With the dawn ceremony complete, master and apprentice lingered by the riverbank.
Half a month ago, on the sandy beach, Aldric had taught Kevin the fundamental forms of the two-handed sword. It had improved the boy's footwork and balance immensely. But forms are not fighting.
On a true battlefield, a two-handed sword was a niche weapon. War was fought with arrows at a distance, spears in the formation, and sword-and-shield in the bloody press. A greatsword was a duelist's weapon—devastating on offense, but leaving the wielder dangerously exposed.
Before, Kevin was just a stray boy Aldric had picked up. Now, he was Aldric's sworn apprentice. Aldric had to ensure he could actually survive a shield wall.
"Armor up," Aldric commanded.
He strapped on his golden plate, hoisted the massive Royal Crest of Lordaeron shield, and drew the Blade of the Unquenched.
"Live steel," Aldric said, settling into a guard stance. "Come at me."
To forge Kevin's combat awareness, Aldric abandoned the repetitive drills. He attacked relentlessly. But unlike a real enemy, Aldric possessed absolute, superhuman control. He would swing with lethal speed, only to stop the razor-sharp edge a fraction of an inch from Kevin's skin.
The psychological pressure was immense. There is a primal terror in facing a blade meant to kill. Every time Aldric's sword bypassed Kevin's clumsy guard and halted at his throat, the boy's heart hammered against his ribs.
Driven by panic, Kevin's counterattacks became wild and forceful, throwing aside his formal training to simply survive.
Aldric didn't dodge. He let Kevin's new sword, Aellie, strike his golden armor. The epic-tier plate didn't even scratch; the steel simply bounced off.
The first time Kevin landed a solid blow to Aldric's ribs, the boy dropped his sword in terror. "Master! Forgive me!"
Aldric laughed, pulling the boy close. "I'm fine. The armor holds. But your footing was wrong. You leaned too far forward. If I had dodged, you would have stumbled into my riposte. Again."
After a few terrifying rounds, Kevin realized he couldn't hurt his master. The fear subsided, replaced by a focused, desperate aggression.
For three days, they trained until Kevin's arms felt like lead. Every night, the boy would drag himself to the tavern, eat his stew, and collapse into the hay.
But the grueling regimen worked. Ser John Turner's foundational training, combined with Aldric's brutal live-steel pressure, forged Kevin into a competent fighter. He wasn't a master, but he wouldn't freeze against a Skagosi raider.
On the evening of the third day, Aldric lowered his sword. He splashed river water on his face.
"That's enough," Aldric said, looking at Kevin, who was panting in the dirt. "Your low slashes and straight thrusts are still sloppy. I told you, Kevin—control the centerline! A straight thrust is a straight thrust. Stop adding that little flourish your father taught you. It wastes a half-second. A half-second is enough to die."
Kevin hung his head, ashamed. "I'm sorry, Master. I will drill it tomorrow."
They cleaned their gear and walked back to Stoneyard as the sun dipped below the hills.
As they approached the palisade, Aldric noticed a change. The village was teeming with men. Unfamiliar faces, clad in boiled leather and carrying rusted weapons, crowded the dirt streets. They laughed and drank openly, mingling with the local farmers.
"Master," Kevin whispered, pulling close. "Who are they?"
"Not pirates," Aldric murmured. "Keep quiet. Head down."
In his past life, Aldric had been a raid leader, commanding forty people over a microphone. But in person, he was a homebody. He hated being the center of attention. Unfortunately, standing six-and-a-half feet tall in gleaming, magical golden armor made anonymity impossible.
Every eye tracked him as he walked to the tavern.
The common room was packed to the rafters. The air was thick with the smell of unwashed bodies, spilled ale, and roasted meat. The noise was deafening—like a sports bar during a championship match.
But the moment Aldric pushed open the door, the room fell dead silent.
Dozens of rough, bearded men paused mid-drink, staring at the golden giant. Aldric kept his face impassive, walking straight to the stairs, but his shoulders were stiff.
He retreated to his room, stripped off the plate armor, and changed into a simple linen tunic and leather trousers. When he came back downstairs, the tension had broken, and the room was roaring again.
He found Gabry behind the bar and slid onto a stool. "Who are the newcomers?"
Gabry wiped down a mug. "Militia from the neighboring holds. After Elder William sent a runner, Master Rodney called the banners. They caught a Skagosi raiding party last night. Killed a dozen, but took losses. They fell back here to rest."
"So the local lord brought an army," Aldric mused. "How many?"
"A hundred and fifty. They outnumber the pirates now."
"Bring me my dinner," Aldric said, his stomach growling.
"The ale is gone," Gabry apologized. "The militia drank it dry. I only have fresh milk."
"Milk is fine."
Gabry set down a massive trencher of dark bread, vegetable soup, thick cheese, and a large wooden cup of milk.
Aldric had just taken his first bite when a gruff, mocking voice boomed over the din.
"Look at the size of him! A giant, drinking mother's milk! Do you need a wet nurse to wipe your chin before bed, boy?"
A table of rough-looking men erupted into raucous laughter.
Aldric turned slowly. A lean, leathery man with deep wrinkles and missing teeth was grinning at him from across the room.
"Who is that?" Aldric asked Gabry quietly.
"Erik," Gabry whispered, avoiding eye contact. "Captain of the Redstone militia. Master Rodney's right hand."
"Did I offend him?"
Gabry just shrugged and walked away.
Aldric picked up his wooden cup. He walked over to Erik's table. The laughter died down as the giant loomed over them.
