"Beskar'ri!" The high voice of the excited sailors announce the impending wet thump as a net full of fish slap to the deck of The Cinnamon Wind.
Edward Stark and Izarro rush to the scene, iron pots full of brine clanging against the backs of their legs as the loose rope of the net slips open, releasing dozens of slippery blue fish to flop out onto in a futile final chance at freedom. Instead, they only manage to make one final leap into the waiting hands of the boys, to be tossed down into the pots.
"Beskar'ri," Edward pauses, letting the syllables flow smoothly off his tongue, balancing the harsh sounds with the soft in equal measure. He holds one wriggling fish up to examine – twice as long as his small hand, grey scales smooth, bulbous black eyes staring up at him indignently. But it twists, and the sharp edge of a fin slices his hand. With a cry, he throws it down into the pot, wiping the thin line of blood away on his trousers.
"Careful, Ed," Iz warns. "Be quick. Wings are sharp!"
But it was the wings Edward most wanted to examine, as he pins another beneath his feet. What the Islanders called Beskar'ri, Maester Luwin had called flying fish – a creature so fantastical Father had never believed it truly existed. But Edward knew if Maester Luwin said it was so, it must be true. And now here one was, trapped beneath his heel. He carefully pries open one of the long, red fins, attached at what would be the shoulder, if it had arms. Thin but hard, sturdy enough to carry them above the waves – or to slice his hand. Incredible.
"Faster, wolfboy!" A familiar voice snaps him back to the task at hand. He recognizes Haccar's sharp-angled shadow cast over the limp net and quickly flicks his prisoner into the pot. "Jezra wants no dead Beskar'ri! They rot in the sun!"
"Yes, ser," Edward nods, knowing better than to look up from the boards. He and Iz' hands move quick to gather up the last few fish before they go limp.
But the stern archer lingers. "You call me ser once more. Haccar is no rusted Western knight, boy. Do not forget it." He turns to see Tessarrion sniffing near to the net, and kicks the wolf back with the sharp toe of his boot, earning a snarl in response. "Back, back hellhound!"
"Leave him be!" Edward jumps to his feet, the pot sloshing over. Haccar's head whips back around to face him, dark eyes glaring down the tip of his pointed nose.
"Your beast steals our food, boy. Be grateful Captain lack the sense to throw it to the sea the day we cast off."
He can't say that! A furious voice shouts in the back of Edward's brain. Tessarrion's practically starving! You can see his ribs! Edward feels his free hand squeezing into a fist, pressing fresh blood out of the slice on his palm.
"Ed, don't…" Iz whispers under his breath, nervously turning to go. But as he turns, he sees Prince Jalabar waiting behind them.
"Master Edward and his wolf are both my charges, Haccar. Make your focus remembering that." The prince steps between the boys and the archer, his feathered cloak brushing against the pots as he snatches a loose fish from the brine and, in one quick motion, prunes off the sharp wings. With a smile, he tosses it at Tessarrion's feet, the wolf eagerly snaps it up in two loud chomps. "Go get Old Jezra his fish, boys."
Ed and Iz waste no more time, rushing off as fast as possible without spilling too much water from the pots. Jalabar watches them disappear below deck before turning back to Haccar. He tosses the bloody wings his way. "Do not forget your place, archer. Nor mine."
With a quick chop, Edward cuts off the wings of another beskar'ri, rolling it over and making another, softer cut down the belly of the fish, prying it open to reveal the tender meat inside. The ship kitchen is filled once more with smoke, carrying the heavy aroma of peppers that Edward has slowly accustomed to breathing in. He carefully spoons a steaming mix of peppers and rice into the split stomach before the prepared dish is snatched away by Old Jezra's thick, scarred hands.
"Good, very good," Jezra examines the fish before shuffling off to its place over the fire. Edward looks down the table to Iz, still moving faster, his own hands more familiar with the butchery. But Ed is catching up. He reaches for another fish, careful to re-opening his bandaged hand on the sharp wings.
"The gods have been good," Jezra murmurs, dragging his old feet back to the table. "They bless Cassarro's eyes to spy this flock. A rare day we find fresh fish at sea. The great beasts of the deep stay far from light."
"What kind of beasts?" Ed asks, his attention piqued.
