In the night, Lord Ned Stark comes to his son's nightmares once again.
Edward is in a woods at dusk, the trees unfamiliar, a path forward nowhere to be seen. His goldenheart bow is gripped tightly in hand, one red-feathered weirwood arrow notched tightly in the string, pulled taut, ready to release at any moment. He takes a step forward, his feet making no sound; in fact, there is no sound in the darkening forest at all. No babbling brooks, rustling leaves, or chattering birds. Only suffocating silence.
"Tessarion!" Edward calls to his wolf, the shout echoing out in every direction like a dull drum. He takes another step forward, somehow knowing it is his only choice. He reaches out in his mind, trying to feel the faint corner where the wolfblood waits, to know his dire companion is close by. But the wild spirit is quiet now, its crevice empty. A piece of him is gone, and in its place is only pain.
Fighting back fear, Edward pulls the bowstring back even tighter and steps forward again and again until – he sees it. The fire. Impossible to have missed before and yet materializing before him out of nothing but shadowy trees. A weirwood ablaze, white bark charred black and crimson leaves ablaze with silent orange fire. The carved face in the trunk has blistered and split open, pouring forth fresh red sap from a hanging wooden mouth, frozen in a bubbling, bloody and silent scream, for the inferno makes no sound.
And there, at the feet of the tree, lies Tessarion – the great direwolf's body broken and twisted, the blueish tint of his grey fur smothered and replaced by dark scorch marks. Edward's jaw drops open, horrified tears rushing to his eyes but he dares not cry out, nor sob, nor take another step forward towards the profane pyre.
Behind the tree, a shadow moves.
Edward twists in place, raising the bow to mark the specter who steps into view as the rest of the forest turns to inky nothingness around them. A figure in the shape of man but cloaked by relentless fire. And through the blood and smoke and tongues of fame, Edward's terror reaches a new depth as he recognizes the face staring back at him with burning coals for eyes – the face of his own father.
"No!" On instinct, Edward looses the arrow, sending it flying through the air with the force of his scream. But in a flurry of flames, Ned's hand jolts up to grab it, catching the arrow mid-air, the weirwood shaft bursting into a fountain of sparks as it joins the tree behind them in flames. Slowly lowering his smoldering arm back to his side, the nightmare stares down at the frozen face of his son.
"Bring her to me, Ed." The specter's mouth drops open, revealing an inferno within. But the voice that comes forth is unmistakably Ned's. "Bring me the dragon."
"Father!" Edward jolts awake, crashing out of his bed onto the hard floor. Gasping for breath, he shakes the shades from his head and is back, safe, in his small room in Lys. Lying in the corner, unburnt and ears pricked up in concern, is Tessarion, glowing in the early morning sun through the window. Edward desperately crawls to the wolf's side, burying his face in his fur and taking shaky breaths of relief to feel the wolf cool and calm and alive.
"Edward! What is wrong?" The door to the room swings open and Jalabar stands waiting in his full feathered regalia. Edward looks up to him, then back to the bed, sheets twisted in a panicked mess. As his pulse calms, embarrassment sets in.
"I'm sorry." He stands, putting on an assured face. "It was just a bad dream."
"You call for Father."
"I know. I just… I miss him." Edward banishes the nightmare from his mind, dredging back up the true memory of his father; smiling and kind. And alive.
"Of course. It is natural. Do not be ashamed." Jalabar offers him his hand, and Edward takes it, following him back out into the open room, where a tray of fresh fruit has been prepared. He eagerly snatches up a slice of orange, the juice splattering across his chin as he bites in. "We all pray that Lord Ned waits upon your return."
"Thank you," Edward smiles, taking a seat. He knows it isn't true. But he knows there is no point in arguing. He'll think I'm stupid, believing in nightmares. Better to let him hope for me.
"You go to market with Xondo today." The prince sits across from him, scooping green melon with a jagged spoon. "Jalabar Xo must seek employment."
