Swimming low beneath the choppy surface of the Narrow Sea, a shadowy form cuts a swift path through the water. Ahead, floating like crimson ink in the sun-speckled water, lies a trail of blood – as unmistakable a smell to the beasts of the sea as rotting flesh to creatures of the land. The shark rises up, locked in on the twisted hunk of feathers and meat speeding along ahead of it. It grows closer, brain rushing with the taste of an easy kill, closer still until at last – it lunges, jaws wide, long rows of teeth ready to snap shut. As it bites, the sweet, salty taste of meat and the sharp, sudden pain of an iron hook piercing the roof of its mouth.
Above the surface, a deafening cheer goes out as the woven cord goes taught. Standing at the bow of the Cinnamon Wind, its huge white sails blown full by a strong southward wind, first mate Xondo Dhoru stands tall, surrounded by his crew. Shirtless, dripping with salty spray that sizzles on his skin beneath the burning sun, his thick muscles clench taught as stone as he begins to pull on the iron crank to reel the cord back in.
"What did you get?" Edward Stark shouts, rushing forward, ducking in between the crowd of sailors to get a better look, Izarro close behind him. Long days in the sun have burned the northern boy's face a bright red, on the verge of tan, but his bright white teeth grin through the pain, eager with anticipation.
"Get the boys back!" Xondo shouts through gritted teeth. The line, pulled straight as an arrow, weaves back and forth as the shark fights to break free, fighting as each painful turn of the crank drags it closer to the bow. "Beast'll come on deck fighting!"
Before Edward can protest, strong hands grab him from behind, hoisting him up into the air and onto the broad shoulders of Bacci. The ship hits a tall wave at full speed, sending the crew slamming into each other. Edward's head smack's hard against Iz, beside him on the shoulders of another sailor, Jirro, but neither boy minds. Their eyes are fixed on the shadow at the end of the line, growing nearer and larger with each mighty turn of the crank. Edward wraps his arms tight around Bacci's head to hold on as the sea grows rougher, the wind whipping his hair back and forth.
"Give me some kriffuntan space!" Xondo yells. The crowd reluctantly takes several steps back, offering another cheer for the mate as he battles the shark. His eyes narrow into slits, his grip growing slippery with sweat, arms screaming in exertion as he fights to pull the crank back just one more time, then another, bringing the line into the range of the eager harpoons. The crank groans under the strain until – the line goes loose.
The pressure release of pressure hurls the huge mate back, slamming to the deck with a cacophony of furious Summer Island curses. From Bacci's shoulders, Edward watches the shadow beneath the waves disappear.
"By the gods we nearly had it!" Xondo lurches back to his feet, rushing to the bow, where the long cord now drifts weightlessly in their wake. "So bloody close!" Shaking his fist at the vanished cast, he stomps off. "Someone get me rum!"
"You heard him boys," Bacci chuckles, prying Edward free from his shoulders and dropping him back to the beck. "Get the mate some rum."
Edward and Iz hurry through the dispersing crew, where they find Tessarrion waiting, the direwolf's long tongue dangling out, panting in the heat, mismatched eyes looking almost disappointed. Edward stops to give him a scratch behind the ears.
"I'm sorry, boy. You'll have to wait to eat your first shark."
Hurrying on, the lads make haste to the ladder leading below deck. Edward's bare feet run confidently over the boards now, though scratched and calloused and pierced with splinters. The uneasy rocking of the boat that had first set his stomach churning no longer tormented him. It was not so unlike pursuing Bran or Arya over the roofs and ramparts of Winterfell. No, the Cinnamon Wind was not so bad a home. It had grown on him quickly, the excitement of life at sea providing ready distraction from the fear and uncertainty he had left behind in Westeros. That is, so long as he stayed above deck.
Beneath the endless sky, the salty breeze rushing across his face, he felt free. But he still could not stay within the wooden hull for too long, before the crushing feeling of captivity began to creep in. It reminded him of the crypts. And the crypts reminded him that his father was dead. But he tried not to think of that, rather of the task at hand as he races Iz down the steps and around the corners to the larder – rum for Xondo.
"What is it now?" Old Jezra grumbles as the boys crash into his domain, Edward winning by a hair. The ancient chef sits reclined in his rickety old chair, sipping on some foul, fermented brew beneath a flickering lamp, surrounded by his stores – piles of crates and barrels, each labeled with colorful paint in his native tongue. The maze of shelves, racks and piled-high stacks fades off into shadow, making it impossible to see just how large the larder really is. The rafters are draped with long dangling lines of dried peppers, flowers and other colorful ornaments to be ground into the spices that made his meals burn so hot. The dust of his collection fills the cabin, an aggressive haze of a million different scents and flavors that fills Edward's throat the moment he steps inside. He chokes on a fleck of pepper, and Iz answers first.
