The market of White Harbor bustled with a rough and practical vitality, so different from the exuberant chaos of Volantene bazaars. Here there were no gossamer silks fluttering beneath warm breezes nor vendors hawking exotic spices with melodious voices. Northern commerce was direct, devoid of unnecessary ornamentation, shaped by the same harshness of climate that forged the character of its inhabitants.
Ethel surveyed the stalls with a critical eye, while two of his guards—now dressed as ordinary commercial escorts—followed him at a prudent distance. The horse market occupied the western end of the port, where the smell of sea salt gradually yielded to the earthy aroma of stables and fresh hay.
"We need animals accustomed to the northern climate," he instructed the dealer, a robust man with graying beard and eyes that had seen too many winters. "Beasts that won't startle at the first snowfall."
The merchant, who had introduced himself curtly as Torrhen, spat to one side before responding.
"All my horses are pure northern stock, my lord. Born and bred where snow falls even in summer." His gaze evaluated Ethel with the instinctive caution that northerners reserved for foreigners. "Though I must say you speak the Common Tongue with a strange accent. Where do you come from?"
"Volantis," Ethel replied without elaborating, deliberately maintaining ambiguity about whether it was his place of origin or merely his point of departure.
The name seemed to awaken certain interest in the dealer, whose eyes lit up with the unmistakable gleam of commercial calculation.
"Volantis, eh? Warm lands, those. What brings a Volantene so far north, if I may ask?"
"Trade," Ethel responded concisely, while examining the teeth of a sturdy-looking gray stallion. "The North has needs that Essos can satisfy, and vice versa."
Torrhen nodded with a knowing expression. In a port settlement like White Harbor, foreign merchants were not a complete rarity, though most came from the nearer Free Cities like Braavos or Pentos, not from Volantis, located much farther south.
"We'll need eight strong horses for pulling," Ethel continued, moving to the practical aspect of the transaction. "And three more for riding. All must be able to endure long journeys on difficult roads."
After an hour of intense negotiation, during which Ethel demonstrated a knowledge of horses that visibly surprised the dealer, the selection was completed: four pairs of northern draft horses with thick coats to pull the carriages, and three more stylized but equally hardy mounts for him, Melisandre, and the captain of his guard.
At the eastern end of the market, Melisandre supervised the acquisition of carriages with the same calculated precision. She had partially abandoned her usual scarlet attire in favor of more sober clothing, though dark red continued to predominate in her dress. Her presence generated a peculiar effect: the normally taciturn and direct northern men became unusually verbose and helpful before her exotic beauty.
"This model will better withstand northern roads," explained an elderly carriage builder, pointing to a sturdy vehicle with reinforced axles and solid wooden wheels. "The roads between here and Winterfell aren't like the Valyrian highways of your lands, my lady. They're well-maintained by northern standards, but that simply means you won't disappear into mud during the next rain."
Melisandre nodded with a calculatedly charming smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Durability is our priority," she confirmed, running expert fingers along the seams of the waxed canvas cover. "The contents must remain dry and protected, regardless of inclement weather."
In the end, they selected three carriages: two heavy cargo vehicles with compartments specially designed to keep food safe from humidity, and one smaller and slightly more luxurious that would serve both for personal transport and for higher-value merchandise.
By the time they reunited at the inn where they were staying—a respectable establishment called The White Trident with views of the port—the sun began its premature descent, characteristic of northern latitudes even in the waning days of summer.
"The carriages will be ready at dawn," Melisandre informed him as they shared a private meal in an alcove reserved exclusively for them. "I've hired two local drivers who know the road to Winterfell. Experienced men, familiar with the particularities of the terrain."
Ethel nodded, taking a sip of the spiced wine he had ordered to combat the cold that seeped through the window cracks.
"What about our supplies?"
"Everything has been transferred from the ship to the temporary warehouses we rented." Melisandre consulted a small parchment where she had meticulously noted every detail. "The carriages will be loaded before dawn: long-grain rice, beans from Yi Ti, dried meat preserved with spices from the Summer Islands, and of course, the sealed boxes of rare spices."
