Aragorn rode with the caravan for ten more long, freezing days.
The farther north they pushed, the colder it got, the kind of cold that sank straight into your bones and stayed there.
After they crossed the Twins and entered the North, everything changed.
Swamps gave way to dark forests and snow-covered fields.
Once they passed the Neck there were no proper inns left, just endless white and the occasional miserable village.
“Looks like Marian was telling the truth,” Aragorn muttered.
He had a scarf wrapped tight around his neck and wore a long black coat over dark pants, red guards on his forearms and shins.
The hooded cloak hid most of his face from the wind and snow.
It was still late summer, but the snow lay deep and heavy.
Thick clouds promised a blizzard.
Huge trees lined the road, trunks wide as two beds pushed together.
The weight of the snow bent the grass flat.
“How the hell do people live like this?” Aragorn said out loud.
“No sun, just cold and more cold.” “You’re preaching to the choir,” one of the caravan men answered.
“Boring as shit up here.
At least if there were some pretty girls it wouldn’t feel so dead.” “Don’t be so dramatic,” another man said.
“Winterfell will be better.
You’ll see.” After several more brutal days they finally reached White Harbor.
The gate checkpoint took forever, but they got through without trouble.
White Harbor was the biggest port city in the North and the seat of House Manderly.
It sat south of Winterfell and was the smallest of the Five Cities, but it was still massive compared to anything they’d seen since the Neck.
The east bank where they arrived held the markets and most of the housing.
Outside the walls the poorer districts stretched out in every direction.
Fish King Square was huge, big enough for three football fields, with a church sitting right in the center.
On the hill across from it stood the Manderly castle where the nobles lived.
“Hard to believe anyone built a real city this far north,” Aragorn said, breathing in the heavy smell of fish and salt as the wagons rolled slowly through the streets.
It was time to part ways with Sherlock and the rest of the caravan.
They pulled off the main road near the edge of town.
“Thanks for letting me ride with you,” Aragorn said.
“If you’re heading back south anytime soon, come find us,” Sherlock answered.
“We’d hire you as a guard in a heartbeat.” “Appreciate it.” “And if you ever make it to King’s Landing, stop by the shop.
You’ll always be welcome.” “We got rooms in the city for tonight.
Come with us.” “Kind of you, but I want to look around on my own for a bit.
Get the feel of the place.” After they said their goodbyes, Aragorn headed toward the northern docks.
He was tired of trail food and wanted something fresh.
He found sailors grilling fish and shellfish over open fires and traded a few coppers for a share.
The shellfish were still hot, but with a sprinkle of salt they tasted damn good.
He asked the sailors where he could find a decent inn.
Most of them just shrugged or looked away.
He was about to give up when one of them suddenly grinned wide.
“The Lazy Eel, obviously.
Youngest whores in the city and the best wine you’ll find anywhere.” Aragorn thanked him and stopped a couple more sailors to confirm.
He crossed the square, went down a short flight of steps, and found the place.
“Those lying bastards,” he muttered the second he pushed the door open.
He knew he’d been had.
The floor was covered in old food scraps and sticky puddles.
The walls were streaked with stains.
In one corner sat a moldy lump that might have been food once.
Compared to the Crossroads Inn this was pure hell.
Every head turned when he walked in.
Four whores sat drinking near the door.
One of them perked up when she saw him, then slumped when he shook his head.
“Too young,” she said loudly.
“He could be your grandson.” The other whores cackled, the sound bouncing off the low ceiling.
“What’ll it be?” the owner asked with a greasy smile.
“We got meat pies.” “No thanks.
I walked into the wrong place.” Aragorn turned to leave, but the owner stepped in front of him, still smiling.
“You picked a good day to show up, friend.” “Lucky me.” “You haven’t heard?
The king’s coming north.
Bringing the whole family.
Lord Manderly says today’s his treat—anyone who walks through that door gets a free cup of wine.
Here.
On the house.” News moved fast.
Aragorn had seen the king’s party on the road days ago.
They were moving slow.
They were probably still somewhere in the Riverlands.
“What kind of wine?” he asked, not reaching for the cup.
“The good stuff.
Usually.” One of the whores snorted.
“He means horse piss.” “Shut your fucking mouth,” another snapped.
“You’re the one who drinks horse piss.” “I’ve drunk every kind of piss there is.
Doesn’t mean I like it.” That got another round of laughter.
Aragorn was ready to walk out, but the conversations around him made him pause.
Sailors were the biggest gossips in the world.
The wine here was terrible, but it was cheap, and cheap wine made men talk.
The talk was already flowing.
Jon Arryn, the old Hand, was dead.
Some said Lord Bolton’s eldest son had been murdered by his own bastard.
Others whispered that Lord Eddard Stark might be named the new Hand.
This might be worth sticking around for.
The tavern had a big cellar underneath.
Aragorn found the cleanest corner he could and sat down.
He poured the owner’s free wine onto the floor when no one was looking and drank from his own flask instead.
With his sharp hearing he settled in to listen.