"Rum for Xondo!"
"Ha!" Jezra laughs, slowly raising his creaking old bones up, grabbing a worn leather canteen from a woven basket in the corner. "I take it he didn't get his bloody shark then." He moves slowly – painstakingly so for the eager boys – to the stack of kegs in the far corner, squinting to select the proper one. With a heavy whack, he knocks open the spout, carefully filling up the canteen before wrenching it back closed. Iz eagerly snatches it from his hands before he's fully turned around.
"Boys don't be stealing any that now," Jezra sighs with a suspicious stare. "Xondo knows if there's a drop missing. Xondo always knows."
"Yes, Jezra," the two answer in unison before they're off again, racing back the way they came, Iz keeping the canteen clasped tight to his chest. This time, he is first back up the steps to the deck, where Tessarrion waits. Edward lags behind, still trying to hack up the pernicious pepper flake plastered to the back of his throat. Finally, squinting as he emerges back into the blinding sunlight, a deep breath of fresh air shakes it free.
The boys scan the deck for the mate, eventually spying his unmistakable, huge silhouette at the bow. The hurry along, the canteen carefully outstretched in front of them, to find Xondo locked in conversation with Captain Quhuru Mo and Prince Jalabar Xo. The captain turns first, staring down past his beaklike nose.
"What's this?"
"My rum!" Xondo eagerly snatches the drink from Iz' hands, immediately wrenching off the cap to take a long gulp. With a sigh, he leans back against the rail. "That's good stuff."
"A shark dinner would have been a better reward," Quhuru scowls.
"Bah! I did me best! When was last time we caught something out here? Too deep."
"We left port too early, supplies are low."
"Will we not stop in the Stepstones?" Jalabar raises an eyebrow.
"Pirates get worse each year," the captain shakes his head.
"If we stay far from the main islands, though…" Xondo suggests. "Like the one, you know, we seen before? Sure it'll have something to scrounge up. Ain't no pirates our archers can't handle!"
"And if anyone gets on the ship, Tessarrion will tear them to shreds!" Edward blurts out, before immediately shrinking back in embarrassment. The men look down at him. After a short pause, Xondo bursts out in a deep, roaring laugh.
"I bet it would! I like to see look on some Lyseni scum face when he catch sight of those fangs!" He leans down, his huge hands scratching the wolf's back. Tessarrion pants, swatting his tail back and forth as if eager for battle. "Now there's a fighter!"
Edward nervously looks up at the captain, himself glancing to Jalabar, who offers an approving nod. As Xondo's laughter continues, slowly, Quhuru's thin, cracked lips curl into a smile. "I suppose we will see what we find."
If this island on the outskirts of the archipelago has a name, it is not marked on the maps of the Cinnamon Wind. But it is enough. A curved sickle of red stone towering up out of the sea like a drowning arm reaching for help that will never come, in its shade it shelters a tiny beach and a small but verdant jungle. The Wind sets anchor beyond the jagged reef defending a bay of crystal blue, peaceful waters, disturbed only by the wake of the rowboats carrying the swanship's crew to shore, leaving behind half their crew of archers to defend the ship, for Quhuru Mo's eyes still nervously darted across the horizon for signs of pirates.
Tessarrion leaps from the head of the first boat to reach shore, panting with exuberance to feel his huge paws on solid land again. The sand gives way as he lands, sending him sprawling, but the wolf recovers fast, dashing away in a grey blur to explore the new world of strange smells and sounds awaiting.
"Come back!" Edward shouts as he follows onto the beach.
"Let him run!" Iz laughs, right behind him. "The wolf hates our ship. Just hope he doesn't run into tiger. Tiger bigger than him, even!"
"You don't think there's tigers here?" Edward turns quickly to his friend, mouth dropped open in shock. But Iz only laughs back in his face.
"On this dinky rock? Never!"
Edward sighs in relief. Direwolves were fierce, but he'd rather not take the risk of pitting Tessarrion against a tiger, or any of the other monsters of the East he'd heard so much about. Straightening the pack on his back, full of painting supplies, he stops to take in the view. In the North there were vast forests, and in the Riverlands, too. But never before has he seen anything quite like this. The rich, deep green of the towering trees, draped in flowering vines and dripping with strange fruit stands open like a palette of wholly new colors discovered for the first time. The heat of the sharp sand beneath his bare feet burns, but he ignores the sting, standing in awe of the landscape ahead.
