Sailing far different waters from the frigid depths of The Bite, the Cinnamon Wind cuts a rapid course into the east, strong winds filling the wide white sails of the slender swanship to leave Lys far behind in the distance. It is a bright and beautiful day; the clear blue sky is peppered with huge, round white clouds and the sapphire waters below sparkle blindingly. Below decks, however, in the captain's cabin, all faces present have turned sour.
Captain Quhuru Mo himself sits at his desk, maps unrolled before him, a stony scowl charting routes and distances across the Summer Sea. Watching him carefully, waiting for an end to the heavy silence in the room, his daughter Kojja and Prince Jalabar Xo sit in the swinging rope chairs hanging from the ceiling. Kojja picks at the fresh bandage on her wounded arm, occasionally glancing over at Jalabar, but his eyes are locked on the maps. In the far corner, Xondo takes a loud drink from his flask, staring at the ceiling.
It has now been four days since they fled Lys unexpectedly, ahead of schedule, with the guard of Tregar Ormollen in hot pursuit, betrayed by one of their own former crewmates. Now, the reality of that hasty departure has become painfully clear.
"Jezra says with tightest rations we make Volantis," Quhuru charts the course across the map. "But must sail Cinammon Wind close to Smoking Sea. Will be great danger."
"The Wind can weather the ghosts of old dead dragons!" Xondo boasts, taking another drink. But it clear that his companions are not so confident.
"Can she?" Jalabar turns nervously to the captain, who shakes his head slowly.
"Many great ships have been pulled into that hell. Never seen again. It will take all strength and every wit of crew. But can be done."
"Xondo has heard stories. Euron Crow's Eye claims to sail Smoking Sea and plunder lost riches of Valyria."
"Crow's Eye is madman," Quhuru shakes his head sternly and his mate obediently drops silent. "Truth or lies, we pray not to follow him. To Volantis, with Hazzara's quick blessing, may we fly above the waves."
Quhuru's thumb points squarely down onto the map above the star demarking the ancient city of Volantis, surrounded by rich illustrations of a dueling elephant and tiger. As he finishes reciting his blessing, the stony look on his face makes it clear the discussion is over. Without another word, the others rise to leave. But as Xondo and Jalabar duck their heads to pass through the door, Kojja lingers, looking back at her father.
"Kojja is sorry. We did not know. Edward…"
"Quhuru knows it is not the boy for whom Kojja has risked our ship," the captain stands and walks forward from behind his desk, looking down to the floor where a stray red feather has come to rest, fallen free from Jalabar's damaged cape.
"Jalabar is good man."
"Good men can be fools," Quhuru sighs. "Kojja should know this. Jalabar chases dream that will never be. Hollow dreams leave broken hearts in their wake."
"Jalabar is more than Red Flower Vale. Edward is more, too. Together, they can do great things. Kojja believes this."
"May it be so," Quhuru sighs, his eternally stern face softening with uncertainty. He places one hand against the wall of the cabin, feeling the life of his ship as the fine-crafted wood breathes with the rhythm of the sea. "We shall see. We shall see."
On the deck, Jalabar finds Edward and Iz scrubbing pots and pans at the stern of the ship. Tessarion naps in the sun close by, careful to keep the sudsy water pooling on the deck far from his dry fur. The boys are immersed in their work, heads hunched over, knuckles red, scraping furiously with decomposing sea sponges; they do not hear him approaching. They have spoken little since the flight from Lys, silently performing their chores as if nothing has happened, each new day of silence weighing heavier on the prince's concerns.
"Edward!" he calls out, and the boys' heads snap up as if summoned by a thunderclap. But there is no great disturbance, only the soft listing of the deck to and fro on a hot, sunny day. "Quhuru Mo has spoken. The course is set."
"I will take these to Old Jezra," Iz quickly removes himself, piling the assorted pots and pans into a haphazard stack in his arms and hurrying off.
