Road from Windton to Barrowton, Southern Rills, the North of Westeros
Morning, 297 AC
The road out of Windton ran eastward, winding between low hills clad in coarse grass and scrubby brush. This was no highway built for armies, but a track worn by generations of traders, fishermen, and passing travelers. Wheel ruts had been washed out by the rain, turned into meandering ditches filled with muddy water. Aerindir rode in silence, studying the landscape.
The land here was poor. Not the generous, black-soiled fertility he had known in the valleys of Beleriand, where trees grew mighty and grass rose waist-high. Here the vegetation clung to life in desperation. Bushes were gnarled and twisted by the constant wind off the sea; trees grew sparse, as though the earth refused to nourish them.
Grey earth beneath a grey sky. A land that grants no easy living.
Yet there was a beauty in this harshness. The hills rolled in waves toward the horizon, where they merged with the low clouds. Streams cut silver threads through the landscape, glinting in the rare breaks of sun. Stones jutting from the ground were crusted with moss, gripping the cold granite.
Patches walked obediently, though she lacked the fire that burned in Kalimdor, Aerindir's own horse. He still felt the strange emptiness: where the bond between rider and mount should have been, a void gaped.
Ahead, on the wagon seat, Vilar was trying to whistle a tune but kept losing the thread. He sat hunched, holding the reins in one hand, the other nervously plucking at the edge of his vest. He looked tense, though he was trying his best to seem carefree.
"Fine road today!" he called over his shoulder without turning. "Dry - and that's a rarity in the Rills. Usually you're ankle-deep in mud. By evening we'll reach the Broken Branch inn. Nothing special, but the roof's solid and the ale's bearable."
Aerindir nodded, though the trader could not see it.
They had been riding for two hours, and in all that time had met only two travelers: an old man with a mule laden with bundles of brushwood, and a woman with a basket heading toward the sea. Both moved aside for the wagon, stepping off the road and lowering their eyes.
The people here fear strangers. Or they have grown used to bowing before anyone who looks richer than themselves.
The road began to climb. The hills grew taller, the vegetation thinner. The wind picked up, carrying the smell of the sea and something else - smoke, perhaps, or rotting peat.
"Master Aerindir!" Vilar called again, this time turning around. His round face glistened with sweat despite the chill. "Bored, I expect? Fancy a talk? It's a long road, and silence weighs on the soul."
Aerindir brought Patches level with the wagon, holding her alongside the trader.
"I have no objection" he answered evenly.
"Splendid!" Vilar beamed. "I've already said everything there is to say to the horses. Hopeless listeners, the lot of them - just twitch their ears and break wind." He guffawed and slapped the side of the wagon.
Aerindir did not smile, but something like indulgent amusement flickered at the corners of his eyes.
"So where are you from?" Vilar asked, settling himself more comfortably on the seat. "You said something about a storm and a wreck, but where were you sailing from?"
Aerindir was slow to answer. He remembered Hobb and Marda's warnings not to tell everyone he was from the west. But he could not lie to Vilar outright. He did not know the local lands well enough to pass himself off as a southerner. And silence would only breed deeper suspicion.
"From the west" he said at last. "We were pursuing pirates into the Sunset Sea. The storm caught us there. I was the only one cast ashore. What became of the rest... I do not know."
Vilar whistled. His eyes went round.
"From the west? From the very edge of the world? Well I never! Didn't think I'd meet a man from out there. Bold, I'll say that for you. Or mad." He scratched his bald head. "How far are your lands?"
Aerindir considered. How does one measure the distance between worlds?
"Very far, Vilar. So far that there may be no way back."
"Sad story" the trader shook his head. "I'm a long way from home myself, truth be told. Born in the south, in a village near Rook's Rest. Heard of it?"
The elf merely looked at him calmly.
"No, of course not - how would you" Vilar shrugged. "It's on the shore of Blackwater Bay. Decent spot: sea nearby, trade keeps moving. Father was a trader. Not rich, not poor. Carried cloth, salt, wine. I rode with him from the time I was small. We went to Darry, to Maidenpool. Traveled far and wide, saw all kinds. Met all sorts: lords, knights, beggars, swindlers. Everyone trades. The only difference is the price."
He spat to one side and went on.
"When Father died, I carried on the business. But down south there are traders by the thousand. All tearing at each other's throats. I thought I'd try my luck in the North. Folk are simpler here, less coin changes hands, but fewer enemies too. Found a good route between the Rills and White Harbor. I take furs and plain cloth one way. Spices, salt, and iron the other. Sometimes I make it to the Wolfswood, sometimes all the way to Torrhen's Square. You won't get rich, but you won't starve."
