Chapter 4: Hedge Knight
'Ding!' A soft chime echoed in Ian's mind, abruptly pulling him from the depths of his sleep.
Blinking in confusion, he slowly raised his head and glanced around the dim room.
It was a weathered, timeworn inn chamber—its ceiling beams cracked and sagging, the rickety straw-stuffed bed beneath him creaking with every shift of weight. A soot-darkened wooden table leaned precariously to one side, and the once-bright drapes, stained by smoke and age, drooped like wilted banners. The atmosphere reeked of dampness and disuse.
Outside, a soft drizzle tapped at the filthy windowpanes not refreshing, but hot and heavy, adding to the suffocating humidity that clung to everything like a second skin.
Ian groaned, his body slick with sweat beneath the rough linen sheets. Lifting the threadbare blanket with a grunt, he found his clothes clinging to him like wet parchment.
His mind spasmed with an intrusive thought. Acting on impulse, he bit hard into his forearm. Pain shot through him like wildfire. When he drew back, the reddening indent of his teeth stood stark against his pale skin.
"So real..." he muttered hoarsely, lips curling into a disbelieving grin.
He had known the developers were reputed for unparalleled immersion their "World of Ice and Fire" module was a legend among neural-simulation RPGs but to wake up in Westeros, in body and mind, defied even his expectations.
Still groggy, Ian sat in silence for several minutes, forcing his breathing into rhythm.
Then he noticed something: new memories stirred behind his eyes. They weren't his not from Earth. Fragmented but vivid, they shimmered in the periphery of his mind. No specific names or detailed places, yet there was context, texture, and lived experience: tales of mountain lords from the Vale, sigils of minor houses never covered in the main canon, and rituals like the vigil of an Andal knight praying overnight before receiving his spurs from a septon. Even equestrian skills and swordplay techniques filtered in, as if long practiced by another version of himself.
As the system's auxiliary AI had mentioned before his launch, these memory implants were designed to enhance believability. For a player assuming the role of a Westerosi hedge knight, they were vital for maintaining immersion and avoiding detection.
In Westeros, hedge knights also called "knights of the hedge"—were landless warriors, often of dubious birth or faded nobility, traveling the Seven Kingdoms in search of coin or glory. They earned their name because they often slept beneath hedges or trees, surviving on bread and battle. Though some rose to fame or fortune, most scraped by in tournaments or served as sworn swords to petty lords.
Still, Ian's starting parameters were more favorable. His character, while a hedge knight in name, had a good horse, solid arms, and clean armor a respectable beginning.
Drawing in a deep breath, Ian pushed himself off the bed and padded toward the window.
The view that greeted him banished all remaining doubts.
Heavy clouds hung low over the Riverlands, casting everything in a pall of gray. But what caught his eye was the colossal, jagged silhouette looming in the middle distance: a towering ruin of blackened stone, cracked and misshapen as if cursed.
His reflection on the grimy glass was faint young, fair, and lean but it was overshadowed by the sight behind him.
One tower loomed above the rest, dark as night and grotesquely tall. Though weather-beaten and crumbling, it still defied the skyline. At its summit, the stone curved and slumped to one side, melted as though caught in mid-collapse.
"A tower melted by dragonfire..." Ian whispered, heart skipping a beat. "That's Black Harren's Tower... That's Harrenhal."
He had seen illustrations of it—legends etched in lore and game maps but to witness it in reality, hulking like a burnt giant above the Gods Eye lake, was something else entirely. The seared spires and sagging halls were unmistakable.
Harrenhal. The very name stank of doom.
Built by King Harren Hoare, the last Ironborn King of the Isles and the Riverlands, Harrenhal was meant to be a symbol of unbreakable power. Harren poured forty years and the wealth of his conquered lands into its construction. But on the very day it was completed, Aegon the Conqueror's dragons came. Balerion the Black Dread burned Harren and his sons alive within their new fortress. Since then, Harrenhal had been considered cursed every family that held it either perished or fell into ruin.
Why would the game start him here of all places?
Ian's stomach churned.
He turned from the window and made for the table. A battered clay jug sat waiting. He lifted it and took a swig, expecting water but choked as a sharp, malty tang burned across his tongue.
"Mudd ale?" he spat, eyes watering. "Just my luck."
The ale's name brought a fresh wave of unease. House Mudd was an extinct Riverlander dynasty, and their name often cropped up in local lore and superstition.
