[Front Gate] Maw of the Dragon's Ruin

[Juran Carn]

18th day of the 3rd moon

---

The war was meant to be over. Thousands had died and good men lost to put an end to the duelling kings and given the procession that Juran had stopped to let pass it seemed somewhat little had changed. He'd seen the melted ruin of Harrenhal several times from afar, like a broken whale upon the land, queer as the stories told about it. Haunted with malignant evils, thoroughly discontent to hear it told. Hardly would a place such as this inspire stories of gallant spirits nor spirits of lusty maids. He would not admit out loud that between the spirit of a burned man and a lusty maid he'd rather take the burned man.

Spurring his white and brown spotted rounsey Juran Carn headed towards the open gate at a relaxed speed he'd taken most of the way down the Green Fork. Fishing, hunting and generally having a gay old time of it, far more than he had done in the west. The land here didn't seem touched by the war and he'd found stables rather than tree stumps to sleep on. Now he was here, the man was almost a boy. Reluctant to go inside, knowing that rather than small folk here would be dangerous people. Knights and lords, maesters with their books, they also ask questions beyond your name and if you had coin to pay. They were want to make japes and look down on him, still he had to find some place to be. Small lords on the way down had little interest in another mouth to feed this winter, though he had heard there might be work as a sellsword below the God's Eye.

Steeling himself the squire looked up at the ramparts, boar spear leaning against his right shoulder and against his head from where the butt rested on the saddle. It had been a light oak once, now it was blotched and red over the years, still it had never broken. Hair that had been trimmed a few weeks before swept down his head not unkempt but worn from the road. Brown and half mismatched leather armour over a dark blue doublet and darker blue hose, worn boots that like most of what he owned had come from someone who had lost their need of it. The shield resting on the saddle was another, a red stallion upon a gold shield, on a brown field if one looked closely. It was a kite shield, the paint worn and chipped in several places, the stallion missing a foreleg.

"May I have leave to enter the castle?" He called out, his voice not really a shout something he was generally loath to do. Trying to put his best foot forwards Juran reminded himself, smile, they like it when you smile. He was tense, too tense really but there was no going back. If he had coin maybe some ale would have braced him but he truly was a penniless vagabond truth be told. In truth he seemed a nervous rouge at a glance, despite that being far from his temperament and how he wished to appear.

[The Raven]

There was no answer from above the massive threshold. Instead, Juran heard from behind him, "Oy!"

Juran found a man waving him over towards some sort of tinker's cart parked in the shade of a great oak. He had clearly not shaved since the last Aegon was king, and perhaps had not changed his clothes since then either.

[Juran Carn]

Like a ripe apple, looks find until you get close then rotten, full of worms and stinking that sickly sweet smell. Twisting on the reigns Juran lead the horse around, the beast placidly doing so before trotting over the muddy cobbles, "My good man," Anything to distract him from the task at hand was a blessing. Wishing the man smelt more of sweet rotten apples he offered a smile and a slight incline of his head as greeting. The horseman came close but still two horse lengths away, even in the shadow of a great castle the roads had taught him to always be somewhat weary of strangers. Taking in the man's clothes, fearsome bedraggled beard and the visible contents of his cart, Juran tried to pre-empt what he might say or at least that his words would ring true.

55-Observation

[The Raven]

(Success. One point awarded.)

The man is a vagabond, lacking proper shoes and belt. He can see several pheasants hanging from the cart, along with a bow and arrow near the stranger's hand. Even now, Juran's nostrils are filled with a peculiar mix of rancid old man and cooking bird.

"If yer seekin' to get in, sirrah, ye'll have to traverse to Harrentown." The man's teeth are black like his feet. "This gate never opens, on account of how difficult it would be to shut in a crisis. But if yer in need of sustenance, sirrah, I can offer a meal. Perhaps an ounce of wisdom, iffen such appeals to ye."

[Juran Carn]

The banners had fooled him well enough, that there were so many gates to this castle ruin or not it must be monstrous to defend. You would need hundreds, certainly a step up from a keep with three rooms and two arrow slits. Sheepishly Juran offered an awkward smile and dismounted from his horse in a mostly fluid motion, spear balanced against the top of his foot as he did so, the haft barely moving as he did. Given that the man had a cart Juran did not take the man as a poacher, certainly not this close to the castle, "I have little and less to offer in turn my good man, though I'll take both if you offer it." Juran disliked admitting it but he'd never had more than two silvers to his name at the very best of times. Sucking on his cheeks for a moment he returned, "I can clean a bird if you allow it, share news of the war and the north and if you can stand it a song or two." On the road that might be enough, these were castle folk though, they were used to finer things than words.

[The Raven]

The old man opened his carriage to reveal the cooking meat over a private grill. The old man kept a hand over his face as the smoke rushed out. Soon, with the aid of curious tools, he had the meat on a great wooden plate. He then closed the door once more.

"Apologies for the smoke. It's the only way a man can cook his meat without drawing attention. I suspect we'll all have such contraptions in a hundred years, especially after I bring it to the Citadel."

The tinkerer handed the Juran a casket of cold water and proceeded to share the meal. "I wouldn't mind hearing words about the war. Truthfully, by the Seven's grace, I spent it near Moat Caitlin, consulting with the crannogmen on ancient truths and other such fantastical topics."