"Sensible" Aerindir nodded. "To know one's limits is wisdom."
Vilar grunted, steering the horses between the ruts.
"Hard to say if it's wisdom or cowardice."
He was quiet a moment, then asked, as though trying to chase off his own thoughts:
"And you, Master Aerindir - have you traveled much?"
"Much" the elf replied shortly. "More than I can count."
"And what lands have you seen? You must have tales to tell."
Aerindir looked toward the horizon. Memory stirred, raising images. The white towers of Gondolin, gleaming in the light of the Hidden City. The forests of Doriath, where every tree sang its own song. The black walls of Angband, rearing against the sky, belching smoke and horror. The plains of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, where thousands lay dead and blood ran in streams.
"Much beauty" he said quietly. "And much pain. The world is vast, Vilar. There are places where one feels part of something great. And places where one understands how small one truly is."
The trader nodded, not fully grasping the meaning but feeling the weight of the words.
"I suppose that's so. But I've never seen such places. The most beautiful thing I know is White Harbor at dawn, when the sun gilds the towers. And the most frightening is a storm, when the ship's tossed on the waves and you think it's about to go over."
"Tell me about White Harbor" Aerindir said, wishing to turn from his memories. "I have heard the name but know nothing of it."
"Oh, White Harbor!" Vilar's face came alive. "Biggest city in the North. The port's so big there are dozens of ships at the wharves. They come from Essos, from the south, even from the Iron Islands - though the ironborn aren't much liked here. Goods from every corner of the world: silk, spices, weapons, jewels..."
He waved a hand, painting the scene.
"The city's all white stone - that's why they call it that. Tall walls, towers with green roofs. There's the New Castle, where Lord Manderly sits. A fat man, no question, but clever, they say. And there's a big sept of the Seven. The septons there don't go wanting - they walk about in gold."
Aerindir listened closely, committing it all to memory.
"Hobb spoke of the Starks" he said. "They rule the North?"
"Aye" Vilar nodded. "They were Kings in the North once, until they bent the knee to the Targaryens three hundred years ago. Now they're called Wardens of the North, but up here folk still honor the Starks as kings. Their lord now is Eddard Stark. Fair, they say, but stern."
"For men like me it makes no difference who sits at the top, so long as they don't bleed you dry on taxes and keep the bandits off the roads" Vilar shrugged and went on. "The Starks manage that well enough. There are plenty of houses in the North: Ryswells, Dustins, Boltons, Karstarks, Umbers. Among them, naturally, things get tangled. But when the Starks call, they all come. That's the way of it in the North. And in the rest of the kingdoms too, I'd wager."
Aerindir nodded. A feudal system. Much like the kingdoms of Men in Middle-earth.
"You spoke of the Targaryens" he continued. "Those who conquered these lands three hundred years ago. Who were they?"
Vilar perked up, furrowing his brow as though trying to recall old tales.
"Aegon the Conqueror. That's where it all began. Came with two wives and three dragons. His line was from distant lands - or so my granddad said - though they lived on Dragonstone. In those days the Seven Kingdoms each stood alone, each with its own king. Aegon decided to gather them under one crown. And gather them he did - with fire. And the dragons! Enormous beasts, big as a ship... maybe bigger. They burned castles, melted swords, turned men to ash. Within a few years Aegon had nearly all of Westeros under his heel. Those who didn't burn bent the knee."
Dragons. I thought I had left such creatures in another world. What else roams beneath this alien sky?
"Dragons" Aerindir repeated thoughtfully. "Do they still exist?"
"No" Vilar shook his head. "The last one died before my granddad was even born. After that the Targaryens lost their power. Without dragons they weren't the same. Became just another royal family. Or rather... they were."
Vilar paused, grimaced as though recalling something unpleasant, and lowered his voice.
"About fifteen years back, Robert Baratheon raised a rebellion. The king at the time was mad - Aerys, his name was. Burned people alive. Burned his own lords. Robert gathered allies: Starks, Arryns, Tullys... and plenty more besides. Then came the Battle of the Trident. They say Robert killed Prince Rhaegar himself - the heir. After that they took the capital. Killed the king. Killed his children too. And Aerys himself - I've heard his own guardsman did him in. And that was the end of House Targaryen."
Aerindir listened and recognized a familiar story. Blood. Betrayal. The same song, repeating again and again.
"And the current king?" he asked. "This Robert Baratheon?"
"Sits in the capital, rules" Vilar shrugged. "They say he was a fine warrior in his youth. But as a king... middling. Drinks, wenches, hunts. Holds one tourney and feast after the next."
