The Cinnamon Wind does not linger long in the Stepstones. Cisterns refreshed with water from the island springs and larder filled with new goods, the elegant swan ship casts off to sail once more on its southeastern course. As the last island passes from sight, Edward Stark says a silent prayer to the old gods and the new for keeping their time there blessedly free from pirates. He and Iz recline on the deck as the day draws to a close, their duties done, sharing a lemon as Tessarion sleeps nearby.

"Old Jezra always makes sure we have plenty of fruit," Iz explains, tearing another wedge off, the bitter juice splattering as he bites into it. "It keeps away the sea madness."

"What's that?" Edward asks, not remembering any such illness from his lessons.

"First you get tired. Can't work. Can't stay awake. Then your gums start to bleed, bruise everywhere, rashes, spots… By the end of it, you'd throw yourself overboard, if you still had the strength to get out of bed. Just blood and puss and rot and the brain goes so far you don't even notice. No coming back from that. Xondo says it came for whole crews in the old days. They called them Ships of the Dead. They'd be found adrift, full of corpses, some still breathing, but dead on the inside. Black rot around their eyes, turned red, staring straight ahead like they could already see the underworld. And sometimes, they'd start to scream." Iz turns to see his friend aghast at the description. "But that never happen to our ships. Islanders are smart. We know the fruit keeps the madness away."

"Good," Edward nods, snatching up the rest of the lemon and shoving it in his mouth to ensure protection from this newly discovered horror. No wonder the Starks never sailed, he thinks.

Iz smirks watching him. "Don't worry. Plenty more where that come from." He leans back, pulling his knife and a chunk of driftwood from the island out of his pocket and begins to whittle. "Before you come here, what you do? Would you be a knight? Xondo says all Western men must become knights or be chained in Oldtown."

"Not really," Edward laughs, eager to change the subject from talk of death and disease. "Lots of men never become knights. There's hardly any in the North. You have to worship the Seven to become one."

"Your people do not worship these Seven?"

"My mother does. She wanted us all to, but I know Father didn't. Not really."

"What about you?"

"I don't know." Edward remembers his earlier prayers. It was second nature. He barely thought about it. But didn't his powers come from the Old Gods? Surely that meant something. "I never liked the sept, it had too many rules."

"Then you can't be a knight?"

"I never really wanted to be one anyway," Edward shrugged. "I don't like fighting. Once I told Mother I wanted to be a maester, like Luwin. He taught us all our lessons. But she said she'd never send me away to Oldtown. So I decided to be a painter instead."

"And what did she think of that?"

"She said that would be good, because painters don't get hurt." Edward smiles at the memory.

"What's your family like?" Iz asks.

Edward pauses for a moment. He thinks back to the happy times in Winterfell, tugging on his heart. "There was Father and Mother and six of us. And Jon, but he's a bastard. I like him though. He went away to be at the Wall. He was the only other one with hair like Father, though, besides me and Arya. It's Stark hair. That's special, I think."

"I thought your sister had red hair?" Iz remembers the painting on the beach.

"No, that's Sansa. She's older than me. Arya's my twin."

"Which one's your favorite?"

"Favorite?" Edward is taken aback by the thought and the memories it shakes loose, rushing to the front of his brain – Arya chasing him, pushing him into adventures and dragging him into trouble. Sansa comforting him, singing to him, holding his hand as he fell asleep. Sansa, who was a warg like him. But he also remembers their fights – the anger in their eyes on those final days in the city. If he hadn't ruined everything, would they still be together?

"They're very different," He finally answers. "So they fought a lot. Sansa always wanted to be the perfect lady. We liked to study together, and she loved my paintings. Arya hated all that. She would like it here, though. At home, everyone always told her to wear dresses and be quiet and not run. But your ladies sail and drink and fight and wear pants. She'd like that."

"She sounds like fun! I think I'd like her better," Iz decides.

"They're both fun." Edward insists. "They're just… different." And as the ship sails on, he says another silent prayer, to any gods that may be listening, that one day he will again have the chance to tell them just how much he loves them.