Edward eagerly reaches for another orange slice, excited at the news. Iz will be there too, he knows. We can see more of the city! As he lets the pointed sweetness wash out the dryness in his mouth, he can think of no better way to banish the hauntings of night back to the shadows where they belong.
The Temple of Trade casts an imposing silhouette amid Lys' horizon of colorful towers – A huge, gleaming dome resting atop a towering colonnade, draped with banners in every color from across the known world. The wind, rushing through the columns, shakes the banners, making the temple seem alive, a writhing rainbow kraken presiding over the city. Here in the heart of the city, the ruling magisters and merchant princes hold their power, and only those lucky merchants to receive personal patronage from a member of the conclave are permitted to sell within.
Surrounding the temple is the High Market, a maze of white-walled shops and stalls constructed in uniform centuries past and controlled by the magisters. Those merchants and craftsmen wealthy and acclaimed enough to move out of the chaotic Low Market, with its ramshackle shacks and flimsy wooden hovels piled atop each other like barnacles by the harbor, can rent space and hope, one day, to impress a magister enough to make their way into the Temple high above. That hope is shared by Captain Quhuru Mo, but for now, the crew of the Cinnamon Wind are left to peddle their wares in a clean but small stall in between a local weaver and a fellow crew selling oddities from the Far East.
For Edward, the sights and sounds and smells of the market are more than enough to drown out memories of the night's spectral terrors. When he first came to King's Landing, he had thought the capital to offer a glimpse of everything the world had to offer. Only now can he see just how wrong he was. Just from his seat in the Cinnamon Wind's stall he can see people passing by the likes of which he has never seen, wearing clothes and speaking languages from unknowable lands, prying at each other to buy goods that Edward would wager even old Maester Luwin had never in his life seen. While some of the men and women who stopped by their stall spoke the Common Tongue, Edward was of little help selling. Instead, he follows the orders of the crew, rushing to and fro through the inventory, watching and listening all the while, not wanting to miss a thing.
"Look at this, Ed!" Iz shouts, scurrying back into the stall with something small and pink clutched in his hands. He smacks it down on the table with a thud. Edward looks down at the curiosity before him – oblong, coated with what look like bright pink scales, tipped by green spikes. "A dragon's egg!"
Edward's jaw drops, looking down at the table, then back to Iz, his friend's confident grin unwavering. That can't be…. He knows, and yet…
With a laugh, Iz whips out his knife and plunges it into the egg. Edward jumps back as Iz, still laughing, cuts through his gift, juice dripping out onto the counter as it splits open to reveal a wet, white inside peppered with black seeds.
"What is it?" Edward joins Iz in laughing at his own surprise.
"In Common Tongue, men say Dragon's Fruit. The Islands say pitaya."
Iz dips his knife into the fruit, easily carving out a clump. He raises it to Edward, carefully holding the blade still as Ed leans in, biting the serving off the dull edge. The soft fruit is cool on his tongue, but when he bites down on the seeds, they crunch, releasing a sharp bitter taste, the sweet and sour mixing as he swallows.
"You like?" Iz asks, helping himself to a bigger scoop.
"Yes!" Edward nods eagerly, pulling out his own knife to reach in.
"Elders say Prince Kalagar bring pitaya from Sothoryos. Grows all over islands now."
"I don't think I've ever eaten anything from Sothoryos," Edward answers, mouth still full of fruit and seeds.
"High Market has food from everywhere! Places even your maesters don't know about!"
Edward eagerly reaches for another helping, scraping the rest of the fruit out from the shell of one half. But before Iz can start on the second half, a huge hand reaches down to snatch it as Xondo comes thundering back into the stall.
"Izarro found the pitaya!" The huge mate laughs, slapping Iz so hard across the back that he nearly falls off his stool. Without bothering to use a knife, Xondo takes a huge bite out of the fruit, juice splashing over his face as his thick white teeth sink in, slurping it out of the hard husk. He swaggers behind the counter, revealing the much shorter man behind him – who immediately catches the eye of Bacci, the archer currently overseeing the ledger.
