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SLW Chapter 4 : Whispers of Ironborn
🕑 Added 2025-01-26 00:02:18 +0000 UTCIt sliced through the trees; the biting wind seemed to snake its way under Aeron's ragged clothes, leaving an uneasy sense of cold gnawing at his bones. He drew the tattered remains of his cloak about him, closer over his shoulders, maiming their inadequacy at keeping out the cold. The translucent screen in front of him flickered once more, the timer at the corner continuing its relentless countdown: 23:47:32.
Aeron clenched his fists, his breath fogging in the frigid air. “Survive,” he muttered under his breath, the word echoing in his mind like a challenge. But survive what? The vague threat gnawed at him, fueling his unease with every passing second.
Pacing through the narrow, dimly lit streets of the stronghold, the bleak surroundings did little for the building tension that was tightening his stomach. Aeron passed by another knot of soldiers, the armor they wore clinking with each exchange as they passed information back and forth in low tones. He caught snippets of the conversation: murmurings of the winter that was to come, of provisions running thin, of the ever-present threat lurking beyond the Wall. Plainly, these men lived in a constant reign of vigils, a far cry from the relative safety he once knew.
Just around the corner loomed the building in front of which everything seemed inconceivably out of place. It wasn't a grand hall or a good inn, really; it was just a filthy-looking thing that, leaning to one side, seemed on the verge of collapsing into a heap of its own despondency. A faded sign creaked in the wind above the entrance: "The Broken Tankard."
Through the dirty and cracked windows, Aeron could see the flicker of a weak fire struggling to provide warmth inside. Within those walls, the shadows of huddled forms lay, merged with the outlines of their forms slumped over the rough wooden tables. The muffled sounds of clinking mugs and the low murmurs seeped through the walls, mixing with the distant howling of the wind.
Aeron hesitated, his eye straying about the place. This was indeed no place of merriment or comfort but a haven for those who had nowhere else to turn. Patrons inside were peasants, their clothes in tatters and faces telling tales of hardship and survival. Bleakness in this regard, Aeron felt a pull; a sense this is where he might find the information he sought.
He took a deep breath before pushing open the heavy, wooden door. It groaned feebly in protest as it gave way. Inside, the warmth was meager, but at least it dispelled the cold that settled on him as if it were a second skin. The air was thick and filled with a fragrance of stale ale and unwashed bodies; a combination which, to his mind, made Aeron wrinkle his nose in distaste.
The interior of The Broken Tankard was as grim as its exterior. The wooden beams overhead were blackened with age and soot, and the floor was a patchwork of dirt and straw, with no effort made to hide the filth. A rickety bar ran along one side of the room, behind which a burly man with a pockmarked face lazily wiped a dirty mug with an even dirtier rag. His one good eye tracked Aeron’s entrance with mild interest, though he said nothing.
Scattered throughout the room were the peasants Aeron had seen earlier, their faces drawn and eyes dull as they nursed their piss-poor drinks. The women who lingered at the edges of the room were no better off, their once youthful features marred by hardship and the harsh realities of their lives. They cast occasional glances at the patrons, but there was no life in their gaze, no spark of interest or desire. Aeron noted their presence with a passing glance, feeling no inclination to approach them.
He made his way to a corner table, choosing a spot that offered a clear view of the room. The wooden bench creaked under his weight as he sat, the discomfort of the seat matching the oppressive atmosphere. He kept his hood low, obscuring his features as he observed the room.
The noise level was low, the conversations little more than whispers, but Aeron strained his ears, hoping to catch something, anything that might guide his next move. A barmaid approached his table, catching him off guard. She was young, likely in her early twenties, with dark, cascading hair that framed a face far more beautiful than the rest of the women he had seen in this place. Her eyes were sharp, holding a mischievous glint, and her full lips curved into a playful smile as she set a mug of what seemed like ale before him. "Here you go, handsome," she cooed, lilting her voice with a teasing tone. Aeron glanced down at the mug, its sour smell making him grimace. A shiver ran down his spine at a waft of the brew, a mixture of something unpleasant and stale. "What in the fuck is this?" he muttered to himself before looking back up at the barmaid.