[Juran Carn]

Juran had build a thousand fires, seen ovens at castles and bakeries as well. All of which burned wood, peat or coals, smoky things that during the day made their location clear to any with eyes. How did this closed contraption not smoother the flame, did it breath? Questions were oft on his mind, puzzles called to him as if siren song. he would have asked had the man not continued, somewhat dismaying the young man.

The children of the mud, foul little men who haunted the stories of every night fire in the Feylands. Able to walk on swamp as if land, turn into trees and their monstrous twisted castles under the dank waters were children were peeled and eaten like roasted onions. Their arrows were poison and they saw all men as their foe. As a man Juran put less stock in those stories and yet, Crannogmen were the historical foe of his ancestors. This man questioned and kept council with them? Traveling down from the North, who was this man and his contraption?

Speaking softly Juran did as he was bid, "The war is over, the natural born," A bastard by any other name, "Heir of Aegon IV sits the Iron throne." That was the broadest of strokes, the song sung from the Wall to the Elbow. "The Riverlands West of the Trident are a ruin, if you head to Oldtown then the Kingsroad would be safest if not a ship." Juran eyed the fire before listing some of the villages he saw burned, local lords dead and a few more tales from the road.

"Crannogmen you say?"

[The Raven]

"Aye, ser. They are friendly enough, like dogs you might meet in the road. Good for a pet if you have the meat!" He laughed. Perhaps the joke was funnier in the North.

"I was curious how they kept warm in those moors they guard so jealously, as it was known they lacked dry, hard lumber. And like words from Baelor's own mouth, I divined their secrets. You see, while their maple burns less fiercely than our oak and pine, it burns longer. And, as you may have reconnoitered upon arrival, it gives away little smoke."

He was standing now, pacing before Juran like a merchant crowing for his inventory. "By mine intellect and mine own hands that have molded this engine of fire, I shall wreak a new golden age!" He sat down. "Once I have conferred with other learned men, of course. Like the slaves who founded Braavos in secret, I do fear the crowned heads that might covet the secret of fire."

[Juran Carn]

Juran chose not to point out that they were next to a town with tens of fires that might cook a bird, that more often than not fires did no harm nor that having to pull a cart everywhere you was more hindrance than boon. Mayhaps some lady would want one to follow her wheelhouse, it was best to hold his tongue in like that the man was feeding him despite his smell. He certainly felt this was a good idea and he might know better than a man ignorant of a great many things.

The meat was unseasoned but good fair, not too dry but lacked the crackling edges of a real fire. Pulling the meat from the bone, globules of grease rolling into the trim of his beard it was a struggle not to wolf it down. It would be nicer if his travels had contained more meals than it had. Even the smell didn't brother him as much as it did at the start, the bird did its best to obscure it. Once it was done Juran poured himself a cup of the water, downing it in one before wiping the back of his hand across his chin. "You have my prayers that you make it. It might be wise to keep it a secret until you arrive however, other strangers may be less courteous." Pausing for a moment Juran offered another smile, "I'm no knight my good man." It was a mistake that small folk would make to his eyes. No lord would mistake him for a knight, not the way he was dressed.

Shifting how his armour sat slightly, "If the gods are good, a few months from now you will be in Oldtown and I will be somewhere else. I can tell my children someday how I met the creator of your hot-wagon, your name?" Juran would answer in turn before turning his reluctant attention to the matter he had at hand.  "Do you know anything of Harrenhal, or the town of late?"

[The Raven]

The stranger scratched his throat beneath his beard while idly citizens. "Lady Lothston was murdered by her own knights. The new lord has a child murderer guarding his wife. Harrentown's magistrate is a fat bastard, and possibly Lord Frey's bastard brother if he's the Valarr Rivers I remember. And I think they've some conflict with the Pipers, but I know little of the details."

[Juran Carn]

This seemed ill met, so much fighting and conflict. It seemed that few had good to say about thief lords but even then this was rather damming. A child killer? Murder, this Juran liked little and less but what choice did he have? Head south and hope the next lord was some paragon of justice? At least that there was a Frey here was likely good, as was the conflict, quiet as he might want his life to be it did mean it would be easier to find a bed and food.

Sucking in air Juran did his best to smile, "I thank you for the meal, I must go to the castle never the less, through the right gate this time."

[The Raven]

The tinkerer nodded, "I appreciate the company. Just ride a few hours in that direction." He pointed alongside one curtain wall. "The other gate is larger and rarely closed, but you'll have to go through Harrentown whose gates are usually op. Valarr Rivers is the Magistrate, but you can just head down the main street and you'll be chatting with Blackfort guards before you know it."

He began preparing his wagon for departure. "Seven blessings be with you, stranger, should you seek employment in that eighth hell, for you'll need all of them."

[Juran Carn]

With a nod and a smile Juran pulled himself into the saddle once more, fluid enough not to shame himself. Once he was seated on high again he grinned at the blessings and warning, "Let piety be my armour, prayer be my shield, given grace by the Warrior and righteousness by the Father. An honest man has naught to fear," Hefting his spear slightly he wheeled the rounsey towards the route indicated, "Smith watch over you my man."

Juran was not a septon, he held himself a godly man however. The only book he owned was a tattered copy of the Seven Pointed Star which he had read many, many times over the last three years. The words had a strength to them, one that he felt when he spoke them, one that other men could feel too. If nothing else it gave him comfort and was something he shared with most of the people south of the Neck. Now he was off to find the true gate, even this hell that the tinker spoke of.

It was only after he left that Juran realised, the man had never given his name.