"And how is power passed on?" Aerindir asked. "By inheritance?"
"Aye. Father to eldest son. Robert has three children. The heir is Joffrey. The crown goes to him."
Aerindir nodded, filing it away. The politics of this world were complex, but comprehensible. Power, gold, marriages, betrayals. The same as among the mortal peoples of Middle-earth.
For a while they rode in silence. Aerindir's gaze drifted over the poor surroundings. In his memory surfaced the map he had seen in Garret's house. A long line crossed its northern reaches.
"Is there a border further north?" he asked. "Beyond these lands?"
"The Wall" Vilar answered simply, and his voice grew more serious. "A huge wall of ice. Stretches from sea to sea. The Night's Watch stands there... They guard the lands from whatever lies beyond."
"What is there?" Aerindir turned his head.
"Wildlings" Vilar shivered. "Savages. They obey no laws, bow to no king. Live in tribes, raid, slaughter each other... and us, if they can reach us. Dangerous folk." He paused and dropped his voice. "And they say... there's an ancient evil there too. The Others. Made of ice and cold. They bring death to everything that lives." Vilar snorted and spat into the dust of the road. "But that's just stories."
The Wall... Hobb spoke of it. And of those who dwell beyond it. The Others. There is fear in the words of mortals. But mortals always fear the monsters beyond the horizon - and elves are no better. Sometimes those fears prove true.
"This Wall... who built it?" he asked, frowning.
"Only the gods know that, sir" Vilar waved a hand. "They say it stood there before the kings."
Perhaps this world is not so devoid of magic after all.
"But it's all fancy. The Others, ice-men" Vilar added with a smirk. "Like dragons and giants. Dragons were real, sure, but they died out. Giants... maybe they existed once. But the Others are just bogeymen for children."
"Dragons existed" Aerindir replied calmly. "Which means other creatures may have as well. One should not dismiss legends so lightly, Vilar. Often there is more truth in them than in what men call fact."
His companion grunted uncertainly.
"Maybe you're right, sir."
Aerindir gave him an attentive look. For a common trader, Vilar spoke of such matters with uncommon fluency. Perhaps it was simply the experience of a well-traveled life... but something in his words had caught the elf's attention.
"You reason surprisingly well about matters of the past, Vilar" he said carefully, not wishing to wound the man's pride. "For someone who hauls cloth and spices along broken roads, your knowledge is... unusual."
Vilar grunted again and adjusted the reins.
"My granddad, sir, was steward to Lord Cox of Saltpans. The old man loved books and kept the lord's household in order. Father didn't follow in his footsteps, though... or couldn't. He preferred the free life of trade and the smell of the sea." He shrugged. "But we did have a few books at home. Granddad taught Father and me our letters. Made us read, told us stories of all sorts. So I picked things up, little by little."
"A rare gift for a man in your trade" Aerindir observed.
"Maybe so, sir. Knowing more than the next man never hurt anyone."
They rode on, and the conversation gradually turned to earthlier matters: trade, the quality of the roads, inns where one could sleep safely and those where they would fleece you down to your last coin. Vilar proved a talkative companion, but not a tiresome one. He could sense when his listener had wearied of talk, and would fall quiet then, whistling some simple tune.
By midday the landscape had changed. The hills grew gentler, and ahead a wood came into view. Not dense, but thick enough for the road to plunge into its cool shade. The trees here were taller: pines, firs, and a handful of oaks.
"There's a stream soon" Vilar said. "We'll stop there, rest a bit. Water the horses, grab a bite ourselves."
Aerindir nodded.
* * *
The stream proved surprisingly clear. It ran between mossy stones, foaming over the shallows and sparkling in patches of sunlight that broke through the canopy. The banks were soft with grass, and the air was a mingling of water, pine, and damp earth.
Vilar halted the wagon, sprang from the seat with surprising nimbleness for a man of his build, and stretched with a contented groan, his back cracking.
"Ugh, my backside's gone numb. Should've been a healer, not a trader. At least you sit still instead of rattling over these wretched roads."
Aerindir dismounted. The movement was light and fluid, as though he had simply stepped to the ground rather than swung from a saddle. He led the horses to a tree by the stream and tied their reins to a low branch.
Vilar was already chewing a strip of dried meat and watching him, eyes narrowed. With every passing minute they grew wider.
The elf moved calmly and methodically, as though following a sequence of actions long since made habit. First he surveyed the surroundings, walking slowly along the edge of the clearing, scanning for tracks of man or beast. Then he chose a resting spot. Not too close to the water, so as not to disturb animals coming to drink. And not in the open, where they might be seen from the road. But with a clear view. So he could see anyone who approached.
