"Open your eyes!"
The sound of his father's voice shatters the oblivion Edward Stark has sunk into. He feels nothing. But then, as sensation creeps back in, he can feel the cold. His eyes flash open and he is awake, back in the ocean, the storm still raging all around him. Willing feeling back into his stiff arms and legs, he desperately fights to spread the small ember of warmth still hovering over his heart as he begins to sink back beneath the waves. He violently hacks up saltwater, gasping for air with short breaths in between vomiting. The pounding rain blinds him as he struggles to keep his head up. He cannot see the ship, not the crew, nothing at all.
"Listen!"
Edward has no time to stop and question how he is hearing Ned's voice here, in this moment, but it has never been clearer. He keeps kicking, even as the pain of exhaustion and the crushing sensation of cold begins to permeate his body again. His arms flail in front of him, unguided by sight, grasping nothing, but pulling with just enough force to resist the entropy dragging his small body down. He summons all of Gaheris' teachings, struggling to steady his breath and calm his pulse in defiance of the raging storm. Impossible. But he must try. Stay calm. You have to stay calm. Shutting out all other noise, he releases the panic from his brain, letting his arms and legs find life-saving rhythm as the sea shifts around him and he heeds his father.
"Listen!"
Above the roar of the wind and the crack of thunder, he can hear the call of his wolf.
Edward's first impulse is to call out to Tessarion, but he knows opening his mouth would only flood his throat with salty brine. Instead, he begins to kick harder, with purpose, paddling with his arms in front of him as he rises with the crest of a fresh wave. Within his mind, he silences all else and is back in the deep tunnels of the Red Keep. He remembers the feel of the warm candles on his skin, the sound of Gaheris' voice urging him inward, deeper into his mind. He closes his eyes, giving in to the wolfblood, letting go of all else but the pure rush of instinct to survive. He can feel nothing but the motion of his arms and legs. He can hear nothing but the howling.
The sea continues to roil around him, heaving him up and down, but he pushes himself on, closer and closer to the familiar sound as it grows louder with each kick. His muscles are burning with pain, but refuse to buckle, his veins pulsing with the desperate adrenaline of the North, base instinct pushing him forward. His open palms arch, fingers curled sharply around open air as they claw at the water, plunging into the frigid cold again and again, pulling him on as his feet push. He can sense Tessarion now, almost feel their hearts beating as one. The howling is loud, so loud it seems he can reach out and grab it.
Edward's eyes flash open and his entire vision is engulfed by the wooden planks of a rowboat surging towards him. He tries to turn, but his head smacks hard against the bow. He feels a rush of pain jolt through his whole body, and then huge hands grasping his shoulders. His last thought before the darkness returns is that he seems to be flying.
"Edward! Can you hear me?"
This time it is Iz' voice that wakes Edward and, as his eyes slowly open, he feels a deep sense of relief as he realizes that this is no vision, but his friend, in the flesh, leaning wide-eyed over him. Carefuly, he extends his fingers to steady himself, the world no longer in violent motion around him. He presses his hands down carefully to feel the cold, hard stone lying still beneath him. The rocky ground is jagged, pricking his fingers. It is then he realizes he cannot breathe.
Lurching up so quickly his head nearly smacks against his knees, Edward coughs violently, his throat burning as he vomits up saltwater bile. Iz jumps back, stumbling over the uneven ground as he hunches over, emptying his stomach of the flood he has swallowed.
"He's awake!" Iz calls out, beckoning to whoever is waiting in the distance before dropping back to a knee beside Edward. "I thought you were dead!"
His dark eyes stare, unblinking, as if afraid that Edward will collapse again if he turns away. Edward struggles to meet his gaze, still doubled over with small choking coughs, but he brings his hands to rest on Iz' shoulders, letting breath return to his lungs. Iz waits, holding him silently until the familiar cold nose of Tessarion presses into the back of his neck. Edward turns, one arm still holding tight to Iz as the other wraps around the wolf, burying his face in the still-wet pelt, stinking of ocean but beloved all the same. He says a silent prayer to the old gods and new. Whatever else has happened, they are still here.
