The descent from the silent, stone-choked heights of Frostguard Hold to the valley floor felt less like travel and more like falling into a pit.
Rimehaven did not welcome them; it swallowed them.
From the high balconies of the keep, the town had been an abstraction—a scattering of dark shapes against the blinding white of the snow. Down here, drowning in the mud, it was a living, breathing, and sweating organism.
The air changed first.
The clean, biting chill of the high peaks, which smelled only of ice and ancient pine, was strangled by a thick, heavy smog. It tasted of wet coal ash, curing leather, unwashed wool, and the metallic tang of butchery.
Brandt stepped off the paved switchback road, and his boots sank into the sludge of the outskirts.
He pulled his heavy cloak tighter, the fur lining scratching his cheek. He looked around, his eyes wide, absorbing the sheer, chaotic density of the place.
Buildings leaned over the narrow streets like drunkards, timber frames blackened by decades of soot, their roofs heavy with grey slush. There was no order here, no military precision like in the keep.
'It's alive,' he thought, the observation less of a tactical assessment and more of a visceral realisation. 'The keep is a tomb. This... this is a heartbeat.'
He watched a blacksmith hammering a glowing bar of iron, the sparks flying into the street to hiss in the mud. He saw a woman dumping a bucket of grey water from a second-story window, narrowly missing a stray dog that was gnawing on a bone as thick as a man's arm.
This was the engine that kept his family fed and armed. It was dirty, loud, and undeniably powerful.
He glanced at Elara. She was a step behind him, her head bowed against the wind, shrinking inside the oversized guard's cloak. She looked small against the backdrop of the looming timber structures.
"Elara," he said, his voice low, fighting the din of a passing cart.
She flinched, stepping closer to his side. "Yes, Young Master?"
"Brandon," he corrected, his gaze sweeping the crowd. "From here until the gate, I am Brandon. You are my sister. We are from a freehold down the valley."
Elara looked up, her pale eyes wide with anxiety.
"But... your boots. Your hands. You don't look like a freeholder, Young—Brandon."
"I look like a merchant's son," Brandt said. "Or a scribe. It doesn't matter. The point is, I am not the heir. If anyone asks, you lie. Do you understand?"
He didn't need to elaborate. Rimescar was a border territory, a place where life was cheap, and ransom was a viable industry. Walking these streets without a guard detail was madness for a noble.
"I understand," she whispered, gripping the collar of her cloak white-knuckled.
They pushed deeper into the town, merging with the stream of humanity flowing toward the market square.
It was a sensory assault.
The noise was a physical weight—a cacophony of iron rims on cobblestones, the shouting of drovers, the bleating of livestock, and the coarse laughter of men warming themselves by braziers.
Brandt moved through the press, his small stature allowing him to slip through gaps in the crowd that adults would have missed.
He looked at the stalls lining the square.
There were the staples of medieval survival: barrels of salted pork that looked tough as wood, crates of turnips that bled blue sap when bruised, stacks of rough blankets smelling of sheep grease.
But amid the drudgery were reminders of where they were. This wasn't Earth.
A furrier was stretching a pelt that was far too large to be a wolf, its fur white as bone, the skin beneath dark and corded with muscle. Next to him, a man sold bones—ribs curved like scythes, femurs dense enough to be used as clubs. Another vendor displayed jars of glowing moss, the bioluminescence pulsing faintly in the grey daylight.
He shifted his weight, a sharp wince tightening the corner of his eye.
The walk had aggravated his leg. Maester Vorin's magic had fused the bone, but the muscles remembered the trauma. Every step on the uneven cobbles sent a dull, rhythmic throb up his thigh, a reminder of his fragility.
"This way," Elara murmured, touching his elbow.
She guided him away from the main thoroughfare, dodging a sledge piled high with coal. They moved into a slightly quieter section of the market, where the stalls were smaller, the goods more specialised.
"There," she said, pointing a finger.
Tucked between a stall selling dried fish and a grim-looking tentmaker was a splash of colour that seemed alien in the monochromatic mud of Rimehaven.
The stall was draped in dyed fabrics—deep purples and sunny yellows that seemed to defy the grey sky. Glass wind chimes hung from the awning, tinkling softly in the breeze, a delicate, musical sound amidst the roar of the town.
"That is the Glass Garden," Elara whispered, a hint of reverence in her voice.
Brandt looked at the sign. 'The Glass Garden.'
It was pretentious. It was poetic. In a world of ice and stone, this place was selling the memory of softness.
A woman stood behind the counter, arranging small glass vials with the delicate precision of a surgeon.
