Ashford, 9th Month

Ashford was not at all like Spottswood, Treman Sand had decided.

The horses here were taller, stronger, as were most of the Knights and guards. Faces pale surrounded him at all times, at first suspicious, but gradually becoming indifferent to his presence. The walls, tall and enormous, overshadowed the whole town, at some parts of the day stretching long over the grasslands. One thing he had realised he missed: the smell of the sea. There was a river here, a large one too, but it didn't have the same allure.

Half Summer islander, Half Salt Dornish, it made sense he would miss the sea. When he arrived at Storm's End, he supposed that might be his last chance to catch a glimpse.

Knowing the location of his quarry was both a relief and an exhausting burden. Once already he had left the city intending to complete his journey east after all, without Lady Ashford's help, only to return. Occasionally he found himself looking over the detailed map of the center of Westeros, fantasising about the route.

His thoughts are interrupted as he spots a vaguelly familiar face approaching through the courtyard. Treman, rising to his feet and dusting himself off, approaches cautiously. "Ser Harlan?"

His words formal and polite, with a note of... nerves, perhaps. "I hope I am not intruding. Lady Ashford had mentioned you might appreciate some help in your tasks today?"