The sun is high over the glistening city of Lys, but Tregar Ormollen's flowered tower casts his castle yard in cool shade as a line of archers take their positions. The four best marksmen of the merchant prince's guard have turned out, bows in hand, ready to face the new challenger vying for a position among their lucrative employ.
Jalabar Xo stands in full regalia, his lushly feathered cloak freshly aired, the vibrant colors as bright as if they were freshly plucked, sapping up color and new life from the Lyseni sun. His head and jaw are freshly shaven, without a trace of stubble. And his prized goldenheart bow is freshly tightened, energy pulsing through the dead wood and oxhide string, waiting to be released.
The prince eyes his competition, careful not to crane his neck too sharply. Tregar's guard are dressed lightly, with studded leather and light plate on their chest and tasset belts over baggy, flowing shirts and pants, dyed a soft lavender to showcase their master's weath. Cinched beneath their chins are pointed, wide-brimmed helmets to protect their skulls and keep the sun from their eyes. Two are Lyseni. Jalabar marks the third as a man of Myr and the fourth as hailing from further East – Yi Ti, perhaps, or Leng. It was this man, the tallest of the four, who clutched his own goldenheart bow. Smaller and rougher-hewn than the prince's, but enough to declare him the greatest threat. Until, that is, the fifth man arrives.
Without a word to Jalabar, Haccar enters the yard, striding confidently to the far end of the line, bow and quiver at ready. The Cinnamon Wind's chief archer wears a cloak far less extravagant than Jalabar's, thin and all dark green and blue, but he wears it with pride.
"What are you doing?" Jalabar breaks his repose, stepping forward to question the new arrival, but is ignored. Instead, the sound of a sharp trumpet blast sends him snapping back into position. Turning, he sees that Lynesse Hightower has arrived at last, flanked by servants as she strides toward the small stone dais across the yard.
"Thank you for your punctuality, Prince Jalabar," Lynesse smiles down invitingly to her guest. Today she has donned a rich blue tunic, sleeveless to leave her pale arms freckling in the sun. The gilded collar again encircles her neck, its huge amethyst sparkling to match her eyes. "I must apologize, I come too late to tell you that you are not the only master archer from the Summer Isles wishing to serve the noble Tregar Ormollen."
Jalabar glares down the line at Haccar, who offers back an arrogant smile beneath his hooked nose. Shaking his head, Jalabar draws the first arrow from his quiver.
"It matters not, Lady Lynesse. All the archers of this sweet city could never best Jalabar Xo."
"We shall see," Lynesse sits, motioning for wine as she reclines, sprawled across the dais. "Let them begin."
The competition starts small and simple, in kind with the rudimentary contests offered at western tourneys. Rows of wooden targets plucked full with three arrows each. The motion is as natural to Jalabar as breath – notch, draw, raise, tighten, aim, loose. His arms slip into the familiar rhythm, muscles tightening and relaxing in turn, bound to his brain by the sacred threads that Baccane, God of the Bow, had woven into man, or so the poems said. But Jalabar had seen men cut open in battle, women too, and there were no magic threads. Only sinew and blood, and that he had made work for him over years of practice, first in his homeland, then in his long exile, in the years where the bow was the only escape from the drudgery of life in foreign courts that saw him as nothing more than a party trick at best.
Three loud thunks into the heart of the target later, as easy as blinking his eye three times, he smiles. A confident glance down the line makes it clear – the first three guards are no match. But the man with the goldenheart is close. And Haccar closer still.
"Bring out the horses!" Lynesse shouts.
The summoned horses are, in fact, not beasts at all, but rather wooden mimicries on wheels, their sides painted with bright red circles where their fatal joints would be, were they flesh and blood. Hooked into a contraption not unlike a giant bow, they were pulled back by a trio of young men marked as slaves, clearly familiar with the pageantry of this show. Once the false horse was steadied, the string was released with a horrid-sounding snap, sending its package hurtling over the courtyard stones.
While Tregar's yard is impeccably maintained, its slick cobblestones smooth and plucked clean of weeds, the uneven surface and the reckless speed of launch is enough to set the wooden horse to violent wobbling as it makes its course past the line of archers to crash into the far wall. This – a new challenge – pique's Jalabar's interest, but not his fear. Thrice the horse trundles past – each time the prince selecting a different target on its hull. And each time his arrow lands true, his final strike hitting with enough force to knock the target off its careening path and onto its side with a crunch.
The eastern guard's goldenheart bow is not enough to keep pace. But Haccar remains.