He slammed the jug down, pacing.
Starting in the Riverlands made strategic sense—it was the heart of Westeros, bordered by nearly every other major region but starting in Harrenhal, of all places?
That was a different matter.
The gods or rather, the devs were playing a cruel game indeed.
The walls here are thicker than those of Storm's End, and the gate could rival the size of Highgarden's main keep. Harren the Black, last of the Iron Kings of the Isles and the Rivers, called it an "unbreakable fortress."
But like the false promises of an unbreakable alliance, Harrenhal's towering black walls did not fall to siege engines or swords. Instead, they were brought low by fire from the sky. Aegon Targaryen known to history as Aegon the Conqueror rode his dragon, Balerion the Black Dread, to the shores of the Gods Eye. With wings that cast a shadow large enough to shroud entire battalions, Balerion rained down dragonflame hotter than any forge. The stone of Harrenhal's towers cracked, ran molten, and wept black tears.
Harren the Black, in his pride, refused to bend the knee. He and all his sons were burned alive in the highest tower of the keep. The tower that melted and twisted in the dragonfire came to be known thereafter as the Kingspyre, though Ian, recalling the name from the memory fragments implanted in him, knew locals also whispered of it as the Burning King's Tower, or simply the Black Candle its peak half-melted, as if by the wrath of the gods themselves.
Since that day, Harrenhal has borne a heavy curse. Every noble House granted dominion over it House Qoherys, House Harroway, House Towers, House Strong, House Whent, and House Lothston has suffered ruin. Bloodlines extinguished, castles fallen, heirs slaughtered, all consumed by bad luck or worse. Even those who merely occupied it without titles fared no better. Harrenhal devours those who dwell within its walls.
"What bad luck..." Ian muttered, wiping the cold sweat from his brow with a sleeve. Then, speaking aloud to the system in his mind, he asked, "By the way, what's the current timeline? When exactly did we start?"
"The Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, has just died," replied Anne, the auxiliary AI with a voice as clear as a septa's chant. "King Robert Baratheon is arranging his funeral. After that, he plans to travel north to Winterfell to ask Eddard Stark to take Jon's place as Hand of the King."
Ian nodded, gears turning in his mind.
In A Game of Thrones, the story begins as Robert's royal procession approaches Winterfell. But if Jon Arryn's death has only just occurred, Robert is still in King's Landing, drinking and brooding and surrounded by a court of vipers.
According to historical cartography, the distance from King's Landing to Winterfell by land spans about 2,300 kilometers roughly the length of the Kingsroad from south to north. With a royal entourage and supply train, Robert's procession would take nearly two months to reach the North.
That meant the current timeline was still roughly three months before the start of the original narrative. In terms of Westerosi reckoning, it was the final weeks of the year 297 AC (Aegon's Conquest calendar). A full year remained before the War of the Five Kings would plunge the realm into chaos.
For now, Westeros still enjoyed a fragile peace.
That made Ian pause.
When he registered for the full-dive simulation Westeros: Legacy War he had been promised that all world-building, plot triggers, and player placement were locked in prior to launch. Once the scenario began, the developers had no access or control. No patches, no balance tweaks, no hotfixes. If a bug appeared, it was part of the world now. If you died, you stayed dead.
So, Ian wondered, what system had the designers built in to break the peace? What incentive would cause players to risk war in this era of fragile stability?
In a world like this, early-game decisions were everything. One wrong move could cost your life. And unlike other games, there was no respawn.
"Okay, AI," Ian said at last, voice sharpening. "Tell me about the game mechanics in detail."
"There are three primary mechanics that govern this world," Anne began, her tone as clinical as a maester lecturing a squire.
"First: the Kill Mechanic. Each time a player kills another player, they receive four points and inherit all of the victim's unused system assets this includes currency, unspent attribute points, skill tokens, and any system-bound items. Additionally, the system will grant extra bonuses based on how far the victim had progressed before dying."
She paused, then clarified: "If the player delivers the killing blow themselves, they receive 100% of the reward. However, if a subordinate or NPC under their direct control makes the kill, the reward is reduced to 50%."
That... changed everything.
It meant that player conflict was not only possible during peace, it was encouraged by design. The developers had created an incentive structure where killing other players wasn't just viable, it was optimal.
He swallowed hard.
The early game would be more dangerous than he thought.
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