A Storm Before Sunspear

The storm hits like a vengeful god.

Lucian grips the rail as the sea rears up in a wall of black glass. The Vigilant groans under the weight, timbers shrieking as lightning splits the sky. The smell of salt and pitch floods his nose. Men shout over the thunder, some praying to gods Lucian never bothered to learn. He only knows the one that lives in the storm, and it is cruel.

“Cut the lines!” he orders, voice hoarse from the salt spray. The men obey, hacking at the ropes holding the forward mast. It snaps anyway, crashing through the deck in a roar of splintered oak. Water surges in, cold and fast. The ship lurches.

Lucian is thrown hard against the railing. Pain explodes down his side. He forces himself up, blinking through the rain. The coast is there, somewhere ahead, dark cliffs rising like teeth. “Portside! Pull her around!” he bellows. No one hears. The world is wind and water and screams.

The next wave breaks over the deck, swallowing half the crew. Lucian dives for the nearest man and catches his arm, but the current tears him away. He does not hear the man scream, only feels the sudden emptiness in his grip.

A heartbeat later, the Vigilant strikes the reef. The sound is indescribable, like the world cracking open. Wood splinters. The deck heaves upward, flinging him into the air.

When he hits the water, it steals every breath. The cold cuts to the bone. He kicks upward, breaks the surface, gasps, and sees the ship torn in half. The burning wreckage dances across the waves like dying stars. He swims toward the shore, the current dragging him sideways, his armor dragging him down.

By the time his boots find sand, he is half-conscious. The tide tries to pull him back, but he digs his fingers into the beach and drags himself forward. The rain eases. The world blurs into silence.

When Lucian wakes, the sun is merciless. His armor is gone. His wrists are bound with rough rope. The sound of voices cuts through the haze, speaking a dialect he does not know. Dornish, perhaps.

He blinks against the light. Around him, a handful of his men lie in similar condition, beaten and exhausted. A Dornish patrol surrounds them, spears gleaming.

One of the guards prods him with the butt of his weapon. “Up.”

Lucian forces himself to his feet, every muscle screaming in protest. His lip is split, his side bruised. He tastes blood and salt. The Dornishmen march them along the coast, through narrow canyons where the wind smells of sand and citrus.

By the time they reach the city, the sun hangs high and heavy. The gates of Sunspear rise ahead, carved from pale stone that glows gold in the heat. The streets are alive with color, the scent of spice and wine drifting on the air. Children stop to stare. Merchants fall silent as the foreigners pass.

Lucian does not speak. He studies everything. Every guard post, every watchtower, every weakness. Old habits die hard.

At last, they reach the palace. Cool marble replaces sand beneath his boots. The sound of water echoes faintly from nearby fountains.

He is shoved through a pair of open doors and forced to his knees.

The air inside smells of orange blossoms and steel.

At the far end of the room, on a sunlit dais, sits a man in robes of gold and red. The guards step aside.

Lucian lifts his head, blood drying along his jaw. His eyes narrow as he studies the stranger before him, the man they call the Red Viper of Dorne.

@Oberyn Martell multipass xD