After speaking with Lord Yronwood about Vaella, Arthor was panicking in earnest. His boots skidded over the ice-crusted cobblestones as he tore down to the docks, breath fogging before him in ragged, desperate bursts. The wind cut at his face and turned his eyes raw, but he ran anyway, admission letter clutched in one hand, ferry ticket in the other, like lifelines, like relics.
He was not fleeing, he told himself. His letters would reach his kin by morning. He had confessed all, laid his shame bare on the page, his guilt, his sorrow, his failings. If they read with mercy, they would understand. If they didn’t… well.
Cowardice, perhaps. But if he possessed no other virtue, then let it be that. Cowards lived.
There would be no absolution waiting across the sea. But perhaps, if the gods were merciful, there might be strength. Strength enough to cease failing those he loved.
His cloak billowed behind him like a banner in a storm. For a fleeting moment, he thought, Larissa would laugh to see me now. It feels like flying. He must have cut a wretched figure, all wind-chafed, wild-eyed, hair in disarray, ticket in one hand and a wrinkled letter in the other like the last page of a forgotten dream. But he did not care. He was almost there.
He could see the ferry moored at the end of the quay. Pale fog curling around its hull. The scent of brine and tar sharp in the air. He’d made it. Seven above, he’d made it—
“No boarding today, my lord,” the ferry captain said, not unkindly.
Arthor blinked. “I—I’ve a ticket.” He held it out like a child might hold out a broken toy. “I—my passage is paid, I—”
“Aye, and it’s no good. Waters are turning. Freeze’ll take the straits before midday.” The captain shrugged, his face weather-worn and apologetic. “Can’t risk the ice. Not with a vessel this light. We sail again come thaw.”
“Come… thaw?” Arthor repeated, as if he didn’t know what the word meant.
“Spring, maybe.” A pause. “Maybe longer.”
The paper slipped from his fingers. The wind caught it, flipped it once, and dropped it on the frost-blackened planks.
Arthor couldn’t feel his hands. Couldn’t feel anything.
He turned slowly, and walked, not knowing where his feet were leading him until he reached the edge of the dock.
The sea stretched before him, dark and endless. The sky had turned a bruised gray, and the water mirrored it, churning low and slow. It wasn’t beautiful. It was vast. Cold. Final.
He stared down at the waves, arms limp at his sides.
He used to be a strong swimmer.
He remembered laughing as a child, diving headlong from the cliffs with Larissa cheering behind him, his mother’s voice faint and panicked from the shore. He remembered the water hugging him, cold and clean, like a cradle that never asked questions.
Maybe he could do it. Swim to Oldtown. Swim to peace.
How long before the cold stalled him?
How long before the sea stopped being a path and became a grave?
Would he be stoned if he died trying to reach something better?
Or would the gods know, deep down, when it became inevitably less about swimming, and more about drowning?
His chest was too tight. His pulse a violent, stammering drumbeat beneath his skin. The edge creaked beneath his boots. Maybe one step. Just one.
A hand. Steady. Heavy. Warm. It settled on his shoulder with quiet insistence.
“Hey,” the voice said. Low. Kind. Real. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
He did not recognize the speaker’s face. Only the steadiness in his tone. There was no judgment in the man’s eyes, no grand declarations. Just presence. Flesh and blood.
“Look, friend. Look at the sea. It moves gently. Calmly.”
Only a breath ago, Arthor had been thinking of drowning. The fog had begun to lift. Just enough to reveal a streak of softer blue where the light touched the water. Pentoshi blue, like silk dyed for royalty.
He remembered the sea that way once. The hush of water in his ears. The weightless wonder of sound beneath the surface. The light breaking into rainbows above him.
He used to leap into the waves as if they would catch him.
Now, he was forbidden to undress when bathing.
Then a shadow crossed the water, a pale shape gliding low. Wings like silver sails, pearl-bright in the murk.
“You see? There’s my dragon, Seasmoke. He’s here to protect us, nothing can harm you when he’s here. Everything is well, I promise you.”
A Targaryen, then? Or a Velaryon?
He remembered Clement raging about them once. “They’ll let dockboys from Hull claim dragons, but gods forbid a Celtigar set foot in the pit. At least we’ve noble blood.”
Arthor had never wanted a dragon. Not then. Not ever.
And now, he was certain he did not deserve one.
He was not brave, like this man. Not kind. Not good.
Lucky for the sea, for the warmth of a hand that had not let him fall, for the quiet mercy of the moment.
“What is your name?” he murmured, the words dragging their way out. “I am sorry this is your first impression of me. Everything’s gone terribly wrong today… I’m usually far more composed. I swear it.”
His voice cracked. He managed a half-smile.
“I’m Arthor,” he said. Not Celtigar. Just Arthor.
