the alias his uncle had given to the sellswords. "I can see you are confused. You see, Braavos has forbidden Pentos from hiring sellswords, so our men may not enter the city. They wait encamped some leagues up the coast. We will meet them there. Ser Antario has hired two fine galleys to carry us across the Narrow Sea."

"Once the last of all supplies are loaded, we'll set sail," Antario declares, pacing off to inspect the crewmen at their work. "We'll be home before you know it."

Home… Jaime thinks, wandering to the rail and staring down at the dark blue water below, just starting to sparkle in the light of the rising sun. He can't say he knows where that is anymore. Qyburn slowly walks up beside him. "How long has it been, old man? What's waiting for you over there?"

"Oh, nothing great, I suppose," Qyburn sighs. "I have always made my dwelling where knowledge lives, and it knows no borders. I have learned much in exile, though. Much that I would share with my order, were they not such fools. Perhaps one day they will learn. And what of you? Do you have a family to return to in Lannisport, when all this fighting is done?"

"I don't know…" Jaime turns his head to the bow, pointed west across the dark blue of the retreating night sky, where the moon still hangs in fading defiance. Cersei dead. Tyrion lost. Joffrey and Myrcella turned against me, if Renly has not slain them already. Once this dark work is done - who will receive me? "I have my lord's orders. Nothing more."


"Gantun!" Jalabar Xo's voice cuts through the ocean wind. Edward, standing blindfolded in the center of the deck, spins on his right foot, arm sticking out straight to jab a pointing finger to the northern horizon. "Good, boy!" The prince shouts, Iz and Kojja Mo applauding approvingly at his side while Tessarion naps in the sun.

Edward snaps back into a neutral position, arms pressed flat against his side. He feels the grooves of the boards beneath his feet as he shifts in place, the Island Tongue's words for directions rolling over in his brain like a lyrical refrain. He senses the warmth of the sun on his left cheek, a warm touch on his scar – they were well after noon, so that meant west. On a clear day, Jalabar said, a sailor should only need the sun to steer.

"Saxtun!" Jalabar yells again. South. Edward shoots his arm out and jumps into a spin, landing faced in the opposite direction, his finger confidently jutting out in front of him. He waits in his pose until he hears the affirming claps. Right again. His arm is halfway back to his side when he hears another voice shout out from far higher above.

"Mazamanar!"

The word he has been waiting to hear for weeks. Tearing off his blindfold, Edward squints at the sudden rush of glaring sunlight but dashes forward anyway. He darts over ropes and up the steps to the bow, where Xondo and Old Cassa are waiting. The wiry old navigator's lazy eye is squinched shut, the other pressed tight against a far-eye. Edward nearly crashes into the railing in his hurry, leaning out to scan the horizon. With a thud, Tessarion jumps up beside him, huge paws dangling over the ledge as he pants, tongue hanging out to taste the salty air. But try as he might, Edward can see nothing in the distance but white-capped waves and the pale blue line where the sky meets the sea.

"There's nothing there." He looks up at Xondo and Cassa, confused. "Cassa, can I…"

"No!" Cassa quickly cuts him off without lowering the far-eye, his words sharp and final, but not angry. His long fingers slowly turn the golden gears to focus his view. "I gave a far-eye to a shipboy once before. Never again."

"You have Xondo to blame for that, wolfboy," Xondo laughs. "Fifteen years later, old bat still won't let me touch the damn thing."

"And I'm wise to do it! Your hands only got bigger and clumsier!" Cassa lowers the far-eye back into the leather pouch around his neck. "That Lys out there for sure. I give us a day to berth."

"Yes!" Iz cheers, catching up to them as Cassa wonders off on his creaky old legs. But Edward only turns back to stare disappointed at the empty horizon.

"I want to see it," he mutters. His hands weren't big and clumsy like Xondo's. But he knew better by now than to argue with Old Cassa.

"Well, there is a way," Xondo turns him around, pointing upward. Edward bends his neck back to look up, following the towering mast as it climbs through the taught rigging and huge white sails, up, up to the perch where two sentinel archers keep their watch. A shiver runs down his spine as he sees it all sway to and fro in the wind and with the waves, the men at the top looks as small as sparrows up so high. He gulps.

"You can do it Ed!" Iz slaps him across the back, urging him forward, back down the steps and towards the mast. He sees Jalabar waiting, a concerned look curling on his face as he realizes what's happening. Ed steps closer and closer to the base of the mast, slowly becoming all-too-aware of the creaking of the wood and the lurching of the waves beneath them.

"Iz, I don't know how…" He stops, looking back. But before his friend can respond…

"Wolfboy's climbing the mast!" Xondo bellows from the bow, announcing the spectacle to every sailor, seagull and fish in earshot. As he shouts, the Cinnamon Wind crests a wave, lurching up and slamming back down into the sea. Edward slips forward, catching himself on the mast. He can already hear a crowd forming behind him.

"Ed, wait," Iz reaches out to steady him, the encouraging look on his face turning to worry. He glances over his shoulder. "You don't have to."

Edward slowly places one hand on the sticky, tarred rope forming one arm of the dangling ladder. He looks back at the crew – Xondo crowing confidently, Haccar squinting accusingly, Kojja and Jalabar standing by, nervous. The prince is about to open his mouth to speak, but Edward, locking eyes with him in a brief moment, shakes his head no. I have to do it. This is what makes a sailor.

