On the deck of the Cinnamon Wind, Edward and Izarro lean back against Tessarrion's napping body as they sift through netting, their small fingers searching for any tears left by the sharp fins of the beskar'ri catch from days earlier. Their vests lie discarded to the side, even the light ox-skin too hot to wear beneath the blistering sun, burning brighter today than it has since the storm. Sweat runs in thicks streams down Ed's back as he goes about his work, meticulously examining each strand to quickly bind torn halves back together. Long weeks in the sun have at last yielded a dark tan in place of the red, chafing burn that had cursed him early in his voyage.
His hair is freshly shorn down to his scalp to match Iz. Ed suspects the gesture was meant to make him feel more at home, to look like a proper ship's boy. But cutting off his hair could not shed the sense of shame wrapped around his shoulders ever since his brush with death. Every pair of eyes seemed to accuse him with Haccar's words. You'll never belong here.
"You missed one," Iz jabs him in the ribs and his eyes snap back down to the netting. Sure enough, a torn line has slipped through his fingers. He makes haste to bind the thin ends back together. "Gods, Ed, you're tense."
"I can't mess up again," Ed insists, tugging extra hard on the knot for good measure.
"Ed," Iz drops his portion of the net, turning to face his friend. "It not your fault. That could have happened to anyone. No one think less of you."
"You don't need to lie to make me feel better," Ed refuses to look up from his work, moving faster, pulling tighter, going over each square twice. "I'm just in the way."
"You think Old Jezra think you in the way? Me? You help as much as anyone."
"I don't belong here." The line is finished. Edward begins pulling the rest of the net to him, folding it in on itself the way Iz has shown him countless times, though now his friend sits back, watching with disappointed eyes. "The sooner we get to Lys the better."
"It all in your head," Iz sighs, tugging on Tessarrion's dozing ears. "What you think, Tessarrion? Is the Cinnamon Wind home now?"
The wolf only yawns in response, pulling his head away to return to peaceful slumber. Edward stands, arms overflowing with netting, and waddles off without another word. These past nights, the peaceful sleep he had found beneath the stars has been shattered. Each evening, the albatross returned to torment him again, with Father waiting on the impossible shore, head on fire, calling him back home, one way or another. The nightmares spoke with Haccar's words – Not one of us. But he knew what they really meant. You can't run forever.
Dumping the net into the proper barrel, he turns back to return below decks. But he stops – Haccar is standing in the shade of the mast, holding a familiar paper up to the sun. His canvas. As the tall archer turns, he can see the faces of him and his whole family, staring back in paint.
"That's mine! Give it back!" he blurts out without thinking.
"Oh, really?" Haccar smirks. "Is this your family, wolfboy? Where are they now?"
"That's none of your business," Ed glares, reaching for the canvas, but Haccar yanks it back, out of reach.
"Oh, I think it is. You must be someone very powerful to have our exiled prince groveling at your pathetic little feet. Powerful boys far from home can be very dangerous. And very valuable." He drops to one knee, rolling the canvas up behind his back. "Your wolf marks you a northman. But what northman holds enough gold to buy such royal protection? Surely your family has savages enough to take you back to where you belong. Unless they're all dead?"
"Give it back," Edward demands again, though his voice is beginning to waver.
"I think they all dead," Haccar's cruel grin widens. "And I think whoever killed them would pay a very high price to have you back."
"Prince Jalabar…"
"Is a man with no throne. No armies. Nothing but an empty title lofty enough to sway the fools on this ship. But not me." He rises, slipping the canvas into his belt. "I will keep your family with me, wolfboy. If your pet prince hears a word of this, you will never see it again."
With that, he's gone, strutting away on his bony legs. Another defeat to add to the shame, Ed thinks. He wishes he had something to summon to make the archer fear him, something to prove himself a part of the crew, someone with something to offer. But his mind draws a blank. You're nobody, the nightmares squawk in his brain. And when the seas take you, who will be left to tell your story?
No matter what anyone said, Pentos stank. True, it was cleaner than King's Landing and its stench less rancid. But it stank nonetheless. Except within the brick walls of Illyrio Mopatis' vast brick manse. Here, within the spiraling gardens, beneath the warm noon sun, the air was perfumed with intoxicating fragrance bestowed upon the magister's guests by countless eastern flowers in bloom.
