Sauron followed Isul's gaze, his heart sinking as he saw a group of armed men, their cloaks bearing a sigil a black battle axe on a field of grey. The Cerwyns were known for their ruthless efficiency and their loyalty to the Starks. If they were this alert, literaly setting up check points. it could only mean one thing: they were searching for something—or someone.
"Get down," Isul hissed, pulling his horse behind a thicket of gnarled scrub pine.
Sauron complied, his mind racing. "What do we do?" he whispered, his voice tight with anxiety.
Isul's yellow eyes narrowed as he scanned the scene below. "We can't go back. The trail behind is too open. We have to get past them."
"We can't," Sauron said, his voice tight with fear. "There's no other way. on the maps this is the only main crossing."
"Not the only one." isul responded. " but we don't have anymore time to waste."
Isul was quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the scene below. The merchants were being forced from their wagons, their valuables being dumped onto the bridge. The lead man was questioning the merchant, his voice too low to carry, but his posture was one of authority and duty.
Then Isul's ears perked up. "Do you hear that?" he asked, tilting his head.
" no nothing" sauron replied. isul looked at sauron with a disappointed serious gaze. "ok, first lesson. listening. close your eyes." sauron confused but be grudgenly. complied. "fine." he said. " focus on your surroundings, quit your mind. and take everything in." isul instructed. but to no avail. " I dont hear anything." sauron responded. isul grunted "just come on." he said
Isul nodded. "A merchant, perhaps. We might be able to use this to our advantage."
They waited in the bushes as the merchant wagon came into view, its driver whipping the horses to keep them moving at a brisk pace. Isul stood up, stepping out from behind the thicket, and waved his arms to get the merchant's attention.
The wagon rolled to a halt, and the driver, a weathered man with a thick beard, leaned out. "What's the trouble here?" he asked, eyeing Isul warily.
Isul approached the wagon, his hand resting on the hilt of his dagger. "Trouble ahead, friend. Cerwyn soilders on the bridge. They're stopping everyone and searching the wagons."
The merchant's eyes widened. "By the gods, that's all I need. I'm just trying to get my goods to market."
Isul leaned in, lowering his voice. "I can help with that. I'm a sell-sword, and I've got a sharp eye for trouble. Hire me to guard your wares, and we'll get you across that bridge without any issues."
The merchant looked Isul up and down, taking in his weathered appearance and the dangerous glint in his eye. "And who's the boy?" he asked, nodding towards Sauron.
"My nephew," Isul replied smoothly. "He's learning the trade. He's got a good eye and a quick blade."
The merchant considered this for a moment, then nodded. "Alright, you've got a deal. But if we get stopped, you're the one dealing with the guards. I don't want any trouble."
Isul smirked. "You won't get any trouble from me. I promise you."
The merchant snapped the reins, and the wagon lurched forward, rolling towards the bridge. Isul and Sauron fell in beside it, their horses matching the wagon's pace. As they approached the bridge, Sauron's heart raced. The Cerwyn guards were alert, their eyes scanning every wagon and traveler that passed.
"Keep your head down and your mouth shut," Isul muttered to Sauron. "Let me do the talking."
They rolled up to the guard post, and a Cerwyn soldier stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "Halt! What's your business?"
Isul leaned out, his voice steady and confident. "Just a merchant on his way to market. Got some fine goods to sell. Nothing to worry about here."
The guard eyed the wagon suspiciously. "Open the back. We need to search your goods."
Isul's hand tightened on his dagger, but he kept his expression neutral. "Of course, of course. No problem at all."
The merchant climbed down from the wagon and opened the back, revealing crates and barrels of various sizes. The guard began to rummage through them, his movements rough and efficient.
Suddenly, a shout came from the other side of the bridge. "Hey! You there! Stop what you're doing and get over here!"
The guard looked up, his brow furrowing. "What's going on over there?"
Isul seized the moment. "Sounds like they need your help. I assure you we don't want any trouble. and wouldn't want to waste any of your time?"
The guard hesitated, then nodded. "Alright, but don't you dare move until I get back."
He strode off towards the commotion, leaving Isul and the merchant alone with the wagon. Isul turned to the merchant, his voice low. "We need to move, now. they won't care if one cart goes through."
The merchant nodded, his face pale. " alright. but if i get in trouble. I'm not paying you a single coin."
Isul snapped the reins, and the wagon rolled forward, crossing the bridge at a brisk pace. Sauron kept his head down, his heart pounding in his chest. They made it to the other side without further incident, and the merchant pulled the wagon to a halt in a small clearing just outside the town.
Isul turned to the merchant, his expression serious. "I need to accompany you for the day, as we agreed. But my nephew here needs to gather some supplies. Can you point him in the right direction?"
The merchant nodded. "Sure thing. the market is just outside the town walls. usually those with general goods are on the otherside from my spot. He should be able to find everything he needs there."
Isul turned to Sauron, his voice low. "Go. Be quick and be careful. come find me in an hour."
Sauron nodded, his throat too tight to form a reply. He took the reins of his horse and led it away from the small clearing, the weight of Isul's gaze on his back until he turned a corner and the wagon was hidden from view. The town, a sprawling collection of timber-framed buildings and thatched roofs, loomed ahead, its walls a pale grey stone. The air grew thick with the smells of humanity: woodsmoke, wet earth, roasting meat, and the underlying tang of unwashed bodies.
