The young Django Toran gripped onto the railing of the Bullheaded Bitch as it sailed in smoothly next to the dock across the town of Barrowton, impatiently waiting for the dockmaster to come up and allow him and the other guests to leave. He believed at first that the trip to Westeros would be smooth sailing from the Golden Isles, but after delays with the Bitch being blown off course and reaching civilization the next two weeks later, he concluded that boats were the worst means of transportation he had traveled on. He collected his belongings as he waited in line down the plank for the customs officer to begin inspections and tried to avert looking at the awe struck eyes his fellow passengers gave upon him.

"Oi! You pisspot, the one with the fuckin' weird armor, up front and center!" The officer, or what appeared to be an officer called to him from a table. He was dirty to be an official, such as wearing an unkempt leather cap and uniform. The official was holding a halberd one hand and ready to write something on his small book with a quill on the other. "You don' look like you're from Westeros, or Essos, no one expects a Free City trade merchant to show up to this part of the North. I'm going to hafte write you down down on this here register," the man points to his book, "so if you can be so kind, tell me 'oo you are, 'here you from, and wot business you have 'ere."

Is this the type of greeting in Westeros? Independent speech for an official? Django wondered. He must be working very far from where he came from. "Erm... Hello. I am Django Toran of Clan Toran, envoy of the Zaori people and of the Golden Isles west of here. I am here to-"

"Hold on a fucking minute," the official growled, startling the adolescent. The official was trying keep up entering information from Django's introduction, and made a number of errors in his entry. "Alright, go on." He finished, ready to write again.

"I am here to expand trade beyond our land to yours and would like an audience with your ruler for discussion." The Zaori boy said in a perfect Common accent. Django looked at the journal as the man finished up. "Aight, check to make sure I got your information correct, boy." He slid the journal down to the other side of the table with the quill and ink to Django, who studied it closely before ripping the page off and rewriting it in the Common language. The official simply shrugged. "Well, to start us off here mate, you speak good Common. Second, never had any of your kind up around these parts. This... Zowry people aren't registered from the register and since you're obviously not a Targaryen or someone from King's Landing, I'll have to inspect you. Place yore weapons an' armor on the table." Django passed back the journal and obeyed. Two more guards showed up from the town across river as dawn broke, an as Django removed his armor he saw more and more commonfolk appear. He placed his spear and short sword on the table, his father's red scarf, his light chain and bamboo chestmail and chaps, and boots before the official and guards and shivered against the quiet morning wind.

"Search 'im." The customs official ordered. One guard came up, and pressed around Django's clothing with his hands. The other guard and the official were grinning wickedly at Django's gear and muttering quietly.

"Armor's thick as dragon."
"Look at 'is sword! This is a beaut' compared to the Valyrian steel swords."
"Aye, same goes for the spear. This boy comes from a wealthy land."
"Oi, pisspot! Where'd you say you from?" The official asked.

"The Golden Isles, sir." Django said as the guard next to him finished inspection. "Boy's clean sir." He spoke, giving a light ruffle of Django's spiky black hair before facing the official. At least I feel more welcomed with him. "Good, good. You can take your gear back boy." The official and the guard placed Django's weapons back on the table. "One question before releasing you: Wot's that sword and spear of yours made of?" The official asked as Django was putting his armor on. "Zaori steel sir."

"Valyrian steel!" One of the guards murmured. He's deaf "I can tell."
"No, not Valyrian. Zaori." Django muttered, taking his weapons back. "Where I come from, the dragons there forge the weapons not to bring fear in battle, but to show individuality, respect, and honor in combat." He sheathed his katana and spear. "I guess you can say without disrespecting both cultures, they're dragon steel."

"Aye. We'll keep it at that, boy, enough of this." The guard next to the official told him. The official spoke. "Now listen here pisspot. King's Landing is almost a day's march from here if you want to go yabber all you want to King Tommen and have your feet die out. However, because I'm starting to take a liking to you, I have a leaflet here that you'll give to the horse master at the other side of town. He'll see to it you'll get a horse for free. I'd have you go to see House Bolton, but with the War finishing up and the Starks dead, the North is more dangerous with the Greyjoys fucking about 'ere as the War dies down."

