Edric Arryn stood at the prow of the Moon's Grace, his finest ship, her deck polished to a warm glow under a spring sun. A week had passed since he'd faced Tycho Nestoris in the Iron Bank's cold halls, since Davos and the boys had braved the Red Temple's fires. The Braavosi harbor stretched before him, waves glinting like scattered coins. His sandy blond hair danced in the salt breeze, blue eyes narrowed against the glare. At 9 and a half, he stood tall, his blue doublet scuffed, silver falcon clasp catching the light. The deck swayed under his boots, a rhythm he rode easily now.
Storm wheeled above, her storm-gray wings slicing the clouds. Edric slipped into her eyes for a breath—docks swarming, crates stacked high, the Titan's hum faint on the wind—then blinked back, sharp and clear. Seven ships bobbed in the harbor, their sails furled, blue falcon and crescent moon banners snapping proudly. He'd bought them with gold from the Iron Bank, a deal struck with Tycho's wolfish grin. The Moon's Grace outshone the rest, her white sails taut, oars ready to cut the sea, her railings carved with curling vines, captain's cabin gleaming with glass. The others—galleys and cogs—were sturdy, fit to carry his will home.
Dock workers hustled below, shouting in Braavosi and rough Westerosi, hauling crates across the piers. Silk flashed—crimson, sapphire, gold like flame. Lace fluttered from barrels, delicate as snow. Saffron sacks, spiced wine casks, and eastern ivory piled up, bound for Gulltown or farther. This was power, not just cargo.
His hand rested on his steel sword's hilt, earned through hard-won fights. The week had been hectic—deals sealed, ships loaded, plans laid. Davos had come back from the temple rattled, muttering of a red-eyed priestess. Another priest, Vhaero of Volantis—bald, flame-tattooed—had asked to sail for the Vale, claiming his god's will. Edric had waved him off for now. He would come with them to the vale but Edric had no interest in speaking with the Red Priest for now.