The fire crackled softly beneath a moonlit sky, throwing pale light across the quiet northern wood. Gadriel sat beside the flame, his journal open on his knee, the faint scratching of his quill marking the stillness. Dust, his loyal mare, stood tethered nearby beneath a bare-limbed tree, her white mane shining faintly in the silver glow.
"It has been three days since I left Winterfell," he murmured aloud as his quill moved. "I do not regret the decision, nor does it bring me guilt. Still… I do slightly miss the familiarity I found there. But nothing can last forever."
He paused, tapping the feathered tip lightly against the page. The fire hissed as a log shifted. He continued:
"The journey has been pleasant enough, though not without its interruptions. I have met a few rough-looking men on the road — men who thought me easy prey. They have been… dealt with. For now, I travel without destination, simply following the road wherever it leads. The Wall Jon mentioned could make for an interesting sight, but I doubt such a thing is going anywhere anytime soon."
When the last words dried on the parchment, Gadriel shut the journal and exhaled a slow breath. The night air was sharp, scented with pine and distant salt. He tucked the journal back into his satchel and stretched out on his bedroll, the warmth of the fire easing the chill from his limbs.
He turned his head toward Dust, who grazed quietly under the moonlight. "You're a fine companion," he said softly. Her ears flicked at the sound of his voice, and a faint smile touched his lips. He lay back, watching the stars through the drifting smoke until the world faded into black.
Morning came with the first pale light creeping through the trees. Gadriel stirred, blinking as the dawn's chill kissed his face. The forest was quiet save for the whisper of wind and the faint rush of water nearby. He rose, stretching the stiffness from his limbs, and drew in a long breath of the cold northern air.
"Another day," he muttered, looking toward Dust, who stood where he had tied her, her breath misting in the cool air. "Best let you eat and drink before we ride."
He led her down a narrow path toward a nearby stream, the water clear and fast-moving. Dust bent her head to drink while Gadriel crouched, splashing water over his face and hair. When the horse had finished, he fed her a small handful of oats from his pack, brushing her mane as she ate.
By midday, they were riding again. The forest thinned as the ground began to slope downward, the scent of salt growing stronger on the wind. Before long, Gadriel could see the glint of water in the distance — a stretch of cold northern sea, grey and restless beneath a pale sky. Nestled against the shore lay a small fishing village, little more than a scatter of cottages and three weathered ships in a quiet harbor.
He slowed Dust's pace as they approached, taking his time to observe. Smoke rose from a few chimneys, and the faint sound of hammering echoed near the docks. The place looked poor but not desperate — worn by the elements and steady in their endurance.
Gadriel dismounted near the edge of the village and guided Dust through the narrow path between cottages until he found a building marked by a swinging wooden sign and the smell of roasted meat. A tavern.
He tied Dust to a post beneath a lone tree beside the building. "Stay close," he murmured, patting her neck. Then he pushed open the tavern door and stepped inside.
The interior was dim, lit mostly by the fire burning in the hearth. A handful of men sat at rough-hewn tables, their faces red from drink, their laughter subdued but warm. Gadriel found a seat near the corner and waited until a young serving woman approached, wiping her hands on her apron.
"What'll it be, traveler?" she asked with a polite but weary tone.
"Rabbit stew," Gadriel replied, his voice even. "And a mug of penny ale."
She nodded and left him to his thoughts. The room smelled of salt, smoke, and old wood — the scent of men who lived too close to the sea for too long. When his meal arrived, Gadriel ate quietly, savoring the warmth of the stew. He had barely begun when a sound broke through the low murmur of the room: a man's quiet sobbing.
At a nearby table, three men sat together. One of them — older, his hands shaking around a mug — was speaking through his tears.
"How could the Seven allow this to happen?" the man wept. "She's only a little girl. My daughter… my sweet girl. How could she get greyscale?"
His companions sat in silence until one finally leaned forward, his face grim. "I don't know, Harl," he said quietly. "But I'll tell you this once, as your friend. You need to take her — take her tonight — out to the Stone Men in Valyria. Let her live out her days there. If you don't, I'll have to tell the others, and you know what they'll do if they find out."
The weeping man lowered his head, hands trembling over his mug. "Aye," he whispered. "Aye, I know."
The friend stood, gave a last look of pity, and walked out into the night. The sobbing man stayed behind, shoulders shaking, eyes fixed on nothing.
Gadriel watched silently, finishing the last of his ale. He was just about to rise when another presence drifted near.
"Well now," a woman's voice purred beside him, soft but practiced. "You've the look of a man who travels alone. Maybe you'd like some company, sweetling?"
Gadriel turned his head. The woman was dressed in worn silks that might once have been fine, her eyes painted dark, her smile tired but inviting.
He regarded her for a moment — calm, unreadable — then reached into his pouch and flicked a silver coin into her palm. "For your time," he said simply, his tone dismissive but not cruel.
She blinked, caught between surprise and offense. "You don't even—"
He waved her off with a small motion of his hand. "Go."
Her expression hardened. She turned sharply and drifted away toward another table, her heels clicking faintly on the wooden floor.
Gadriel stood, his cloak falling around him as he crossed the room toward the sobbing man. The tavern had quieted slightly, a few curious glances cast his way, but no one spoke.
He stopped before the man's table and spoke in a clear, steady voice that cut through the man's muttering.
"Where is your daughter?"
The man looked up, eyes swollen and red, meeting Gadriel's calm, piercing gaze.