“Also Handsome?" he repeated, puzzlement in his tone.
She leaned in a little, her smile broadening as she tipped her head. "Don't play coy now, Aeron. Pulling a hood over your face isn't going to make you invisible, you know.”
Aeron's eyes went wide with surprise, wavering between curiousness and wariness. 'She knows me? How convenient', he considered, trying to connect the dots regarding her insinuation. "You know me?" he returned, his voice laced with suspicion.
The barmaid chuckled, rolling her eyes playfully. “Did you hit your head or something? Or are you trying to ignore me after we fucked yesterday?”
Aeron's heart skipped a beat, and his mind reeled at what she had said. "We did what?" he blurted out, the shock evident in his tone.
Before he could react she reached for the collar of his cloak and pulled him closer with surprising strength. Her face was inches from his and her playful expression had turned into one of mock sternness. "Stop acting stupid, Aeron, er I'll make ye pay fer every drink ye had in here. Yer total is 200 copper pennies, okay?”
Suddenly she came forward and pecked it from him with a brisk, teasing sort of a kiss. That came so suddenly that Aeron–for a moment—was just stunned; his thought went haywire with confusion and disbelief.
Quickly she released his collar as she had taken it, and back into the more upright position with her teasing smile. "Okay, I'll leave you to this one in peace, handsome," she grinned; amusement in her voice. Calls from other patrons distracted her, so she gave a quick wave of her hand before moving to wait on the next table.
Aeron sat there, still holding his lips with his fingers, trying to understand what in the world had just happened. His mind raced at light speed as he replayed the encounter over and over, trying to make sense of it all. 'Did that really just happen?' he wondered, his hand still resting on his lips, the sensation of her kiss lingering.
"Wait, I need to ask you something." He called after her, but she was already making her way across the room.
She spared him a glance over her shoulder, the smile still firmly affixed to her features. "Later, Aeron. Come back at night-time, as usual," she said, only bright and carefree in tone.
'As usual?' Aeron thought, a frown creasing his brow. 'Maybe this peasant isn’t exactly bad with women after all'. His thoughts turned inward, considering the implications of her words. "To be fair, I haven’t even looked at my face yet. Speaking of which, my body feels quite strong, nothing like it was before."
He glanced at the mug of ale on his desk, then back at it. So far, this could be the only drink he'd get today. "Ugh, screw it," he murmured, downing it in one go. Then he set the cup heavily on the table again, his face twisting in disgust. "Gods, that tastes like ass! What the fuck bear island? , Gods? now i'm talking like them!"
Aeron had just finished cursing the ale when the door to the tavern banged open, letting in a gust of cold air. A crowd of soldiers mushed inside, expressions sour, voices growling low but with some tension.
"By the Old Gods," one of them swore, slamming a hand on a nearby table. "It's those Ironborn bastards, I'm telling ye! They're up to something, I can feel it in my bones." Another soldier, with a rough Northern accent, grumbled in agreement. “Aye, it’s them. Those sea-wolves would do anything to stir trouble. We’ve had no end of trouble from them.”
Aeron leant in, trying to catch every word. The diners' conversation presented a clearer picture of what was afoot.
“If it’s truly them,” one soldier said, “then they’re plotting something. But if it was really them, we would’ve heard more. They wouldn’t dare—” "Dare what?" another soldier broke in, a catcher's mitt of Northern suspicion in his voice. "If they've got some new scheme, we best be ready. The last thing we need is more of their mischief." It was something between those warriors, their concern registered. Aeron listened carefully to the words and the tension in the room.
The soldiers exchanged worried glances, their concern unmistakable. Aeron listened intently, absorbing their words and the tension in the room. “Well, this isn’t useful at all,” he muttered to himself, grabbing his empty mug as if he is about to take another swig of the foul ale. But as he raised it to his lips, a sudden realization hit him.
"Ironborn...the system quest...no fucking way," he whispered, widening his eyes in disbelief. Things started to click. The quest he had been given was directly related to these troublemakers. He brought the mug down and stared blankly at the soldiers, his mind running through all of the implications.
