The tranquil blue skies above the Summer Sea have turned grim and deadly. The once peaceful water, no longer gorgeous sapphire blue, has darkened to cobalt, broken by roiling, white-capped waves rising higher and higher. The fat black clouds above have broken open, letting loose the beginnings of what will soon be a torrential rain. In the distance, sharp-pronged lightning stabs down at the horizon; not so close to be heard with thunder but drawing ominously nearer with each flash.
Bobbing up and down like a toy boat in this vast, treacherous expanse, the Mighty Marigold fights for survival. Humfrey Hightower's elegant yacht was built for racing across smooth water, not weathering savage open seas. Now, water surges over its painted deck, crashing with one surging wave after another, threatening to pull the white ship down to a watery grave.
Fighting against the wrath of nature, Alister Lowther clings desperately to the wheel, his legs in a wide stance, straining to hold steady as the deck tilts in a new direction with each new crest. The wind tears at his blue cloak, flapping furiously behind him while his pale blonde hair is plastered flat to his scalp, eyes squinting near-shut as heavy raindrops fall down to hammer against his face.
Rushing up from below decks, narrowly missing a wave even taller than them, Crispin Dunn slides across the flooded boards to Alister's side, grasping tight to the wheelframe for dear life. A look of terror grips his round face as rain pools in his curled hair.
"Where is he?" Crispin shouts as the wind howls louder and louder.
Fearful to take either hand off the wheel, Alister can only nod forward to the ship's bow. There, Humfrey himself stands defiantly against the storm, clasping the railing tight and his far-eye tighter as he peers through the intensifying deluge. Ahead of them, the Cinnamon Wind is a white dot twisting violently as the wind and waves suck it towards the heart of the storm. At last, Humfrey turns away, slipping the far-eye into its pouch just as a massive wave crests over the bow.
"Look out!" Alister shouts, but his voice cannot hope to carry the length of the ship, drowned out by the shrieking wind.
Unwarned, Humfrey's eyes go wide as the wave crashes down over him, slamming him to the deck with monstrous force. As his friends shout, his vision blurs and he is moving against his will, carried down the deck by tidal force. In his panic, his only instinct is to clutch at the far-eye, holding it tight to his chest as he slams against the railing, water rushing back to sea through overwhelmed drainage ports. But the wall holds. He is still safe aboard the Marigold. For now.
"Humfrey!" Crispin runs to his side, stumbling as the ship lurches down over another surge, the rain now a constant torrent pounding the deck like a mad drummer. Another lurch to the left and he slams to the deck beside Humfrey. "Are you alright?"
It takes a moment for Humfrey's vision to clear, his eyes rattled and flooded. He feels himself, then pats down his friend's chest, ensuring they are both still real, still on the right side of the abyss. He wipes his drenched blue hair clean from his face and winces in pain – pulling his hand back, he finds it bloody. A wide but shallow red gash crosses his pale forehead.
"How bad is it?" he shouts, but even this close, can barely be heard over the storm.
"You've been worse!"
"Damn it all!" Humfrey curses, his stomach turning over as the Marigold twists sharp to the left. He anxiously tugs open the pouch, thankful to find the elegant far-eye still intact within. A gift from his mother – one of the last things left of her. His heart grows cold in his chest as he carefully picks himself back up onto uneven feet, turning back to look north, where his quarry has disappeared in the indecipherable chaos of the downpour. The lightning draws nearer, near enough that the low rumble of thunder is intermixed with the howling wind. "We have to turn back."
"Turn back!" Crispin screams to Alister, who wastes no time pulling hard on the wheel. The sudden change of direction sends the Marigold careening over another cresting wave, nearly throwing Humfrey and Crispin back to the deck as it crashes down.
"Get back below!" Humfrey pushes Crispin towards the stairs. He looks to Alister at the wheel, who shakes his head for him to follow. But as he makes a dash for safety, a dark figure lurches into his path.
"They must not escape!" Haccar screams over the howling wind with a mad look in his eyes. His lavender uniform is darkened and drenched by the rain, clinging tightly to his frame as he stands blocking Humfrey's path. Water pours over his ridged brow and over his face, sending spray flying as he shouts. "They think they can lose us in storm! Cannot turn back! Not now!"
