The rising sun cast a pale gold hue over Seagard's harbor, shimmering across the restless waves. The city had begun to stir—the clattering of carts echoed through cobbled streets, mingling with the calls of merchants setting up their stalls. Fishmongers dumped crates of fresh catch onto splintered wooden tables, filling the air with the sharp tang of salt and brine.
Ethan and Kieran walked purposefully toward the heart of the dockyards. Despite the previous night's revelations, they showed no sign of hesitation. The weight of danger hung between them, palpable but unspoken. Both knew that a single misstep could spell disaster.
"The warehouse district isn't far," Kieran said, breaking the silence. His gaze swept the bustling scene ahead. "If the Black Wave's desperate, we need to hit fast before they regroup."
Ethan nodded thoughtfully. "Information is leverage. We need names, patterns—who's moving what and where."
They reached a narrow alley that forked off from the main street, hemmed in by aging stone buildings. The area was quieter here, less crowded but thick with tension. Rough-looking dockworkers loitered near storage houses, eyes sharp and unfriendly as they tracked Ethan and Kieran's progress.
"Charming," Kieran muttered under his breath.
"They're watching the docks," Ethan observed. "Trying to control movement."
As they continued deeper into the district, a figure emerged from a shadowed corner—tall, broad-shouldered, with a scar running down the side of his face like a jagged fault line. He crossed his arms over his chest, blocking their path.
"You lost, boys?" the man growled. His voice was low and rough, with a hint of menace.
Kieran bristled but kept his tone light. "Looking to speak with someone in charge."
The scarred man arched an eyebrow, clearly amused. "That so? And who exactly do you think you're gonna find here?"
Ethan stepped forward, his voice calm but commanding. "We have information about the Braavosi shipment. Something your boss might be very interested in."
For a moment, the man said nothing, his expression unreadable. Then he jerked his head toward a side entrance marked with faded red paint.
"Inside," he said curtly. "But if you're lying, don't expect to walk out."
Kieran leaned close to Ethan as they moved past the man. "This better be good," he whispered.
"It will be," Ethan promised.
The interior of the warehouse was dim, illuminated by a few flickering lanterns. Stacks of crates lined the walls, each marked with strange symbols Ethan didn't recognize. The air was thick with the scent of sawdust and damp wood.
At the far end of the room, a makeshift office had been set up—little more than a table strewn with ledgers and maps. Behind it sat a lean, calculating man with dark hair slicked back over his scalp. His eyes were cold and piercing, a predator's gaze that seemed to see straight through them.
"So," he said without preamble, "you're the ones sniffin' around my business."
Ethan inclined his head slightly. "Ethan. This is Kieran."
The man tapped his fingers on the edge of the table. "Tomas. And you're here why?"
Kieran crossed his arms. "Heard you've got a problem with lost cargo."
Tomas's eyes narrowed. "And what makes you think I want your help?"
Ethan met his gaze steadily. "Because we know things your men don't—and we don't work for free."
Silence stretched between them, taut and heavy. Tomas leaned back in his chair, a dangerous smile curving his lips.
"You've got guts," he admitted. "Stupid, maybe, but gutsy."
Kieran grinned wolfishly. "We prefer 'bold.'"
Tomas's smile faded. "You talk a good game, but I need more than words. What exactly do you think you can offer?"
Ethan's mind worked quickly. "We know where to start looking for your missing cargo. We also know who might've tipped off the wrong people."
A flicker of interest passed through Tomas's expression. "Go on."
"There's a merchant," Ethan continued, "who's been dealing with both Braavosi traders and smugglers out of Lannisport. His sudden departure from Seagard wasn't a coincidence."
Tomas leaned forward, his expression sharp. "Name."
"Only if we get something in return," Ethan said coolly. "Protection—and access to your trading routes."
The room went deathly silent. Kieran's hand subtly brushed the hilt of his dagger, ready for any sudden moves.
Tomas's eyes glittered dangerously. "You think you can bargain with me?"
"I know we can," Ethan replied without flinching. "Because if you kill us, that information dies with us—and you stay broke."
Tomas stared at him for a long moment, tension thick in the air. Finally, he let out a short, humorless laugh.
"You've got stones, I'll give you that," he said. "Fine. You bring me proof, and we'll talk about a deal."
Ethan extended his hand. "You won't regret it."
Tomas didn't take the hand, but he nodded once. "We'll see about that."
As they left the warehouse, Kieran exhaled sharply. "You're insane, you know that?"
Ethan grinned. "Maybe. But it worked."
Kieran shook his head, his expression half-exasperated, half-admiring. "Alright, fearless leader. What's next?"
Ethan's eyes gleamed with determination. "We find that proof—and make ourselves indispensable."
The game was in motion, and there was no turning back now.
The morning in Seagard unfolded with the languid pace of a city unbothered by time. A thick blanket of fog clung stubbornly to the harbor, obscuring the tops of masts and the distant shimmer of waves breaking along the shore. The fog dulled the normally sharp sounds of the bustling port—shouted commands from sailors, the creak of wooden ships straining against their moorings, and the rhythmic slap of water against stone. Everything felt muffled, like a world caught between waking and sleep.