Ethel considered the list with satisfaction. The selection of merchandise had been strategically planned: foods that could be preserved during the long northern winters without losing nutritional value, diversified options that would complement the traditionally limited northern diet during cold months, and of course, exotic spices whose value in these lands could quadruple their investment.
It wasn't just a disguise for his true mission; it was a perfectly viable commercial plan that would establish instant credibility before the pragmatic eyes of the northerners.
"Tomorrow at dawn, then," he concluded, rising to approach the window that offered a panoramic view of the torch-lit port. "You should rest. The journey to Winterfell won't be simple, even with good weather."
Melisandre observed him with that penetrating gaze that seemed to pierce through layers of intention and thought.
"And you? I sense unrest in your spirit."
Ethel smiled slightly. It was impossible to completely hide his emotions from someone so versed in reading subtle signs.
"I wish to familiarize myself with this place," he responded honestly. "To see White Harbor with my own eyes, without the formality of commercial negotiations."
The priestess didn't insist. During the weeks shared on the ship, they had developed a tacit understanding about personal spaces and individual needs.
"As you wish," she said simply. "But take this." She extracted from among her robes a small bronze medallion with a tiny ruby set in its center. "It will allow you to communicate with me in case of need."
Ethel accepted the talisman, immediately feeling the pulsing warmth that emanated from the diminutive gem fragment. It wasn't the first time Melisandre had offered him objects imbued with her mystical arts, but he always experienced renewed fascination before these tangible manifestations of the magic that governed this world.
"I'll return before midnight," he promised, hanging the medallion beneath his clothes.
The streets of White Harbor offered a notable contrast to the broad and luminous avenues of Volantis. Here, even the main thoroughfares were narrow and winding, adapted to the irregular topography of the hill upon which the city was built. The constructions, predominantly of local white stone, pressed against each other as if seeking shared warmth, their slanted roofs designed so snow would slide off without accumulating.
Ethel walked with a tranquil but alert pace, his northern cloak closed against the cold that intensified with nightfall. He had decided to dispense with escort; his appearance—dark hair, robust complexion, sober clothing—made him appear simply a prosperous merchant or perhaps a minor emissary, without attracting undue attention.
The contrast with his life in Volantis couldn't be more pronounced. There, every public appearance was choreographed like a theatrical production, with scarlet guards constantly flanking him and devotees attempting to touch the edge of his robes. The anonymity he experienced now was like a drink of fresh water after months of thirst.
His steps led him toward the New Castle, seat of House Manderly, the guardians of White Harbor and the richest vassals of the Starks. The imposing structure rose above the port like a colossus of white stone, its towers crowned with tridents in honor of the Manderlys' maritime heritage. Originally from the Reach and followers of the Faith of the Seven, the Manderlys represented a cultural anomaly in the North, which predominantly adhered to the Old Gods.
"An interesting parallel," thought Ethel while observing the statue of the Fisherman that guarded the port entrance. Just as the Manderlys had transplanted their southern faith to northern lands, he and Melisandre intended to introduce the cult of the Lord of Light to a territory dominated by different beliefs. The difference, of course, was that the Manderlys had needed centuries to be completely accepted.
The chiming of bells announcing the changing of the guard drew him from his reflections. The metallic sound reverberated through the city, reminding him that, despite architectural and cultural differences, certain practices crossed the borders of all human realms.
He continued his exploration toward the humbler neighborhoods, where fishermen and artisans resided in modest but solidly built houses. Even here, in the working heart of the city, one could perceive an order and discipline that contrasted markedly with the chaotic overcrowding of poor areas in Volantis.
"There are no slaves here," he reminded himself. Though poverty existed in the North as anywhere else, the absence of the institution of slavery—prohibited in Westeros but omnipresent in Essos—generated a fundamentally different social dynamic.
A sound of laughter and crude music drew him toward a tavern whose weathered sign showed the image of a sea wolf. Curiosity impelled him to enter. The interior was warmly lit by a roaring fire in a central hearth, around which congregated sailors, fishermen, and other port workers.
Ethel settled into a discreet corner, ordered a jug of northern ale—dark and substantial, very different from the light wines that predominated in Volantis—and dedicated himself to observing and listening. There was no better way to take the pulse of a place than by attending to the spontaneous conversations of its common people.