Ser Jaime Lannister has scarce seen a plant he recognized since arriving in this luxurious sanctuary. He's taken to long walks through the carefully trimmed groves and hedges, plucking fresh fruit from the orchard and letting the free sun restore the color to his pale, scabbed skin and the luster to his blonde hair that had been so dimmed by his time in the Black Cells. He could not remember when he last felt such peace. The manse was large enough that he could pass a whole day without seeing his uncle. And for that he was most grateful of all. Kevan's face was only a reminder of Westeros and all that waited for him there – war, betrayal, death and, worst of all, justice.
For now, he was content to recline by the glistening marble pool, watching the sun sparkle on the water and admiring the elegant statue rising up from the center. Illyrio claimed it was sculpted of him in his youth, though Jaime could scarce believe the fat old trader had ever been so lean and fierce. It looks rather more like himself as a boy, he thinks. And perhaps Tommen, one day. The prince is splashing about at the far end of the pool with one of the nursemaids their host has provided – a buxom young maid with olive skin and raven hair whose care and songs had helped her princely ward forget about the horrors of the Red Keep.
Jaime has begun to suspect he has caught her eye as well, her dark eyes stealing glances of him from afar as he leans back, swallowed up by an overstuffed violet lounge built for a man of Illyrio's size. He balances a jewel-studded glass of far-eastern wine in one hand, careful not to spill on his crimson silk tunic – softer than anything he has ever worn – its deep collar exposing his sweaty chest to sparkle and bake in the heat. Lost in his mind on days like this, he imagines a world where he would never need leave. Surely Illyrio could use a man of his skill as a captain? He could live here, with Tommen. As father and son. The boy's matching green eyes beckon from across the pool, waving him to join them. But the shadow always returns.
"The time has come, nephew," Kevan's cold voice jolts Jaime back into the present. He looks up to see his uncle armored and freshly shaven, his own emerald eyes wide open and alert in defiance of the glaring sun. "My men have found us suitable partners. Put on your armor and join me in the yard."
"Who are we meeting?" Jaime stands obediently, finishing his wine with one last swallow.
"Not the type of men to keep waiting."
In the galley of the Cinnamon Wind, the sounds and smells of dinner fill the creaking wooden hull with life. Tonight, Old Jezra has served up what he likes to call 'Resurrection Pork' – salt pork doused in a thick, spicy gravy, left to steam and soak up enough savory juices to almost pass itself off as fresh. But while the rest of the crew eagerly digs in, the rhythm of spoons on tin dishes singing a song of sated hunger, Edward scrapes his meal about, stirring up the gravy into the corners of his tin, going nowhere but growing cold.
"It's Haccar again, isn't it?" Iz whispers to his friend, watching as he twists his spoon back and forth with growing concern. "Don't let him bother you. He not worth it. Anyway, he be gone for good once we hit Lys. I hear he want a ship of his own. But who would give one to that hafta?"
Edward reluctantly looks up from the table. "I'm worried what he'll do. He's not afraid of Jalabar, or the captain. He doesn't care what they say anymore." Dropping his voice too low to be heard by anyone save Iz at his side, he whispers. "I think he's planning something. He thinks he can ransom me."
"No one here would let him hurt you," Iz insists.
"But what happens when you're gone? What happens in Lys?"
"Look," Iz brushes his tin, scraped clean, aside to lean closer. "If you really think he out to get you, and he don't listen to the prince or Captain, you give him something to fear."
"What?"
"Someone who he will know not to cross."
"I don't know anyone like that!" Ed insists, growing frustrated. This isn't helping!
"You think harder, then," Iz scowls. "And eat your food. You are a lord son! You were in house of the king! There must be someone in your old life that bastard would know to fear!"
Begrudgingly, Edward scoops up a bite of gravy. Cold, now, but the spices still manage to warm his stomach as he swallows. Iz watches expectedly as he finishes the meal, bit by bit, and the galley slowly empties. He watches Haccar leave with his fellow archers, the man's tall, gaunt form ducking to avoid the low beams, his bare arms betraying no fat, only taut muscle, a collection of knives at his belt. How am I supposed to make him afraid?