"Seven be praised" Vilar muttered, swallowing his meat. "My luck's in. Only real soldiers make camp like that."
Aerindir sat on a fallen trunk, took out the food bundle from Marda, and unwrapped the cloth. Inside lay bread, a little cheese, and dried fish.
"Habit" he answered shortly. "I have been in lands where carelessness cost lives."
"And it's different here?" Vilar lowered himself beside him with a heavy sigh. "The North may be quieter, but the roads of the Seven Kingdoms aren't always safe."
"Perhaps" the elf agreed. "But in your lands..." He paused for a moment, choosing his words. "I hope there are fewer of those who know how to kill swiftly and silently. Where I come from, an enemy could approach so close you would not hear his footstep. And the first thing you felt was the knife in your back."
Vilar, who had been polishing off his meat with evident relish, shuddered.
"Gods, that's grim. What sort of enemies did you have?"
Aerindir looked at the stream. Patches and the other horses stood at the water, noisily drawing it in through their lips. He paused a moment, remembering.
"All sorts" he said at last, taking a bite of bread. "A long war can make enemies of anyone."
The trader nodded. He did not fully understand what had been said, but he felt the weight behind the words. He rose, went to the wagon, produced a stoppered jug and two cups, poured out a dark liquid, and offered one to the elf.
"Vilar, why did you choose trade?" Aerindir asked, accepting the cup with the ghost of a smile. "The dagger on your belt is not for show. But the warrior's path would have been, I imagine... not the most comfortable fit for you."
Vilar chuckled and patted the blade.
"This? Mostly for show. Used it three times in my life, all in drunken brawls." He drained his cup and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "A warrior? No, sir. I'm fat, I'm slow, and I've not got much courage. Warriors die young. Traders, if they're not fools, live to see grey hair. I prefer the latter."
He poured himself another and looked at Aerindir.
"Gold - that's what I love. Not out of greed... well, maybe a touch. More for the freedom. When you've got gold, you're free. You can ride where you please, eat what you like, sleep in the warm. The poor are tied to their land, soldiers to their lords, even lords to their oaths. But a trader... a trader is his own master."
He drained the cup, then fell silent. The mask of the jolly man slipped slowly from his face. Vilar looked down at his hands - pudgy, with short fingers - and sighed heavily, as though a sack of stones lay across his shoulders.
"Though, if I'm honest, Master Aerindir, these last years have been hard." He dropped his voice, as though ashamed of his own confession. "Don't look at me now, rattling along on the seat by myself. Two years ago I didn't hold the reins myself. I had a caravan, sir. Three wagons, packed to the brim. I had helpers - my nephew kept the accounts. And I had guards. Four sellswords, solid men with swords. We carried wool and iron all the way to Winterfell. Respectable people, we were."
Vilar clenched his fists, and his face darkened.
"And then... that cursed road near Torrhen's Square. An ambush. Not common bandits - deserters, damn them. They killed the guards, and my nephew..." His voice cracked and broke off. "They took every last bit of goods. Burned the wagons. I got out by a miracle - hid in a ditch in the mud while they divided the spoils. Everything I'd built over all those years, gone in a heartbeat."
He poured himself more ale, took a sip, and grimaced - whether at the bitterness of the drink or the memory.
"So now I'm my own driver, my own master. Trying to claw my way back, get on my feet again. Borrowed from serious men in White Harbor to buy this stock. The money's not frightening... but the interest keeps ticking." He hesitated, leaving the thought unfinished, and a raw, animal fear flickered in his eyes. "If I don't deliver this load, or can't get a good price for it, I'm done." He tried to smirk. "But I'll manage. I always manage."
The smile returned to his face, but it was pitiful and forced - it did not reach his eyes.
"So don't think I'm out here on the northern roads alone because life's been kind. If I had the choice, I'd be sitting in a warm shop somewhere in King's Landing right now, counting coins and getting even fatter."
He slapped his belly and laughed, but the laugh came out strained.
Aerindir nodded, understanding his companion's fears more clearly now.
"There is wisdom in your words, Vilar. And much pain. To lose everything and begin again takes strength of spirit."
"Maybe so" Vilar muttered. "My life's no hero's tale, but it's mine."
He looked at the elf with curiosity, his gaze moving from the sword at his hip to the bow and quiver on his back.
"And you, Master Aerindir... do you regret becoming a warrior?"
Aerindir finished his ale and regarded the trader with a calm gaze.
