The white raven flies long and far over the plains of Westeros, parting ways with its scores of brothers and sisters as it dips down out of the sky, its destination in sight – the towering ringwall of the Bracken stronghold of Stone Hedge. As it descends in the dull light of a grey morning, it finds a cemetery awaiting.
The bodies from the battle between the Lord Eddard Stark's royal force and Gregor Clegane's Lannister raiders have finally been buried to the last man – a long and arduous task for the ramshackle groups of surviving knights holding the castle. Ser Karyl Vance scowls at the sight of the raven passing overhead from his watch upon the ramparts, looking down at the battlefield with a scowl, his long black hair tied tight behind his head, scabbed knuckles gripping the parapet. A cold breeze blows the stench of death back up into his face. Mere dirt cannot contain the memory of those who died here. But there is one death above all that concerns the grim knight – Lord Stark himself.
The Hand of the King and Warden of the North – his body still missing. Ser Byron Birch and Ser Archibald Pyle were the only knights remaining from their party that remained to tell the tale of the battle - the first, a bloviating, pious fraud, the latter a humble, unassuming knight – but neither willing to divulge the details of what had happened to the other survivors of Lord Stark's force or how they had managed to lose custody of their leader's body. But wherever the answers lie, the dead tell no tales.
Turning away from the dim sunrise, Karyl follows the smell of freshly fried bacon back into the lord's solar, where the keepers of Stone Hedge break their fast. The daughters of Lord Bracken crowd and titter in the company of Ser Marq Piper, his unwitting companion. The eager maidens of the castle had scarce left the dashing blonde knight be since he had arrived in their home. At the far end of the table, Archibald and Byron take their meal in silence, a sound he has long since become accustomed to receiving from them.
"Good morn, sers!" Karyl barks as he strides past the table, snatching a blistering hot sausage out of a steaming bowl. The hot grease burns his tongue, but the sudden rush clears the lingering stench of the battlefield from his nostrils. "Autumn is upon us. I saw the white raven."
"May the Seven bless us," Archibald looks up from his porridge. "Maester Aberforth was looking for you, ser."
"The bastard is already in there with him," Byron scowls, the morning meal having done little to warm his perennially cold mood.
"Ser Marq?" Karyl looks back, but the big knight remains distracted by the fawning ladies. Seeing no point in waiting, he walks on to the maester's chambers.
There he finds Aberforth, an old and nervous man prone to shrink into the walls when not being directly looked at, already half disappeared into a far corner by the time Karyl enters. On the table in front of him lie three missives, already opened by Harry Rivers, Lord Bracken's young bastard, scarcely 16 years old by Karyl's best guess, but confident in command of his illicit father's keep nonetheless. Harry is pacing the room in a fury. Whatever news the ravens hold, it cannot be good.
"Did you see the raven?" Karyl asks.
Aberforth nods, solemnly. "Aye, ser, and not the only one. Three more came in the night."
"What is it?" No answer comes, the maester only gestures to the table on his way to a hasty exit. Warily, Karyl picks up the first wrinkled scroll, its broken seal bearing the mark of the Darry plowman – Savage mountain tribesmen have descended from the Vale, purportedly under the command of the Imp, Tyrion Lannister, and assaulted the sparsely defended Castle Darry. "Surely this can't be true?" But again, no answer but the pacing thumps of Harry's feet.
Karyl reaches for the second scroll, this time marked by the leaping trout of Riverrun. His heart sinks as he reads the lines – The battle beneath the Golden Hills is lost. Lord Tywin's army has swept the Riverlands' defenses. His home, Wayfarer's Rest, has fallen; his father is missing. Tossing the paper aside, he slumps into the nearest chair, the birthmark on his face growing darker with a mix of grief, rage and consternation. Dark wings, dark words.
The cold lump in his throat grows as he reaches for the final scroll, this one bearing the holy seven-sided star of the Faith. There, signed by the High Septon himself, is the most shocking message of all – King Robert is dead. And nothing more. He lets the scroll drop to the floor.
"The western bastards!" Harry finally explodes. His voice cracks as he shouts, a reminder he is only a boy, though prematurely hardened by war. His dark auburn hair is tangled, black circles ring his eyes. Karyl remembers being his age once – an unhurried youth. "We must rally the men at once! Join Lord Tully's force and reap bloody vengeance from their cowardly skulls!"