Iz' words circle in his head as he carries his tin and spoon back to the kitchen, dropping them with a rattle into the pot and preparing to clean. Who is left to defend me back home? Someone that would be known and feared here across the Narrow Sea? The name comes as he hauls up a bucket of salty water from the darkening sea, hauling it back down the steps to rinse the dishes for the next meal. One chance. One hope. The Kingslayer.
Since being raised to the Kingsguard at 15, Jaime has only ever worn the pure white of that hallowed order. It was a symbol of his vows. Vows he had betrayed again and again. Now, for the first time in all those years, he wears a different armor – another gift from Illyrio. Not white, nor Lannister gold, but well-fitted light bronze plate with an elegant harp embellished over his chest. The sort that any well-off man-at-arms in the music-loving free city would be proud to wear.
He rides through the streets, following Kevan and Ser Adisyn Swyft on nimble steeds, leaving Illyiro's luxurious palanquins behind to avoid suspicion. Like this, they disappeared into the crowded streets, not that it stops Jaime from anxiously scanning each passerby. Varys was good at making people disappear. But Jaime has lived enough life to know that everyone can be found, eventually.
They reach their stop at a massive inn, a sprawling patchwork of stone, brick and stucco, expanded and rebuilt across centuries of styles and material, sprawling out to consume an entire block. Standing guard by the huge arched entryway stand two looming stone sentinels – armored swordsmen with wings sprouted from their backs, faces weathered away by untold ages of exposure, a relic of the city's Valyrian founding.
Between the winged watchers waits a man who, even if Jaime had not seen him before on the far side of the Narrow Sea, is instantly recognizable as a fellow westerner despite his draping of local clothes.
Lord Antario Jast – one of Father's most loyal supplicants. Rewarded for years of murders, backstabbings and general duplicity with some forgotten Lannister cousin as a bride. A slender man with rigid bones and a jutting chin. His short-cropped jet black hair is tinged with more silver than Jaime had last seen on him, but his wondering right eye – a pale imitation of Lannister green – was unmistakable.
"Good sers," he bows, swift and sharp. "It is good to see your golden faces once again. The sellswords wait inside."
"Very good, Antario," Kevan steps past him and through the swinging doors.
"I must warn you, their leader… He is a low barbarian of Qohor. His appearance may be… jarring. But I assure you he is the man who will fulfill Lord Tywin's requirements."
"Sometimes the rustiest blade cuts the sharpest. Show him to us."
Inside, a large lobby is filled with mismatched tables and crowded with exotic patrons and servants from every corner of the known world. A wave of smells washes over Jaime as he steps in – ale, sweat, smoke, spices, freshly-cooked meat. Some things are not so different here from home, Jaime thinks. An inn, tavern and brothel all in one. Establishments like this littered the streets of King's Landing. But none so big and none so full of peoples from every corner of the world.
"Where do you come to us from, stranger?" a soft voice hails Jaime from behind in broken Common Tongue. "I haven't seen you here before." He turns to see a slender woman with amber skin, her lithe body barely hidden beneath a many-colored dress of ribbons and beads, leering at him as she slips past, a tray of steaming meat balanced precariously on one hand above her head.
"Only a humble traveler, my lady," he nods, looking quickly away.
"Not so humble by the look of your armor," she chirps back as she passes, hips swaying through the crowded room. "You should stay a while."
No longer than I must, Jaime thinks, the cramped quarters already making him long for the open air of Illyrio's manse. But then his eyes stop at the table where the woman has deposited her wares. That must be them, he knows at once. Three men waiting – a massive, fat Dothraki eagerly tearing into the still-sizzling meal; an old man with grey hair and frayed robes, not unlike a maester; and, between them, a tall, gaunt man with a long, black goatee hanging down to the table, swatting the Dothraki's greedy hands away to pull the food in front of him.
Sure enough, Antario is leading them to the ugly trio, as the Dothraki, put off from his feast, tugs the waitress down onto his knee with a squeak of resignation.
