GoT Shadowborn: The Rise of Ashford

The waning light of day painted Seagard in hues of amber and crimson. The once bustling market had calmed, replaced by a quieter murmur of conversations between lingering merchants and sailors preparing their goods for the morning. The briny scent of the sea hung heavily in the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of wood smoke from hearths hidden behind stone walls.

Ethan walked alongside Kieran, his thoughts tangled in the web of politics and treachery they had unwittingly stumbled upon. Marlen's arrest still gnawed at him. It was too clean, too swift—clearly orchestrated by someone with influence and an agenda. He couldn't shake the thought that whoever had moved against the merchant wasn't finished. And now, by association, Ethan himself had become a target.

"We need answers," Ethan muttered, his gaze flicking toward the shadows stretching across the narrow street. "Whoever did this won't stop at Marlen."

Kieran, ever watchful, scanned their surroundings with a wary eye. "Answers cost gold or blood," he said grimly. "Sometimes both."

Ethan sighed, knowing the truth of those words. He had wealth, yes—his burgeoning trade in textiles was proof of that—but gold alone wouldn't be enough to secure his position in Seagard. Influence, alliances, and a careful hand were needed to navigate this treacherous landscape.

Their footsteps echoed off the cobblestones as they approached a weathered tavern near the docks. The faded sign above the door depicted a battered ship, its sails tattered but defiant against an unseen storm. The building leaned slightly to one side, as though weary from years of enduring the salty sea winds.

The din of rowdy laughter and the clinking of mugs spilled out onto the street, mingling with the creak of ships swaying in the harbor. The tavern was a melting pot of Seagard's inhabitants—sailors fresh off long voyages, merchants eager to celebrate successful trades, and dockworkers drowning the aches of a hard day's labor.

"This place will do," Kieran said, jerking his chin toward the entrance. "If there's gossip worth hearing, it'll be here."

Ethan hesitated. Taverns were unpredictable, often teeming with danger as much as opportunity. A careless word could spark a brawl, and they couldn't afford unnecessary attention. Still, they needed information.

"Fine," he relented. "But keep your eyes open. We're not here to make friends."

Kieran grinned. "Speak for yourself."

The interior of the tavern was dimly lit by flickering lanterns that cast shifting shadows across rough-hewn wooden tables. The scent of stale ale, sweat, and smoke permeated the air. Conversations hummed around them, blending into a chaotic symphony of voices punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter or the scrape of chairs against the floor.

Ethan led the way to a corner table near the back, its surface scarred with years of knife marks and spilled drinks. They sat with their backs to the wall, giving them a clear view of the room—a habit born of necessity in a world where danger lurked around every corner.

A serving girl with tangled brown hair and a weary expression approached, wiping her hands on a stained apron.

"What'll it be?" she asked, her voice flat from overuse.

"Two ales," Ethan said, placing a few coins on the table.

She nodded and disappeared into the crowd. Kieran leaned back in his chair, his sharp eyes scanning the room. "You think whoever set up Marlen has ears in here?" he asked quietly.

"Most likely," Ethan replied. "Taverns are breeding grounds for gossip—and threats."

Their drinks arrived quickly, frothy and dark. Ethan took a cautious sip, grimacing at the bitter taste. It was hardly refined, but it served its purpose. He let his gaze drift across the room, noting the subtle dynamics of power and influence.

Near the hearth, a group of men huddled close, their voices low but intense. One of them, a burly man with a scar running down his cheek, glanced furtively around the room before leaning in to speak to his companions.

Ethan's instincts flared. "Over there," he murmured to Kieran, nodding subtly toward the group.

Kieran followed his gaze and narrowed his eyes. "They're hiding something."

"I'm going to get closer," Ethan said. "Stay here and cover me if things go south."

Kieran smirked. "You always find the fun, don't you?"

Ethan moved casually through the tavern, weaving between tables with practiced ease. He feigned interest in a nearby bulletin board plastered with faded notices, his ears straining to catch snippets of the men's conversation.

"…damn fool thought he could outmaneuver us," one of them was saying, his voice rough with disdain. "Marlen's finished. Won't last a week under Mallister scrutiny."

Ethan's jaw tightened. These men were involved—or at least privy to the plot. He needed more.

"What about the new one?" Scar-cheek asked, his tone wary. "The outlander."

Ethan's pulse quickened. They were talking about him now.

"Too early to tell," another man replied. "But if he gets in the way, we'll handle him same as Marlen."

Ethan forced himself to remain calm, absorbing every word. These men were part of a coordinated effort to seize control of Seagard's trade routes, using sabotage and intimidation to eliminate competitors. And now, they had marked him as a threat.

He turned to leave, but a creak of the floorboard betrayed his movement. Scar-cheek's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing as they locked onto Ethan.

"You lost, friend?" the man asked, rising from his seat. His companions followed suit, forming a wall of muscle and menace.

Ethan kept his expression neutral, though his heart raced. "Just passing through," he said evenly.

Scar-cheek's lips curled into a mocking smile. "Funny place for a passerby to linger."

Before Ethan could respond, Kieran appeared at his side, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword. "Is there a problem here?" Kieran asked, his tone dangerously calm.

Scar-cheek eyed Kieran warily, clearly assessing the risk. After a tense moment, he spat on the floor. "No problem," he said grudgingly. "But watch your step, outlander. Seagard doesn't take kindly to outsiders meddling in its affairs."

With that, the men turned and left, their departure as abrupt as their hostility.

Ethan exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing. "Thanks," he said to Kieran.

Kieran shrugged. "Looked like you had it under control. I just wanted to make sure you didn't get stabbed."

"Thoughtful of you," Ethan muttered.

As they made their way back to their table, Ethan's mind raced with possibilities. The threat was real and imminent, but so was the opportunity. If he could outmaneuver these thugs and secure Marlen's position, his influence in Seagard would grow exponentially.

"We need allies," Ethan said as they sat down. "People who can help us push back against these bastards."

Kieran nodded. "I might know a few folks who don't mind getting their hands dirty."

Ethan's eyes gleamed with determination. "Good. Because this is just the beginning."

The tide was turning, and Ethan was ready to ride the wave to victory—or drown trying.