Blood of Dragons

Day 25 of Month 3, 177 AC.

Six days out from White Harbor, having just passed the Paps, the royal fleet met nature’s rage in the Narrow Sea. On the horizon a storm could be seen brewing, and by noon it as was among them, a black wall of a storm come shrieking out of the northwest. The Prince Daemon, bearing Prince Daeron Targaryen, and one of the escorts fought to claw westward for the shelter of the Fingers. But the Royal Spear, commanded by Ser Orbert Farman, was not so fortunate.

As the gale struck full, the Royal Spaer labored under shortened sail. Then came the sharp CRACK of parted rigging and the splintering KRAAK of wood: a shroud gave way and a spar wrenched loose, slamming across the deck before plunging into the sea, bringing one of the lateen sails down with it. It dragged in the sea nad so dragged at the ship broadside, nearly capsizing her. Sailors were hurled into rails and rigging, men fell wounded and bleeding on the planks. Ser Orbert’s commands rang above the gale as sailors and nobles alike threw themselves into the desperate work. Ser Jon Roxton, Ser Bryar Mooton, Ser Otho Royce, and Ser Luthor Rivers all seized knives, axes, and ropes to help hack through the tangled rigging, while others such as Ser Omrys Bartheon dragged the injured below to Lady Cindria Lannister and the women who did what they could with torn linen and trembling hands.

At last the spar was cut free. The ship lurched upright, only for the pilot to cry that she would never claw windward now. At Orbert’s order the tiller was thrown hard over, and with a bone-shaking plunge the Royal Spear turned to run before the storm. Water smashed across the deck in solid walls, sweeping men from their feet as the Fingers and the rest of the fleet vanished into rain and gray fury. Through that endless night the ship tore eastward into the Narrow Sea, the main mast sprung, sails in tatters, men clinging to lines, buckets, and prayers.

Below decks, the ship’s barber and the noblewomen worked by swaying lanternlight as wounded were hauled down, their blood washing across the planks. Lady Cindria, her maid Lissa, and even young Lyn the cabin boy joined the effort—binding wounds, holding heads, and urging men to cling to life as the timbers groaned and the bilge filled. Above, the bosun set the men to bailing and the carpenter to shoring up the main mast with fresh spars. In the storm’s chaos, casks of fresh water were lost overboard, and rationing was called.

By dawn next day the gale at last began to ease as the worst of it passed the ship by, leaving the Royal Spear battered, crew half-spent, and far into the Narrow Sea. The Prince Daemon and her other escort were gone, long out of sight, last glimpsed beating desperately for the Vale’s sheltering coast. After long debate among Ser Orbert and his officers, the grim choice was taken: with sails shredded, the mast wounded, water short, and Westeros lost astern, the _Royal Spear_ must press east rather than risk limping toward the Vale when the winds are contrary.

And what is east? If the pilot and Ser Orbert reckoned right, there lies Braavos, the Secret City. It will be hard going, with rationed water, but if they pass the Titan’s gaze, there will be supplies and respite and shipyards to attempt to make the Royal Spear seaworthy again.