"They dwell in mystery," the chef's dull eyes light up, eager to spin a tale as he makes his rounds from the table to the fire and back again. "It is only a cursed man who sees the deep beasts alive. But when they die, they return to land to rot on sand like rest of us. Yes, Old Jezra has seen their kind before, in many moons. Squid with tentacles long as a swanship. Leviathans with teeth as big as your head. No, leave them to dark waters. The beskar'ri are our blessings."
He produces a thick sack, gathering the severed wings to him, examining each in its jagged scarlet sheen before dropping it into the sack. "Waste nothing at sea, boys. Beskar'ri wings are dangerous beauty, but make fine adornments. Mark of true sailor. Old Jezra gave necklace like this to first love."
Iz snickers as the chef wonders off back to the fire with his sack. "Can you imagine? Old Jezra in love?"
"Everybody loves at least once, I suppose," Ed shrugs, hacking the wings off the next fish in line. "Sometimes it just doesn't work out." He thinks of Myrcella, and Heleana, and quickly slices open the stomach, sneaking a dab of the spicy stuffing for himself to burn out the unwanted memories.
"What that?" Iz looks up as a great thumping of feet can suddenly be heard rattling the beams above their heads. He hurries to cover the food from the descending cloud of dust. They listen for the bellowing of voices as it descends the stairs, none louder than Xondo's unmistakable drumroll of a shout.
"Do you think we're in danger?" Edward glances at the door to the galley nervously.
"No, that is happy shout," Iz nods confidently. "If an attack, much more cursing."
With that, Xondo bursts into the galley with a triumphant roar, hoisting above his head a huge mess of bloodstained white feathers, an arrow protruding, tied to a rope wrapped around his arm.
"Jezra!" he shouts. The chef hurries out to meet him, the boys close behind. "Xondo has slain the agitarr!" He drops the dead bird on the table with a dull thud.
"Kriftar!" Jezra wags an accusing finger at the huge man. "You get blood in the galley! Idiot! Boys, get a mop for Xondo's gift!" Iz hurries off to obey, but Edward lingers, his eyes locked on the bird, an unexplained cold grip of dread running up his spine.
"Silence!" Xondo laughs, taking a triumphant seat on the bench by the table, eyes blazing proudly down at his prey. "The gods are good to us, Jezra. Fresh meat twice in one day! When archers see it, Kojja say not to waste arrows. Only man who know he will not miss may take shot. Xondo is that man."
"That's an albatross," Edward finally realizes, as Old Nan's tales of the high seas come rushing back. He takes a step away from the bird, looking nervously up to Jezra.
"You westerners have such strange names," the chef laughs, hoisting up the huge beast as Iz returns to mop up the blood. Without warning, he drops it into Edward's arms. "Old Jezra will finish the beskar'ri. You boys have plucking to do."
Edward holds tight to the albatross, its massive, broken wings tangled around his neck, terrified to touch it but afraid to drop it all the same. The feathers tickle his nose, forcing him to breathe in the scent of salt and death. "Is…isn't it bad luck? They say it's a curse."
"Ha!" Xondo laughs, his huge smile white as ever as he wrenches open his horn of rum for a sloppy drink. "What do northerners know of the sea, boy? Meat is meat. and agitarr is near good as chicken. Listen to Old Jezra and get plucking."
Reclining in the captain's quarters, Jalabar gently places the still-steaming albatross leg bone back on his plate, picked clean of meat. He leans back in his chair, gently swinging from the rafters and sighs, his breath smelling of the spices sitting warmly in his stomach. Sinking back into the embrace of the soft violet pillows, moving with the rhythm of the waves, listening to the creaking of the ship's hull as it trundles on south. He had missed the sea more than he even knew. 15 long years since he had been exiled from the Red Flower Vale. 15 years of running from city to city, seeking sponsors to reclaim his lost throne. Until at last he came to Westeros and, with nowhere left to run, there he stayed, hoping their drunken king's dreams of glory would one day stir him enough to say "Yes." But ten years had passed, ten years of "an intriguing prospect." Ten years of "We will consider." Ten years of "Perhaps next year." Ten years of waiting, with no company save bland food, weak drink and nobles who looked at him like an entertaining creature in a menagerie. Ten years of knowing that the one answer the king refused to give outright was the only answer he would ever receive – "No."