"Are you alright?" Iz finally speaks again. "Your head bleeding, but it stopped. Our boat hit you! Thank gods Xondo caught you!"
"No, I… I think I'm fine," Edward stammers, the voice creeping back into his burned lungs, memories slowly piecing themselves back together. He gingerly feels the wound on his scalp, stinging from the salt, but stopped up. "Where are we?"
Only now does Edward stop to take in his surroundings. Standing hesitantly with Iz' support, he looks up and down this new, dismal shoreline. The storm is gone, but its deafening thunder and roaring wind would have almost been a comfort. Here it is far too quiet; an unnatural silence suffocating the world around them. The only sound is the soft lapping of the dark, placid water against the rocks.
The same black stone he awoke on continues far in either direction, rising in sharp points and stabbing out into the water at aggressive angles. There is no sign of any trees, or anything green at all. Behind them, the rocky shore rises into high bluffs that disappear into fog so thick that the world might as well end just a stone's throw away. Above them is only grey, impossible to tell where clouds end and sky begins. Wherever they are, it is an unwelcoming land, sucked dry of color and of life itself, leaving behind nothing but rock and a bitter scent of sulfur on the air.
Slowly, the pieces begin to fall into place as Edward's memories of the wreck grow clearer. The air, already frigid, seems to grow colder, sending goosepimples up and down his arms.
"Are we…"
"Don't say it!" Iz cuts him off, eyes darting nervously to the bleak sky. "It is cursed name."
Edward stops his tongue, but the thought thunders in his brain.
Old Valyria.
The jagged rocks, smoky sky, choking air all take on new, sinister meaning as the realization sinks in. He pulls Tessarion tighter to his side. He knows the stories of this place far too well – stories more frightening than any Old Nan had told him and Arya at their bedside. Because the stories of Valyria had come from Maester Luwin. Which meant they were true. No man has returned alive from here since the Doom. We've escaped one nightmare for another.
Further down the shore, Edward can see where the surviving rowboats from the Cinnamon Wind have landed. A small crowd of hunched and haggard survivors circles around them, no doubt taking stock of what supplies remain. Edward begins to count, but stops, a lump growing in his throat. He sees Jalabar making his way carefully across the uneven path to them, with Kojja and Xondo close behind. All three are clearly battered but standing tall, their cloaks discarded, bare skin exposed to the chilling air. Edward can see Jalabar shivering as the prince draws near.
"Edward!" Jalabar exclaims, planting firm hands on his charge's shoulders, reassuring himself that the boy is real. He stammers a hesitant prayer in the summer tongue, full of shaky words that Edward has not yet learned. Behind him, Xondo and Kojja exchange an uncertain glance. But without understanding, Edward is comforted by the foreign blessing all the same. After a long breath, Jalabar returns to Common. "We fear you never wake up."
"I'm alright," Edward insists, hoping to will it true. Another memory returns. "My bow!"
"It is safe. With the others. Arrows too."
"Did you see my…" Kojja interrupts urgently, inserting herself between the two before stopping to regain her poise. Her voice drops to a low, sturdy tone. "Did you see Captain Quhuru? Crew say he go below deck, same as wolfboy."
"Oh." The memory jumps back into the front of Edward's mind as violently as the crashing waves had buried it – the hull of the Cinnamon Wind shuddering around them, choking on floodwater and smoke, and the brave captain, who had risked so much to carry him so far, standing before him, giving him the final push to escape, and handing him…
Carefully, he reaches around his neck and removes the pendant Quhuru had given him – a woven circle of colorful stone beads and shells in an uneven spiral, held by a long leather strap. The design seems random and unbalanced, but it is clear from the careful work it holds deep intention. It seems very heavy in his hands as he raises it up to Kojja.
Her own calloused hands are cold as she takes it from him, holding it tight to her chest and quickly turning away. She chokes down a single harsh sob crawling its way up her throat and stares out to sea, a few small tears overcoming her willpower to linger and glisten like onyx on her cheeks. Edward stares at his feet as none dare break the silence, the weight of disaster finally sinking onto their shoulders; his most of all. Finally, Kojja looks to Xondo.
"Xondo is captain now," she states, her voice cold and controlled, just like her father's. "See to crew. Night will come fast."
