The tavern was small, smelling of spilled ale and woodsmoke. The common room was cramped, dominated by four heavy oak tables.
Gabry, the blonde-haired owner, led them up a narrow wooden staircase to a pair of rooms beneath the eaves. The room prepared for Aldric and Kevin was low-ceilinged and bare. Two wooden bedframes sat against the walls, alongside a washstand holding a strapped wooden basin.
There were no mattresses. The pillows were curved blocks of wood.
"My lord," Gabry said, hauling in a massive bundle of dried hay and dumping it onto the frames. "Harvested last autumn. Very dry. No lice, I swear it. You'll sleep well."
Aldric stared at the hay. So this is the legendary straw bed.
He didn't care. It was off the ground, and it was dry. As soon as the innkeeper left, Aldric unbuckled his heavy plate armor, letting the golden steel clatter to the floorboards. He threw himself onto the hay, pulled a tattered, scratchy wool blanket over his shoulders, and let out a long sigh.
"Take the other bed, Kevin," Aldric mumbled into the straw.
A few breaths later, he was snoring.
The exhaustion of the past month settled into his bones. The afternoon bled into evening, but Aldric remained dead to the world, refusing to move.
It wasn't until a timid knock rattled the door that he finally stirred.
"What is it?" Aldric groaned.
"Lord Knight," a boy's voice squeaked from the hall. It was Alvin. "Elder William and Uncle Eonet want to see you. Come down."
Aldric frowned, rubbing his eyes. A summons? He had just buried their dead and delivered their captive.
Before he could tell the boy to go away, a sharp smack echoed in the hall, followed by Eonet's gruff voice. "I told you to deliver a message, you little fool, not bark an order!"
Eonet's voice, now thick with polite deference, came through the door. "Lord Knight? Forgive the boy. The elder of our village humbly requests an audience, at your convenience. We will be waiting downstairs whenever you are rested."
Aldric sighed. Better. "Give me a minute."
He pushed himself up, his muscles aching with a deep, satisfying soreness. He splashed cold water from the basin onto his face and headed downstairs.
In the common room, Eonet sat at a corner table alongside the man who had charged Aldric at the gates.
Aldric pulled out a chair and sat heavily. "I was expecting the village elder to be an eighty-year-old man with a white beard and a cane. You're a bit young for the title."
"Elder is just a title," the man said, offering a calloused hand. "I'm ten years younger than Eonet the Bald here. My name is William. I lead the village militia. On behalf of Stoneyard, I thank you. The coastal village was founded by our kin a decade ago. Claire told us you buried the dead. Is that true?"
"It is," Aldric said, shaking his hand.
"Digging a grave for thirty souls is no small effort," William said respectfully. He signaled the innkeeper. "Gabry! Three mugs!"
Gabry hurried over with three heavy wooden tankards, foam spilling over the brims.
Aldric took a long pull. The ale was thick, sour, and malty. It burned all the way down. "Good brew. What's the base?"
Gabry smiled shyly. "Leftover stale bread, mostly. But there's a family trick to the yeast."
"My thanks," Aldric said, raising his mug.
William leaned forward, his face growing serious. "The attack on the coast is a warning. The pirates have returned. When I was a boy, Old Aeffe used to scare us with tales of the Skagosi. Giant, hairy savages who ate human flesh."
"May the gods give her peace," Eonet muttered, taking a drink. "Her husband and son both died fighting them. We thought her stories were just the ramblings of a grieving widow. We've had peace for too long."
"Pirates are ghosts," William continued. "They strike and vanish. We never know where they will hit next. I've armed the militia. We keep watch day and night. But Stoneyard has barely two hundred hearths. We have twelve trained men. Even if I arm every farmer who can hold a pitchfork, we have seventy fighters. And most of them have never seen blood."
Aldric remained silent, drinking his ale.
Eonet spoke up. "We've sent runners to the neighboring villages, and a rider to Master Rodney at Redstone. But it will take days for word to reach the keep, and longer for him to send men. If you have no urgent business, Ser Aldric... we beg you to stay."
"The village will cover your room and board," William added quickly. "And if the Skagosi attack, we ask that you stand with us. If you fight, we will negotiate a fair price for your sword."
Aldric traced the rim of his mug.
It was a standard mercenary contract. He had nowhere to be, and wandering the Kingsroad with a fourteen-year-old boy while eighty Skagosi roamed the woods was tactical suicide. Staying in a fortified village with free food and a potential paycheck was the logical choice.