She was young, perhaps nineteen. She was wrapped in layers of wool like everyone else, but a bright violet scarf was wound around her neck, vibrant against her pale skin. Her face was pleasant, cheeks flushed pink from the biting cold, her hazel eyes sharp and intelligent as she scanned the passing faces.
But it was her hands that arrested Brandt's attention.
They were a mess. Stained a motley collection of colours—deep purple from crushed berries, sulphur yellow, and pine green. The skin, however, wasn't chapped and bleeding like Elara's. It was smooth, almost oily, glistening faintly in the flat light.
She looked like a poisonous flower blooming in a graveyard.
As they approached, the woman looked up. Her gaze swept over Brandt, dismissing him as a child, and landed on Elara.
Her eyes widened. A genuine, warm smile broke across her face, transforming her shrewd expression into something softer, something human.
"Elara!"
She ignored the two rough-looking trappers currently inspecting a jar of salve. She leaned over the counter, reaching out with those stained, strange hands.
"Look at you! I didn't think they let you out of that stone prison until the thaw."
Elara stepped forward, a shy smile touching her lips. She took the woman's hands.
"Maren. It's... it's good to see you."
Brandt watched the interaction, feeling a strange sense of intrusion.
Maren squeezed Elara's hands, her colourful fingers contrasting with the girl's rough, red skin.
"You look thin," Maren tutted, her voice low and melodic. "Are they feeding you up there? Or just working you to the bone?"
"I'm fine," Elara said quickly, glancing at Brandt. "Really."
Maren's gaze shifted. She looked past Elara, her hazel eyes locking onto Brandt. The warmth evaporated instantly, replaced by a sharp, calculating assessment.
She looked at his boots—good leather, well-oiled, despite the mud. She looked at his face—clean, fed, and far too calm for a peasant boy lost in the market.
"And who is the little guy?" she asked, her voice pitching up into a polite, merchant's tone that didn't quite reach her eyes.
Elara froze. She glanced at Brandt, panic flickering in her eyes. She was caught between the truth and the lie, and she was a terrible liar.
"He... this is Brandon," she stammered, her voice pitching high. "He's... a relative. Of... of one of the guards. Kael. He's staying with him."
It was a clumsy lie.
Maren stared at her friend, then at Brandt. Her eyes narrowed slightly. She didn't believe it for a second. Brandt stood too straight. He watched the market with eyes that were too cold, too assessing.
But Maren was a businesswoman. She didn't care about the truth; she cared about the coin.
She shrugged, the suspicion vanishing behind a professional smile.
"Well, hello, Brandon," she said. "Welcome to the Garden."
She turned back to Elara.
"So, what brings you down from the heights? Finally decided to buy something for yourself?"
"We need the water," Elara said, her voice dropping. "The... the scent I bought last time. The lavender one."
Maren's eyebrows shot up. She let out a short, scoffing laugh.
"Lavender water?" she corrected, her tone mocking but affectionate. "Sweetling, that is pig swill. You mean 'Summer's Breath'."
"Yes," Elara said. "That one."
Maren hummed. She turned to the shelves behind her, scanning the rows of coloured glass.
"It's a popular one," she said over her shoulder. "Sold the last batch to the merchant's guildmaster for his mistress. But... for friends..."
She reached behind a stack of crates and pulled out a small, corked vial. It was filled with a pale, golden liquid that caught the light.
She placed it on the counter with theatrical care, as if it were liquid gold.
She looked at Brandt. Her eyes gleamed with a predatory light. She had clocked him. She knew he wasn't the nephew of a guard. He was a source of income.
"Five silver," she said.
Brandt stared at the woman, his mind reeling not from calculation, but from the sheer, unadulterated audacity of the request.
Five silver.
In the capital, five silver might buy a decent meal and a bottle of wine. Here, in the freezing mud of Rimehaven, where men coughed up coal dust for copper pennies, it was a fortune.
It was enough to feed a family through the depths of winter. It was the price of a good sword, a milk goat, or a bribe to look the other way during a murder.
And she wanted it for a thimble of scented water.
'She thinks I'm a whale,' he realised, watching the predatory glint in Maren's hazel eyes. 'She sees the boots, the clean skin, the straight back. She thinks I'm some soft merchant's son with deep pockets and a head full of sawdust.'
It was insulting. It pricked at his pride—not the pride of a noble heir, but the pride of a man who had spent a lifetime dissecting liars.
Brandt dropped the mask of the shy nephew. His shoulders squared, and the vacant, overwhelmed look vanished from his eyes, replaced by a bored, flat stare.
"One silver," he said.