The huge former mate only nods in reply, a lump heavy in his chest. But as he turns slowly to return, he takes Jalabar by the shoulder, pulling him along with him several steps. When he finally speaks, his tone is hushed, but Edward can hear his rumbling voice all the same.
"My prince… The crew, some begin to say boy and wolf should not sleep in camp."
"What?" Jalabar pulls away, the tired muscles in his back going taught, as if attacked.
"There has been great darkness since they came aboard. The Cinnamon Wind is lost. We are stranded in the cursed land. Some say…"
"What does Xondo say?"
Jalabar stands his ground, not taking another step further. Xondo looks anxiously to him, then to the crew building haphazard shelters in the distance, and finally back to Kojja, his big eyes urging her for support.
"Go on, Xondo," she waves him off, and he leaves in an embarrassed hurry. Jalabar's darkened gaze falls on her now.
"You have talked to him about this?"
"Xondo only speaks for crew. It is duty. Even more now. He is captain."
"They will listen to you."
"Kojja will not speak against them. This great calamity… they must blame someone."
"They cannot possibly blame the boy!"
"Then perhaps it is you who are cursed!" Kojja snaps, forgetting to keep her voice lowered. For the first time, Jalabar flinches. "We should never have taken you aboard! The prince of no land! Father believed in you! I believed in you! So much risk! And what it get us? So much loss! Mayhaps Haccar was right!"
"I did not ask for this…
"I…" She stops herself. "I? I! You hear? Kojja begun to talk like you!"
Jalabar reaches out a comforting hand, but she slaps it away, pushing off of him with open palms. She turns, ready to storm off, but stumbles on the sharp rocks. Without blinking, Jalabar catches her, picking her back up onto weak feet as she collapses into him, his arms wrapping tight around her as she buries her face in the curve of his neck.
From a distance, Edward and Iz watch, unsure of what to do, if there is anything they could do or say in this moment. Tessarion paces anxiously behind them. Edward realizes, he is not sure when, but Iz has wrapped one arm tightly around his shoulders, holding him steady. He can feel the rest of him shaking. He remembers how Jalabar had changed on this journey, the joy of being known by his own people once again, and he cannot bear to tear that away.
"Don't worry!" he calls out. Jalabar and Kojja both look to him, confused. "I can sleep here! There's plenty of space."
"Edward, you…" Jalabar steps toward him, concerned.
"I'll be fine," he insists, crossing his arms and trying to summon all his sense of authority. "You can protect me just as well either way. They need you there. And I have Tessarion."
"And me!" Iz cuts in. "I'm staying too!" Edward almost protests, but the look on his friend's face makes it clear he will not yield. "We'll make a shelter right here."
"Are you certain?" Jalabar asks, looking nervously up at the bluffs. The boys nod assuredly. Reluctantly, he nods in return. Looking back to Kojja, he plants a small kiss on her forehead and gently drapes Quhuru's pendant over her neck. Together, they walk back to the camp.
As they go, Edward turns to Iz. Despite the hidden sun, it is clearly near nightfall, the dismal sky growing even darker.
"Thank you," is all he can think to say.
"Is nothing," Iz forces a smile and begins to kick at the rocks beneath them, looking for a place to rest. "Besides, Xondo smells anyway. Who want to sleep by him?"
On his cold stone bed, sleep comes uneasily to Edward. He turns and writhes, reaching for an invisible blanket to shield him from the biting cold of the night air. He had found the smoothest patch of ground to sink into, tucked between Tessarion and Iz, but even now he can feel sharp pricks from the unyielding rock every time he shifts. He is exhausted from the ordeal of the day, but as much as he yearns for rest, he dreads it, for who knows what dark dreams haunt a place like this.
But as his back grows numb and his mind slips away, he feels his eyes open, not in a fresh nightmare but in the warm, panting body of his wolf. Edward and Tessarion's hearts skip a beat in unison – for the first time since leaving Westeros behind, they are as one, a warg once more. Edward lingers for a moment, letting the familiar sensations set in – the bristling fur on his back, the deep pulsing in his throat, salivating, wolfblood simmering in the back of his brain.