"Boys!" Jezra's raspy voice calls out from behind them as the old man hurls himself heavily over the edge of their boat with a splash. "Don't just stand, work, work! It's just an island! Go up and find Old Jezra a spring to refill our cisterns!"
Edward glances at Iz, then back to the forest. At last, a job from Jezra that could be fun! He braces to start running, but freezes at the sound of a familiar command.
"Edward, wait!" Jalabar's voice stops both boys in their tracks. The prince stands tall, foamy waves lapping at his feet in the wet sand, his feathered cloak on his back, the bright colors taking on a fresh sheen in the ocean sun that they'd never shone back in his long days at court. "Izarro, you go on, help Jezra. Edward must stay with me." From within the rowboat, he produces a quiver and Edward's own goldenheart bow. "You go too long without practice."
Edward reluctantly accepts the bow as Iz runs off into the forest, waving good-bye. Before long, he finds himself standing behind a line in the sand, taking aim at a bright red circle painted onto the trunk of a gnarled, barren tree twisted into the beach.
"Remember what I teach you," Jalabar implores, his stern yet soft, melodic commands taking Edward back to his long days practicing in the yard. He closes his eyes, trying to conjure up the feel of the string drawn taught, the jolt of release, the whisper of the arrow flying through the air. But standing here, the impatient bowstring cutting into his fingers, all he can feel is the absence of his father's watchful eyes.
He releases, and the arrow goes wide, landing with a soft, harmless puff of sand.
"Is that best you can do?" A mocking voice calls down from the rocky outcropping overlooking the beach. There, Bacci and Jirro stand on guard, instead watching Edward's disappointing efforts. Between them stands Haccar, a thin, sinewy man with heavy scars and a permanent scowl, arrow notched at the ready on his own bowstring.
"What other western boy has the gift of a goldenheart?" Haccar shouts down. "Our lost prince must think high of you to gift such a prize. Or are you just a lordling pet?"
"Leave the boy be!" Jalabar answers as Edward tries not to look at the archers, focusing on notching another arrow to the string.
"Maybe he just need better teacher!"
"If you were such good teacher, Haccar, why are you not the captain of the red archers?"
With a grunt, Haccar pulls back on the string, taking aim in an instant and sending an arrow whistling through the open air and landing with a heavy thunk square in the heart of the target, rattling the spindly branches.
The archers' laughs are sharp and short. As they rain down on Edward, his feet shifting in the sand, the fuse together into a memory of Joffrey's cruel laughter. His breaths grow quick and the scar on his face begins to burn as the dark, locked away nightmares in the back of his mind begin to scratch their way free, wrapping tendrils of fear and loneliness around his heart. This isn't home. Home is so far, so far, far away… The hot sun turns cold.
"Ignore them, Edward," Jalabar remains calm, his voice unwavering, ignoring the jeers. "Remember."
Remember. Edward pulls the string back. He pushes past the cloud of fear to remember the truth – His days shooting arrows in the yard with Jalabar while Heleana watched. Training with Lyman. Learning to warg with Maester Gaheris. The first time he saw Princess Myrcella. The first time he met Tessarrion. Chasing Arya over the ramparts of Winterfell. Sitting at Father's feet beneath the heart tree as he told them stories, his siblings by his side. The lone wolf dies but the pack survives. Their pack was torn apart now, but he would never be alone. The pack survives. He feels his family now – not beyond the veil of nightmares but in the light of their love. His heart beats steady. His breaths slow. He pulls back the arrow and opens his eyes. The target has never been clearer. He lets go.
The arrow speeds through the air, straight and true. With a crack, it splinter's Haccar's shaft, landing a perfect shot in the exact same spot. The laughter from atop the rock stops. He looks up at Jalabar, a slow, cautious smile growing on his face. The prince smiles back.
Hours later, the sun has begun to sink down towards the western horizon. The crew has gathered on the beach with the bounty of the day, circled around fires set in the sand as Jezra oversees the division of their new rations – including the large barrel of rum floated in from the ship. The old chef hobbles around piles of colorful fruits, husked nuts and overflowing crab pots. He scratches the tight white curls of hair still clinging to the back of the scalp, poking at each item in turn to render his verdict.
