Game Of Thrones : Merchant of Two Worlds

"I've spent most of my time either in King's Landing or hunting in the royal forests. After so many years, it gets dull. A change of scenery is always refreshing and exciting," Jaime Lannister said, shaking his golden hair with a slightly bored expression.

He added with a smirk, "When you're a king, you can come up with any excuse to do what you want. Who's going to stop you? The last Hand of the King might have been able to, but he's dead now. With him gone, there's no one left to challenge His Majesty."

Tyrion Lannister glanced at the king walking ahead, surrounded by the Kingsguard and soaking in the cheers of the crowd. With a sly smile, he replied, "So, you think the new Hand, Lord Eddard Stark, has any chance of changing His Majesty's mind?"

Tyrion's mismatched eyes, one green and one black, sparkled with amusement. "Let's be honest. No one, except the late Jon Arryn, could ever hope to reason with Robert. We can only hope our new Hand of the King has enough courage to give him advice—and live with the consequences."

Jaime laughed. "I've known Eddard Stark for years. Stubborn as he is, he's a man of honor and principle. We've crossed paths a few times. He's got courage, no doubt about it."

Jaime's thoughts drifted back to that fateful day more than a decade ago. He remembered the moment he had driven his sword into the back of King Aerys Targaryen. Covered in sweat and blood, he had collapsed onto the Iron Throne, breathing heavily.

It was then that Eddard Stark had entered the throne room, leading his men. When he saw Jaime sitting on the Iron Throne, he had demanded that he get down at once.

Jaime had been taken aback but quickly masked his unease with a grin. "Relax, Lord Stark," he had said with false cheer. "I was only warming the seat for Robert, making sure it's comfortable for him."

Their first meeting had been tense, to say the least.

Tyrion broke into Jaime's thoughts, smirking. "It's rare to hear you praise someone, especially Eddard Stark. Usually, you're too busy mocking everyone, even men like Ser Barristan Selmy. But Lord Stark? He's definitely... different."

The royal procession moved slowly through the streets of King's Landing. The roads were packed with people eager to catch a glimpse of their king. Robert Baratheon, known for his tournaments and generosity, was adored by the common folk. Their cheers echoed down the streets, unrelenting and enthusiastic.

Jaime had a point. The journey from King's Landing to Winterfell was a long and grueling one, spanning thousands of miles. Even at their current pace, and considering Robert's inevitable stops for hunting and merriment, reaching Winterfell within a month would be optimistic.

Meanwhile, Winterfell was bustling with activity, unaware of the king's impending visit. The Stark family was busy preparing for their annual harvest feast, and news of Robert's journey north hadn't yet arrived.

Messages sent by raven could take days to reach their destination. And even then, the process wasn't always reliable. Bad weather, injuries, or other mishaps could delay or even prevent letters from being delivered. To ensure the message reached Winterfell, Grand Maester Pycelle had sent multiple ravens.

Back in Winterfell, preparations for the feast were in full swing. The northern lords invited to the banquet had already begun to arrive, bringing their guards and retainers with them. However, Winterfell's walls couldn't accommodate such a large crowd.

While the nobles and their personal guards stayed in the castle, the rest of their entourage had to find lodging in the nearby town. As a result, the winter town outside Winterfell became lively and chaotic. Taverns and inns were packed with knights and soldiers from various houses.

The atmosphere in the town was rowdy, to say the least. Soldiers laughed, drank ale, and occasionally got into brawls. Drunken fights became a common sight, much to the amusement of the townsfolk, who treated them as free entertainment.

Tavern owners, however, weren't as thrilled. Their tables and chairs were often broken in these fights, leaving them with mounting expenses. Unable to confront the unruly soldiers, they simply added the cost of damages to the soldiers' bar tabs.

At the same time, Boris's hospital was busier than ever. Known for his medical skills, Boris had gained a reputation as a master healer in the North. Wounded soldiers were frequently brought to his hospital, where they lay groaning in pain as Boris and his assistants bandaged their injuries.

But it wasn't just the injured soldiers who visited Boris. A group of maesters from the northern houses had also arrived in Winterfell. These learned men, dressed in gray robes and wearing chains of various metals around their necks, were eager to see Boris's skills for themselves.

Maester Luwin, Winterfell's resident maester, initially thought the gathering of maesters signaled some important event. Typically, maesters rarely left their lord's service unless it was a matter of great significance. However, he quickly realized they had come solely to assess Boris's reputation as a healer.

With the castle overwhelmed by preparations for the feast, Luwin was too busy to entertain the visiting maesters. Instead, he assigned a servant to escort them to Boris's hospital.

When Boris saw the group of older, experienced maesters standing before him, he felt a mix of nervousness and pride. It was the first time he'd been surrounded by so many scholars, all eager to test his abilities. For a moment, he almost felt like a true maester himself.

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