"Good sers, the most honorable Vargo Hoat, leader of the Brave Companions," Antario pulls back two empty chairs from the table. Kevan quickly takes a seat, his stern face unreadable. But Jaime is unable to conceal his disgust at the rugged sellswords as he clunks into his own chair. The stench of dirt roads and horses lingers around them. Best to let Kevan do the talking, or he might choke on their fumes. The man he must assume to be the allegedly honorable Hoat barely registers their arrival, gnawing away on the blackened leg of some unfortunate fowl, grease dripping down to disappear into the thick hair of his goatee.
Jaime wonders how long his uncle will wait for acknowledgement but, at last, Hoat's head snaps up to stare at them with wild, hazy eyes. His thin lips slowly creep into wide smile, showing off yellowed teeth wedged with the remains of dinner.
"Lannithters," he hisses, and Jaime chokes down a laugh at the man's jagged lisp. "I thee it ith true, you are men who wear their gold upon their head."
"Mind your words," Kevan's eyes narrow into a silencing glare, disapprovingly assessing the waitress as she wriggles uncomfortably on the Dothraki's knee. "We are here in secret, Hoat. If you wish to make this deal, and keep your tongue, you will leave it that way."
"It is dangerouth for me to be here, too!" Hoat coughs indignantly, his beady eyes darting around the room. "It ith forbidden for Pentoth to hire thell-thords."
"Then we should keep this discussion brief. I trust Ser Antario has made you well-aware of the details of this bargain."
"Well enough," Hoat leers. "My Brave Companions will make easy work of these northern pauperth. They have never theen the liketh of uth."
Raising a suspicious eyebrow, Kevan turns to Antario. But the old man catches the glance, opening his mouth first, and perfect western Common comes out. "Good Ser Kevan, I can assure you, while it is true the Brave Companions have never crossed the Narrow Sea, I have. The North is a barren land on the cusp of winter. The scarce knights they have are, if your Ser Antario is to believed, ridden south with an untested lord. Those left behind have indeed never seen the likes of our men."
"You are Westerosi," Kevan recognizes at once. "And high born."
"Not high born, ser, but highly learned," the old man rubs the back of his neck. "I was a maester of Oldtown, once, in another life."
"And by what manner did you come to fall in with these… Brave Companions?" Kevan turns in his seat. his attention now wholly on the old man. Jaime immediately notes Hoat's irritation at the shift.
"It is a long story for another day, ser," the former maester holds up his hands in supplication. "Let me only say… the archmaesters and I did not see eye-to-eye on how best to heal the ills of the Seven Kingdoms."
"Enough talk, Qyburn," Hoat slaps the table. "We are here for the gold!"
"And gold you will have," Kevan turns back, the slightest twinge of annoyance betrayed on his face. "Half now and half when Winterfell is ours, along with any spoils your men collect on the way. And you will not be alone." He gestures to Jaime. "My cousin Ser Gerold will guide you. He has seen the Stark defenses and knows how to undo them."
"Ha!" Hoat sneers. "A pretty golden knight to ride with the Brave Companionth? He will not latht a day, I wager."
"Then you will keep my portion of the gold," Jaime smirks back, standing in unison with Kevan. Stopping, he turns back and gestures to the waitress, who quickly hops up off the Dothraki's knee. "I'll see you lot on the ship then." Tossing a few gold coins down to dissuade any protests, he follows Kevan out with the woman's arm around his waist.
As they pass the stairs to the next level, the sound of dull thumping shaking dust from the rafters ahead, she pulls on him, urging him upwards. For a moment, he wants to stay, stay to discover if he can find pleasure in a woman that does not share his hair, his eyes, his face. A woman who could bash the last memories of Cersei out of his skull. But Kevan shoots him an impatient glare from the threshold. And so he presses his clinking pouch into her small hand.
"Steer clear of that lot," he whispers. "They're the sort to leave a mess." As he leaves, he finds himself wishing he could heed his own advice.