"No, no, Xondo!" Bacci waves an accusing finger. "Captain said no bring Hezza!"
"Captain said Xondo cannot buy from Hezza. Hezza here to buy. A respectable customer!" Xondo tosses the rest of the fruit to his companion, who is already behind the counter, oblivious to Bacci's protests. "Iz! Wolfboy! This Hezza Gehrig!"
Edward eyes the new arrival up and down suspiciously, remembering Kojja Mo's warnings of the merchant. The man looks friendly enough – short and stocky, with a hard belly jutting out from his green velvet vest. The man's amber skin is leathery and scarred by the sun, his broad face betraying little as he looks past Edward to Tessarion, sleeping in the back of the stall.
"When did Captain Quhuru start picking up Western strays, Xondo?"
"Wolfboy steal food at port," Xondo relays Edward's cover story without hesitation. "He work for Cinnamon Wind now. Not bad, but pet is real treasure. Make short work of pirate."
Curious, Hezza tosses the rest of the pitaya down to the ground in front of Tessarion. The wolf's eyes snap open, looking up at the strange new man suspiciously at first. But as he sniffs the offering, his tongue slips out, lapping up the last of the fruit before gnawing happily on the husk. Hezza turns back to Edward and Iz with a grin plastered across his face, revealing a scattering of gem-studded teeth.
"He like me! How much would you ask for him? Many a magister's menagerie would duel for a western wolf!"
"He's not for sale!" Edward blurts out, nearly grabbing his knife again, but Iz stops his hand.
"I'm not asking you, boy," Hezza chuckles, turning to Xondo. "How much for the wolf?"
Xondo looks over his friend's shoulder to Edward. He shakes his head. "Wolf not for sale. Is good luck."
"Ah, well. It's only business. But it's good you left Westeros when you did. Queer news is coming from across the Narrow Sea," Hezza glances nervously over both shoulders. "New arrivals, newer than you, say that the Baratheon king is dead! The Seven Kingdoms are divided, and war rules the land!" Edward nearly falls off his stool leaning in to listen closer. King Robert dead? Surely not! What would that mean for Sansa and Arya? "If you ask me, it was only a matter of time. Those Westerosi are barely civilized. It took the Targaryens to hold them together. Without them, it's all going to burn to the ground."
"Heh," Xondo chuckles under his breath, pouring himself a cup of rum from his flagon. He looks down to Edward, who has slumped back into his seat. "Looks like Prince Jalabar get you out just in time, Wolfboy."
On the far side of the city sits the manse of Tregar Ormollen. The home of the merchant prince takes the shape of a many-layered tower, each red-stone floor slightly narrower than the other until the final tower rises straight into the sky, one of the tallest in all of Lys, topped with a blue spire that glistens blindingly in the noon sun. The walls of the lower floors are covered in greenery and littered with flowers, filling the whole palace with an ever-shifting scent of perfume.
On the second story, in the magister's audience chamber, a huge echoing space lined with stone sentinels adorned with the armor and weapons of warriors from across the known world, Prince Jalabar Xho stands alone in the light filtered through the vines dangling over the wide window behind the dais, a round white circle overflowing with luxurious pillows, enough to sit a dozen or more, but currently empty.
In his colorful, feathered cape and jeweled necklace, Jalabar takes a careful sip from the chalice the slaves who had welcomed him had handed him before disappearing. Wine from the Summer Isles, with its distinct fruity flavors; all too hard to come by in Westeros. Here, in this sun, with this wine and the smell of flowers all around, it almost feels like home. But this is not his island – here, he knows, his name will mean little. In Lys, everything comes with a price.
At last, the blue curtains behind the dais part. But the famously fierce merchant prince does not appear. Instead, a slight woman steps forward from the shadows. Jalabar knows her at once – Lynesse Hightower.