"No," Karyl shakes his head sternly, as much as it pains him to admit it. "We stay here."
"What?" Harry is taken aback. "Your home is fallen, your family lands overtaken! For all you know, your father is dead, your wife and daughters at the mercy of Lannister dogs! What kind of lord would stand by and…"
"Stop," Karyl lurches to his feet, stopping Harry's pacing in his tracks as he towers over the angry lad. "If I am, as you suppose, Lord of Wayfairer's Rest, than by rank I hold the command. And with that authority, my command is that we stay. With what men would we relieve the armies in the west? You have what? A score at your command? And I have none. No. This is your family's keep. Those are your sisters in the other room. They are your duty. We will do all that is within our power, and that is to hold this keep and defend these people, until reinforcements arrive. Once the king's men and the northern force relieve us, we may join them and claim vengeance. Are those terms satisfactory?"
Harry pauses for a second, glancing at the door for a moment. But at last, his shoulders relax as he turns back to Karyl. "Yes. I'll see to the men and begin rebuilding the defenses."
"Very good," Karyl stops him before he can leave, a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "But first, we are in need of knights. You have fought valiantly for your family, Harry Rivers. Prepare yourself, and I will knight you today in the sept. We shall stand together with the blessing of the Seven to right these wrongs."
"It would be an honor, my lord," Harry's face brightens, and he bows quickly on his way out the door. Karyl allows himself a faint smile watching him go. A good man. Too few left in this world. He looks back to the missives strewn across the table. Waiting is the hardest part of war. But for now, he can only be grateful. For him, it means more time. Time to discover what the survivors are hiding. Time to learn what truly happened to Lord Eddard Stark.
A seedpod bursts into a cloud of red dust as Edward Stark crushes it beneath a wooden paddle, scraping the released spice into a small wooden bowl.
"Good, good wolfboy," Old Jezra nods approvingly, snatching the bowl into his own hands and shuffling over to the bubbling pot of gruel. Edward waves away the thick smoke filling the ship's kitchen as he hurries along behind the old cook, watching as the freshly collected spice is dumped into the mix, spiralling out to flavor the whole batch as Jezra's weathered old hands turn the huge wooden ladle. "Tell me why we crush the jungi fruit now? Why not before, like other spice?"
"It loses its flavor if you leave it out too long!"
"Excellent! You have fast mind! Now fetch tray!" Jezra breathes in the pungent, rich smell of the spiced rice mixture, before dipping the ladle in one last time to scoop up sticky portions as Edward hurries back to him, carrying a tray with three brightly colored ceramic bowls. The cook dolls out the helpings in turn. "One for captain. One for Kojja. One for our Prince."
Smiling at his work, he turns away, but passes too close to the pot, wincing as his bare arm brushes the scalding metal.
"Kriftar!" the old man shouts, the ladle dropping with a wet thud to the floor. Edward jumps back, nearly dropping the tray. "Hold it!" Jezra reaches out to steady him. "Mustn't ruin those. They come from captain's island!"
"Are you alright?" Edward asks nervously, looking at the dark burn forming on his arm.
"Of course I am!" Jezra laughs, yanking down the skin of rum dangling over the pot – sometimes for flavor, this time just for him. He takes a long pull. "Just another scar for Jezra. Now hurry up and get captain his food before it turns cold!"
Without another word, Edward hurries off as the cook shouts for Iz to help prepare food for the rest of the crew. He knows the path well enough now, weaving down the cramped ship's corridors to the captain's spacious quarters at the bow, remembering each step and uneven board to avoid any stumbles. Around him, he can hear the sounds of the ship coming to life, slumbering crew roused to attention as the smells of Jezra's cooking waft their way into every cabin and swaying hammock. Serving in the kitchens meant early mornings for Ed and Iz, but he didn't mind. The first glimpse of the sun rising in the East never failed to wake him in his small bed above deck, ready to start a new day.
Reaching his destination, he stops to carefully balance the tray on one arm while the other creaks open the carved door to the captain's quarters. Inside, he finds Quhuru Mo, stoic as ever, reclined at his desk, surrounded by the trophies of dozens of voyages, hailing from lands with names even Edward in all his dutiful studies did not recognize. Lounging across from him in two dangling rope chairs swinging from bolts in the ceiling, Jalabar and Kojja, the captain's daughter, share twittering laughter over some secret joke before turning to watch him enter.