"Very good!" Lynesse applauds. "Would you care for a drink, before our final test?" Her slender arm holds out an overfull goblet toward him, her jeweled bracelets clattering together around her wrist as she waits. But Jalabar shakes his head, no.
Instead, he turns and waits. Only now does Haccar step to him.
"Jalabar Xo did not expect to see Haccar on this day, eh?" he sneers, white teeth flashing into a shark's grin.
"Not this day, nor ever again," Jalabar holds his own face in a steel vise, refusing to betray emotion, but remembering how cruelly the archer had treated Edward on their voyage.
"That wish could have been granted, had your oafish friends not soured the harbor to my services. So Haccar must seek fortune elsewhere." He points up at the tower looming above them. "And chose here."
"You chose poorly."
The sound of frightened cooing and rustling feathers enters the yard as the same band of slaves produces two wire cages of silver-winged pigeons, three each.
"Prepare three arrows, archers," Lynesse calls out to them, leaning forward with anticipation. "You have only one chance left to earn your place here."
Jalabar squints at the birds, piecing together the final task. Three targets, released at once. It has been some time since he has taken aim at something alive enough to escape his bow. But it was not as if Haccar had an excess of pigeons to hunt at sea, either.
"Let the prince go first," Lynesse commands, and the first crate of pigeons is brought forward, their noises growing louder and more frantic, as if they know what fate awaits them. Jalabar pulls three arrows from the quiver, notching the first and slotting the others between his bottom two fingers, dangling loosely as he pulls back. He takes a deep breath.
With a nearly silent crack, the lid of the crate flips open. Jalabar looks to the open blue sky above – the first bird comes into view on a foolish path of flight. He looses the first arrow, and it drops dead to the ground. The second is close behind. Jalabar slips the next arrow into place, pivoting ever so slightly and then – release. This one makes a squawk and lands pierced atop the parapets. But the third… where is the third?
Notching his last arrow, Jalabar whips about scanning the clear sky for a flurry of grey feathers. He listens for the desperate sound of wings. There – disappearing against the stone of the tower, but not fast enough, the final pigeon slips into his aim. He pulls back, tracking it as it moves between him and a patch of green vines, clearer now. He lets the arrow fly, refusing to take another breath as he watches it sail. And then, at the last moment, the bird jolts to the right. The arrow lands embedded in the tower wall with a dull, condemning thud, while its intended prey flies to freedom.
It is not over, Jalabar knows, Haccar could miss too. But he does not watch his rival, nor does he look to Lynesse. Instead, he watches a crimson flower, dislodged by his wayward arrow, float slowly to the ground as he hears three arrows release in turn and three dead birds hit the ground.
"Welcome to the guard of Tregar Ormollen, Haccar of Walano," Lynesse forces a smile through her poorly disguised look of disappointment. "My men will see you are outfitted accordingly."
Jalabar sees Haccar's triumphant sneer only in passing as he turns to leave, though Lynesse walks past the victor, disinterested, straight to him.
"I wish you the best of luck, prince," she whispers in his ear. "If you reconsider other… roles that you can fill in this court, please, return to us."
Jalabar conjures up the most convincing smile he can as he bids the lady farewell, his mind already back at his small boarding room. Some things, it seems, never change.
Edward Stark grins through the pain of burning spice as he swallows another spoonful of Xondo's crab soup. He had grown used to the colorful, burning flavors of the Summer Islands in Old Jezra's cooking during their voyage, but Xondo's heavy hands had left the night's dinner burning Edward's mouth like never before. But, as he gulps down water to soothe the pain, he cannot argue that it is delicious.
Around the table, he is joined by Iz, Jalabar, Kojja Mo, and Xondo himself, the first mate having taken over Drezno Olare's kitchen here at the inn to prepare what he called a proper meal for this, the crew of the Cinnamon Wind's last night ashore in Lys before they would begin loading for sail. Edward has been warding off his new friends' inevitable departure and tonight is no different. It could be a night like any other, he tells himself. Happy. And hopeful.
Now Xondo, cheered on by the rum in his mug, produces his pocha, the small, red stringed instrument not terribly different from the lutes and gitterns carried by bards back home in Westeros. He begins to sing an off-tune song in the Island Tongue. Edward leans in, trying to recognize the words, as Iz and Kojja laugh at the mate's poor notes. Jalabar, however, remains distant, his gaze wondering off to some empty far corner. Kojja, taking notice, gives Xondo a light slap to silence him.
"Jalabar? What troubles you?" she asks. ""How was contest?"
"Contest?" Edward and Iz both turn to the prince, confused. "What contest?"
"You did not tell the boy?"