As night descends over the Narrow Sea, the Cinnamon Wind is plunged into darkness. But, having bid a good night to Prince Jalabar, Kojja and the Captain, Edward now fights back against the call of sleep. I have to do it. I can't keep running. He slips the pendant, Heleana's gift, out from beneath his shirt where it still hangs secure on its black leather band. He rubs it between his fingers, trying to summon the warm sun of the castle yard in late summer, but the ruby is cold in its weirwood casement. You were supposed to keep me safe, he thinks. And he supposes it has. I haven't died. Yet.
Slipping the pendant back out of sight, he gives Tessarrion a pat. Time to be brave. Like Arya. Like Father. He slinks along the deck silently, treading carefully on the now-familiar boards, Tessarrion moving behind him like an outsized wolfish shadow. It's Haccar's night on watch. His breathing slows as he spies the lone archer, bow in hand, perched by the mast, a slender shadow blocking out the sea of stars behind him.
For a moment, Edward hesitates. Remember. The wolfblood is in you. With a deep breath, he steps forward, and makes himself known.
"You have something that belongs to me," he declares into the night, each word coming crisp and controlled from his frightened tongue. Slowly, Haccar turns – a glint of light reflecting back from his dark face as he flashes an arrogant grin – invisible in the shadow, but as plain as the cruel laugh that follows.
"Did I not make myself clear, wolfboy?"
Tessarrion moves forward with a low growl, lips curling back to reveal his fangs. But Edward places a restraining hand on the wolf's back. "Very clear. And that's why I'm here. You said you wanted to know what was so special about me. You may not know my Father, who gave me my name. And you may not respect Prince Jalabar, who taught me the bow. But you know the man who taught me the sword."
"You threaten me, now?" Haccar chuckles as Edward slowly raises his hand, curled tightly around a long knife from the galley, pointed up to the archer's mocking face.
"I am the squire of Ser Jaime Lannister," Edward declares, and the laughter comes to a sharp halt. "The Kingslayer. You think you can sell me for gold? There is no gold in all the world that compares to Castlery Rock. And there is no knight that compares to Ser Jaime. If you harm me, or Tessarrion or anyone I care about, he will find you. And if he didn't hesitate to kill the last Targaryen, how long do you think it will take him to decide what to do with you?"
Silence falls as the winds blow the clouds away from the moon, exposing Haccar to its pale blue light. He stares down at the dagger, visible now, unwavering from its aim as Edward uses every last ounce of resolve to keep it from shaking. In the moonlight, a single bead of threat glistens on the man's furrowed brow. Slowly, his free hand reaches behind his back. Edward stiffens – a dagger? – but no. His canvas, wrinkled, but intact, returns from behind the archer's back.
"Take your cursed painting, boy," Haccar throws it at his feet. "And leave me be. I have a watch to keep."
Tessarrion, the bloodlust in his jaws sated, dips down to loyally pick up the rolled parchment as the scorned sentinel turns away. Slowly, unsure whether to believe he's truly won, Edward slips the knife back into his belt, and steps backwards into the darkness.
It worked, he tells himself, as he returns to his bed by the bow. At least for now. Does it matter if it was a lie? The truth is, Edward doesn't know if Ser Jaime would still fight for him. He doesn't know why he attacked Father, or why Lord Tywin had started a war against their family. The last time they'd spoken was on that fateful day, when everything had started to fall apart. For now, he can only conjure the Jaime of the good days – the golden knight whose armor he had polished religiously for so long. It was only a memory, but it could protect him. And if the day comes when their paths cross again, he can only hope that memory still lives somewhere in the knight's heart.
Through the open windows of one of Illyrio Mopatis' many dining rooms, the cool breeze of early evening blows through sheer lavender drapes to carry the tiring calls of the peacocks in the garden to those finishing their meal within.
"Get you to bed, good prince," Kevan commands, his voice as warm as the candlelight.
With a yawn, Tommen plops down from his cushioned seat, waddling to Kevan first, kissing his hand good-night, then hurrying to Jaime, who tussles the boy's hair, deflecting the kiss and trying not to look him in the eyes. Without a second thought, the prince is hurrying off, following the voice of his nursemaid as she calls him to a fresh, piping bath.