"Salt these!" he points to a line of dark blue fish caught in the bay. "Bag these!" he kicks over a pile of spiky round nuts. "These?" He picks up a round, bright green fruit and sniffs it. Shaking his head, he tosses it back towards Edward and Iz, who sit by the largest fire, trying their best to appear hard at work keeping it burning. "Eat them now, they'll never last!" The boys look back to Jezra for more instruction, but the he's already moved on, intently examining the contents of the crab pots.
With curious eyes, Edward picks up the fruit, turning it over in his hands. The skin is rough and bumpy, sticky from leaking sap. He scratches at it with stubby nails, to no avail.
"Here, I've got it," Iz snatches it away, pulling his small knife from the sheath on his belt. He cuts a long line across the top of the fruit, juice squirting back in his face. Peeling away the rind, he reveals the strange flesh within, looking like a grey sickly citrus.
"Have you had one before?" Edward asks.
"Never seen anything like it." Iz tears a wedge off, tentatively lifting it to his mouth. He waves the leaking fruit at Edward. "I won't try if you don't."
Edward takes it back into his own hands, tearing off a piece of his own. He sniffs it – no smell at all. Locking eyes with Iz, he nods, and they bite down together. The fruit explodes with bitter, salty juice, instantly making both boys gag. Edward spits it back out on the sand without hesitation, hurling what's left of the fruit away towards the sea.
"Ha!" Jezra laughs from a distance. "Damn fools! The things won't be ripe for another month! Now ya know!"
The bitter taste of the sour fruit lingers in Edward's mouth as the sun dips lower in the sky and the rest of the scavengers return. Soon enough, Jezra's meal is ready, and the crew has eagerly rushed through the line to lay hands on their first fresh food since departing King's Landing. At last, they can relax. Edward watches Iz carefully, cracking open the leg of a boiled crab, the hot shell still burning his hands and lips as he tears out the sweet meat within.
"You never had fresh crab before?" Iz smiles, breaking off another leg. Edward shakes his head, mouth full and eager for more. "That'll wipe taste of that stinking fruit out your mouth!"
They laugh and eat and drink piping tea as the crew passes around rum and produce instruments, conjuring up songs of their island homes as they recline in the sand. Edward leans back, his crab only a shattered pile of shell, picked clean, and stares up at the slowly emerging moon, rising up in the eastern sky, riding the jagged curve of the rocky spire in its ascent. He recognizes Jalabar's voice rising above the others. The prince stands, the feathers of his cape rustling softly in the cool breeze as he sings. Edward does not understand a word, but he can feel them. The sense of joy and pride carried by the strange, deep, melodic verses is unmistakable, and one by one the crew rises to dance – clapping, twisting, shaking together as one in the light of the setting sun. Even Haccar is eventually dragged to his feet to join the celebration. Edward, however, turns away from the fires. The last time he danced was in the Red Keep. And he would rather paint on dry land while he can.
Dragging his pack to the edge of the shoreline, he buries his toes in the wet sand and produces a blank canvas. In the fading light, he begins his work. The lines are stable, smoother, unshaken by the rhythm of the waves at sea. Slowly, the face of a girl begins to take shape. Arya's long face – the same shape as his, Heleana's curled braids, Myrcella's emerald eyes… but in the end, it is Sansa, his brush finding the auburn of her hair without thinking. Here on the canvas, she's calm, peaceful, with none of the anger she had held for him in those final weeks in the capital. He stops, and lets the brush drop to the sand.
"Who is she?" Iz approaches from behind, his footsteps quiet on the beach.
"My sister."
"Well if she's half as pretty as you make her look, I think I would like to meet her!" He plops down beside Edward with a splash, the rising tide creeping closer with each softly crashing wave.
"I'll introduce you," Edward offers, halfheartedly. "If I see her again."
"Oh." The mirth is gone from Iz' voice. "I'm sorry."
"No, don't be," Edward shakes his head. He sets the canvas aside, paint still wet. It isn't real. It can't hold him or sing to him. But the pack survives, he tells himself again. The pack survives. "Do you think you'll see your parents again?"
"One day," Iz nods confidently. "All voyages lead home in the end."
"I hope so." Edward sighs. With the pale blue light of the moon on their backs, while the dazzling orange of the setting sun still warms their faces and the distant beat of drums and cheering voices serenades the passing of the day, he rests his head on his new friend's shoulder and – for now, for this moment – he believes it. That night, he dreams through the eyes of Tessarrion, running through the forest – new, open and full of possibility. Wild. And free.