Leagues north of the Cinnamon Wind, over endless sea, two twin ships continue on their path, following the Eye of the Ice Dragon home. The Grey Ghost in the lead, The Ruddy Gull drifting close behind, they pass silently into the night as the last traces of scarlet fade from the western horizon, leaving nothing but inky black waters before them as they turn into the mouth of The Bite. Hovering far across the bay, like faint will-o-wisps, the sparkling light of a dozen or more distant flaming beacons watch their passage with curious, unblinking eyes.

"Those are the Three Sisters," Sansa Stark points, leaning over the railing of the Grey Ghost, huddled tight beneath a heavy blanket to shield against the chill. Each night drew colder, the bitter winds of the North beckoning them closer to home. Jeyne shivers beneath the same blanket, huddled close to Sansa's side for warmth, so close she can hear the chattering of her friends' teeth.

"D..d..do you think there are pirates out there?"

"There are no pirates, not anymore," Sansa insists, matter-of-factly. "The Starks killed them all."

"Septa said…"

"That the Stepstones are dens of avarice and sin, I know," Sansa sighs. "She was probably right. But that doesn't mean pirates. They don't have to be pirates. All they need is a false beacon, and they can lure ships to them."

"Septa was always right," Jeyne shudders. Sansa gives her a begrudging pat on the back. But inside, she grimaces. It's a lie. Septa said Father would come home safe. Septa said everything would be alright. And that I would be queen. Still she missed the old woman. Remember patience, remember grace. All the old lessons. Jeyne lost her father, too. She needs me. Feeling about beneath the blanket, she finds Jeyne's hand, small and cold, and holds it tight. Still, she thinks, it would be easier to feed her a bottle of wine and let her pass out.

"I think I'd like to go there," Arya blurts out. Sansa jumps, she'd nearly forgotten her sister was there, standing unbothered by the cold. "I'd like to see a pirate."

"No you would not!" Jeyne gasps from beneath the blanket.

"Syrio says there were lots of pirates in Braavos. But they were no match for a water dancer. Once he killed a dozen in one fight!"

"Well, if the Stepstones ever trouble us again, we'll know where to send you," Sansa smiles. Now there's something Septa never would have approved of. But if Arya won't be a lady, at least she'll be a fighter. We need all the fighters we can get. She reaches out her free arm, pulling Arya in close.

"I'm not cold," she protests as she disappears beneath the blanket. But she doesn't fight, only poking her head out to peep over the top of the railing. "Will mother be there, when we get to White Harbor?"

"I don't know," Sansa sighs, imagining Lady Catelyn waiting on a creaking dock for their return. Does Mother know that Father is dead? Who is going to tell her? She hugs Jeyne and Arya each a little more tightly.

"Is it true that Sistermen have webbed fingers?" Arya asks, her eyes once again drawn in by the beacons.

"Don't be silly…"

"Have you ever met one?"

"No…"

"Then you don't know, do you!"

"You should listen to your sister, my lady," Lord Petyr Baelish's soft voice breaks the silence behind them. The three girls turn to see him and Jory Cassell standing just beyond the twin shadows of their direwolves. "Many men and women of the Sisters have webbing between their fingers. And their toes, too. They call it The Mark. And you should listen to your septa, too, may the Mother bless her spirit. They are a cruel people, bred of a cruel land. No place for the like of you. Now, it's time for sleep. If the winds hold, we'll see White Harbor in two days or less. You will want to be well-rested upon your return."

"You heard him, m'ladies," Jory points to the glow of the lantern marking the port below decks. "Off to bed with the lot of you."

"Yes, Jory," the girls answer, shuffling towards the light, still wrapped within the blanket. "Good night, Lord Baelish."

"Please, my ladies, I implore you, it's Petyr, only just Petyr," Baelish's white teeth glint in the dark as he smiles, guiding them on the path. The wolves follow, but stop at the top of the ladder, unwilling to lstep beneath the deck. As the others climb down, Sansa stops to stroke Lady's face, planting a soft kiss between her eyes. Even at night, the wolf is still warm. She lingers a moment longer, remembering the warmth of breathing as a wolf, running with her pack through the dragonpit. It had been so long since she had warged. For all her fear of discovery, she found that she missed it. But here there was no room to run.