Now he was among his own people once more, sailing to an uncertain fever, but feeling truly alive again for the first time in ten years. The memory of the Red Flower Vale had slowly faded away in the halls of Robert's court. But here on the Cinnamon Wind, each breath of salty air, each taste of hot pepper and rum, each note of a forgotten song spun new life into what had been and what could be again.
Jalabar slowly looks over to the chair swinging beside him, where Kojja rests, legs folded up against her chest, her long, slender necks leaning down to blow gently into her elegant ivory flute, conjuring up a soft melody from their island home. Without words, he cannot remember what the song is about, but it inspires warm feelings of love and sunshine. He finds himself wondering, as he has more and more often these past days, if she would leave her father's ship for him. Or if he would leave his dream of restoring his throne for her….
From distant memory, the words begin to rise in his throat to match Kojja's playing. It's a love song of a different sort, he knows now – the love of a parent for their child. No wonder, behind his stern mahogany desk, Quhuru has allowed a rare smile. And as he waveringly sings along, he hopes he sees Kojja's dark lips twist so slightly in a half smile as they wrap around the pale flute.
The thudding door to the cabin shatters the tune in two. Cassa's wrinkled face twists its way in as the smile immediately disappears from Quhuru's face. The captain is on his feet before the old man can begin to speak.
"Storm comin' on fast."
In Edward's sleep, the albatross is waiting for him. He is floating on a sea far from the peaceful, warm blue of waking day. This is a northern sea, cold and black, save for the white-capped waves that raise him up and down with growing violence. Tessarrion is gone. The Cinnamon Wind and all its crew is gone. He is alone on a raft, riding the storm to shore – to home. But back home, the albatross' curse holds its power. Its huge white head, stained with rivers of blood running from black and starry eyes, looms over the approaching horizon like a dark beacon calling him back to The North.
"Tessarrion!" he shouts, but his voice does not come. His mouth hangs open as the furious storm tears through his throat in its place. He clings tighter to the raft, fingers turning white as the frigid water seeps through the boards. The waves carry him, impossibly fast, through the biting mist towards the waiting rocks. There, on the shore, a lone figure waits in robes of shadow. His head is on fire. Father. This isn't home.
"No!" He lets his hands go free and the tempest rip him up into the air as the albatross laughs with mocking thunder. He slams down into the hungry waves, through the surface and back into the waking world. But as his eyes open through a waterfall, he sees – the storm is not only in his dreams.
A crack of lightning tears across the open sky, illuminating the deck of the Cinnamon Wind for a fleeting moment, writhing with the dark bodies of sailors rushing to secure the ship. And then the light is gone, and another wave crashes over the railing, slamming Edward face first onto the boards. He feels blood come for the second time that day, a fresh tear on his face stinging with the cold salt of the sea. He scrambles back upright, reaching for something, anything to steady his feet as his eyes attempt to parse through the shadows. The stars are gone, the moon with them. Only the dark fury of the night.
"Tessarrion!" he screams. This time the words come and one shadow takes familiar shape. The waterlogged wolf lunges forward out of the chaos to his side. Edward desperately throws his arms around his panting neck. "Tessarrion, we have to get below deck!"
He takes a shaky step forward, fingers still clenched in thick wolfhair. Just keep going forward. You know the deck by day. You know the way. But the Cinnamon Wind is transformed, ripped from the familiar shades of sun and starlight and doused into the nightmare realm. Water rushes over his feet. He stumbles – a rope? A ledge? Another step, another, forcing his eyes open through the pounding rain. Another step – and as he leans forward, the ship lurches beneath his feet, propelled upward at an improbable angle by a massive wave. A lightning flash and Edward can see his hands slip from Tessarrion as the ship and all on it go weightless for one fleeting moment.
A deafening roar of thunder summons back the dark and a wave takes Edward with the force of a charging bull. He flails, hands feet, but comes up with only water. With a scream, he slams against the bow, brine rushing down his throat to silence and strangle him as it lifts him up and over the edge. Time seems to halt, he is free, free to fall with the rain to the rocky shore where the albatross waits with Father. A single moment with no end. Until Tessarrion's howl shatters it.