"I do not regret it" he answered quietly. "But sometimes I wonder what I might have been, had I chosen a different path. If there had been no wars. If there had been no enemies." He raised his eyes. "But there was no choice. When darkness falls, someone must stand with a sword. Otherwise everything is lost."
"A heavy burden" Vilar said with sympathy.
"Yes." The elf rose and brushed the crumbs from his clothes. "But I did not bear it alone."
Vilar was about to ask what he meant, but the look on Aerindir's face stopped him. Such wounds are not touched without need.
They watered the horses, gathered their things, and were soon on their way again.
* * *
The sun was already sinking when lights appeared ahead, above the low rooftops.
The Broken Branch inn stood at a fork in the road like a sentry at a crossroads. A squat building of grey stone and timbers blackened with age. Above the entrance, an old sign in the shape of a snapped branch swayed lazily in the wind, barely discernible beneath layers of peeling paint. The board creaked with every gust, as though complaining of its long service.
"Here we are" Vilar said with satisfaction, steering the wagon toward the stable. "No King's Landing, of course... but the roof doesn't leak. And that's half the battle."
The yard before the inn was trampled hard as stone. To the right ran the stable, a long, low structure of dark planks. From within came the muffled whinny of horses, the creak of stalls, and the thick smell of dung, hay, and warm horse sweat. To the left stood a storehouse, a crooked well, and a pile of barrels stacked against the wall. A stableman emerged from the stable. A young lad with a shock of red hair, tousled as though he had combed it with a rake. He was wiping his hands on a greasy leather apron, adding fresh stains over old.
"Ah! Master Vilar!" he cried happily, drawing out the words. "You're back again... in these... parts, eh?"
He stopped, scratched the back of his head, as though trying to remember why he had come out.
"Horses... for the night?" he finally added, with some effort.
"Horses and the wagon, Fred" Vilar hopped down from the seat and shook his purse so the coins clinked pleasantly inside. "Look after them proper."
Fred nodded energetically.
"Aye. I'll look after them. I always... look" he said with great earnestness.
Then he frowned for a moment and added:
"So long as the horses don't bite."
His gaze, which had been wandering about the yard without much purpose, suddenly caught on Aerindir, who was just dismounting from Patches. The lad froze mid-word. His eyes slowly widened. Even in the gathering dusk, the elf's golden hair, spilling from beneath the hood, caught the last light of sunset and glowed like a dull flame.
Fred stared, mouth open.
"That's..." he began, but stumbled. He scratched the back of his head, as though hoping the thought might grow clearer for it. "That's... who's that you've got?"
"My guard" Vilar said shortly, already fishing coins from his purse. "None of your concern, Fred. Feed the horses, check the shoes. Here. Take this."
He pressed a few coppers into the stableman's hand. Fred took them without even glancing at the money. His eyes were still fixed on the stranger. He blinked. Then again.
"He's got..." he began quietly. "He's got hair"
"Fred" Vilar sighed wearily.
The stableman jumped.
"Eh? Right! Yes, sir. Horses. Coming."
He set about unhitching the harness in a hurry, but fumbled. Straps tangled in his fingers; the buckle slipped from his hands twice. All the while he kept stealing glances at the golden-haired stranger, as though afraid the man might vanish if he looked away too long.
Aerindir dismounted and came closer. He handed over Patches' reins without a word.
Fred took them gingerly, as one takes something precious and not one's own. When his fingers brushed the elf's gauntlet by accident, he flinched.
"Feed her well" Aerindir said quietly. "She has come a long way."
The voice was even and courteous. But in it sounded something - a calm authority of one accustomed to being heard - that made the stableman straighten involuntarily.
"Yes!" he said hastily. "Of course. I'll... um... give her oats. Lots. And hay... fresh. And water. Clean."
He hesitated and added with a solemn look:
"Horses like water."
Aerindir gave a slight nod. Then he turned and made for the wagon, where Vilar was already fussing with the saddlebags. The trader shot a quick glance toward the stable, where Fred was still clumsily wrestling with the harness.
"Pay him no mind" he said under his breath, taking hold of a strap. "Village simpleton."
He spat into the dust of the yard.
"They say a couple of years back a horse kicked him. Right in the head. Since then..." Vilar twirled a finger by his temple. "That's how he's been. Works for a bowl of stew and a place on the hayloft."
Aerindir looked back. Fred was just then trying to undo a knot and, tangling himself, was yanking at it angrily with both hands. The horse stood patiently, chewing grass and lazily tossing her head now and then.
"A pity" the elf said quietly.
"A pity? He's probably happier than you or me. No debts, no worries. Hay and oats - that's his whole politics."
Aerindir looked at the stableman a moment longer.