"They are going to die!" Humfrey tries to shove the archer out of the way, but he does not move, body stiff as a statue.
"You do not know them!"
"Maybe! But I know my ship! I know my crew! And this storm will kill us all! That includes you, you stupid, bull-brained bastard!"
A sudden flash of lightening far too close for comfort illuminates a hateful glare on Haccar's face, the water glistening over his dark skin. At the deafening crack of thunder that follows, he tries to shove Humfrey aside. For a moment, they struggle, slamming against the wall of the stairwell as the ship lurches again. Humfrey grunts in pain and pushes out with all his strength, sending Haccar toppling backwards, landing in a splash at the bottom of the stairs.
"I am the captain! If you are so eager to join them in death, then I will help you along and throw you overboard!" He yells over the storm, wishing he had some sort of blade to threaten the archer with. "But you will not take my crew with you!"
Haccar stares up at him in the darkness of the stairwell, water sloshing around him. Slowly, he rises. Humfrey braces himself, trying to fill the whole of the way up with his thin frame, returning an unyielding glare and praying another sudden wave will not send him slamming face first into the wall. At last, Haccar turns away, opening the door to the hold and letting water rush over the edge of the raised threshold onto the carefully stained floor beyond.
"Humfrey Hightower is weak. A fool!" He does not look back as he curses, heading to his quarters with wet stomps.
Humfrey hurries to follow him, wrenching the door shut fast behind him. Hurrying to a nearby cupboard, he snatches a carving knife and slips it into his belt. The furniture and lanterns shudder violently around him as the Marigold is pounded by another wave. He takes a seat by the door, on guard in case Haccar lurks back to try and seize the wheel. Weak? Maybe. A fool? That seemed more likely each day. But better weak and foolish than dead in the halls of the Sea God.
A monstrous wave crashes over the deck of the Cinnamon Wind as it plunges into the storm. Edward Stark clenches the muscles in the back of his legs, desperately trying to keep his balance as the ship shifts violently downwards, then swings back up with even more terrible force. He slips as water rushes over his feet – not that he would ever notice. Every inch of his body is drenched – his clothes clinging to his body, hair sticking heavy to his scalp as the endless deluge refuses to offer relief, the sound of pounding raindrops rattling around his brain as they fall harder and harder.
Around him, the crew of the Cinnamon Wind works in a frenzy, dashing and sliding across the deck, desperate to secure what they can to prevent total disaster. But even the crew's stern discipline can only hold so far – and none have ever weathered a tempest like this. Edward can see through the furious storm their hardened routines beginning to turn to panic.
Another bolt of lightning rips open the sky, followed by a horrible thundercrack. The ship drops hard to the left and Edward topples forward, catching himself on a rope before he slams face-first onto the boards. His feet swing out beneath him, but he holds tight and suddenly finds himself looking up into the abysmal sky that, so beautiful just a day before, now seemed determined to curse them all to watery graves. It is all one great mass of grey and black clouds, blocking out any light as they twist into dizzying spirals in the cataclysmic wind.
Still holding tight to the rope, Edward steadies himself on the rolling deck once more, squinting through the torrents of water tumbling over his eyes to see the dark shadows of the crew circling him. He can see Jalabar waving to him, mouth moving silently as the all-consuming roar of the storm drowns out all other sound – even the frantic barking of Tessarion. The normally stoic wolf's nerves have finally given out under the pressure of this new nightmare, and he now dashes frantically up and down the length of the ship, bowling over anyone unlucky enough to get in the way, fanged mouth open in an endless, muted howl.
Gritting his teeth, Edward lets go of the rope and nearly falls as another wave slams into them. But he forces the balance back into his feet and locks eyes with Jalabar.
"I'm coming!" he shouts, though he knows the sound will not carry – as much an assurance to himself as to anyone else. And then, shoving his fear back down to the boiling corner of his brain where he has buried it, he begins to run.