With a desperate force, his right hand catches the railing, wrenching into a death grip with every ounce of strength left in his tiny arm. He slams against the bow of the ship with a dull thud, his left hand slapping uselessly against the smooth wood, feet scrambling for a foothold that isn't there. The rain pounding against the railing rushes down into his face in an endless, blinding waterfall. The waves rock again – he feels his fingers slip an imperceivable grain closer to the edge, but enough to set his mind to panic. He can hear the water crashing beneath him, drowning out Tessarrion's frantic, helpless barks, waiting for the next rush strong enough to cast him down.
Craning his neck to the side, he can see the Wind's figurehead – a great stork, its long beak piercing the night. If I can only make it there, I can climb back up. He lets himself move with the momentum of the ship, swinging out, free hand stretched for any grip that can bring him closer. But it falls short in the dark, and he hits the bow again with a dull thud. I'll have to jump. Impossible. I'm not Arya. He pictures Bran, falling from the tower, and his fingers slip again. No choice.
What god commands the sea? He tries to remember – anyone to pray to so far from home. Pressing his feet against the bow, he bends his knees, trying to build up strength as the wind and the rain pummel him again and again, staring through the deluge at the heron's slick wooden wing, shedding water down into the abyss. So close. But so far. His ankles clench and he begins to push. Up and out until –
"Edward!" Jalabar's voice cuts through the raging elements. "The wolf has him!"
His feet, halted mid jump, slip. One knee slams against the bow, sending a sharp pain up his spine, up his strained arm, to his desperate fingers. They flinch – and two massive hands descend to envelop them.
With a sudden tug, he is flying into the air, back over the railing, and into the safety of a pair of huge arms.
"Xondo has you, wolfboy," the mate's deep voice assures him as the storm fights on.
"Edward, are you alright?" Jalabar frantically brushes aside the hair plastered to his face, but his vision is fading. As the rush of near death eases, his breathing slows.
"Get back, we need to get him below deck," Kojja insists, somewhere in the distance. But Edward is alone now, the storm gone, at least to him, sinking into the embrace of sleep.
The next morning, the sea has stilled. The white-capped waves calmed back to placid blue, stretching out to the golden horizon. Edward sits at the back at the ship, watching the sea that had nearly claimed his life the night before ripple peacefully as they cut their path on south. Before him sits his canvas, in his hand, his paints. At his side, Tessarrion dries in the sun.
He knows that Jalabar and Kojja are watching him. He can hear their hushed whispers, the same concerned tones that had followed him ever since he woke up. He was fine. They didn't believe him. They only want the best, he reminds himself as his brush dips into the paint. But they aren't the only ones watching. Haccar, no doubt satisfied in his doubts now, with who knows how many more like him. He can feel all their eyes, friendly and otherwise, they all sting his back. And so he sits and paints.
Nine faint figures taking shape – House Stark, together again. He starts on Father, first – not burning head of his nightmares, waiting on a distant shore, but the way he last saw him in life, riding out of the capital, never to return. Start there. The dark hair takes shape, flowing to his shoulders, then the beard. In his hands, Edward makes sure to add the sturdy line of Ice, to protect them all.
"That's your family?" Iz slides down next to him, having approached in silence. Edward startles, but catches his hand before he smears the portrait.
"Yeah…" Edward's brush hovers over the circle where his own face should be. He imagines filling it in without his scar. Father alive, Bran walking, his face unmarked… the way things were meant to be. If only he could paint it into being…
"Are you missing them again?"
"Haccar's right," Edward sighs. "I don't belong here."
"What? Don't listen to that old crow. No one likes him anyway."
"I could have died. Xondo and Jalabar had to save me. What if they'd been hurt?"
"You're part of the crew!" Iz tugs the canvas away to look Edward straight in the eye. "The crew protects the crew. That means you. You'd have done the same for me, right?"
"Of course!"
"Then that settles it."
"No," Edward shakes his head, taking the painting back. "I'm not supposed to be here, so far from home. From them. This isn't where I'm supposed to be. And it's all my fault."
"How should you know where you're supposed to be?" Iz wraps one arm around his shoulders. "Nobody does. Until one day, you're in a place where only you can do the right thing."
"Who told you that?"
"My father."
"I think our fathers would have gotten along," Edward sighs, slumping against his friend. He looks back to the western horizon, and yearns for the invisible land long out of sight. For now, all he can see, far in their wake, is a lonely albatross cutting a low path through the sky.