He felt a knot of anxiety tighten in his stomach. He was alone. For the first time since the massacre, he was truly on his own. Isul's presence, as harsh and demanding as it was, had been a shield. Now, that shield was gone, and he felt naked, exposed. Every face that passed him seemed to hold a potential threat. He pulled the hood of his cloak lower, a habit he was quickly developing, and kept his head down.
He had just reached the edge of the market square, a chaotic cacophony of sound and color, when it happened.
It started as a flicker at the edge of his vision, a distortion in the air like heat rising from summer pavement. He blinked, thinking it was just exhaustion, but it solidified. Standing near a baker's stall, partially obscured by the swirling steam from a vat of boiling water, was a figure. A woman, cloaked and hooded in a deep, indigo blue that seemed to drink the light around it. Her face was hidden in shadow, but he could feel her gaze on him, not with the malice of a pursuer, but with an intense, unnerving focus. and a smile as beautiful as any he had ever saw."
His heart skipped a beat. He froze, his hand instinctively going to the hidden blade under his sleeve. He scanned the crowd around her. No one else seemed to see her. They walked past, oblivious, their attention on their haggling and their errands. as if She was an apparition, a ghost only he could see.
The woman held his gaze for a moment longer, then turned and began to walk away, moving with an unnatural grace, not pushing through the crowd but seeming to flow through it. She wasn't running, but a magnetic pull, an undeniable instinct, seized Sauron. He had to follow. It wasn't a choice; it was a compulsion. His feet began to move before his mind had consented, leading his horse through the throng, his eyes locked on the flash of indigo cloth weaving between the stalls.
He was so focused on the phantom figure that he lost all awareness of his surroundings. He was navigating by her presence alone, a ship guided by a phantom star. He followed her down a side street, away from the main bustle of the market. The sounds of the square faded behind him, replaced by the rhythmic clang, clang, clang of a blacksmith's hammer.
The woman stopped at the entrance to an open-fronted forge, turning to face him one last time before she dissolved like mist in the sun, leaving him standing there, breathless and disoriented.
The sudden silence was shattered by a shrill neigh of terror and the crash of splintering wood. Sauron snapped back to reality just in time to see his horse, spooked by a snake slithering out from a pile of scrap iron, rear up violently. It twisted, knocking over a large display of finely carved wooden birds and horses that had been set out to dry. The colorful toys clattered onto the dusty ground.
"What in the seven hells?!"
The voice was sharp and female, full of fury. Sauron turned to see a young woman, perhaps a year or two older than him, standing in the doorway of the forge. She had a smudge of charcoal on her cheek and fiery red hair tied back in a messy braid, but her eyes were the color of a winter sky, and they were blazing with anger.
"You clumsy oaf! Do you have any idea how long those took to carve?" she shrieked, storming towards him.
Before Sauron could even stammer an apology, a shadow fell over him. A man, impossibly broad, stepped out of the forge behind her. He was a mountain of muscle and soot, his arms thick as tree trunks, his bare chest glistening with sweat. He wiped a hand on his leather apron, revealing a face that was stern but not unkind. This had to be the blacksmith.
"Lyra, enough," the man rumbled, his voice deep and calm, yet carrying an undeniable authority. He looked down at Sauron, who was frozen like a rabbit caught in a snare. The boy's hood had fallen back, revealing his pale, terrified face and the wide, desperate eyes of someone who had seen far too much.
The blacksmith's gaze softened almost imperceptibly. He took in Sauron's travel-worn clothes, the quality of the horse now nervously nudging its owner, and the subtle but firm way his hand rested near his belt, where his knife laid. He didn't see a careless boy; he saw a survivor.
"He'll pay for it," the blacksmith said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Won't you, lad?"
Sauron could only nod, his throat completely closed.
The girl, Lyra, crossed her arms, her foot tapping impatiently. "Pay? With what? Looks like he doesn't have two coppers to rub together."
"I have coin," Sauron finally managed to croak, his voice hoarse.
The blacksmith—Harwin, he would later learn—shook his head. "Keep your coin. We're short-handed. A shipment of iron came in this morning, and it's all out back. You'll help me move it. An hour's work should settle the debt."
An hour. Isul had given him an hour. Panic flared in his chest. "I... I can't. I have to be somewhere."
"Then you shouldn't have broken my sister's wares," Harwin said simply. There was no threat in his voice, only a statement of fact. "The work, or I call the watch. Your choice."
Sauron looked from the giant blacksmith to the fiery-haired girl, whose expression was a mixture of triumph and curiosity. He was trapped. A simple, stupid accident had ensnared him. He had no choice.
"Alright," he mumbled, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "An hour."
A slow smile spread across Lyra's face. "Good. The name's Lyra. The big lump of iron is my brother, Harwin. And you, clumsy, have a name?"
Sauron hesitated, the lie catching in his throat. "Jon," he said, the first name that came to mind. "Jon Snow."
Lyra's eyes narrowed slightly, as if she sensed the untruth, but she said nothing more. She just pointed a thumb towards the rear of the forge. "The iron's that way. Try not to break anything else."