"The mind is a gift" he said softly. "And a grievous loss when it fades."
Vilar merely shrugged and slung a bag over his shoulder.
"Well, if you put it that way, there are plenty in this world worth pitying" he muttered. "Come on, let's get inside before Meg shuts the kitchen. I could eat a whole pig after that road."
He headed for the inn door. Aerindir followed, but glanced once more toward the stable, where Fred, tongue poking out in concentration, had at last conquered the stubborn knot and was laughing to himself in triumph.
* * *
Inside the inn it was stuffy and thick with smoke. A broad stone hearth blazed at the center of the hall. The flames licked greedily at the logs, casting dancing shadows across the soot-blackened ceiling beams. Smoke rose in a heavy layer, mingling with the smells of food and people. At rough-hewn tables sat perhaps twenty souls. Mostly locals: carters in road dust, petty traders with satchels at their feet, a few peasants in worn coats. They drank ale, argued over prices, and chewed bread idly. Set apart from the noisy crowd sat two solidly built men, clearly not of village stock. They wore scuffed but well-made quilted jerkins, and swords hung at their belts despite the peaceful surroundings. They spoke little and drank slowly, watching the room over the rims of their cups. The smell was dense: roast meat, spilled ale, sweat, smoke, and old wood soaked through with years of the same life.
Conversations began to die the moment the door swung open.
It was not Vilar who drew the attention. The trader was known here. Every gaze, one by one, shifted to the figure behind him.
When Aerindir crossed the threshold, it was plain even to those who had not yet had a proper look: this man was not of their world. He was taller than most men in the room. He held himself straight, almost motionless. Beneath the rough sheepskin coat the outline of a lean, powerful frame could be guessed at. Golden hair spilled from under the hood and caught the firelight. And his face - what little could be seen in the shadow of the hood - seemed too perfect. As though carved from marble.
The innkeeper, a large woman of about fifty with grey hair pulled into a tight knot, looked up from polishing cups. Her face spread instantly into a professional smile.
"Vilar!" she said loudly. "Trading again? Well, out with it. Sold much?"
"Enough, Mistress Meg, enough" the trader answered, approaching the counter.
He tossed a handful of copper coins onto the worn wood.
"Chicken, bread, cheese, and ale for us. Two cups. And rooms for the night."
Meg deftly covered the coins with her palm and squinted, flicking a quick look at the tall stranger behind the trader.
"And who's that with you?" she asked quietly. "Haven't seen him before. He's not some lord, I hope?"
"My guard for this run" he said, leaning closer to the counter and dropping his voice. "Good fighter, but... not much of a talker. Best not pester him with questions, if you catch my meaning."
The woman nodded knowingly. All manner of men traveled the roads of the North: runaway soldiers, sellswords, and those whose past was better left unasked. A wise innkeeper knew a simple rule: the less you know, the sounder you sleep.
"Understood" she said. "Rooms I've got. Only two left side by side, though - one bed each. That do?"
"That'll do, Meg. My thanks."
"Upstairs, then." She took two keys from a nail and set them on the counter. "Down the corridor, turn left. Fourth and fifth doors. I'll bring the food right up... well, down."
Vilar took the keys, then turned and nodded the elf toward a far corner of the hall, where an empty table stood.
"This way, sir. Quieter over here."
They crossed the hall. Aerindir felt heavy, clinging stares upon him. Curiosity mixed with something else. Fear? Greed? He could not say for certain. The Northerners' faces were stony, weathered by wind and cold. But eyes betrayed men faster than any words.
They sat down. Aerindir pushed back the hood of his coat. Not all the way - just enough to sit comfortably. Golden strands fell across his shoulders and caught the firelight.
A quiet ripple of whispers crossed the hall. Several men stared openly. Two carters by the hearth stopped eating, wooden spoons frozen halfway to their mouths.
"Why do they stare at me so?" Aerindir asked quietly, without turning his head.
Vilar smirked and settled himself more comfortably on the bench, stretching his legs beneath the table.
"Are you surprised?" he said. "Master Aerindir, have you actually seen yourself?" He nodded toward the room. "Golden hair is a rare thing in the North. Lannisters wear it... and maybe a couple of noble houses down south. But here, in the middle of nowhere? Folk aren't used to seeing the like." He dropped his voice and leaned forward slightly. "And then your face..." Vilar fumbled for words. "It's unusual. Too... perfect, I suppose. Too handsome for a man. Folk don't care for that either. They don't know what to make of it."
He nodded at the elf's coat.