And William was smart—he didn't set a price yet, because neither of them knew if the pirates would bring ten men or eighty.
"I accept," Aldric said simply.
William and Eonet exchanged a look of profound relief. "The Old Gods bless you, Ser. Have a pleasant evening."
After the men left, Aldric ordered dinner. Gabry brought out a massive trencher: dark whole-wheat bread, thick slices of cured mutton, and a steaming bowl of mushroom stew.
Halfway through the meal, Kevin stumbled downstairs, his hair matted with straw. Aldric waved him over and ordered a second plate.
When they finished eating, Aldric stood up. "Walk with me, Kevin."
The twilight sky was burning orange and purple as they strolled through the village. Farmers were returning from the fields, their hoes slung over their shoulders. Smoke curled from stone chimneys. Children ran through the muddy streets, stopping to gawk at the giant, black-haired warrior before their mothers swiftly slapped the backs of their heads and dragged them inside.
Rumors moved fast. The village already knew Aldric had slain the raiders. They kept a respectful, fearful distance.
When they reached the quiet edge of the village, near the wooden palisade, Aldric stopped.
"Kevin," Aldric said, looking out over the fields. "We are safe here for now. But what are your plans?"
Kevin blinked. "My plans, Ser?"
"Yes. Do you intend to return to the Fingers? I assume your uncle perished in the wreck. You are fourteen. Too young to join a mercenary company in the Free Cities on your own. Will you go back to your father?"
Panic flashed across Kevin's face. "Ser... did I do something wrong? Am I too slow? I can work harder, I swear it, please don't send me away—"
"Peace, Kevin," Aldric said, raising a hand. "I am not sending you away. Having you around makes my life much easier."
Kevin let out a shaky breath.
"You are a good kid," Aldric continued softly. "Smart, steady, and you don't flinch from hard work. But you are a child. Where I come from, boys your age are worrying about girls and schoolwork, not cutting off men's heads. I am a wanderer, Kevin. I have no home, no keep, and no lands. If you follow me, you will bleed, and you will wander. It is not a fair life for a boy."
Kevin stood a little taller, his jaw setting stubbornly.
"Ser Aldric," Kevin said, his voice completely serious. "From the day my father gave me a sword and sent me to White Harbor, I ceased to have a home. Splitwater belongs to my brother now. My uncle told me that a man's worth isn't found sitting in a rotting village. I am not afraid of wandering, Ser. I am only afraid of dying as a nobody."
Aldric chuckled softly. "The grand, tragic declarations of youth. It's always entertaining."
Kevin flushed red. "Ser, I mean it—"
"I know you do," Aldric said, cutting him off gently. "I was the same way once. It's not a bad thing."
Aldric looked the boy in the eye. "When a knight takes on a student in Westeros... what is the process? Is there a ceremony?"
Kevin stopped breathing. His eyes widened to the size of saucers. "A... a student? You want to make me your squire?"
In Westeros, the bond between a knight and a squire was sacred. It was a master-apprentice dynamic. A squire served for years without pay, polishing armor and tending horses. In return, the knight provided food, martial training, and eventually, if the boy proved worthy, the title of Ser.
Kevin had observed Aldric's combat prowess, his epic armor, and his strange, cultured mannerisms. He had assumed Aldric was a highborn lord in exile. He had only ever hoped to be a camp servant—someone who carried bags and learned a few sword tricks.
To be offered the mantle of a true squire was beyond his wildest dreams.
Seeing the boy's stunned silence, Aldric clarified.
"Kevin, I must be honest with you. Despite what you call me, I have never been anointed by a septon. I am no Westerosi knight."
Aldric placed a heavy hand on Kevin's shoulder. "I do not keep the Seven. I do not swear fealty to lords or kings. I follow my own code, my own Light. It is a harsh path, and it answers to no crown. I will not force my ideals on you. So I ask you clearly: Will you become my apprentice? Will you accept my teachings, my burdens, and my protection?"
Kevin didn't hesitate. He looked up at the towering warrior.
"Ser," Kevin said, his voice ringing with absolute conviction. "You are more of a true knight than any lord I have ever seen. If your code made you the man who buried those villagers today... then I want to follow it."
Kevin moved to drop to one knee in the mud.
Aldric caught his arm, pulling him back up. He grinned. "None of that. But a vow requires a ceremony. We will do it according to the customs of my order. Give me a few days to prepare."