The Moon's Grace cut through the Narrow Sea, its weathered wooden hull creaking with each rise and fall of the waves, the single mast bearing a plain canvas sail that billowed in the steady wind. It had been ten days since Edric Arryn and his crew left King's Landing in the dead of night, bound for Braavos before the Vale, a detour Edric had planned with care. A week into the journey, the sea stretched endless around them, and the novelty of the voyage had long since faded. The trip had been smooth—too smooth, perhaps, with clear skies and calm waters, the ship gliding like a bird on a gentle breeze. But for Edric, at nine and a half, the sea had become a monotonous prison.
Edric stood at the bow, his plain white tunic loose against the spring heat, the fabric clinging lightly to his sweat-dampened skin. He'd left his black bear pelt draped over the railing nearby, the warmth of the Narrow Sea making the heavy fur unbearable, The three scars on the side of his head gleamed in the sunlight, a fierce testament to his grit. His live steel sword hung at his hip, a constant reminder of his readiness, but there was little to do on the ship but watch the waves. "It's boring," he muttered to Waymar, who leaned nearby, polishing his own blade. "Watching the waves gets old after a while. Up and down, up and down—same as yesterday, same as the day before that."
Waymar, 12, nodded, his dark hair tied back, his proud face set in a rare smirk. "Aye, m'lord. Not much to do but wait. Least the weather's held."
A wretched retching sound interrupted them, and Edric glanced toward the stern, where Tom, 11, hung over the side, his broad frame trembling as he heaved into the sea. The boy's black hair was plastered with sweat, his face a sickly green, and he'd been like this the entire trip—seasick, miserable, and spending half his time with both ends of his body overboard. "Seven hells, Tom," Edric called, a mix of amusement and pity in his voice. "You're feeding the fish more than the crew eats!"
Tom groaned, wiping his mouth with a shaky hand, his voice hoarse. "Ain't… funny, m'lord. This bloody ship's tryin' to kill me." He retched again, and Wyl, 9, cackled nearby, his brown locks bouncing as he tossed a rope coil to Davos. "Keep goin', Tom!" Wyl shouted. "Maybe ye'll puke up a whale!" Davos, 10, grinned, his golden curls glinting as he caught the rope, but he shot Tom a sympathetic look.
Edric shook his head, turning back to the horizon, his blue eyes distant. The smooth trip had given him time—too much time, perhaps—to focus inward. He'd chosen Braavos for more than just a detour—there were things he needed there, plans he'd kept even from his crew, though he knew Varys and Littlefinger might suspect he'd left King's Landing, thanks to the gold he'd spent on the ship. Let them wonder where I've gone, he thought, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. Braavos holds more than they'd guess. His past-life knowledge of their schemes—Littlefinger's ambition, Varys's web—made the journey a strategic move, but there were other motives, ones he kept locked tight in his mind, pieces of a puzzle he wasn't ready to reveal.
His thoughts shifted to Storm, the falcon soaring above, her storm-gray feathers catching the light, her amber eyes sharp as she scanned the sea. He'd been warging more than ever on this trip, the endless hours giving him a chance to hone his skill. No one can know, he thought, his jaw tightening. A skinchanger—they'd call me cursed, a freak, a thing to be feared. In Westeros, the stigma was clear—skinchangers were whispered of in the North, tied to wildlings and the old gods, but in the south, they were abominations, shunned or worse. Edric had no intention of revealing his gift, not to his crew, not to anyone. It's mine, and mine alone.
He remembered the first time he'd warged, years ago in King's Landing, when he was just five. He'd dreamed as Storm, her wings cutting through the sky, but he couldn't control her then—only see the world through her eyes, a dizzying blur of motion and color. The Red Keep had looked so small from above, the Mud Gate a scratched scar he'd later confirmed, but he'd been a passenger in her mind, unable to steer, unable to pull back. It had taken months to learn to guide her, years to make the shift seamless. Now, on this ship, he could slip into Storm's body with a flicker of thought—feel the wind, dive with her, see the sea's endless expanse—and leave just as quickly, back in his own skin with the deck rocking beneath him. "It's like… stepping through a door," he murmured to himself, too low for Waymar to hear. "But the door's always moving."
Edric's gaze shifted to the deck, where the ship's gentle sway made every step a challenge. "Fighting on a rocking ship's harder than I thought," he said, his voice thoughtful, turning to Waymar. "The balance—it's all wrong. You think you've got your footing, then a wave hits, and you're staggering like a drunk. I've been practicing with a wooden sword, but it's a mess. You can't plant your feet like on solid ground—every swing's a gamble, every step a risk. If we were boarded, we'd need to adapt fast, or we'd be gutted before we found our balance."
Waymar nodded, his hand tightening on his sword hilt. "Aye, I've felt it too. Tried a few swings yesterday—nearly fell on my arse. We'd need to fight low, keep our center, move with the ship, not against it."
Edric's lips twitched, a rare smile breaking through. "We'll drill it tomorrow—low stances, quick steps. If we're to be lords of the Vale, we'll need to master the sea too." He glanced back at Tom, who was now slumped against the railing, groaning, and at Wyl and Davos, who were tying knots under a sailor's watchful eye. The journey to Braavos was a chance to grow, to learn—and Edric meant to make the most of it, even if the waves bored him to death.