“You’ll have your work cut out for you, Ser Goodwin,” Maester Osmynd said as their horses clopped away from the bustling docks.
The port of Tarth thrummed with gull cries, cheerful sailor banter, and shipyard work.
“Lord Selwyn keeps an able guard and company, and there are plenty of young boys at Evenfall itching for some proper training.
Awful thing to grow up on an island in the midst of this long winter with naught to do.”
Ser Goodwin shifted stiffly in his saddle. The journey from Storm’s End across the Straits of Tarth had been long and rough, and he still felt as if the entire sea sloshed in his stomach.
The odor of low tide did nothing to help his sickness. The mouth of the harbor was a stinking cesspool of fish guts, still water, and run-off of every slop imaginable.
Poor waste drainage seemed to be the trade-off for the Sapphire Isle’s beauty.
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