Jalabar notices he no longer carries his knife on his belt. He can imagine the boy scrubbing it clean even more furiously than the dishes, unable to wipe away the image of blood staining it. The first battle always took the longest to recover from. As Iz disappears with his pile, Jalabar wishes he had the right words to give him. But he has none. Ritual warfare was the way of life for a prince of the Red Flower Vale. Not unlike a squire, his own father had put a sword in his hand even younger than Iz was now. Life was different on the sea. Better, he has begun to think.
"Well?" Edward snaps him back to the present, impatiently. "Where are we going now?"
Edward's voice is darker than normal, a low storm of anger brewing beneath his carefully maintained calm, the cracks now starting to show. His scar darkens as he stares up, waiting on this answer and a thousand others. But all Jalabar can say is:
"Volantis. We will go hungry but can make it in time. Voyage will be dangerous. Great storms off Old Valyria."
"Will we be staying in Volantis?" Edward scowls. Jalabar kneels to look him in the eyes, but he turns away, squinting up into the bright sky. "How long?"
"There are men in Volantis friendly to Jalabar Xo. But Hightowers pursue us still."
"How do we know they didn't just want to take me home?"
"They did not seem friendly."
"No," Edward sighs, knowing he cannot deny that. Friends do not come creeping through your bedroom window with knives in their teeth. He slowly turns back to face Jalabar. "I'm tired of running."
"I know."
"It's not fair."
"No, it is not."
For a while, they wait, with only the sound of a soft wind passing between them. There is nothing left to say. Tessarion sneezes in his sleep and, for the slightest moment, Edward smiles. He looks down at his hands, still red and scratched.
"Old Jezra will be cooking soon. I should go see if he needs help."
With silent affirmation, Jalabar helps him to his feet and watches him walk back to the ladder and disappear below deck. That's right, keep busy. Don't dwell on the unfairness of the world. He knows that dance all too well. Looking up to the vast blue sky above, he squints, searching for the flighty silhouettes of seabirds. I should stay busy, too, he thinks, and replenish the stores. Some small repayment for this disaster. He goes to fetch his bow.
In the distance, only a tiny white dot on the western horizon, the blue sails of a small pleasure yacht catch as much wind as they can hold, desperate to match pace with their quarry. This vessel, the Mighty Marigold, is immaculately crafted, its smooth hull carved with rolling waves and beasts of the sea, its figurehead a gilded, muscular warrior, its deck painted bow to stern with calming shades of blue, green and yellow. But all this beauty is lost on the foul mood of its captain.
Humfrey Hightower leans over the railing, one arm balancing himself against the figurehead, the other pressing a jeweled far-eye tight against his left eye, struggling to make out the details of the Cinnamon Wind. Since their pursuit began, they have made up the distance league by league, but not fast enough. This should have been a simple mission, he thinks. Travel to Lys, retrieve one lost little lordling, and go home, getting Father and Baelor off my back for a moon or two. But no, of course it all had to fall apart.
Several of his sister's men were dead now. She hadn't been happy about that. But Lynesse would get over it, and they had only gotten in the way to begin with. He has only his small crew now, and they are all he needs. The Lavender Guard was left behind in Lys – all save one, and that choice Humfrey is already regretting.
Haccar sits brooding atop the smooth cover protecting the short, steep stair down below deck. He waits, bow in hand, tense and ready for action, as if an enemy is about to rise up out of the sea to attack. The hook-nosed archer still wears his lavender uniform from his time in service to Tregar Ormollen, which he had carefully mended over the past few days at sea. Jalabar Xo had left him bruised, bloody, and unconscious after their brawl, but he had insisted on continuing the pursuit. He's a man obsessed; Humfrey can tell. It's in his eyes – the same look his father had when the ancient mysteries first took hold of his mind, before he locked himself in the tower these past ten years. Nothing good ever comes of that sort of possession. This is why Humfrey keeps himself free, untethered. But now he's been roped into the whole damned mess.
"Which way are they headed?" a voice calls from the wheel. There, Alister Lowther holds fast, his long blonde hair tied back into a tail that whips from side to side in the wind. Sailing at these speeds, the slightest wavering could set them leagues off course, leaving Alister bound to his post all day, using every ounce of strength in his tall, thin frame to keep them on the trail of the fleeing swanship.