"Good morning, Edward!" Kojja flashes her thin, white smile.
"What does Old Jezra have for us to eat today?" Jalabar peers over suspiciously at the tray.
"Jungi rice paste with dry sausage," Edward announces as the prince takes his bowl and spoon with a disappointed sigh.
"I cannot wait for Lys. I don't know if I can bear rice paste much longer."
Kojja laughs at his sullen face as she takes her own bowl.
"Your time in the west has made you lose the taste of the sea, prince," Quhuru grumbles.
"I counter that too long at sea has made you lose any taste at all, captain."
Not wanting to get caught in the middle of another spat over food, Edward turns quickly to deliver the final bowl to the captain. But as he pivots, the ships hits a sharp wave. The cabin shakes, and the tray smacks down on the side of Quhuru's desk, sending the captain's prized bowl sliding over the edge and plummeting towards the floor. Dropping the tray, Edward dives to catch it in time, his knees thudding to the deck and the still-hot ceramic singeing his fingers, but not a drop spills.
"Kriftar!" The curse spits out under his breath before he can fully react, born out of long days in the kitchen, taking orders from Jezra's foul mouth. Realizing he's spoken out loud, a gulp quickly jumps to his throat as he shakily rises back up, bowl in hands, remembering the harsh scolding Robb and Jon had received when they swore in front of Father and Mother. But as he nervously glances at Jalabar and Kojja, there is no rebuke coming. Instead, Jalabar laughs.
"Kriftar? Ha! By gods, where did you learn that one?"
"Old Jezra, no doubt," Kojja smirks. "The old parrot not step foot on islands since he was boy. And that in the days of Old Valyria!"
The two laugh together, again, as Edward slowly lets a smile creep back to his face. Whatever mistake he's made, it can't be so bad after all. Anything to make them laugh couldn't be regretted. It was the closest to birdsong there was on the islands. His mind wanders far away to the songbirds in the godswood, at home in Winterfell, which he had watched, trying to remember their names, while Father had cleaned Ice beneath the hearttree and talked of honor.
"Wolfboy!" Kojja snaps him back to attention. "My father starves!"
"Oh!" Edward spins back around to set the bowl down in front of Quhuru, who seems unbothered, only pausing to breathe deeply of the spicy aromas. "I'm sorry, ser."
"Ser?" The captain sighs. "You know, boy, Quhuru is no knight. Remember this."
"I'm sorry, captain," Edward bows so quickly he nearly clips his head on the edge of the desk. "I won't forget again."
"See that you do not," Quhuru nods sternly, dipping his spoon into the bowl and slowly raising the first bite to his mouth. The tiniest smile of contentment curls his thin lips as he swallows, glancing victoriously over at Jalabar. "As delicious as ever, prince."
Edward turns to leave, but Jalabar reaches out to stop him. "It is good you learn the Island Tongue, Edward. We have much travel left before we reach the soft shores of Lys. But you must learn properly. Crude sailors speak a rough bastard of our true voice. They squawk like seagulls, not like parrots."
"What did I say?"
"Krift-AR," The prince raises a knowing finger, emphasizing the sound of the 'a.' "It is a common curse, not at all unbecoming, I think you say it as…"
"The common tongue has no words for it," Kojja cuts him off with a confident smirk, leaning back in her swinging chair and wiping a smudge of rice paste from her chin. "Westerners are uncreative with their curses."
"Kojja is right," Jalabar shrugs. "But it is spoken krift-urr." In his mouth, the harsh 'a' of Jezra's shouts drops into a low 'u,' the 'r's rolling off his tongue to linger in the air.
"Krifturrrrr…" Edward attempts to mimic him.
"Not bad," Jalabar looks to Kojja, who nods in agreement. "Listen, Edward, I think you are right. You should learn to speak our way. When Jezra has no use for you, come to me. I will teach you."
"You speak proud of your Island Tongue for one so long in the West," Quhuru looks up from his porridge, suspiciously. "If you forget your taste for the food of the sea, perhaps you forget your taste for the song of the island as well?"
"Then I will help him," Kojja places one assertive hand on the prince's shoulder, the other pulling Edward close to her. So near to the master archer, Edward suddenly becomes extremely aware of the warmth in her eyes – amber, he can see now. And she smells like coconut. He twists nervously, but she holds tight to his vest. "Start with something simple. Family. You know my father, wolfboy. I trust you have father, too?"