Ethan and Kieran made their way through the narrow, winding streets near the docks. The cobblestones beneath their boots were slick with morning dew, and the air carried the briny tang of salt mixed with the faint, acrid scent of tar. Wooden crates, stacked haphazardly along the alleyways, formed temporary barricades that locals navigated with practiced ease. Fishermen trudged toward the piers, their heavy nets slung over broad shoulders, while merchants in richly dyed cloaks barked orders at apprentices unloading goods from carts.
Despite the veneer of routine commerce, there was a tension beneath the surface—one Ethan had learned to recognize. It was subtle, like the faint tremor of a fault line before an earthquake. Men who usually laughed and swapped stories over morning ales now spoke in hushed tones, their eyes darting nervously toward shadows.
Ethan's sharp gaze swept over the scene, cataloging every detail. He noted the clusters of dockworkers speaking quietly near cargo holds, their heads bent together as though sharing secrets. A pair of guards loitered near the edge of the pier, their hands resting uneasily on the pommels of their swords.
"They know something," Kieran muttered under his breath, his keen eyes tracking the same movements Ethan had observed. "The whole place smells like fear."
Ethan nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Harvan's the key. If anyone knows what's really going on, it's him."
Harvan was a fixture in Seagard's merchant circles, known for his discretion and an uncanny ability to procure rare goods without attracting unwanted attention. His modest storefront, tucked between two larger trading offices near the north pier, was both a legitimate business and a hub for less savory dealings.
As they approached the shop, Ethan's senses sharpened. The building was unremarkable—a weathered stone facade with a faded sign reading Harvan's Trade Emporium in flaking gold paint. The door, thick and reinforced with iron bands, bore the scars of time and use.
Ethan paused just outside, inhaling deeply. The faint aroma of spices and parchment wafted through the cracks in the doorframe. He glanced at Kieran, who stood with his arms crossed, his expression one of practiced indifference.
"Let me handle the talking," Ethan said quietly.
Kieran's lips quirked into a wry smile. "Sure. I'll just stand here and look menacing."
Ethan smirked but said nothing as he pushed open the door. A small brass bell jingled overhead, announcing their arrival.
The interior of the shop was dimly lit, with narrow beams of light filtering through grimy windows. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with bolts of fabric, jars of rare spices, and stacks of neatly bound ledgers. The air was thick with the mingling scents of exotic goods—cinnamon, saffron, and something sharp that Ethan couldn't quite place.
Behind a battered wooden counter stood Harvan himself. He was a wiry man with thinning gray hair and eyes that gleamed with sharp intelligence. His hands, ink-stained from years of meticulous record-keeping, rested lightly on the open ledger before him.
"Morning, gentlemen," Harvan greeted smoothly, his voice tinged with polite curiosity. "What brings you to my humble establishment?"
Ethan adopted a friendly demeanor, stepping forward with an easy smile. "Just looking to make a deal."
Harvan's smile remained fixed, but there was a flicker of wariness in his eyes. "A deal, you say? Well, you've come to the right place. I've got silk from Qarth, spices from Dorne, and a few curiosities from across the Narrow Sea. What's your fancy?"
Ethan let out a low chuckle. "Tempting offers. But I'm more interested in something local—shipments coming in from Lannisport, perhaps?"
Harvan's fingers stilled on the page he had been pretending to read. The pause was brief but telling.
"Lannisport?" he echoed, his tone carefully neutral. "Can't say I've had much dealing with them lately."
Kieran, who had been leaning casually against the doorframe, straightened. His voice, low and edged with menace, cut through the room. "Lying doesn't suit you, old man."
Harvan's facade of calm cracked slightly. "Now, now," he said smoothly, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "There's no need for hostility. I'm just a humble merchant trying to make an honest living."
Ethan's smile faded, replaced by a hard edge. He stepped closer to the counter, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "We both know that's not true. Tomas is missing cargo, and word on the docks says you know exactly where it went."
Harvan's throat bobbed as he swallowed nervously. "Tomas?" he repeated weakly. "I don't—"
"Save it," Kieran interrupted coldly, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his dagger. "You're either going to tell us what we need to know, or I'll start carving pieces off you until you do."
The threat hung heavy in the air. Harvan's face paled, beads of sweat forming on his brow despite the cool morning air.
"Alright," he said hoarsely, his voice trembling. "No need for violence." He glanced around the empty shop before lowering his voice to a whisper. "There's a warehouse near the eastern pier. New players moved in recently—dangerous types. They've been handling shipments under the table, including Tomas's cargo."
Ethan's expression remained unreadable. "Who are they?"
Harvan shook his head quickly. "Don't know their names. But they're not from around here. Armed to the teeth and not shy about using force."
Ethan exchanged a glance with Kieran. This was the lead they needed, but it also meant walking straight into a dangerous situation.
"Thanks for your cooperation," Ethan said calmly, turning toward the door.
Harvan exhaled shakily. "You're not gonna tell Tomas I talked, are you?"
Ethan paused at the threshold, a faint smile playing on his lips. "That depends on how useful your information turns out to be."
As they stepped back onto the street, the fog had lifted completely, revealing the city in sharp detail. The docks were alive with activity, oblivious to the dangerous game unfolding in their midst.
Kieran let out a low whistle. "Looks like we've got ourselves a nice little death trap waiting by the eastern pier."
Ethan's expression was grim but resolute. "Then we'd better prepare. If this is as big as it sounds, we're going to need every advantage we can get."
The path ahead was perilous, but Ethan knew that risk was the price of ambition. And he had never been one to shy away from a challenge.