Burying her fingers into Lady's thick fur, she breathes in the familiar smells of musk and wolfsweat, mixed with the thick salt of the sea - a perfume to none but her. She stays in place, as her breathing slows to match the wolf's pace, two hearts beating as one to an ancient rhythm… until the touch of a firm but gentle hand startles her back to reality. Baelish, leaning over her, face cast half in light and half in shadow. He has scarce let her out of his sight since the night he had found her with the wine, near ready to jump into the sea and swim back to Joffrey.

"It's time, my lady."

"Of course." She gives Lady a final kiss good night and stands again, lowering herself down the ladder into the cabin below, scarcely warmer than the open night air, save for the packed heat of the crew's bodies. Behind her, Baelish pulls the hatch shut, blocking out the stars.

The night sky, however, still burns bright above Edward's head as he and Iz sit at the bow of the Cinammon Wind, Tessarrion sprawled out over their feet, keeping them locked in place as they listen intently to the creaky old voices of Old Jezra and Cassa, the Wind's navigator, as they recount the blurred, seemingly endless years of their time at sea.

"Which one do you think is older?" Iz whispers in Edward's ear. Edward tilts his head to the side, squinting in the moonlight to examine the faces of the two men, seemingly equally ancient but opposites in every way. Jezra is a head shorter than his friend, even sitting down. The chef is stout, built like a barrel of ale, with thick, muscular arms and legs from a lifetime of heaving heavy rations up and down stairs. His nose is flat and large, with flared nostrils leaving plenty of room to inhale his array of spices, while his eyes are locked in a permanent squint from the dim light the larder. His head is bald, save for a ring of tight white curls of hair still clinging to the back of his scalp.

In contrast, Cassa is too tall to comfortably fit beneath the ship's deck, leaving his back eternally hunched. His spindly legs sprawl out in front of him as he reclines, attempting to recall his latest story of yore to share, long fingers scratching his head, still covered with thick hair, drawn back into intricate braids and tied together with a feathered band. His crumbling leather vest lies open, exposing just how thin he really is – ribs poking out beneath faded tattoos and a scabby layer of salt. Edward knows that despite his appearances, the navigator is no weaker than Jezra, having watched him effortlessly scale the Wind's towering masts many times since their journey began, something he himself was still much too frightened to attempt.

"I think they were born on the same day," Edward finally answers. "That's why they're never apart."

"Tell the Four Tales!" Jezra croaks before Iz can respond, taking a swig of ale.

"You lose your mind, you old gull!" Cassa laughs, a shaky sound that rattles around in his ribs. "Er'one here heard Four Tales since they were babes in cradle!"

"Eh, but we have new sailors!" Jezra points a stubby finger at the boys.

"Yes! Yes!" Xondo's voice bellows out from the back of the crowd. "Tell wolfboy the Four Tales! If you finally fall overboard Cassa, maybe he can lead us!"

Cassa sighs the familiar sigh of an old soul who has spun the same story far too many times. Edward had heard the same sound from Old Nan many a time home in Winterfell. Nonetheless, he begins, pointing a narrow finger up to the sky, towards the star Edward knows best, glowing soft and blue to the north. "You know that star, boys?"

"The eye of the ice dragon!" Edward blurts out. "It points North!" Before he can finish, the rest of the crew, even Iz, has burst out in thunderous laughter. Tessarrion's ears prick up at the sudden noise but, sensing no threat, the dozing wolf goes back to sleep.

"Leave him be!" Cassa scolds the crowd, waving them into silence with his bony arms. "All people have their own names for stars! Even in ancient times, our own islands knew them by different faces before we joined and formed the Four Tales." His gaze fixes on Edward's small shadow, his dark eyes piercing, well-accustomed to the night. "What you call ice dragon, we call the Warrior Fish, and that is the tip of the great sword upon his nose. Show him, Izarro."

Iz points up to the pale, unmoving star, gently guiding Edward's hand to draw out a new shape in the sky. The body of the ice dragon becomes the body of a new wish, its right wing now a huge sailfin. Further down, two more stars beyond the picture Edward had once memorized through Maester Luwin's looking-glass are added to become the tail. His eyes widen to reflect the new image taking shape before him as Cassa spins the first tale.