"They must be making for Volantis," Humfrey shouts back over the sound of wind and waves crashing over the bow as the Marigold skips over waves. "They left half their cargo in the harbor, they can't have enough supplies for a crew of that size!"
"They're cutting awfully sharp north for Volantis!"
"Trying to save time!" As the map forms in Humfrey's head, he quickly realizes the cause for Alister's concern – the ruins of Old Valyria. He can picture those smoke-shrouded, fiery, lifeless stones lurking invisibly over the horizon, and shudders.
"They're playing a dangerous game!"
"Then we'd best catch them before they get too close!" Wiping the brine from his brow, Humfrey turns back to the ladder, hoping to find some solace from the rush and roar above decks. He prefers a leisurely sail, not this grinding chase. But as he descends, he catches the gaze of Haccar, glaring down from his perch like a sour vulture.
"Your boat is too slow." He clicks his tongue accusingly.
"Too slow?" Humfrey cannot help but laugh. "This is the fastest ship ever built in the Oldtown yards! She was made to race! That's the only reason we even have a chance at catching your friends out there."
"The Cinnamon Wind is no friend to Haccar," the archer answers coldly.
"Of course not, you made that very clear at the inn. The boy would be safe with us now if you hadn't caused a scene."
"They are liars. They cannot be trusted."
"I don't need to trust them!" Humfrey grits his teeth, patience fraying as a large wave hits the deck, splashing cold water against the side of his face. But Haccar is unbothered. "I don't care what foul blood there is between you and that ship, I'm only here for the boy. Don't get in my way again!"
"Haccar serves you, at the blessing of Lady Lynesse," Haccar bows his head, and Humfrey rolls his eyes. "You speak the word. But when we find them, leave Jalabar Xo to me."
"It will be my pleasure," Humfrey snaps back, stomping the rest of the way down the ladder and slamming the door on the irritable tagalong. He can do whatever he wants with that feathered prince, and all the others. And he can find his own damn way back to Lys.
With a long sigh, he drops into the captain's chair in his quarters, closing his eyes as he runs his hands over the soft velvet cushions. Snatching a flagon from the shelf nearby, he pours a sweet red wine into a jeweled goblet. As he drinks, he tunes out the ocean from his mind. Soon, soon the wolf and the boy will be in his grasp. And then, finally, peace.
Even as the Marigold tracks the Cinnamon Wind across the sea, Old Cassa stands at the stern with his own far-eye, staring back. At his side, Edward looks up, eagerly awaiting a report from the weathered navigator.
"It's the same ship as before," Cassa muses as he lowers the far-eye, carefully slipping it back into the pouch around his neck. "Old Cassa has never seen anything like it, not on these waters. It comes for us, no doubt."
"It must be from Oldtown," Edward squints to the horizon, but he can see nothing there, only a thin line of dark blue where the water meets the sky, and he knows better than to ask the old man for a turn with any of his delicate tools.
"Hmmm… That could be. Shipwrights there from across the world. A great city."
"That's what they told me, too."
"Ah, yes, the Hightowers. Old Cassa knows many stories of them. Some true. Some not. Some truer than true. Wolfboy is better off with Cinnamon Wind."
Edward nods silently in agreement, leaning against the railing, twisting his thumb into a soft knot in the wood. As he digs deeper, loose flakes fall overboard, dancing in the air on their way down, disappearing before they hit the water, invisible against the white, roiling path of their wake. The mark of their disturbance trails far behind them, a dark blue line against the vast expanse, until it fades away, as if they had never been there to begin with. Watching the waves fade, Edward remembers the picture of what he had imagined life would be like in Oldtown. How many lives ago had that been? It seemed he lived and died a new one each day. How long could Volantis last?
"Where are you from, Cassa?" he asks.