While Jalabar had never met Lord Hightower's youngest daughter, he had heard her story. And now, seeing her in person, it is clear she takes most after her Lyseni mother. As she walks down onto the dais gracefully in violet slippers, her strikingly pale skin is dappled by the light that glistens off her gleaming golden hair. Her silver and purple pants flare out in wide poofs, but above the waist she wears only the most delicate of lilac netting, leaving her toned body and small breasts exposed as it hangs from a gilded collar, crowned by the largest amethyst Jalabar has ever seen.
"My lady," he drops to one knee, careful not to spill his wine.
"None of that will be necessary, your grace," she smiles, her voice light but carrying across the room as she reclines upon the largest pillow, her native tongue having adapted the local accent after years abroad. "Come, sit with me."
Jalabar steps up to the dais. As he selects his own pillow, an oblong orange cushion covered in tassels, he carefully arranges his cloak as to not damage the feathers. When he looks up, he is startled to see Lynesse watching him with sparkling eyes the same color as the jewel around her neck – the hypnotic purple mark of Valyrian blood.
"I knew your brother at court, my lady. He does well."
"Which one?" She laughs. "I have so many. And none ever write anymore."
"Ser Gunthor."
"Oh, gods, Gunthor! I'm shocked his wife hasn't killed him yet. He always was incorrigible. Never hesitated to take what he wanted. He should have joined me here. In Lys, with enough money, you can have anything."
Jalabar catches her eyes tracing his body as she leans forward, finding each glimpse of his muscles showing beneath his vest and cloak. He shifts nervously on his pillow. To him, Lynesse's pale appearance is lifeless and fragile, like some doll too fragile to be touched, or a spectral wraith haunting a distant shore. But he also knows to other eyes across the known world, hers is the sort of face that men would kill for. And, if the rumors he has heard of Tregar Ormollen were true, they have. Lynesse had come to Lys the wife of some disgraced northern lord who had not been heard from in Westeros since. As he averts his eyes from her purple gaze, he resolves not to face the same fate.
"My lady, if I may…" he interrupts.
"Ha!" Lynesse laughs, flicking her hair back. "You aren't in Westeros anymore. And I am no lady, even you must know that."
"But about my business…"
"Ah, yes." She slumps back in her seat, disappointment settling on her face, the light of interest in her eyes giving way to a dull veneer of boredom. "I have been told of your business, Prince Jalabar. And I have also been told of your history. If you have come here to beg the magisters' backing to retake your island home, you will be sorely disappointed."
"I swear to you, I wish only for a place amongst Prince Ormollen's guard."
"The magisters guard boasts many of the finest archers in all of Lys, some even with goldenheart bows of their own."
"None as gifted as Jalabar Xo."
"Hmm…" Lynesse leans back, suppressing a yawn, which Jalabar suspects is feigned. She is not one to be moved lightly, he can see. She will want something for herself if this deal is to be made. "Return to me in three days. Our archers will test your mettle. Until then, think upon what all you truly have to offer."
She remains seated, carefully watching Jalabar as he stands, pulling her feet up from the floor beneath her, as if coiling to spring into a pounce. As he bows, a stray crimson feather slips from his cloak, floating gently down into her lap. He hesitates, and in his pause, she lifts it in her small hands, slipping it into her golden hair, tucked behind one pale ear.
"Three days, then." Jalabar steps backwards off the dais, her eyes still locked on him. He realizes that he has left his empty goblet behind, resting on the ground between them. Before he can retrieve it, she picks it up with a smile, pointed with anticipation. "I look forward to proving my worth to you."
"Yes." Lynesse lifts the goblet to her mouth, sucking the last droplets of rich island wine from the rim. "I think you will."