"No, no," Jalabar raises his hands defensively, clearly not wanting to broach the matter now. But it is out, all the same. He looks down to Edward with a sigh. "I took a challenge to win a place in service to Prince Tregar Ormollen. The gods did not smile upon my bow today."
"There will be others," Kojja assures him with a smile, but Jalabar's frown remains.
"So you were at Tregar's?" Xondo asks drunkenly. "Did you see that concubine of his? The Hightower? Xondo has heard of her beauty!"
"Hightower?" Edward turns back to Jalabar. "There's a Hightower here in the city?"
"The Lady Lynesse," Jalabar admits. "She would be aunt to your dear Heleana. It was she that gave the challenge."
"Why didn't you tell her about me?" Edward's confusion becomes more pointed. "I was supposed to live with the Hightowers in Oldtown. She could help us get back!"
"We do not know the names of those who plotted against you and your family," Jalabar carefully explains. "The Hightowers may have betrayed you. We do not know if Oldtown is safe for you."
"Then what is your plan?" The slightest hint of frustration begins to grow on Edward's face. "Are we just going to sit here?"
"Jalabar Xo made a vow to Lord Eddard Stark. When the war is over, you will be returned to your father."
"But Ed's father is…" Iz blurts out, but is silenced mid-sentence with a deadly glare from the prince. He quickly fills his mouth with soup, staring down at the bowl. Xondo and Kojja exchange a nervous glance.
"That is not known," Jalabar sighs. He extends a comforting hand towards Edward, but the boy does not accept it. "Night terrors and visions can have many meanings."
"It's not like that," Edward shakes his head angrily. "I know he's gone." Shoving his chair back from the table, Edward leaves behind the remains of the meal, skulking off to the stairs while the others linger, unsure of what to say. Taking one last look back at Jalabar, he grumbles. "Good night. Good luck finding another challenge."
As the sun sets out to sea, giving the rooftops of the city a parting golden glow, Edward sits alone on the balcony of their room in the inn, overlooking the gardens below. He stares at an empty canvas, paint and brushes untouched at his side. He tries to call forth inspiration – the flowers lining the plaza or the gilded silhouettes of the city's towers reaching up to scratch the sky or even Tessarion, asleep in the next room. But nothing comes. He drags the dry brush across the blank slate, listening to the bristles scratch.
He always knew that he could only delay the inevitable for so long. And now tomorrow his friends will be leaving for good, and he will be stuck here, with no path home, losing two families in just a few short months. And so the weight of all his fear has caught up to him at last, perched upon his back, too heavy to dream under. If only he could paint a way back – but who will be waiting for him at Winterfell? Who has he lost without even knowing?
Putting aside the brush, he turns back towards the room, hoping to look on the painted faces of his family, as if he could ever forget. But instead, he finds Iz waiting in the door.
"How are you?" he asks, nervously. "You missed the pie."
"I'm not hungry," Edward shakes his head.
"Are you painting? I'm sorry if…"
"No." Ed slumps back onto his stool with a sigh. "I can't… I don't know…"
Iz slowly walks up beside him, draping his arms over the banister. Traces of sunset creeping down over the edge of the roof make his tight black curls glow as he smells the many aromas rising from the plaza. Across from them, in the shadowy corners that have already embraced the night, the first bat of the evening can be seen flapping down into a fruit tree to begin its feast.
"Maybe Jalabar is right," he finally speaks. "Maybe your father is still alive out there."
"That's… that's not what it is. Not anymore, I don't think."
"But you're still having the nightmares?"
"Yes. But it's different. It feels… not like a ghost, but something worse."
"Worse than a ghost?" Iz turns to face Edward, concerned.
"It's not something from the past I'm afraid of anymore. It's the future. At home, I knew who I was. I knew what was planned for me. I was a Stark. I was going to be a knight. I was going to marry some lady that Mother and Father would choose. But here…" Edward looks up at the blank canvas. "Here I don't know who I am. And the future is all dark. That's what I'm afraid of – the future, not the past. I've become nobody."
"Hey!" Iz wraps his arms tight around Edward's neck from behind, shaking him as if to rattle off the melancholy. "That is not known! You are still Edward Stark. You are still my friend. You are still of the Cinammon Wind!"
Without letting go of Edward, Iz snatches up the brush, quickly running it through the white paint, then the blue. He jabs one blot confidently in the middle of the canvas – a pale, blueish ball looking back at them.
"You know what that is!"
Edward slowly relaxes, Iz holding him so close he can feel his breaths. Slowly, Tessarion pads out onto the balcony, sniffing the cooling air and joining them in looking up at the lonely blue dot. Slowly, it begins to take shape before Edward's eyes – the pale canvas becomes the dark sky and the paint…
"The eye of the ice dragon!"