Aldric looked Erik dead in the eye. He tilted his head back, draining the milk in one gulp. Then, he squeezed his fist. The thick wooden cup groaned, splintered, and shattered into pieces, clattering onto the table.
"I'm curious," Aldric said, his voice a low rumble. "Are your bones harder than this cup?"
The tavern went perfectly silent.
Erik stood up slowly, the mocking grin sliding off his face. He rested a hand on his dagger. "A cup doesn't hit back, boy."
"A cup doesn't run its mouth, either," Aldric replied smoothly.
Erik's eyes narrowed. "Maybe I need to teach you some respect for your betters."
"You." Aldric pointed at Erik, then at the four men sitting with him. "And you four. Outside. Let's get this over with."
Aldric turned and walked out the door.
Erik and his men exchanged a look, drew their blades, and followed him into the muddy yard. A crowd of militiamen poured out of the tavern, forming a ring around them.
Aldric stood in the center, cracking his knuckles. He noticed the men had sheathed their steel, opting for fists. A brawl, then.
"I don't know why you picked a fight," Aldric said. "But I'm going to finish it. All five of you. Come on."
Erik sneered. "William said you killed six Skagosi alone. I don't believe it. I hate a braggart who steals glory from dead men. Let's see what you're made of."
The five men spread out, circling him.
A burly man lunged from behind, wrapping his thick arms around Aldric's waist in a bear hug. The others rushed in.
Aldric didn't panic. He planted his feet, dropped his center of gravity, and spun violently. The man holding him was ripped off his feet by the sheer centrifugal force and thrown into one of his comrades. They both went down in a tangle of limbs.
A third man threw a wild haymaker at Aldric's jaw. Aldric casually batted the arm aside, stepped in, and delivered an open-handed slap to the man's ear. The militiaman hit the dirt and stayed there, his equilibrium shattered.
The fourth man lunged. Aldric caught his wrist, twisted it sharply, and used the man's own momentum to hurl him face-first into the mud.
Suddenly, Erik slipped into Aldric's blind spot. He dropped low, driving a vicious uppercut toward Aldric's kidney.
A Rogue's Kidney Shot? Aldric thought with a smirk. I've healed through worse.
Aldric shifted his hips a fraction of an inch. Erik's fist grazed empty air. Before the older man could recover, Aldric clamped a massive hand over Erik's face, fingers digging into his scalp, and shoved him violently backward.
Erik stumbled, tripped over one of his groaning men, and crashed to the ground.
It was over in ten seconds. Five seasoned militiamen were in the mud. Aldric hadn't even broken a sweat.
The crowd of onlookers stared in stunned silence.
Aldric walked over to Erik, who was rubbing his throbbing skull. Aldric crossed his arms. "I win."
Erik groaned, looking up at the giant. "You win. What do you want? Coin?"
"An apology," Aldric said. "And you buy the next round."
Erik stared at him for a second, then barked a laugh. "I hope you hold your ale better than you throw a punch!"
Aldric offered his hand. "Test me."
Erik took the hand, letting Aldric haul him to his feet. The militia captain raised Aldric's arm into the air. "Now this is a fighter!"
The yard erupted into cheers and applause. Men slapped Aldric on the back.
They just wanted to test my mettle, Aldric realized. Westerosi icebreakers are violent.
Back inside, Erik waved his bruised men back to the bar and led Aldric to a quiet table by the window.
Sitting there was a stern, middle-aged man in a fine black velvet doublet, accompanied by a young scribe.
"Master Rodney," Erik grunted, sitting down and rubbing his jaw. "The boy hits like a mule."
The man in velvet chuckled. He looked up at Aldric.
"I apologize, Ser," Rodney said smoothly. "The brawl was my idea. If you are angry, direct it at me. I needed to know if the rumors were true."
Aldric pulled out a chair and sat. "No harm done. Did I pass the interview?"
Rodney tossed a silver stag to his scribe. "Harry, find the innkeeper's hidden stash. Get us the good ale."
He turned back to Aldric. "You passed. Your strength is obvious, and your restraint is commendable. Tell me, Ser Aldric... what house on the Fingers breeds men of your size and skill?"
Aldric paused. His cover story was flimsy. The Fingers was a barren, rocky spit of land; it couldn't produce a warrior in epic golden plate. If Rodney pressed him on geography or local lords, the lie would shatter.
Time to pivot.
"I confess, Master Rodney," Aldric said, leaning forward. "I am not from the Fingers. I am a sellsword from Pentos, across the Narrow Sea."
Rodney's eyebrows went up.
"Kevin's uncle was a brother-in-arms in the Second Sons," Aldric lied effortlessly. "He died in a skirmish. My last promise to him was to find his nephew on the Fingers and bring him east to join the company. But our ship went down in the storm. We washed ashore, and I've been trying to keep the boy alive since."
A sellsword from the Free Cities. It explained the strange accent, the lack of chivalric vows, the bizarre combat style, and the impossibly rich armor. Mercenaries in Essos often wore their wealth on their backs.
Rodney nodded slowly, buying the story completely. "I see. An honorable quest, for a sellsword. It matters little where you were born. You killed Skagosi, so you are a friend to the North."
Rodney poured himself a cup of the newly arrived ale.
"I am Rodney Hornwood, Master of Redstone," he said, taking a sip. "I am hunting the men who burned the coastal village. I want your sword, Pentoshi. Join my host. We will pay you well for the blood you spill."