Ian slept for a full fourteen hours. When he finally stirred the next morning, a dull ache radiated through his entire body, and his head spun with a dizzying fog.
He'd had another nightmare. This one had been long and sprawling, but the details dissolved like smoke the moment he opened his eyes, leaving only a residue of unease.
He could only recall the final, lingering image: he was standing before a mirror, but his reflection was not his own. Staring back at him was a monster, its form indistinct, trembling with a silent, unknown terror.
Shaking his head, he forcefully pushed the outrageous images from his mind. Ian closed his eyes again, this time to access the system and review the daily settlement report that had been updated at midnight.
`[Settlement Report: Day Three. Current Number of Remaining Players: 96]`
"A total of four players eliminated in three days," Ian muttered to himself, a grim satisfaction in his voice. "And three of them fell by my hand. They were truly unlucky to have met me."
He scrolled through the rest of the system notifications. After confirming that there were no updates to his main quest or any new bounty missions, he finally pushed himself out of bed.
He called for Rohr from the outer room, and for Keith, who had just returned, to join him for a meal.
After getting a quiet confirmation from Jenny that no one in the common room was carrying a bow or crossbow, Ian descended into the hall.
For once, his breakfast was blessedly normal. A simple plate of bacon, two fried eggs, and a savory pork pie.
As for his drink, Ian—now in control of the inn—was thankfully no longer forced to endure morning ale like a common sellsword. He had instructed Martha to bring him a cup of hot water sweetened with honey.
As he prepared to eat, the low murmur of prayer caught his ear. It came from the traveling caravan at the next table.
Jenny had told him they arrived late last night. A group of fourteen in total: one leader, three guards, and ten civilians.
The large group praying in unison made it feel awkward to eat alone, so Ian bowed his head and pretended to join in.
"May the Father Above judge us with mercy, and forgive us our human frailty."
"May the Mother smile upon us, and deliver us from hardship."
"May the Warrior grant us the strength and courage to face our foes."
"May the Maiden spread her legs and ease the fatigue of our journey."
A crude, discordant voice slashed through the sanctity of the prayer, stopping it dead.
Ian couldn't help but look toward the source of the interruption.
The speaker was a mercenary who had just swaggered through the door. He wore a filthy, sweat-stained jerkin that looked as if it had never been washed. Dark hair, dark eyes, and a scruffy stubble covering a lean, sharp-featured face.
His companion, who trailed behind him, was clad in a piece of chainmail marred by a gaping hole—a trophy pulled from a dead man's corpse, or a family heirloom passed down through generations of poverty? It was hard to say.
The travel-worn pair ambled into the room and claimed a large table for themselves. The first mercenary immediately snagged a passing serving girl by the arm and began getting handsy.
"That one's dangerous," Rohr said, his voice a low whisper beside Ian. His gaze was fixed intently on the mercenary who had just entered.
"How can you tell?"
"Experience. Intuition," Rohr replied, his expression hardening with a hint of vigilance. "I can feel the aura about him. Cunning as a fox, and fierce as a wolf." It was clear that, in Rohr's expert opinion, this newcomer posed a threat even to him.
"You were a trainer before, weren't you?" Ian asked, suddenly recalling the 'Advanced Coach' designation on Rohr's information card.
"I trained new levies in Myr," Rohr admitted, "during the wars in the Disputed Lands."
"You can train me, when you find the time," Ian stated.
Theoretically, with his swordsmanship already advanced to a high level by the system, Ian should be a formidable fighter. But his actual performance in combat had taught him not to trust the data on the page.
"Then when are you free, ser?"
"Any time," Ian began, but stopped himself. He might be free, but this place was hardly suitable for training.
His room was too small, and practicing in the courtyard was out of the question. What would people think if they saw 'Ser Lucien Lannister' swinging a sword like a clumsy amateur?
He was now a leader of men, a figure of authority. It would be best not to easily expose the true, underwhelming extent of his personal strength.
As Ian was lost in thought, he saw Martha, the proprietress, emerge from the kitchen. She marched directly over to the mercenary's table and began scolding him.
"Bronn! You scoundrel! And you, Chiggen! When are you going to pay for the ale you drank last time?"
*Bronn?!* That man was *Bronn*?
Ian's eyes snapped back to the mercenary. Now that he looked closer, the man's lean build and roguish demeanor were a perfect match for the character's description in the original books. The actor from the television series had left such a strong impression that he hadn't made the connection at first.
In the next instant, a single, decisive thought blazed in Ian's mind: *I have to recruit him.*
That man was a rare talent. He was a bodyguard, a brawler, a coach, an assassin, and an investigator all rolled into one. In the show, he'd even had the nerve to man a scorpion and fire a bolt at Drogon mid-flight.
As long as you could afford him, he was the finest sword money could buy. Not the kind of puffed-up "finest sword" mercenaries bragged about being, but the genuine article.
Looking across the entire world of A Song of Ice and Fire, Ian couldn't think of anyone who was both stronger and more versatile, nor anyone more versatile who was stronger.
But before he acted, he paused. He let his gaze sweep across the common room one more time.
If there were other players here, they might have the exact same idea. He could wait, let someone else make the first move to rescue or hire Bronn, and then have Rohr and Keith take them down immediately.
He scanned the faces in the room. He saw no one suspicious.
Ian leaned over and gave quiet orders to Rohr and Keith, positioning them for action. Only then did he rise and walk towards Bronn's table. This way, even if a well-hidden player made a move against him, his men would be ready to strike first.
Just as Martha's tirade was reaching its peak, Ian placed a silver stag on the table in front of Bronn. He smiled at the proprietress. "I've paid his debt."
"He's a scoundrel, ser!" Martha whispered, baffled as to why a lordly knight would take an interest in such a man.
*You can't find a bigger one,* Ian thought, silently agreeing with her.
"May the gods bless you, my good lord." Bronn paid Martha no mind. He raised his ale cup with one hand and, with the other, pulled the nearby prostitute onto his lap. "But you may have been cheated. One silver stag is the price of a proper virgin."
He grinned at Ian, a mocking glint in his dark eyes. As he spoke, he winked at a small, eight- or nine-year-old serving girl who was refilling a pitcher nearby. The child flinched and scurried away in fear, and the entire tavern erupted in coarse laughter.
"I'm happy to pay a higher price for the things I like," Ian replied coolly. He casually produced a gold dragon, its surface gleaming in the dim light, and set it on the table. "For example, if you're willing to become my man, this is yours."
The laughter that had filled the tavern choked and died, leaving only a stunned silence.
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