The chatter revolved predominantly around everyday matters: the latest catch, complaints about commercial taxes, speculations about how long the current summer would last. But occasionally themes of greater scope emerged: rumors about wildling movements beyond the Wall, fragmentary news about King Robert's visit to Winterfell, and diffuse concerns about the coming winter.
"It will be long and hard, you'll see," declared an old man with a white beard to his audience of young sailors. "The summer has lasted too long. It's always thus: the longer the summer, the more terrible the winter that follows."
"Old man's nonsense," responded one of the young men. "Every generation believes it will face the harshest winter. My father said the same, and his winter passed like any other."
The old man shook his head with the resigned patience of one who has seen too much to bother arguing with youthful ignorance.
"This one will be different," he murmured, more to himself than to his audience. "I feel it in these old bones. A winter like hasn't been seen in a thousand years."
An involuntary shiver ran down Ethel's spine. The old sailor, unknowingly, was closer to the truth than he could imagine. The approaching winter would bring with it horrors forgotten for millennia: the White Walkers and their army of the dead.
When he finally left the tavern, night had completely spread its mantle over White Harbor. A thin layer of snow was beginning to accumulate in the less traveled alleys, transforming the city into a dreamlike landscape of whites and grays.
Ethel breathed deeply, letting the frigid air fill his lungs. There was something strangely comforting in the biting cold of the North, so different from the humid and suffocating heat of Volantis. Perhaps because cold, like truth, admitted no disguises or embellishments. It was direct, honest in its harshness.
The medallion beneath his clothes emitted a sudden pulse of warmth against his skin, momentarily surprising him. Instinctively, he closed his hand around the talisman and concentrated his thought on Melisandre.
The priestess's voice resonated directly in his mind, clear as if she were at his side: "The preparations are complete. We'll depart with first light, as planned."
Ethel mentally formulated his response, uncertain whether the object allowed bidirectional communication: "Understood. I'm returning now."
To his surprise, the medallion emitted another warm pulse, confirming that his message had been received. The magic of R'hllor, though familiar after months of experimentation in Volantis, continued to amaze him with its practical manifestations.
With decided step, he undertook the return journey to the inn, his mind already occupied with the challenges that awaited them in Winterfell. There, in the ancestral bastion of the Starks, his mission to alter the course of a history that, in his original world, had led to countless tragedies would truly begin.
Dawn brought with it a clear sky of pale blue almost translucent, with the sun rising lazily over the eastern horizon. Activity in the courtyard of The White Trident began long before first light: stable boys preparing the horses, drivers securing the last fastenings of the cargo, guards discreetly checking the state of their weapons.
Ethel supervised the process from the inn's entrance, attentive to every detail while sipping a hot infusion of northern herbs—a bitter but invigorating brew that the innkeeper had recommended to combat the morning cold.
Melisandre emerged from her chambers wearing travel clothes more practical than usual, though red remained predominant: a thick wool dress under a fur-lined coat, high leather boots treated to repel moisture, and gloves that left free only the fingertips.
"The weather favors us, at least for now," she commented, joining Ethel to observe the final preparations. "The local drivers suggest we could reach Winterfell in six days if we maintain good pace and conditions don't worsen."
"Six days to prepare ourselves mentally," Ethel nodded, his gaze fixed on the courtyard activity. "By the time we pass through Winterfell's gates, every word, every gesture must be perfectly calculated."
The caravan departed when the sun barely peeked over White Harbor's rooftops. The formation was simple but effective: a mounted guard opened the march, followed by the three carriages spaced at regular intervals, with Ethel and Melisandre riding between the second and third vehicle, and two additional guards closing the convoy.
The other two guards traveled inside the third carriage, alternating with their companions according to a relay system that ensured constant vigilance without excessively exhausting anyone.
As they abandoned the city limits, the landscape gradually transformed: white structures gave way to rolling hills covered with evergreen pines and silver birches that swayed gently under the morning breeze. The road, surprisingly well-maintained by Westerosi standards, serpentined between forests and open fields where occasionally isolated farms or small villages could be glimpsed.
During the first hours, Ethel and Melisandre rode in contemplative silence, each immersed in their own thoughts and strategies. The cold wind lashed their faces with growing intensity as they advanced toward the continent's interior, moving away from the sea's moderating influence.