"And that dirty cloak of yours is too short. Barely reaches your knees. And underneath, the armor gleams like silver. Folk think you're some rich lord who's taken to the road without a retinue for some reason." Vilar smirked. "They won't come near you. Touch you, even less. But gawk... gawking's always free."
I have seen the courts of kings and halls where the walls shone whiter than snow. There, no one stared at golden hair with such astonishment. But to these people I am a strange beast in a cage.
"I see" he said quietly, and nodded.
At that moment Meg returned to the table. She set before them a dish of roast chicken: the skin golden and crackling, the meat sending up thick steam. Beside it she placed slabs of crusty bread, wedges of yellow cheese, and two tall cups of cloudy ale.
"Enjoy your supper, gentlemen" she said, and hurried away as though afraid to linger.
Aerindir took his cup and sipped. The ale was sour and warm. The chicken vanished fast. Vilar tore the meat with his hands, broke the bread, and stuffed pieces into his mouth with such urgency it was as though he feared someone might snatch his plate away.
The door creaked.
Fred poked his head in. The stableman stood on the threshold, jaw hanging, staring straight at the elf.
"Fred!" Meg barked from behind the counter. "The horses won't feed themselves!"
The lad flinched, nodded hastily, and darted back out into the yard.
When the chicken was half eaten and only crumbs remained of the bread, Vilar belched loudly from fullness. His face was flushed from ale and the heat of the hearth. He leaned back against the bench, patted his belly contentedly, and finally asked the question that had plainly been circling his tongue all evening.
"So what do you want in Barrowton, sir?" Vilar asked, taking a long pull of ale. "You never did say, not properly."
Aerindir drained his cup and set it slowly on the table. For a time he regarded the trader in silence. Calmly, attentively, as though weighing whether to answer at all.
"I am looking for a ship" he said at last. "One that will sail west."
Vilar had just taken another mouthful and choked on it. Ale sprayed from his lips, and the trader coughed so loudly that several men at the next table turned to look. One of the carters smirked. Vilar hastily wiped his mouth on his sleeve and leaned across the table.
"West?" he hissed. "Into the Sunset Sea? Master Aerindir... are you serious?"
"Entirely."
Vilar ran a palm over his scalp. Worry flickered in his eyes.
"But that's madness. No one goes there. No one." He shook his head. "You said yourself that the sea wrecked your ship and took your men. You barely survived. Why go back to where you nearly died?"
Aerindir did not answer at once. He stared into the flames of the hearth. The fire reflected in his grey eyes, and for an instant Vilar felt that the man sitting before him was not a man at all, but something far more ancient. Weary... but unbending.
"Because I must learn what lies beyond the horizon" the elf said quietly, turning his head slightly. "My maps say nothing of these lands. Nor do yours say anything of mine."
If this world is part of Arda, however distorted... then my lands must lie there, beyond the Sunset Sea. I came here through the sea. And through the sea I must return.
"Do you truly believe there is land out there?" Vilar asked gently. "Or do you simply want to leave?"
Aerindir was silent for a time. The hearth crackled, and somewhere by the counter one of the patrons laughed loudly.
"I believe only this" he said at last, "that I have no other choice."
Vilar shook his head. He did not understand this man. But in his voice there was something familiar. The despair of an exile. The longing of one who has lost not merely a home, but an entire world. The trader took the jug and poured himself more ale.
"Well, I'll tell you straight, Master Aerindir..." Vilar sipped, grimaced at the bitterness, and set his cup down with a thud. "You've nothing to gain in Barrowton. The port's small. You can find captains, sure enough, but most haven't sailed further than Bear Island. The moment you mention the West, they'll laugh you out of the harbor. Or take you for a madman."
He fell silent and leaned forward, lowering his voice as though the tavern walls had ears.
"But if you make it to White Harbor... The folk there are different. Real ships from Braavos, Pentos, even Ibben. And there's a man there."
Vilar held a long pause, studying his companion, as though weighing whether to trust him with the secret.
"Ask for Garth Ironside. Old smuggler. A sea wolf. He's got no more conscience than a shark, but courage enough for three."
"Garth Ironside" Aerindir repeated softly, committing the name to memory.
"Aye. He's not hard to find" Vilar said. "Near the Outer Harbor, in a tavern called the Rusty Anchor. Best come in the evening, though, when he's had a proper skinful. He's more agreeable then. And greedier, of course." The trader smirked. "If anyone's going to agree to your madness for the right coin, it's him."
"My thanks" Aerindir nodded. "That is valuable."
"Don't mention it" Vilar waved a hand. "Just... be careful, sir. Garth's not a bad man, but he's the sort who's curious about sailing where other men are afraid even to think. Getting on in years, mind you... but the idea alone might hook him."