The sensation as he moves nearly makes him vomit. Since this voyage first began, he has built his sealegs, but nothing could prepare him for this. The deck moves beneath his feet as the waves rock them side to side, the boards rising and dropping to meet each step, never knowing how far he has to go before he hits solid wood again. And above that, the water – waves and rainwater mixing together to make the boat seem alive with rippling, untrustworthy slickness. He lurches in a new direction with each lunge forward, stomach roiling, trying to expel whatever remains of the sparse food he already vomited over the railing an hour ago. He refuses to look down at the shifting deck, forcing each foot forward again and again, splashing forward towards Jalabar, who shakes back and forth, slowly drawing nearer. As he is nearly there, a huge, white-capped wave slams over the bow, setting the whole ship to shudder. Edward's feet give way and he is sprawling forward, too fast to stop himself – but Jalabar is faster, catching him in his arms and swooping him back up to safety, pulling him in tight.
Now, so close, his ear pressed tightly against Jalabar's chest, Edward can hear the prince shouting to him – but just barely.
"The storm will not relent!" the prince screams over the strangling wind. "We must prepare for worst!"
Only now does Edward stop to look at what the crew is doing – the purpose to their desperate scrambling taking shape as he traces their movement through the blur of the rain, Jalabar's grip on his arms holding him tightly in place. They are readying the rowboats, tearing off their cloth covers and bringing up the small oars from below in the hold. As reality falls into place, the dam holding back Edward's fear begins to fracture.
"We can't!" he twists his neck to look up at Jalabar. "They'll be broken to pieces!" His mind rushes with shaky images of the rowboats dashed to kindling between the massive waves.
"We have to be ready! Go below! Save what you can, before the sea god claims it all!"
"But..." Edward protests, but Jalabar clamps one hand over his mouth, shaking his head.
"Go!" He releases Edward and turns, running off towards the nearest boat, where Edward can barely make out Kojja Mo and Xondo struggling to release the cover. With a shout and a huge gust of wind, the tarp tears free, sending Kojja slamming to the ground as it bursts into the sky, billowing like a furious ghost desperate to escape the doomed ship.
With a gulp of dread, Edward turns away, running back the way he came, toward the hatch. The ladder shudders as he reaches it, rushing water pouring over the sides of the passage down into the darkness below. Gripping the ropes to each side as tight as he can, he descends, step by lurching step as the whole ship moves around him, tossed back and forth by the violent waves.
He slips on the last step, dropping with a splash into the water pooling at the bottom of the ladder, but keeps his footing. The storm has dashed out every candle and lantern below deck, leaving the hall dark as a crypt. He stops, willing his eyes to adjust faster as the ship lurches again, throwing him blindly forward. He catches himself before his head slams against the wall. I know this ship, he tells himself. I know the way.
Turning himself toward where he knows the cabins wait, he runs into the shadows, water sloshing around his ankles, remembering the steps he has taken so many times through the bowels of the ship as the inky blackness slowly starts to clear into familiar shapes around him. Somewhere in the shadows, he can hear the shouts of the crew still below deck, racing like him to save what they can before disaster strikes. He remembers Old Nan's tales of ghostly voices living out their final moments again and again. With a shiver, he forces himself onward.
"Look out!" Iz' voice stops Edward in his tracks as two shadows suddenly burst into the hall in front of them. He blinks as they come into view – Iz and Old Jezra, overladen with bags and boxes of food from the kitchen, blocking his path. "Ed! What you doing?"
"I'm going to the cabin! I have to get my trunk!"
"There is no time, boy!" Jezra shakes his head, knocking Edward against the wall as he forces his way past. "Doom has come for us all!"
Iz hesitates as the cook runs off, splashing loudly into the darkness, cursing in the island tongue. Edward can make out his friend's familiar features now, blurred but comforting in the low light. He wants to follow, to flee from the dark, but all he can see in his mind is his trunk and everything inside – all he has left of Westeros.
"I have to go!" he insists. "I can't leave them!"
Iz nods, understanding. "I'll come back for you!"