"Ah, yes…" the old man leans back, holding on to the railing as he turns his face to the sky. The deep wrinkles on his brow catch the sun. Edward watches as he slips his mind back through time. "Cassa is of the sea. Before the Cinnamon Wind, there were many, many ships, many names. The Emerald Dolphin. The Tiger of the Sea. The Rocky Runner. Some Cassa has forgotten. This life has more valuable treasures to remember than such things."
"I don't understand," Edward mumbles, half to himself. Home had always meant a place, sturdy and secure, rocks and earth. You couldn't just pack up Winterfell and carry it with you. "How do you know what it all really means?"
"The winds and tides move us all, wolfboy. Home must not be something life can take away so easily. Things that really matter can be taken anywhere. Never be lost. Not really. Always there, inside."
Edward looks down at his chest, where the weirwood pendant hangs over his heart. He thinks he understands. Or at least he wants too. But his family, his friends… they all seem so far away. He can't feel them here, alone, on the open sea.
"What do you carry?"
"History. Stories. Scars, yes, but love, too. And family. Even family Old Cassa has not seen in many, many moons. This is home. Is all here."
The navigator lowers his thin, weathered arms to display the full view of his angular frame, covered in ancient scars, blemishes and tattoos. His red vest is open, leaving his leathery chest to bake in the sun above loose green pants, heavily patched, tied tight around his bony waist with a rope woven of many-colored strands. And wrapped around it all, his collection of bags and pouches, full of treasures and trinkets to speak the language of the stars and chart a path across unfathomable distance. Edward realizes that they could sail to the edge of the world and back before Cassa could run out of the stories clothing him. He wonders what stories Jalabar carried, and Father, stories for which he had never thought to ask.
"Wolfboy has begun to collect stories too," Cassa smiles with white chipped teeth, crooking a long, angular finger down to the dark scar on Edward's face, then to the pendant around his neck. "See what you carry."
"I fought a prince," Edward raises his hand to the scar, feeling the roughness of the skin. Most days, he tried to forget it was there. "And I lost my betrothed."
"Hmmm… So much life already in one so young."
These things should be shameful, Edward thinks. I was supposed to serve Joffrey, but I defied him. I was supposed to marry Heleana; now I'm running from her family. But Cassa didn't seem to agree.
"Is that why they chase us?" Cassa points out to the distance, where Edward can only imagine Humfrey's ship gaining on them. He nods. "Wolfboy should share these stories."
"Maybe," he finds himself smiling. Maybe things weren't so bad after all. Maybe, if he shared enough stories, Cassa would finally let him use the far-eye. The old navigator gives him a pat on the back turning him back toward the bow. He sees Captain Quhuru approaching with Xondo and Kojja. And then Cassa's eyes turn upwards, to the sky behind them, and his cracked lips frown.
"Storm coming," he speaks, his voice a low rumble, like thunder in the distance. All eyes follow his gaze to look ahead as he walks as fast as his limp will carry him to the bow, shouldering past all crew in the way. Edward hurries to follow them.
"How bad, Cassa?" Xondo asks.
Cassa stands spread-legged to face the wind as it begins to rise, catching his thick grey braids and blowing them out behind him. He holds his left arm out to feel the air while his right hand raises the far-eye once again, this time pointed to the north.
"Bad," he mutters under his breath. "Storm of shadows. Breath of ghost dragons."
"Kriffar!" Xondo curses, turning away. But Quhuru locks eyes with the navigator as Edward looks on, a lump growing in his throat.
"Can we avoid it?" the captain asks.
"Hightower will catch us," Cassa shakes his head. Quhuru looks back in their wake, then again forward to the dark, distant clouds, running his hands along the length of his bald head. Tessarion, as if sensing the coming threat, pads cautiously to Edward's side, nudging his cold muzzle in the back of his knee. Edward leans on the wolf for support as they hit a sharp wave, rocking the ship hard to one side.
"We go on," Quhuru finally speaks, steeling himself. Edward straightens his back to match his stance. "Hazzara guide us. Makkala deznar illmara."
Those words, Edward knows. We ride the storm.