A faint smile touched the corners of the elf's mouth. The conversation flowed on. Aerindir asked questions: about Barrowton, about ports, about the ships that called there from distant lands. Vilar answered readily, flattered by the attention. He spoke of trade routes, of the price of salt, food, wool, and iron, of how to tell an honest captain from a pirate.
"And what about the law in Barrowton?" Aerindir asked. "Is there a garrison? Who rules the town?"
"Lady Dustin" Vilar answered. "Barbrey Dustin. A stern woman, but fair. Keeps the town in a firm grip." He shrugged. "There's a garrison, of course. How many, I couldn't say. And what do you need with that? The town itself is usually quiet. Brawls happen, but rarely. Thieving goes on... well, where doesn't it?"
Aerindir nodded, filing it away.
"You go there often yourself?"
"Two or three times a month. Less if the roads are bad" Vilar drained his ale and wiped his mouth. "The market there's good. Goods move fast." He snorted. "But I don't like staying long. I prefer to sleep outside the town or at a decent inn. You get all sorts in town."
The trader looked at the elf over his cup.
"Keep your wits about you in there. Otherwise you'll vanish on the first evening and no one will even bother looking."
"I will be careful" Aerindir answered calmly.
When the food was gone and the conversation began to wind down, Vilar yawned hugely and stretched, joints cracking.
"I'm off to bed. My back's seized up and my legs are humming..." he mumbled. "Early start tomorrow. Still five days' ride to Barrowton, if we don't dawdle." He rose from the bench. "How about you, Master Aerindir?"
"I will go up as well."
The elf stood and took the saddlebags from the bench. Several pairs of eyes followed them to the staircase.
* * *
They climbed the creaking wooden staircase to the second floor. The corridor was narrow and dark. The only light came from a single smoking candle set in a niche in the wall. Its feeble flame barely held back the gloom, leaving the far end of the corridor in deep shadow. They wished each other a good night and went to their rooms.
Aerindir's room was small. A narrow bed with a straw mattress, a rough woolen blanket, a table - more a crate than real furniture - and on it a tin candlestick with a candle already burning. A small window looked out onto the yard.
The elf entered, closed the door, and dropped the bolt. For a few moments he simply stood, surveying the room. A warrior's habit. He went first to the window and threw open the shutters. Cold night air rushed in, at once displacing the heavy stuffiness. With it came the smells of the yard: dung, damp earth, wet straw.
Aerindir leaned out. Below was the yard. No more than ten feet to the ground. A jump he could make without effort. He closed the window and began to remove his gear.
The sword took its place by the bed. The bow he leaned against the wall near the window. The quiver of arrows he set carefully on the table. Last, he took off the sheepskin coat: heavy, rough, reeking of sweat and smoke. An unpleasant thing... but warm.
Aerindir sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress was stiff and prickly. The straw inside had long since packed down and smelled of mildew. Under his weight it barely gave - even in armor the elf weighed less than people would have expected.
He lay down, folding his hands on his chest. The ceiling was low. The beams were dark, blackened by soot and time. In the corner a cobweb stirred faintly in the draft.
Sleep would not come.
Aerindir lay on the hard mattress and stared into the dark, listening to the sounds of the inn. Someone struck up a drunken song, off-key and loud. Someone laughed. Cups thudded dully against tabletops. From time to time, Fred's voice drifted from the stable - incoherent mumbling, more like humming than words. The stableman was either singing or talking to himself.
Behind the wall, in Vilar's room, a bed creaked. A heavy sigh. Then another: long, drawn-out, almost a groan. Something clinked. The trader had poured himself more ale, most likely. Aerindir felt a pang of pity.
Poor fellow. Debt robs a man of sleep more surely than the tortures of Angband. Vilar fears tomorrow. Fears he will not deliver the goods. Fears losing everything he has left.
For an elf who had witnessed the fall of kingdoms, a trader's fears might seem petty, almost childish. But for this small, round man, they were the end of the world.
Sleep well, Vilar. No bandit on this road will touch your precious cargo while I am near. You placed your trust in me. And I will honor that trust.
He turned onto his side. The sword lay beside him, cold and sure. Aerindir did not fear the night. He feared only his dreams, in which he saw again the fire devouring Gondolin, and the faces of those he had failed to save.
Behind the wall, muffled snoring. Below, the last voices were fading. The hearth was dying, and silence was settling gradually over the house. For the first time in these days, Aerindir felt something like peace. Not joy. Not hope. But at least a direction.
He closed his eyes. And sleep came faster than he expected.