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a sudden, jarring authority that cut through the market's ambient noise.
Maren blinked. The predatory smile faltered, just for a second, before she recovered. She clutched a hand to her chest, feigning a theatrical wound.
"One?" she gasped, her voice rising an octave to attract the sympathy of nearby shoppers. "Sweetling, are you trying to starve me? The glass alone costs two! These flowers come from the southern valleys, carried over the pass by men who risk frostbite and bandits! To offer one is an insult to their suffering!"
It was a good performance. Emotional. Loud. Designed to shame him into compliance by making him look like a miserly brat.
Brandt didn't flinch. He gestured vaguely at the market around them—the slush, the ragged trappers counting coppers, the woman washing clothes in a bucket of grey ice water.
"Look around," he said, his tone dry. "This is Rimehaven. The only people with five silver in their pockets are the Guildmasters and the corrupt. And they don't buy perfume from a stall next to a fishmonger."
He leaned forward, resting his hands on the counter, invading her space just enough to show he wasn't intimidated.
"You aren't selling to the King, Maren. You're selling to me. And I know what it costs."
Maren's eyes narrowed. The theatrical outrage evaporated, replaced by a hard, assessing look. She realised she had miscalculated. The boy wasn't a mark; he was a player.
"Four," she countered, dropping the melodic pitch for a flat, businesslike tone. "And I'm robbing myself."
"Two," Brandt shot back instantly.
"Three. And that's final. I have to eat, boy."
Brandt stared at her. He held her gaze, letting the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable. He saw the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. She wanted the sale. In this economy, any silver was a victory.
"Two and a half," he said. "And I don't tell the market guard you tried to fleece a child."
Maren winced. The threat was subtle, but it landed. Reputation was the only currency that mattered more than coin here.
She let out a sharp sigh, shaking her head with a mix of annoyance and begrudging respect.
"You are a demon," she muttered, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. She held out her hand. "Two and a half. Deal."
Brandt took her hand. It was warm, oily, and stained with the blood of a thousand berries. He shook it once, firmly.
"Deal."
He reached into his pouch, counting out the coins—two silver stags and fifty copper pennies. He slid them across the wood.
Maren snatched them up with the dexterity of a street magician. She pushed the corked vial toward him.
"Pleasure doing business, Brandon," she said dryly. "Though I think I preferred you when you were shy."
Brandt ignored the jab. He handed the vial to Elara.
"Take it," he said. "Put it somewhere safe."
Elara took the bottle as if it were a holy relic, tucking it deep into the inner pocket of her borrowed cloak. She looked at Brandt with wide, awe-struck eyes.
She turned to leave, her hand hovering protectively over the pocket, but Maren reached out, grabbing Elara's wrist.
"Wait!" Maren said, her voice shifting back to that genuine, familial warmth. "Don't run off yet. Stay. Have lunch with me. I have a pot of stew on the brazier in the back."
Elara hesitated. The smell of the stew drifted over—root vegetables and mutton—and her stomach gave a treacherous growl. She looked at Maren, then at Brandt, panic flickering in her eyes.
"I... I can't," she stammered. "I have to guide Brandon back home. He doesn't know the way."
Maren frowned, looking at Brandt. "Home? Where are you staying, anyway?"
Elara opened her mouth, but no sound came out. The lie was fraying.
Brandt stepped in. He waved a hand, a casual, dismissive gesture.
"I'm fine," he said. "Stay. Eat. You look like you're about to faint from hunger, and I don't want to carry you."
"But—"
"I know the way," Brandt lied smoothly. "I'll explore for a bit, then head back. Go. Enjoy your stew."
He didn't wait for an answer.
He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Elara torn between duty and the comfort of a close friend. Maren looked suspicious, but the lure of gossip and a meal with her won out. She pulled Elara behind the counter.
Brandt melded back into the crowd, pulling his hood low.
He was alone.
For the first time since arriving in this frozen hellscape, he was untethered. No guards looming over his shoulder. No sisters bickering. No servants watching his every move. Just him, the mud, and the noise.
It felt... lighter.
He moved through the market with a new purpose. He wasn't just observing anymore; he was hunting. He scanned the stalls, looking for gaps in the economy, for opportunities he could exploit.
He touched the coin purse in his pocket. The silver felt heavy. Real.
He was planning his next move, calculating the logistics of importing spices from the south, when a voice cut through the din.
"A Deviant!"
The shout was loud, feverish, and theatrical. It bounced off the timber walls of the square.
"A master of the impossible! Step right up! Don't be shy! The Alchemist is seeing clients today!"
Brandt stopped.
'A Deviant?'