"It was first seen by the great prince Makarro Mahalaz, the son of Mkenno, who ended the wars between our islands. He sailed beyond the reefs in search of adventure and fresh catch. It was there that he met the fiercest beast of the sea ever known to man! The Warrior Fish! Longer than a man and the color of deadly steel, with a razor-sharp fin three heads high and, most terrifying of all, a sword half its own length affixed to it the tip of its nose. Many fish fight on the line, but none like this, not even a shark! It shook the sea fiercely, creating a tempest of its own making that engulfed their small ship!

"When it first emerged from the waves, sword cutting through the air, the crew stood frozen in terror! It's fin and sword were like nothing men of land had ever seen – a beast released from depths of sea beneath sea! Unable to free itself from the hook, the Warrior Fish stopped fighting and began to attack. It rammed the ship, piercing hull with its sword, slicing off hand of noble captain Kindrij! Crew became consumed by terror and despair, praying to the gods for release!

"But Prince Makarro was greatest warrior of his time! He grab harpoon and wait until the Warrior Fish jump too far, crashing onto the deck in a whirlwind of death! But Makarro is steady, remembering that even the greatest fish are not blessed to leave the sea god's kingdom. So as the beast flailed about and crew cowered in terror, he stabbed, and drew forth crimson blood! The Warrior Fish hurled itself back into sea, finally free of hook.

"But as the sea settled, Makarro saw that it had left a trail – its blood scarring water in its wake. He swore he would not rest until the beast was slain, and so they followed its path, far north, far beyond the charted seas. And while the prince never found the revenge he sought, he discovered something much greater. For it was the Warrior Fish that first led our people to the lands beyond our island home."

A moment of silence descends as Cassa's tale ends, the finals words floating over the crowd, only disturbed by the soft knocking of waves upon the hull. Until, at last, Xondo breaks the quiet with a cheer. "And we say thanks to the Warrior Fisk, for without his bloody sword, we'd have no ale!" He raises a sloshing toast to the pale blue star as the others join in the cheer.

"Now, now!" Jezra's voice booms over the ruckus as he refills his flagon. "Tell the Second Tale! Tell them about The Galley!"

Cassa grins, his teeth flashing white in the night. For all his protests, it is clear he's eager to share these old legends. "The Galley," he coughs, clearing his throat, and pointing to a bright star due east, "is from a time even older than the Prince Makarro…."

Edward smiles, leaning onto Iz's shoulder as the pull of sleep begins to tug at the back of his brain. But he forces himself awake, counting the stars instead as new constellations are formed, determined not to miss a single word of Cassa's stories. He thinks about Prince Makarro – the greatest warrior of his time, so Cassa said. That's what they say about Ser Jaime, he thinks. But he can't fight anyone now. He remembers the fleeting glance he thought he had caught of the knight on that final day in the city. Had he imagined it? Or had his old mentor really escaped from the cells? If he had, Edward wonders, where is he now? Another mystery. Hopefully somewhere far away, where he couldn't try to hurt the Starks ever again. Did Prince Makarro ever have a squire? If he had, Edward can tell from the stories, he never would have betrayed him.

Far off, beneath the same stars, a small fishing boat follows the pointed tip of the Galley due east. If it has a name, the paint on its side long since wore off under relentless saltwater pressure. It is an aged, rickety vessel, infested with rats and an unwashable stench of rotted fish. It was not built to pass beyond Blackwater Bay, much less cross the Narrow Sea, as each shuddering tumble over an uneven wave reminds its nervous passengers. But it was bought with a bag of gold not for its seaworthiness but for its invisibility. Such a small, wretched ship would never be suspected of carrying a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.

Little princely left about him, Jaime Lannister thinks has he pulls a rough woolen blanket snug under the chin of young Prince Tommen Baratheon, at long last asleep. He says a faithless prayer that tonight the boy will stay in slumber, undisturbed by storms or nightmares. As he snuffs out the dim light of the lamp hanging from the ceiling, the pale shape of Tommen's round face lingers in the dark. My son. Jaime had almost said it tonight, as Tommen slipped away into the world of dream. What does it matter if I say it now? There's nothing left for us in Westeros. The true Baratheons will surely have Joffrey and Myrcella killed. Tyrion is probably dead already. And Cersei… He shudders at the thought as he slips out of the ship's lone cabin and climbs the broken steps onto the deck. Tommen's all that I have left, now. We could stay in Pentos. Live as father and son. A peaceful life. But he knows his own father will never allow it.