"The North is... beautiful," Melisandre finally commented, breaking the silence. "In an austere and melancholic way I didn't expect to appreciate."
Ethel nodded, perfectly understanding what she meant. There was an almost sacred solemnity in these imposing landscapes, a silent dignity that resonated with something deep in the human soul.
"It reminds me that many types of beauty exist," he responded. "Not only the colorful exuberance of lands like Volantis, but also this severe elegance, this naked honesty."
A solitary raven cawed overhead, flying southward. Both observed its trajectory with momentary interest, conscious of the dual significance of these birds in Westeros: messengers and symbols of the Citadel, but also creatures linked to the North's ancient powers, to the greenseers and the Children of the Forest.
At midday they made a brief stop to rest the horses and consume a simple meal of black bread, hard cheese, and dried meat, accompanied by hot cider to counteract the cold that intensified as the sun began its premature descent.
"The drivers confirm we'll reach Castle Cerwyn at nightfall," informed one of the guards, approaching respectfully to where Ethel and Melisandre rested. "They suggest spending the night there and continuing at dawn."
Ethel exchanged a consultative glance with Melisandre before nodding.
"A sensible plan. Castle Cerwyn is directly on our path, and Lord Cerwyn is one of the Starks' most loyal vassals." He made a considerative pause. "Besides, it will give us the opportunity to take the pulse of local news before arriving at Winterfell."
The journey continued without incidents worthy of mention, beyond the occasional traveler they crossed going in the opposite direction or shepherds who observed their passage with curiosity from distant hills. In mid-afternoon they crossed a particularly dense forest that the drivers called "the Whispering Wood," due to the peculiar sound the wind produced when filtering through the intertwined branches of ancient oaks and weirwoods.
It was during this stretch of the journey that Ethel felt for the first time an indefinable but undeniable presence, like an invisible gaze that followed his movements. Instinctively, his hand moved toward his sword hilt, a gesture that didn't go unnoticed by Melisandre.
"Do you perceive something?" the priestess asked in a low voice, her eyes scrutinizing the surrounding trees.
"I'm not sure," Ethel responded, maintaining his voice equally controlled. "A sensation... as if the trees themselves were watching us."
An enigmatic smile curved Melisandre's lips.
"The ancient powers awaken to your presence," she murmured. "The gods of the North recognize that something different has entered their domain."
Ethel wasn't completely convinced of this interpretation, but neither could he dismiss it. In this world where magic was a tangible though unpredictable force, where the old gods manifested their power through the carved faces of weirwoods, any supernatural explanation had to be seriously considered.
The sensation persisted throughout the entire journey through the forest, dissipating only when they emerged again into open country as the sun began to sink behind the western hills, tinting the sky with reddish and golden tonalities that disturbingly recalled the eternal flames of the Red Temple.
Castle Cerwyn appeared on the horizon when twilight yielded to incipient night: a modest fortress compared to great bastions like Winterfell or the Dreadfort, but imposing in its own way, with massive gray stone walls and a central tower crowned by House Cerwyn's banner—a battle axe on a black field.
They were received with the formal but genuine hospitality characteristic of the North. Lord Cerwyn, a middle-aged man with graying beard and intelligent eyes, offered them bread and salt according to the ancient tradition of guest protection, followed by a substantial dinner in the castle's main hall.
"Merchants from Volantis, you say," commented the northern lord while they served a steaming venison stew with roots. "It's not common to see Volantenes so far north, especially with winter approaching."
"The most valuable commercial opportunities are usually found where others fear to venture, my lord," Ethel responded diplomatically. "The North has particular needs that Essos can satisfy."
Lord Cerwyn nodded thoughtfully.
"Certainly, the coming winter worries even the most optimistic. Maester Luwin of Winterfell has sent ravens warning it could be exceptionally long and severe."
"Maester Luwin?" Ethel maintained his casual tone, though the mention of Winterfell's scholar had captured his full attention. "Is he currently in charge in Lord Stark's absence?"