As the day winds on, Edward takes in the life of the market, wishing he had brought a journal or canvas to mark it all down – not that he would have had time to write or paint in the midst of the constant rush of business. By now, he and Iz know by heart the ins and outs of every crate, barrel and chest packed tight within the smooth white walls of their narrow stall. Furs and wine and gems and gowns from across the Narrow Sea, from places like Highgarden and Castlery Rock, which Edward can only imagine sound as foreign to the shoppers here as their homes sound to him -
Summer Islanders who swap tales with the crew of the Cinnamon Wind in their native tongue, tall Bravossi with pointed noses, elegant women from Myr, a cluster of monks from Yi Ti in lemur-tailed hats, even a stocky, web-fingered man from Ib. Some seem friendly, others frightening, but Edward was intrigued by all, peering over the table while Xondo or one of the other mates did the talking, taking in every strange guest from head to toe until a dodged smack or sharp command sends him scurrying back to fetch some new treasure to be sold, collecting new coins of a countless variety for Bacci to sort into their chest.
But out of the whole crowd passing through the market, one group above all sticks in his mind, long after their shifting eyes have turned away and they have disappeared back into the sea of bodies – the slaves.
Some come with their masters, others on their own. Some are marked by brandings, others tattoos or collars. They are men and women of every people and land. But it does not take long for Edward to recognize them. He knew that slavery still existed in the East. Yet until today, it has never felt so real. To Xondo and Iz and the rest of the crew, they are a fact of life – the same as any other customer. But to Edward, he can feel the wolfblood begin to boil in the back of his brain whenever he recognizes the mark.
He finds now that he cannot help but remember his father, and how he had driven a shameful Northern lord from their land for selling captured poachers into slavery. He wonders if one of these men bound here now had been stolen from his own home. If only Father had followed him here, he could have put an end to it all! Or so Edward would like to believe. Even if he weren't dead, Father was only one man. And so when the slaves come to buy wine and cloth for their masters, Edward finds he can only hang his head in shame.
It is after one such visit that he hears a familiar voice shouting above the crowd – one he had hoped he would never have to hear again.
"Xondo!" Haccar shoves his way to the counter, his face flushed with fury. Edward and Iz both snap their heads up to attention, and Tessarion jolts awake as the hook-nosed archer slams his fists down before the unbothered first mate. "What lies have you spread about me?"
"Haccar," Xondo chuckles. "The crew did not think to see you again. Xondo has heard you will command a ship of your own, now. You have tired of our company."
"That at least is true," Haccar snears through gritted teeth. "In shipyards, all ears are full of stories with my name, told by Xondo's mouth."
"Xondo only speaks truth."
"Xondo lies." The archer's hand drifts to his belt. Edward watches intently, looking for a flashing knife that doesn't appear… yet. "Haccar has served Cinnamon Wind nobly. Longer than Xondo! But the yards are poisoned now. None will take me!"
"Whose fault is that?" Xondo looks back to his companions, as if soliciting input. Yet all others are too uneasy to chime in, the tension suffocating the stall as Haccar barely contains his furious breaths, veins straining on his neck, full of rage. "No one loves a sour captain. If Haccar wishes for ship, Haccar should not be miserable to crew."
At that, Haccar snaps, lashing one arm out over the counter to grab at Xondo, who jumps back off his stool with a laugh. Haccar seems ready to leap over the counter to draw blood when, from the back of the stall, Tessarion leaps forward with a deafening snarl, stopping the archer in his tracks.
The sudden appearance of the direwolf freezes the crowd outside, all feet stopping to turn as the huge grey beast prowls towards Haccar, long hair risen along his spine as Xondo, hands in the air, backs away. Without thinking, Edward whips out his knife, stepping from behind the stall to get a clear look at Haccar. The tall man looks down at him with nothing but contempt in his dark eyes.
"I warned you what would happen if you crossed us again," Edward growls, feeling his breath become one with the wolf, steeling his grip to stop the knife from shaking, all the anger and fear he has felt today channelling into one iron gesture. "You are no longer part of this crew. You made that choice. Do not return!"
With a final glare deadlier than any of his arrows, Haccar turns away, shoving past a confused Jalabar without another word. The returned prince looks about for an explanation, but Edward does not let Haccar out of his sight until the cruel archer has disappeared into the crowd. He may not be able to fix the world, not yet, but at least some villains, he knows, he can dare to stand against.
