Ser Jorah walked into the inn, obviously glad to be back in Westeros… ”Barkeep!” he shouted, smelling the fresh venison pie in the kitchen. ”Some ale and a couple of those pies.” he said, flipping a couple of coppers to him… As he began eating, he wondered who he might run in to now that he was back in Westeros and his exile was pardoned…

The fragrance of the food was torturing him… “I’ll have one of those buttermilk biscuits too.” He said, as the scruffy old man brought out the pies… ~Being on the road for days with no inns or bars around, his diet had been strictly salted beef.~ After getting some food in him he leaned back looking around the room with a satisfied look. There was a mysterious hooded person in the corner of the room watching him… he paid it no mind as the barkeep started up with some small talk. “What is that sigil ser?” the old man asked. “It is the sigil of House Mormont. We hail from Bear Island, in the North, within the Bay of Ice.” he said proudly. “I see! I had heard of Bear Island, but never seen the sigil of your house…” the barkeep replied.

The iced wine was left untouched on the table, the loaf of bread, bacon strips and mashed potatoes with peas grew cold on the plain plate. Melisandre has no requirement of food. R’hllor’s warmth in the fires made her alive but this was kept secret. Naturally, a red priestess in a Westerosi inn would have brought undesirable attention but the glamour did its trick. Melisandre just appears as a young man, clad in all roughspun grey wool. Her eyes was on the hooded figure but the fires told her of its identity beforehand. She just had to make sure. Was it true? Could she be wrong? Was Daenerys Targaryen the authentic Azor Ahai reborn?

Reaching out he touched the drink for the second time, raising it to his lips he took a small sip and placed the mug back down on the table. He looked around trying not to linger his gaze for too long on any individual so not to cause offence or raise suspicion in himself. He knew there was not much remarkable about his apperance, he was a simple looking old man in some tatty old robes.

As he entered the inn, Gendry sought out his favorite seat, he liked it there because his back was to the wall and he could see everyone in the room. It was close enough to the bar to get a tankard of ale from the serving wench without too much wait as well.
“A lot of new faces in here tonite” Gendry thought to himself.
“Hey Gendry !” yelled the girl with the countryside accent. “Hey Gendry.” said another with a sultry tone in her voice and a wink.
“Good evening ladies” Gendry replied. “Oh Gendry, you know ain’t none of us no lady.” “You in the mood for another game of ‘cards’ tonite Gendry? ” asked the big-breasted girl from White Harbor. “Just stopped in for a drink tonite Tansy, maybe later though.” “Ok, well, you know where to find us then,” said her twin sister.

Bardy the Barkeep brought Gendry’s next tankard to him. “There was a man in here yesterday asking about you. His hair was red on one side and white on the other, you know him ?” “An old friend.” Gendry answered. “If he wants to find me, he will.”
Bardy The Barkeep used to belong to a mummer’s troop. Now, he owned this inn with his sister Margorie. Sometimes he would break out into song and Margorie would dance. “Feels a little strange in here tonite, doesn’t it? A lot of new faces.” Gendry said.

“Now, if that ain’t weird enough, look at this guy,” Gendry said, gesturing with his right hand at the boy in grey rough spun. “The boy don’t look like he has the coin to pay for all that food.” “He paid in gold.” Bardy told Gendry. “And that’s not strange to you, Bardy ?”
“A little, I suppose,” said Bardy, squinting his eyes in thought,
“What’s more strange is that he ain’t ate none of it.”

As gendry finished his tank of Bardy’s strongest ale, Margorie brought him another. He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve and said “Thanks.”
“I’m gonna go talk to her,” he said, pointing his eyes at the redhead in the corner. “I don’t know blacksmith, she looks a bit wild, even for the likes of you,” Margorie warned him.
Gendry pulled his new drink to his mouth. As he drank, he looked over the lip of the tankard and saw the scary, old man looking at the young , quiet boy with all the food. “Something in my gut tells me you oughta leave that one alone old man,” Gendry thought to himself. Two steps into the journey, his boot caught on the leg of a chair and he stumbled. He grabbed the table with his empty hand to stop his fall. He saved his ale from spilling, with the exception of the splash that found the old man’s leg. “A thousand pardons Ser, a thousand pardons,” Gendry said to the man, bowing , his eyes never leaving the man.