"Oh, no," Lord Cerwyn responded between bites. "Lady Catelyn Stark governs Winterfell while Lord Eddard fulfills his duties as Hand of the King in King's Landing. The Stark daughters accompanied their father, and I understand the eldest son, Robb, shares responsibilities with his mother."
The information, though expected, produced a small readjustment in Ethel's mental plans. He had anticipated finding Winterfell under Robb Stark's governance, not Catelyn's. The Stark matriarch, with her sharp political intelligence and natural distrust of foreigners, would represent an additional challenge.
"Speaking of the capital," Lord Cerwyn continued, apparently oblivious to Ethel's special interest in these details, "do you bring fresh news from the south? Ravens have been infrequent lately."
"I'm afraid not, my lord," Melisandre intervened with her melodious voice. "Our crossing from Volantis was direct to White Harbor, without stops at southern ports."
The conversation drifted toward more general topics: expected weather conditions for the coming months, logistical challenges of maintaining operational trade routes during winter, recent events in the Free Cities that might affect transoceanic commerce.
Throughout the evening, Ethel gathered scattered fragments of valuable information: growing tensions between the mountain clans to the west, unusually frequent wildling sightings south of the Wall, disturbing rumors about disappearances in forests near Last Hearth.
Everything fit with the pattern he knew: the preliminaries of the White Walker threat, signs that in the original history had been ignored or misinterpreted until it was too late.
That night, retired in the guest chambers they had been assigned, Ethel and Melisandre analyzed these developments in whispered conversation, conscious that even the most solid walls could have indiscreet ears.
"Lady Stark will be a potential obstacle," Melisandre murmured, discreetly stoking the hearth fire with a casual movement of her hand, intensifying the flames without need of physical instruments. "Her loyalty to the Faith of the Seven and her natural southern caution will predispose her against representatives of a foreign religion."
"That's why our initial approach must be strictly commercial," Ethel nodded. "We must establish ourselves as useful and trustworthy merchants before gradually revealing our true purposes."
Both knew they walked on thin ice. One false step, a premature revelation, could result not only in their mission's failure but possibly more grave consequences. The northerners were traditionalists to the core, distrustful of foreign influences, especially in religious matters.
"Young Brandon Stark," Ethel murmured after a prolonged silence. "According to the information we've gathered, he must be unconscious after his fall from the tower."
Melisandre nodded gravely, the ruby at her throat pulsing softly in the fire's fluctuating light.
Both contemplated the implications in silence. In the narrative Ethel knew, Bran Stark would eventually awaken, transformed by visions and powers that would make him a central piece of the coming conflict against the White Walkers.
The following five days passed with relative monotony: long days of travel through increasingly harsh landscapes, nights in rustic inns or, when these weren't available, camping under the stars with rotating guards watching while the others rested.
The weather, initially favorable, became progressively more inclement as they advanced toward the North's heart. Intermittent rains converted stretches of the road into muddy quagmires that slowed their progress, while cutting winds from the north presaged imminent snowfalls.
However, the solidity of the carriages acquired in White Harbor and the experience of the local drivers allowed the expedition to maintain a constant rhythm, adapting to changing conditions with efficiency.
Throughout the journey, Ethel took advantage of every stop in villages or outposts to engage in casual conversations with locals, absorbing details about the North's current situation that might prove useful. News about Eddard Stark's appointment as Hand of the King had generated mixed reactions: pride for the recognition of their lord, but also concern about what it meant to have the Warden of the North so far away on the eve of winter.
During these exchanges, he carefully maintained his character as a Volantene merchant, showing interest but not excessive knowledge about Westerosi political affairs. Melisandre, for her part, deliberately remained in the background, observing and listening with that serene intensity that characterized her, evaluating each interlocutor with eyes that seemed to read much more than simple words.
At dawn of the sixth day of travel, while breaking camp established the night before in a clearing protected by ancient oaks, one of the drivers pointed toward the horizon with reverent expression.
"There, my lord," he indicated, gesturing toward a distant point where the rising sun illuminated a structure that seemed to emerge organically from the surrounding landscape. "Winterfell."
Ethel squinted, contemplating for the first time the legendary ancestral fortress of the Starks. Even at this distance, the vision was impressive: massive granite walls extending for acres, circular towers crowned by fluttering banners, and above all, wisps of steam rising from them.