The fat sailor was deep in his story when a quiet laugh drifted out of the shadows near the wall.
He turned sharply and finally noticed the hooded figure sitting alone in the corner.
Black clothes, hood pulled low, only a pair of sharp, dark eyes visible.
When those eyes met his, the sailor felt a cold prickle run down his spine.
It was like the man could see straight through him.
“Who the hell is that?” the sailor muttered to the owner, elbowing him.
He knew most of the regulars.
This one was new.
“Him?” The owner kept polishing a cup and glanced over without moving his head.
“Some poor bastard the dock rats tricked into coming here.
Happens all the time.” “Looks like a drifter,” the owner added after a moment.
“The kind who wanders until his coin runs out.” Aragorn heard every word.
He didn’t care.
He’d already gathered more useful information than he expected tonight.
The rest was just noise—someone’s favorite eel pie recipe, a wool merchant arguing with a customs officer, and the usual talk about which cheap hall put on the filthiest shows for a few coppers.
His hand drifted to his chest out of habit.
The big emerald was gone.
He’d stopped wearing it after he joined the caravan.
Too many eyes, too many questions.
He touched the empty spot, then stood, tugged the hood lower, and walked out under the weight of every stare in the room.
It was barely past sunset, but the square was already dark and empty except for a few scattered lights.
Aragorn wanted one thing: a real inn with hot water, a roasted chicken or duck, and a bed that didn’t smell like piss and old vomit.
He found a decent-looking place with the door open.
A single candle gave almost no light.
The owner appeared from the back, took one sniff of Aragorn’s clothes, and gave a tired smile.
“Locals don’t go to that place.
Especially not for the meat pies.
You’ll be shitting your guts out for days.” Aragorn asked for hot water and headed upstairs.
The wooden steps creaked under his boots.
The room had a big wooden tub.
He was already stripping when a serving girl arrived with buckets of steaming water and a bowl of fruit he didn’t recognize.
She and another girl filled the tub.
Aragorn tested the temperature with his hand, then poured a ladle of hot water over his head and let it run down his body.
The heat felt incredible after days on the road.
He sank into the tub until the water sloshed over the sides.
A soft knock came at the door.
“Need any company tonight, ser?” a gentle voice asked from the hallway.
“No,” Aragorn answered.
Quiet laughter answered him, then footsteps faded away.
He leaned his head back and let his body relax for the first time in days.
He stretched his legs out and sank deeper until only his face stayed above the water.
He wasn’t naïve about brothels.
They’d existed in his old world too, and they existed here.
Even at the Crossroads Inn there had been whores offering themselves.
On the road with the caravan, a few had tried to sell their services to the guards.
In a world like this one, places that sold flesh, meat, and stolen goods never went out of business.
Hundreds of miles south, in the Red Keep, two men spoke in a cluttered chamber lit by a single candle.
Grand Maester Pycelle’s eyelids looked heavy, as if he might doze off at any moment.
“My lord Baelish, you did not come here to listen to an old man ramble about summers long before your father was born.
Forgive the wandering thoughts of age.
The mind rusts when it sits too long unused, much like a sword left in its scabbard.” Pycelle studied Littlefinger with watery eyes.
“I am an old fool.
What was it you wished to ask me?” Littlefinger told him about the salve the caravan master had sent by raven.
“Ah.
I see.” Pycelle held out a wrinkled hand.
“May I examine it?” Littlefinger passed him the small jar.
Pycelle uncorked it, sniffed once, and his expression changed.
He reached for a tiny silver bell and rang it.
A thin serving girl hurried in.
“My dear child, bring me a bird.
Quickly now.” She returned with a cage containing a white pigeon.
Pycelle smiled faintly at her.
“Thank you.
You may go.” He turned to Littlefinger.
“Forgive me, my lord.
This room is not suited for certain conversations.
Shall we continue elsewhere?” They moved to Pycelle’s workroom.
The air smelled sharp and chemical.
Strange jars and tools covered the tables.
Shelves along the walls held dried herbs, minerals, and glass vials.
Pycelle’s hands trembled with age as he opened the cage and reached inside.
The pigeon panicked, wings beating hard.
He ignored its struggles, pinned it gently, and drew a small knife across the underside of its wing.
Bright blood welled up at once and stained the white feathers.
“Lord Baelish, if you would apply the salve,” Pycelle said, breathing hard.
Littlefinger took the jar and spread a thin layer over the cut.
Both men watched closely.
The bleeding slowed, then stopped completely within seconds.
The pigeon still trembled, but it no longer thrashed.
The wound itself had not closed, yet the flow of blood had ended as if someone had simply turned off a tap.
Littlefinger stared at the bird.
“Have you ever seen a medicine that stops bleeding this quickly?” Pycelle was quiet for a long moment.
“I have served as Grand Maester for nearly forty years,” he said at last.
“I tended King Robert, and before him King Aerys, and King Jaehaerys the Second, and even for a few months under the late King Aegon the Fortunate.
I have mixed, tested, and studied more medicines than I can count.
This… I have never seen anything like it.”