"I can do it," he insists, a promise to himself as much as Iz. Tessarion nudges the back of his knee with his head, the bare skin prickling under the touch of rough, salt-matted fur. Edward looks down into his wolf's eyes – blue and orange – seeming to glow with the only assurance he needs. He grabs the other rope. Iz steadies him with one small hand on his back as he pulls himself up, left foot settling on the first rung.

I have the wolfblood in me. Show them what I can do.

His second foot is on the rung now, fully departing the deck. His hands clinch tight around the ropes, holding taught against the mast. But without the familiar solid boards beneath his feet, he feels one with the motion of the ship like never before, clipping over the waves with a thumping, swaying rhythm that sends his stomach into a spiral.

Don't stop, don't think about it. Keep moving. He imagines Arya in front of him, leading the way as she had in their days playing in the trees and parapets of Winterfell. He reaches higher on the ropes, finding a grip on the black, tarry ropes, warm to the touch, stepping to the next rung. Higher and higher.

The cheers below him begin to grow as he takes one step, then another. The thin soles of his shoes are slick on the rungs – once smooth oak, still sturdy, but weathered by the storms and the feet of rushed sailors into warped, splintered things. He can feel each indent and groove, but they hold, and he presses onward.

He holds his face a breath away from the mast, letting it consume his whole view. Nothing above and nothing below, only the safety of the sturdy old wood, the one thing close enough to touch. He can feel the wind running over the back of his shaved head, but he swallows down a spurt of bile and climbs higher; one hand, then another; one foot, then the next. He hasn't counted the steps, but feels he must be halfway up by now, each rung carrying him into stiffer, colder breezes that swat away the warmth of the sun before it can reach him.

And then comes the fiercest gust yet! A mighty burst catches the ladder, pulling on the ropes with all its might, the creaking of the lines and the thump of the sails rising to a roar. For a moment, Edward fears the ladder has snapped and sent him flying – but instead it smacks back hard against the mast, crushing his fingers between rope and wood. With a cry of pain, one hand lets go and he is swinging out, a rush of blue sky flashing before his eyes as his left hand grips tighter than it has ever held anything before.

In an instant, the cheers from the deck go silent, the breath sucked from their lungs as Edward dangles precariously above them. He can see how high he is now. Too high. His friends seem so small, like Sansa's dolls scattered out on the floor. He floats, limp, swaying in the open air, pulse racing, heart pounding, sweat clumped cold on his face, waiting for the next gust to come and carry him away. But him far below, Tessarion does not freeze in fright, jumping at the mast as if impossibly trying to follow. Edward feels the wolf's mighty paws shake the wood, and his fierce barks snap him back to his senses.

With a shrieking, primal cry, he swings his loose body back to the mast with all his might, desperately grasping with his right hand. It finds the rope. As the wind begins to rise again, he holds himself tight to the mass, muscles screaming with pain, terror flooding his body, beginning to shake him. No. What was it Arya's teacher had said? Fear cuts deeper than swords. He holds himself steady, slowing his breath, listening to the sound of Tessarion urging him. He lets the wildness return, warming his blood and silencing the fear. Onward. He takes the next step.

The cheers resume as he pulls himself up and up, letting the rush of adrenaline silence all of his doubts, a wild spirit burying everything but the climb. A sharp splinter pierces his foot but he barely notices; on to the next rung. Another and another, until the shouts above him have grown louder than the ones below and his hand, reaching up for more rope, smacks down on the sturdy planks of the archers' nest.

"Careful, wolfboy!" The first archer shouts. Edward lets his vision clear as strong arms wrap around his shoulders and lift him up into the safety of the sturdy railing of the small wooden cage. Edward collapses against the wall as his feet come down on solid ground once more. The creaking of the ship no longer bothers him here. It's done. He looks up to see the sentries, Kirra and Bacci, looking down expectedly as his breath slows back down. He rolls over, arms drooping over the edge, finally able to relax as he peers across the horizon.

"Where is it?" he gasps, the moment his lungs grow strong enough to shape words. "Where's Lys?"

"Dead on ahead, wolfboy," Kirra smiles, her slender arm pointing out over the waves. Edward follows her finger to spy, hovering tantalizingly beneath a distant cloudbank, a tiny dark dot that marks the end of their voyage. The most spectacular dot he has ever seen.

Tonight, Edward thinks, he will start another painting. They will all be in it – Jalabar, Iz, Xondo, Old Jezra, Captain Quhuru and Kojja… and him and his wolf, all together on the Cinnamon Wind. He was one of them now, he knew. Joined together from across the sea, a new family for a new journey. Fists raised triumphantly to the vast blue sky, he joins the cheers of the crew and Tessarion's howls, whooping for the gods to hear.


A/N: Thank you all for reading! I apologize for the delay with this chapter, between Finals and the holiday season, I've been swamped! But never fear, there's more exciting chapters right around the corner once I get my last projects submitted. In the meantime, it means so much to know that y'all are enjoying the story and waiting for more! As always, all comments, critiques and questions are very welcome in the comments below. Very Happy Holidays to everyone!