And then he is gone, following Jezra back to the ladder, stumbling as another wave thunders into them but not losing a single sack of radishes or salt pork strapped to his back. Edward turns away, searching through his memory for the way to the cabin – only a little further now…
As he turns the next corner, he nearly goes blind as a frightful orange light intrudes into the pitch black. Fire. His first instinct is to call for help, but he knows no one will hear. Blinking furiously as his visions fills with angry spots, he stumbles the last few steps into the mate's cabin that had been turned over to him and Jalabar. As his eyes painfully adjust to the light burning within, he jumps back. A lantern, formerly hanging from the ceiling, has been dashed down against the bed, setting blankets, pillows and mattress all ablaze. The highrising flames have reached up to touch the ceiling, beginning to catch the planks above to light, turning the far wall into one towering inferno, reflections of the fire dancing on the slick dark surface of the water flooding the room.
Edward's eyes go wide, reflecting the tongues of flame in their deadly dance. For a moment, he stands frozen as the ship rolls around him, turning to see his trunk, holding all his paints and canvas, on the far side of the cabin, safe from the flames – for now. In the far corner, dangerously close to the blazing bed, wait his bow and quiver. He hesitates, and as he does, a titanic wave slams into the Cinnamon Wind, sending a brutal shock through the ship and hurling Edward face-first into the water.
He hits the surface of the shallow flood with a shout, dirty saltwater rushing down to choke his throat until he clamps his panicked mouth shut. Edward had gotten used to wading through the cold, but now, immersed in it, he feels his body turning to ice as he struggles to regain his footing.
Gasping, he lurches back above the surface, crouching on his knees as the world sways. He frantically wipes his eyes clean and feels the heat of the flames on his face, warming him from this sudden burst of shivers. Above him, the fire has spread across the ceiling, drawing nearer in opposite directions to the trunk and the quiver. The ship lurches violently again; outside, he can once more hear the screams of the crew, and he knows he must not linger any longer. But he finds he cannot move from the flames. They feel familiar, somehow, welcoming. And then he knows – above the roar of the wind and the waves and the frigid water sloshing at his feet, this is the fire that has haunted his dreams for so long. The waving tongues of flame shake and weave before him, seeming to move in resistance to the rocking of the ship. Smoke begins to fill Edward's lungs and, within the red and orange and yellow, his blurring vision begins to see a dark face take form.
CHOOSE. His father's voice leaps into his brain from the blaze, jolting him back to precarious reality. He coughs violently, the ashy taste burning his throat. His hesitation is gone. Feet kicking up water to sizzle against the fire, he dashes toward the bed, snatching up his bow and slinging the quiver over his shoulder. As he turns back to the door, a blazing plank crashes down atop the trunk. Burying thoughts of his paintings, he wrenches his eyes away as the explosion of embers rains down on the water. RUN!
Heeding his father's impossible command, Edward leaps headlong into the corridor, plunging back into the darkness. His eyes, blinded by the light of the fire, are now useless, but he charges forward all the same. The ship shudders once more beneath his feet, and he knows its struggle is almost spent.
"Iz!" he shouts, just as he feels his feet rise from the floor. The Cinnamon Wind careens over the highest crest yet, and everything is weightless, Edward floating in wet darkness and smoke. And then he is falling, too fast to catch himself, his head cracking against the boards.
He tastes blood in his mouth, his eyes refuse to open as his head spins, but he knows he cannot stop. Unable to stand, he crawls, pulling himself through the rising flood towards the sound of the deluge, where he knows the ladder waits. He can feel the bow and quiver still tightly in place – but little good they will do at the bottom of the ocean. He can see the ladder now, hidden behind a shimmering shroud as the waves rapidly flooding the hall come down in a constant stream. He tries to call for Iz once more but is drowned out.
Suddenly, strong hands emerge from behind in the darkness, tugging him up and onto his feet. He stumbles forward and looks back to see Quhuru Mo, haggard, panting and burned, looming over him. Without a word, the captain drops a pendant around his neck and shoves him towards the ladder.
"Move, wolfboy!"
Edward steps through the wall of water pouring down from above and into the pounding onslaught of rain. He can barely see, the tempest assailing him from all sides, but he grabs one rung, then the next, slipping with each step but rising all the same. He feels Quhuru again, pushing him upwards. His left hand hits the deck first, grasping for a grip to pull himself to freedom as the ship lets out a final wooden groan. With that last defiant gasp, the whole hull begins to tilt, rising with a monster of a wave.
A silent shout and Edward falls forward, slamming into the rail as it rises to meet him. And then he is gone, over the edge and into the deep, and all is black.