Jaime shakes the sound of small feet running away free from his brain and helps himself to a second slice of pie – succulent red currants smothered in rich cream, all entombed in a flaky crust. Better than anything the Red Keep had ever served. Imagine how fat Robert would have gotten with cooks like this? Jaime chuckles at the thought. No wonder Illyrio is so huge.
"Something amusing, nephew?" Kevan asks, the warmth still lingering in his voice. Therein was something he held that Father lacked.
"Nothing, truly," Jaime looks up, hurrying the pie down his throat with a drink of wine. "Tommen never ate turnips before. Hated them."
"Well, these are fine turnips. By the time he returns to King's Landing, Illyrio's cooks and I will have him eating the whole garden." Kevan smiles, and Jaime knows he can see right through his facade. He always had. "You need not fear for him. He will be safe here, in my care. And I will begin his training. Once you have cleared the path to his throne, he will be ready to sit upon it."
"Nuncle…" Jaime scratches his fork on the porcelain plate, smearing the elegant painted birds with the remains of his pie. "What of the Starks?"
"What of them?"
"When we reach Winterfell, what are we to do with them? They're only children." In the back of his mind, he sees the face of Bran Stark, plummeting backwards out the window. The face of Edward Stark, watching in horror as he betrayed him. "These barbarians you've hired…"
"Which is why I am sending you to command them. No harm need come to them, should they see reason. And if this Young Wolf fails to bend the knee…" Kevan sighs, as if already passing down the verdict. "Well, the next eldest was your squire. I have no doubt you trained him to be loyal to his true king."
"Of course," Jaime sighs, finishing off his wine. "He was a good squire." And where is he now? The city was in chaos when they fled. He could be dead in an alley somewhere, and his sisters as well. And it would all be his fault. How many curses could he bear to heap on one family? The silence hangs long and heavy over them. Jaime watches the wax slowly run down the edge of the candlesticks. It's not too late, he thinks. Illyrio's walls were there to keep people out, not in. He could take Tommen, flee into the night… But to where?
"You should say your farewells. Your ship will begin to board in the morning." Kevan's face is soft with sympathy, but his gaze is unyieldingly stern. He and Father have the same eyes, Jaime realizes. Eyes he could never say no to. He nods respectfully, and begins to stand, but Kevan catches him by the shoulder. His hand holds Jaime in place, half-risen, a comfort and a warning all at the same time. "You cannot tell the boy. He must believe Robert was his father, until his dying day. Until you and I have long joined your sister in the dust."
"I know," Jaime answers, barely a whisper escaping his throat, the mad hope gone before it could even stretch its wings. What was I thinking? There's no choice, not really. There never was. He looks down at his uncle, steeling his spirit to match his iron stare. "I will see you on the morn."
With that, he begins the long walk down the hall to where Tommen is waiting. In the silence, he can hear him splashing in the tub, laughing at some unheard joke. His hand reaches for the knob, but stops. He remembers Kevan's words. Worse, he remembers Joffrey's scream as he lashed out, leaving his mother bleeding out her last gasps on the floor of Maegor's Holdfast. He hadn't heard what she had whispered to him in those final moments. But in his heart, he knows. Is it better to live as a bastard on the run, or as an orphaned king? As tears begin to well beneath his eyelids, he opens his mouth, desperate to cry out. But no sound comes.
He leaves the door closed, the silence unbroken.
When he returns to his own chambers, two flagons of wine later, vision blurring as his feet trip over each other and he lurches over the threshold, he finds Tommen's nursemaid waiting in his bed. She lies naked, strewn out upon his deep blue sheets, like an elegant maiden of the sea. He stumbles forward and splashes down beside her.
"I'm going to miss you so much, ser," she whispers in his ear, the words arriving scrambled in his drunken brain. "I wanted to say thee farewell." And then she is kissing him, slipping off his silken tunic as he slips his hands over her skin, even softer, pulling her tight to him. His addled brain yearns to give itself over to her, to be lost within her curves and creases and sweet smells. But in the end, she is not Cersei. And finished, he falls away from her with an anticlimactic sigh, drowning in the sheets as he sinks into sleep. She tucks himself into his side, resting her warm arm atop his taut abdomen, kissing his neck, though he is past feeling.
"Why don't you stay?"
"I have… I have a castle to storm."