Waiting for him on the deck, while Ser Addisyn Swyft minds the wheel, Kevan Lannister stands stiff as a board, as if daring the rough sea to try and knock him over. Even in the dim moonlight, the dark circles around Jaime's uncle's eyes are unmistakable, the scars of night upon night of scarce sleep. His blonde beard, ever trimmed with impeccable precision, has grown unkempt and wiry. He beckons Jaime to his side and turns to the stern, looking back west towards their home – if they can still call it that.

"We will be in Pentos soon," he speaks, voice dry and thirsty. "You must be prepared."

"Prepared for what?" Jaime stands beside his uncle, careful not to lean against the splintered rail.

"The Spider has arranged safety for the prince with an ally of his in the city. I will remain there to ensure his safekeeping until time that the war is won."

"The war…" Jaime cannot keep his jaw from dropping. "Surely father cannot think…"

"The realm is in chaos. The people crave a strong, firm hand. I fear the other children are lost, but our mission was not a total failure. Once Lord Tywin sets all to right, Tommen will return to take the throne."

"With what army?" Jaime knew his father was proud beyond reason, but this…

"The forces of the kingdoms are divided, shaken without a true king to follow. Our army's one real foe is the Northmen. With Ned Stark dead, his son will seek vengeance. He's a green boy, but has seasoned commanders at his hand. Which is why they must be removed from the field."

"And how do you plan to do that? Robb Stark blames us for crippling his brother and killing his father. He's not going to stop until we're fed to his wolves and our heads line the walls of Winterfell! This is madness!" Jaime turns away, fuming, only for Kevan to tug him forcefully back, hands gripping his shoulders with a strength he's never felt from his uncle before.

"Robb Stark is Ned Stark's son. He may be brash, but he will act honorably. He will not abandon his people to chase vengeance!" In the dark, Kevan's emerald eyes glisten with severity. He really means it, Jaime thinks. He actually believes this. He stops resisting.

"How will you draw him back to the North?"

"By now your father's words have already reached the Three Sisters and the Iron Islands, offering them independence in exchange for joining the war on our side. They will strike the North from the west and from the east, pillaging as The Mountain did the Riverlands. While the North is distracted, you will take Winterfell. You have been there. You know its defenses. And once we have it, Robb Stark will have no choice but to abandon his campaign."

"Me? Take Winterfell? With what army? The sistermen are rabble and the Ironborn will never follow me, even if they could make it off their ships."

"That is what the gold is for." Kevan releases his grip. "Sellswords. We will buy you an army. And with them, you will deliver Winterfell into our hands."

It almost seems possible, Jaime thinks. But what is it worth? He has no answer. After a moment, Kevan pats him on the back, his touch now soft.

"Go to sleep. We have much work left to do." With that, he walks away, leaving Jaime alone with his thoughts.

Slowly, he sinks down onto the rail, not minding the press of splinters into his arms, running his fingers through his matted, tangled mess of hair, ruined by his time in the Black Cells. The sea is rough tonight. Yet despite the waves, Jaime knows he will sleep peacefully. And the thought of that terrifies him. His broken vows. His lost brother. His abandoned children. His dead sister and lover, murdered in front of him by their son. All this should haunt his dreams. But these nights on this nameless ship, sleeping in the open air, have been the most peaceful he has known in far too long. What kind of a man does that make me?

He squints out into the distance. There's no horizon to the West. The star-swirled black sky meets its dark reflection in the water and blurs into one. Jaime sits, unmoving, and watches the ripples of their wake disappear into the oblivion of night. He sits and waits until he falls asleep propped against the rail, neck crooked, one arm dangling over the edge, dipping perilously close to the embrace of the sea. In his dreams, he can hear the sounds of war as they consume his far-off home.