"I… I do," Edward answers quickly, in the moment realizing that he does not know how to answer the question. If Father is really dead, is he still my father? The sturdy wall in the back of his mind holding back all his fears begins to shake. "Of course I do."
"Exactly. Your Malana." She points to Quhuru. "My Malana. And for mother, Malawa."
"I know you spoke of brothers as well," Jalabar chimes in, not to be outdone. "Janna. And your sisters back in the city? Jawwa."
"Malana. Malawa. Janna. Jawwa." Edward slowly mouths out each word as his new teachers nod proudly along, all the while trying to hod back the memories each conjures in turn.
"Very good," Kojja lets loose his vest, she and Jalabar each giving him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. He hopes they cannot feel how tense he has become. "You were right, my prince. He is a fast learner."
"I should go." He quickly starts backing toward the door. "I'll be back later."
"You will talk like true prince in no time!" Jalabar vows, begrudgingly picking up a spoonful of porridge at last. Edward seizes the chance to slip back out the boor as his breath grows faster, nearly crashing into the hunched shadow of Haccar lurking by the door, the angular archer glaring down at him.
"Jezra's waiting on you, wolfboy," he growls through his permanent scowl.
"Yes, ser," Edward is on the move, running without hesitation back down the familiar path to the kitchen. Malana. Malawa. Janna. Jawwa. Father. Mother. Robb. Jon. Bran. Rickon. Sansa. Arya. Their faces stare accusingly from behind his eyes. I won't forget you, I promise! But he runs a little faster, eager to drown out the thoughts of home with the steaming pots, bellowing sailors and burning spices of another day of work at sea.
The waves roll on, turned by the moon to wash in a new day, and another, carrying seabound vessels on their course. As they bring the Cinnamon Wind south, a world away they bear Edward's sisters north. And at last, on a frigid morning, the fleeing Starks arrive at their destination.
An icy mist has descended over The Bite in the night, the distant shores of the huge bay invisible beneath the cloudy grey sky. The Grey Ghost and the Ruddy Gull float alone through the haze, guided only by the dim light of a great beacon, shrouded by the frosted air, casting the looming rock beneath it in darkness, the silhouette of a stone giant rising up from the sea. The wind has stopped, leaving the sails of the small fishing boats limp, their movement slowed to a crawl, leaving nothing to protect their passengers' bones from the encroaching chill.
At the bow of the Grey Ghost, a small crowd of expectant figures huddles, peering out into the uncertain waters ahead. Sansa and Arya Stark hold tightly to the thick pelts of their direwolves for warmth, buried beneath heavy cloaks with Jeyne Poole shivering by their side.
"It can't be much longer," Sansa insists through chattering teeth, looking up at the beacon as they pass beneath its shadow, the ramparts appearing as a phantom castle in the mist. "That's Seal Rock. We're almost there."
"I can't see anything," Jeyne whimpers.
"Lady Sansa's right," Lord Baelish assures the girls, standing behind them with Jory Cassel and Syrio Forel, seemingly unbothered by the cold. "Lord Manderly's hearths will be ready and blazing to thaw you out. It would not surprise me if we find a White Raven waiting for us in the New Castle."
"Winter is coming," Arya shivers, and Sansa holds her a little tighter. For the North, winter is already here, she knows, remembering her night terrors. It had already taken Father from them. Would the rest of her fears be fated to come true as well?
In the haze ahead, low splashes can be heard, like a slow, meandering fish drawing near to examine these strange boats left to the whims of the tides. On the heels of the sound comes the shadow, slowly taking shape in the fog as it draws closer and closer – the dark blur becoming the outline of a longship until the ship itself comes looming into view, rising up to greet them as the mist rolls off its frosted hull. First to emerge is the figurehead – a wooden mermaid, trident raised in battle to cut through the early morning air. Behind it, the rest of the ship appears – double-masted, its dark green sails are tied shut, instead propelled over the windless bay by a dozen sets of huge spruce oars, cutting down into the water with the heavy splashes that first heralded the boat's arrival. The hull is plastered over, giving it a ghostly, rough white shell. Peering over the bow stands a rigid watchman, leaning near to take a closer look.
"Identify yourselves!" the shade commands, with a shrill voice that carries far on the silent bay.