House Bolton? Starks? The Greyjoys? Django was perplexed at the news. He read about the families ruling Westeros's major regions. The Greyjoys were a house ruling from the nearby Iron Islands, and probably a rebellious one from what the official spoke. The Starks were the principal house in the North from where Django had landed, but was unaware of the other, House Bolton. "I'll follow your advice, and may the autumnal blossoms guide you." He nodded to the trio, sprinkling cherry blossom leaves on the table with a small pile of gold dragons and setting off.

Django made his way to the stables just like how the official told him where, and creakily opened the doors. The horses looked up in excitement. Django came up to one grey stallion and started petting it, giving a couple sugar cubes from his pouch and feeding to start a bond.

"My word, you certainly know how to handle horses, most of these brutes are unwelcoming to guests." A voice popped behind Django. He turned and faced a small, chubby man who smiled at him. "Oh, for a lad like you, you must be incredibly young to be out venturing! Where are my manners? Name's Beron, I'm in charge of these horses. How can I help you?" He pulled out his hand. Django shook and grinned. "This is a beautiful horse you have here. It's a pleasure to meet you Master Beron, I am Django from the Golden Isles, west from the Sunset Sea. I am in need of your best horse here, for I would like an audience with your King Tommen Baratheon in hopes of opening trade from my people to yours."

Beron looked impressed. "Well, hearing another land like yours is as rare as meeting a Targaryen from Valyria! As for the horse, well... you're looking at him. Meet Bismarck." He nodded to the stallion. "If you want to purchase him, that'll be two hundred gold dragons."

Django looked thunderstruck. Two hundred?! I thought a single gold dragon can buy you a two dozen loaves of bread here! "Erm, I have a note here written by the customs official granting me a horse, master Beron." He held up the paper. Beron read through it slowly. "Aw, blast it lad, I wanted to keep Bismarck, hoping to start a whole new breed from his line because he's rare in Westeros. And powerfully built to be a stallion. No worries though, his mate will start giving birth soon." Beron patted the horse's nose, who in return muzzled his hand. "Tell you what, one hundred gold dragons and the paper. How about it lad?" He asked Django.

Django was impressed by the man's reason. "If you were born on the Golden Isles and gave that type of bargain, you would be a compassionate man across the Sunset Seas. And for that, I'm willing to compensate. Make it two hundred and fifty." He gave two small bags and the sheaf of paper. Beron was astounded by this.

"I... Lad, I wish there were more honorable men like you who are selfless here in Westeros. I know you would refuse if I simply gave back the money, I just wanted to see how far you would go beyond to get your horse. For that, the horse is yours. I don't want your money." He passed the money back. Django smiled at his decision. "The compassionate man becomes the selfless man. I promise, Master of Horses, I will give your horse the utmost care and comfort you have given him. Where I come from, we treat our beasts as equals. Bismarck without a doubt will be treated like one."

Beron, teary-eyed, smiled at the boy. "The Golden Isles, eh? Sounds like paradise. Better than this stinking potland of Westeros without a doubt." Him and Django helped ready Bismarck for traveling, and Beron lifted Django up with surprising strength as if he was a feather. "Take care of yourself, Django of the Golden Isles. And be careful on the roads! The War isn't over, so mind who you meet." He told him as Django looked to the sun rising.

"This War... What is it? Forgive me, I am not well-acquainted with what the Houses here in Westeros have been quarrelig about, my people have not heard news about them in a long time." Django asked curiously. Beron told him in summary. "The King, Tommen Baratheon, people want him overthrown, rumor has it he's a child of incest, of Lannister blood! He's a good lad from what I've heard from my folks living in the capital of King's Landing, though I'd prefer an actual Baratheon if not Lannisters, those damned fools. Anywho, Stannis Baratheon, Tommen's uncle, is on his way to taking the throne back, you've got the Greyjoys taking over Winterfell, and the idiots following the fall of the Starks, the Boltons, are getting their asses branded by them! Like I said, mind yourself lad!" Beron patted on Bismarck's rear.

Django finally understood what has been going on upon his arrival. He gripped Beron's shoulder. "Thank you for the news, Beron. I will follow your advice to the roads. May the autumnal blossoms guide you." Django handed him the same cherry blossom petals he gave to the guards earlier. "And may the old gods bless you, Django of the Golden Isles." He said in farewell as Django signaled Bismarck to trot.

The young stranger from the lands beyond the West happily waved back to his first newfound friend in the land of Westeros.