Slowly, the wolf stands, hardened paws calloused against the stone, peering out into the darkness to see what there is to discover in the night. His heightened senses, honed far beyond what a man could ever hope to experience, had once opened Edward's mind to a new world of sights, sounds, and smells he had never before detected. But not here. As Tessarion breathes in the bitter air, it only makes the emptiness of this place more profound. There are no sounds, no tastes, no hidden smells beneath the surface. Edward has never felt so alone.
Tessarion, too, can sense there is something wrong rooted deep in the stone beneath his feet. He holds no excitement in returning to dry land after their long and stormy journey, holding close to the shore where the water waits, placid and waveless; a dead sea. There is no urge at all to stray further inland, to run into the unknown. But Edward wants more. He turns, padding silently past his human body and Iz, who turns uncomfortably too. He wonders what dreams have come to greet his friend. But he goes on, towards the bluffs. And for the first time, he feels Tessarion's canine urges, buried deep in the back of his wolfbrain, resist his control.
The muscles in his legs move more slowly upon command, paws nearly stumbling as a low growl builds up in his throat, long hairs along his neck standing up on end. The wolf does not want to take another step further. Edward senses their connection waver, less than one, two spirits grasping for control of the same body, hearts beating out of rhythm. He returns to the memory of Gaheris' teachings, sharpening his focus and tightening his grip. Tessarion remains frozen as he makes his own spirit heavy, sinking back into the familiar veins, letting their breaths match pace. He closes his eyes, and when they blink open again, they are one once more.
We have to see, he thinks. If we're in danger, we have to know. But of course we're in danger. This is Old Valyria. Tessarion shudders, as if somehow recognizing the name.
They pad up the bluff, nimbly navigating the steep climb to rise higher and higher. Surely there must be more, Edward thinks, some green, some shelter. It has been centuries since the Doom, some life must have returned here. Some hope. But as he reaches the summit, his heart drops. It is no wonder Tessarion did not want to see this. The keen night vision of a wolf's eyes is useless even here – there is no need to distinguish the endless expanse of inky night from the dull black stone stretching endlessly out before them, only occasionally rising in sharp hills and spires wrapped with pale grey mist. Where the horizon meets the sky is impossible to discern. There are no stars, no moon, no light at all. The view before him is of a wall of darkness, above and below all the same.
He turns around, circling nose to tail, taking in the full view. Behind him, the huddled bodies of the shipwrecked survivors seem smaller than ants, the only color defying the darkness, and his own body the smallest of all. Where can we go from here?
Then, barely imperceptible, a noise breaks the silence. Tessarion's ears jump to attention, head whipping in the direction of the sound, the slightest crunching of rock from the direction of the next bluff. He stares, peering out, pawing at the ground as if ready for battle, fangs bared instinctively. In the darkness, black against black, there seems to be nothing at all. But these ears do not lie. He gazes, unblinking, until the bleak image has imprinted on his eyes. And slowly, the shades of night begin to separate – the slick expanse of sky on one side and the dull rock that absorbs all light on the other. And in between the two, the shape of a lone figure takes form.
It is the silhouette of a cloaked, shrouded sentinel, unmoving, but unmistakably watching them. No details are visible – the image before them stands not of its own distinction, but as a hole in the space behind it, neither of sky nor of stone, knowable only as absence.
Tessarion sniffs, taking a long breath of sulfur, but there is nothing in the air to expose their mysterious companion. No scent, no noise since the wayward step that had first alerted them. For a moment, he feels the urge to let loose a savage howl to awake the camp, to warn them of the intruder. But fear stops the call in his throat, fear of what will happen if he makes a sound, if he moves at all. You were right, Edward thinks. We shouldn't have come here. We shouldn't have seen this. Slowly, he turns away, casting a nervous glance down at his sleeping body and all his friends – his new family. Or what is left of them. And for how long? Maybe I am a curse.
When he looks back, it – the thing – is gone.
Man, ghost, demon from the Seven Hells… Whatever it is, one thing is for certain. And as much as it ought to come as a comfort, it only fills Edward with a sense of dread. They are not alone on this cursed shore.