"We are servants of House Stark," Lord Baelish answers as the boat draws nearer. The knight at the bow is clearer now – a dark green cloak, wet and frosted, hanging heavy over silver mail, his matching surcoat emblazoned with the Manderly's merman sigil, his helm a scallop's shell. "Lord Manderly awaits our arrival. We carry precious cargo for Lady Catelyn."
"Prepare to be boarded!" the knight answers back.
"Ser, that will not be necessary," Baelish protests, but without heed, a dozen more armed shadows emerge behind the glowering knight. Sansa and Jeyne exchange nervous glances, and hold tighter to the hull. Could the Lannisters have gotten here first? Has White Harbor fallen? Jory nervously moves in front of the girls as heavy, frozen ropes are heaved over onto their hull with dull thuds. "Ser, I must protest…"
With a grunt, the first knight leaps over the edge of the patrol boat, landing on the Ghost's deck with a crunch of metal and frost. In his right hand he grips a long steel trident, its deadly prongs incased in glistening ice, which he slowly levels at Baelish, silencing the lord's protestations. In a flash, Jory's sword is drawn, and the trident swings in a long arch to point at the glowering captain and the charges behind him. Panicked, Jeyne wraps her arms around Sansa's neck in a choking grip, nearly taking her to the ground.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you…" the knight growls. "Put the sword away."
"No! You put yours away!" Arya shouts, shoving her way in front of Jory. Caught off guard, he tries to grab her, but she's moved too fast, whipping Needle out, the tiny blade shaking in the cold air. At once, Syrio has drawn his sword as well and, in a rustling roar of flapping cloaks and triggers locking into place, the guards waiting on the patrol boat brandish six crossbows, all trained on the Starks. But Arya is unfazed, her furious face wrinkling into a defiant glare as fierce as any wolf as she takes another step closer.
"Don't do anything rash, girl."
"We're Starks! We don't take orders from you!" Arya shouts, jabbing Needle towards the knight. "Get off our boat and take us to Mother!"
The knight wavers for a moment of confusion, the point of the trident slowly lowering away from Arya's head. In the silence, twin growls begin to rise from behind Jory and the girls as the direwolves emerge into view, their deadly eyes glistening in the dim fog, mouths curled back to reveal snarling fangs, sharper than any of the drawn blades. Slowly, they pad to Arya's side, each step crunching on the frosted deck. Shaking free from Jeyne's grasp, Sansa steps forward behind them, taking her place beside her sister and lowering her hood to reveal her braided auburn hair. A puff of frozen air escapes the knight's visor, signaling a gasp of recognition. As the wolves stop their approach, he drops to his knees, tossing the trident aside.
"My ladies! May I beg your forgiveness! I live to serve House Stark!" The sternness is gone from his voice, replaced with desperate supplication. At once, the crossbows waiting behind them drop from view.
"What is your name, ser?" Sansa demands, summoning all the authority she had learned in court. How Cersei had spoken – the voice of a queen.
"Ser Duncan Waterman, my lady," the knight answers quickly, without looking up.
"Well, Ser Duncan, if you wish our forgiveness, then rise and serve as your vows command." She nods approvingly as he rushes back to his feet, lowering her hand to Lady's head, drawing confidence from the wolf. Baelish steps forward, mouth open, but before he can speak, Sansa continues. "Tie your boat to ours and pull us safely to harbor. Our lady mother waits for us in your lord's keep, and I will not make her wait a moment longer."
"At once, my lady," Ser Duncan bows and makes haste to obey, gesturing urgently to his men to join him in tying the two ships together while the others return to the oars, ready to carry the smaller boat on the rest of its journey. As the men work, Sansa grabs Arya's hand and returns to the bow, their wolves following loyally behind them. Together, they watch the dim shade of a horizon appear through the mist, with the towering walls of the city marking their long-awaited return to The North. The girls can feel their wolves' excitement, as if the beasts can already sense the familiar scents of home.
For Sansa, a part of her shares that comfort, yearning for the safety of the world she knows best. But it does not feel the same. She is not the same girl that rode south with her father. And she knows that, if she ever wishes to see the capital again, she must make everyone see it.
"That was very brave," Jeyne whispers excitedly, though Sansa isn't listening. She holds her wolf tighter with one hand and her sister with the other, breathing in the cold air and letting it turn her nerves to steel. I'm not just a Stark anymore, she tells herself. I am a queen. And they will see me as one.