The ship rolled gently over the waves, and with it, time drifted forward.
Inside a lavish cabin fit for a prince, Aemon lay sprawled across the oversized bed like a discarded cloak. His eyes were dull and lifeless, the picture of a defeated youth.
Regret hung heavy in the air.
The sea, it turned out, wasn't the majestic escape he'd dreamt of. The endless rocking had turned his stomach upside down, and the romance of adventure had long since sunk beneath the waves.
"There's no such thing as bloody One Piece," he groaned, clutching a small quilt and curling up. "Sea, you didn't get conquered—I did."
All that morning enthusiasm about sailing away? Gone, drowned by the swells and his churning gut.
If this kept up, he'd faint before they even reached King's Landing.
Knock, knock.
A gentle rapping came at the door, followed by it easing open with a creak.
An old woman in a black-and-white habit stepped in, carrying an oil lantern in one hand and a basket brimming with thread and fabric in the other.
"Martha! Finally!"
Aemon jolted upright, the miserable little dragon all but resurrected. He flung himself from the bed, nearly tumbling as he scrambled over to her.
Martha, the old septa, set down her lamp and gave him a fond, indulgent look. "There now, no need to fuss. Lucky I had the sense to pack a few things before we set sail."
"I need that mat," Aemon said solemnly, dragging over a basket of fresh-cut urala grass. "I'm not sleeping another night on this hellish mattress."
Urala grass—soft, magically tinged stuff from the Vale. It wasn't much use raw, but once finely woven, it made excellent bedding. And Martha, with her deft fingers, was a master of the craft.
"These are far too delicate to braid alone," she murmured, examining the long, pale leaves. But under the prince's eager gaze, she set to work anyway, selecting a blue cloth backing and carefully stitching the strands into place.
Aemon crouched beside her, eyes wide with focus. He didn't usually bother with needlework or septas' sermons—but when in exile, one ought to pick up every art possible.
Unfortunately, it wasn't long before his eyelids started battling each other.
Martha noticed and smiled gently. "Still light out, sweetling. Why don't you get some air? Save sleep for after sundown."
It was wise advice. Being cooped up and napping all day was why he couldn't sleep at night.
Aemon rubbed at his eyes and nodded. "All right. Just be careful with your fingers, yeah?"
The septa chuckled softly, already threading another length of straw. "Go on, now."
She'd been his nursemaid since the cradle—strict when it came to the Seven's teachings, yes, but kind in every other way. With Martha, even scolding felt like a warm shawl.
As Aemon shuffled out, Martha stitched by lantern-light, preparing enough grass to craft a pillow too.
Topside – The Deck
Fresh air hit Aemon like a blessing. The skies above were a flawless blue, dotted with lazy clouds. The sun lit the ship's pale sails like golden shields.
"Prince! Over here!"
He turned to see William waving from behind the mainmast. Curious, Aemon wandered over, weaving between stacked crates and rope coils.
Behind the mast, three men lounged around a makeshift picnic: William; the burly, brooding knight Gonsor from Runestone; and the well-mannered Ser Ryan Shett, the so-called Seagull Knight.
It was, by all appearances, a very informal gathering.
"Is this some sort of secret party?" Aemon asked, eyeing the scattered food and half-drained wine bottles.
"Ha-TCHOO—ah, gods." Gonsor didn't look up. He was elbow-deep in a fruit basket, gnawing on an unpeeled orange like it owed him money. Juice dribbled down his chin as he reached for grapes and spat seeds across the deck with practiced indifference.
Aemon's expression twisted slightly. Rude much?
Thankfully, not all were so uncouth. Ser Ryan stood at once, removed his grey cloak, folded it with a soldier's neatness, and placed it on a crate.
"The deck's damp, Your Grace. Do take a seat before you catch cold."
"Thank you." Aemon accepted the courtesy with a nod, settling atop the cloak.
Well, at least one of them has manners.
He shot a glance toward Gonsor, who remained gloriously unconcerned with appearances.
What happened to knights being gallant and chivalrous? This one looks like he was hired off the docks.
"Never mind," Aemon muttered, patting his full stomach. "I'm not here to picnic. What's this about?"
"We're your guard," William blurted, puffing out his chest with pride.
Aemon blinked, clearly not following.
He counted on his fingers, brows furrowed. "Wait, just you three?"
There were fifty Vale knights aboard, accompanying his mother. Surely she could've spared more than three for her son?
Ser Ryan smiled apologetically. "Yes, just us."
"Huh?"
Aemon looked them over again. William slapped his own breastplate with a loud thunk. Ser Ryan stood proud but calm. And Gonsor... well, Gonsor belched and reached for a bottle of rum.
Surely not.
"Is he even... functional?" Aemon whispered, pointing at the giant with barely restrained disbelief.
Ser Ryan remained composed. "William is brave, and Gonsor is strong. Between the three of us, we will ensure your safety."
Bravery doesn't win fights.
Still, Aemon sized up Gonsor once more. The man was huge, easily over seven feet. His arms bulged beneath his tunic, and his thighs looked like they could crush a boar.
If nothing else, he was an intimidating wall of meat.
"Alright, fine," Aemon grumbled. "Gonsor counts for at least two of you. Maybe two and a half."
He paused.
William's... half. Maybe.
The little prince buried his face in his hands.
Seven help me. This is what I get.
At last, he looked up. "So... my mother picked you?"
Ser Ryan nodded. "She thought it wise. King's Landing is complicated. The city has many dangers, and a prince should never go unguarded."
It made sense. As the capital, the city was riddled with rats in silk and steel. Better to be cautious.
Aemon studied each of his new protectors.
Ryan: well-mannered and dependable.
William: eager, if naïve.
Gonsor: a force of nature, albeit with table manners of a drunk bear.
William scratched the back of his neck. "Lady Rhea sent us, but... yeah, none of us expected it."
He shot a glance at Gonsor, who swigged his rum and let out a thunderous belch.
"He's here on account of Runestone being at peace," William explained. "And, well... he doesn't really fit in back home."
Aemon tilted his head, intrigued.
He'd heard of Gonsor's misfortunes—how his foul mouth and brutish ways made him unwelcome among nobles. And in peacetime, there was little use for a hammer without a nail.
Did Mother foist him off on me just to be rid of him?
Still, Aemon considered the arrangement with a begrudging nod. It wasn't the worst hand fate had dealt him.
And three was better than none.
He was about to say something—maybe even poke fun at Gonsor—when a sharp voice cut through the air like a whip.
"Aemon! Come here—now!"
His mother's voice, stern and unmistakable.
The prince snapped around and bit back whatever cheeky remark was on his tongue.
Duty called.
And with it, the next chapter of this chaotic voyage.