"Or the nose of the warrior fish."
"I can see it!" Edward grabs the brush and Iz jumps back to watch him work.
"You do the rest," he laughs. "Izarro no good at painting."
"No, you're very good," Edward insists, joining in the laughter as he begins to plot the other stars of the twin constellations across the canvas, then slowly connecting them with flowing lines – a dragon's wing in one direction, a fish's tale in the other.
"Your family look to that star to see dragon. My family look to that star to see warrior fish. You and I look to see both. It take different shapes. But it stay the same. Just like you."
Just like me, Edward tells himself as he paints, taking Iz' words and burying them deep in his heart. I can become something new here. But I'll still be me. I'll still be a Stark. And one day, one way or another, I'll be going home.
Lynesse Hightower lies asleep alone in the high chambers of Tregar Ormollen. The circular room is ringed by windows, their slatted wooden shutters all left open tonight to let the cool breeze sweep in from the ocean, carrying with it the lovely scents of the vines clinging to the tower's walls. The breath of flowers from across the known world wash over Lynesse as she sleeps, naked and uncovered, her small body a pale ship in a sea of blue and purple pillows. A long night of peaceful sleep is a rare gift in the raucous court of the merchant prince. Which is why when the sound of footsteps on the stair snaps her awake, her fury comes quickly.
"Who goes there!" Rolling out of bed, she leaps to her feet on the cold stone floor, covered with nothing but a long dagger pulled from beneath the bed, pointed towards the dark figure waiting in the doorway.
"Lady Lynesse, it's only me!" the familiar voice of one of her maidservants calls out. With a sigh of consternation, Lynesse tosses the dagger aside and stalks back to the bed to throw on a blue silk robe, cinching it tight around her waist.
"Gods, what are you calling me for at this hour?"
"There's someone here to see you."
"Well, make them wait until the morning!"
"It's your brother."
"Which one?" Lynesse groans, but the servant is already hurrying back down the stairs. She makes begrudging haste to follow her, winding down the torchlit stairs through the levels of the tower until at last they have reached the receiving hall. Not waiting for assistance or announcement, she swats open the curtain to reveal who has disturbed her slumber.
Humfrey Hightower, youngest child of Lord Leyton, reclines on Tregar's dais, a heavily jeweled goblet in hand that he is carefully refilling as his sister enters. Like her, his pale skin seems to glow in the moonlight. His slender frame, all arms and legs, is sprawled out to take up as much space as possible. He wears simple sailor's clothes – baggy brown pants tied by rope around his narrow waist, a dirty shirt cut deep to expose his sharp clavicle, and a leather vest embroidered with the mark of the Hightower. His narrow face, devoid of any stubble, would be nearly indistinguishable from Lynesse, save for his hair, dyed a shocking blue and aggressively spiked with thick oil.
"Could you not have waited til morning?" Lynesse scowls, snatching up the empty goblet he's left waiting beside him. "I'll never get back to sleep now."
"Not for this, no," Humfrey shakes his head as Lynesse fills her cup to the brim and takes a long drink before filling it once more and settling into a seat beside him, legs curled up to her chest. "Father made me swear not to waste a moment. And I fear if I did, he'd drop an anvil on me or some other curse."
"This is Father's business?" Lynesse snaps to attention.
"Yes. Some Northern boy's gone missing. He was betrothed to dear Heleana, or so they tell me. And Gunthor seems to think he's here."
"Here? In Lys?"
"He was spirited away by his guardian. Some misbegotten prince of the Summer Isles."
"Prince?" Lynesse's eyes go wide as the pieces of the puzzle begin to fall into place. "You don't mean Jalabar Xo?"
"Oh, you know him?" Humfrey laughs. "This will be easier than I thought!"
"I know of the man. He is indeed in our city. But I cannot tell you where."
"Well, you'd best find out. If it's important enough for Father to give a command from the tower these days, it's a serious affair."
"Gods," Lynesse sighs, taking another long drink. After all this time, Father reaches out, and it's only to find some little lost noble? "Give me a day. My men will find him."
"I can do better than that, Lady Lynesse." A sharp voice cuts through the darkness. The siblings jump, turning to squint through the hall as one of the sentinels from the far side steps forward into view – Haccar, freshly adorned in the uniform of Tregar's guard.
"You!" Lynesse slowly recognizes the archer. "You knew the prince, did you not?"
"I did. And I regret to say that the boy your noble brother seeks is in grave danger. But fear not. Haccar can show you exactly where they are."