If he agreed, he would truly become a sellsword.
Aldric hesitated. He hadn't asked for a life built on killing for coin. A quiet life as a village blacksmith sounded far more appealing. With his knowledge, he could invent half a dozen tools that would make him richer than a Lannister within a decade.
But Westeros was not a place that respected peaceful wealth. A fat purse without a sharp sword is just an invitation to be robbed, Aldric thought grimly. And he had already taken six lives. The time for moral squeamishness was past.
"What is the pay?" Aldric asked.
Master Rodney tapped a silver ring against the table. "I am paying my regular guards fifteen silver stags a day for this pursuit. I can offer you the same."
"Caravan pay?" Aldric shook his head. "No. Caravan guards get paid to look intimidating on safe roads. You are hunting a desperate band of Skagosi. This is a killing contract. Fifteen stags is an insult to the blood we'll spill."
Rodney smiled, unoffended. "What is your counter?"
"If your regular men fight like Erik here," Aldric gestured to the bruised militia captain, "I want the pay of five men."
Erik slammed a hand on the table. "Hey, Pentoshi! I wasn't even fighting serious!"
Aldric offered a cold smile. "Neither was I."
Rodney rubbed his chin. "Ten silver moons a day is steep. I would have a mutiny if my men found out I was paying a foreigner five times their wage just because he won a tavern brawl."
It was a fair point. Men tolerated danger, but they despised inequality.
"In the Free Cities," Aldric proposed, "free companies often use a bounty system. You don't pay me for my time. You pay me for my results. For every Skagosi head I bring to your quartermaster, you pay me."
"A bloody system," Rodney noted. "But rigorous."
"It ensures you only pay for victory," Aldric said.
Rodney considered it. "Ten silver stags for every confirmed kill. Provided you take the head yourself, and we win the day."
"Deal."
Rodney spat into his palm and held it out. Aldric mirrored the gesture, and they clasped hands tightly, sealing the contract in spit and salt.
With business concluded, the tension eased. Aldric spun a few vague tales of fighting in the Disputed Lands of Essos, painting a picture of a hardened mercenary that perfectly masked his true origins.
From Rodney and Erik, Aldric learned the layout of his new allies.
Rodney was a Hornwood—a cousin to the main branch at Hornwood Keep. While he didn't hold the title of Lord, his competence in past skirmishes had earned him the mastership of Redstone and its four vassal villages, including Stoneyard.
Rodney was not a man to sit behind walls. His villages relied on the coast for fishing and trapping, sending goods inland to Winterfell and White Harbor. The Skagosi weren't just killing his people; they were strangling his trade. That was why he had raised a force of one hundred and fifty men—every able-bodied farmer and hunter he could muster.
The next morning, at first light, the militia gathered in the village square.
Aldric and Kevin emerged from the tavern. They stuck out like direwolves in a pack of hounds. Among the farmers wrapped in rough wool and mismatched furs, Aldric stood in gleaming, epic-tier golden plate, carrying a massive shield and sword. Beside him, Kevin wore tailored, boiled leather, a steel sword at his hip, and a long ash spear in his hand.
Rodney rode out on a sturdy destrier, flanked by four armored guards and his son, Harry.
"Forward!" Rodney bellowed, pointing his riding crop south.
The host moved out. It was a chaotic, sprawling column. A hundred and fifty men marching down a muddy road looked less like an army and more like a massive, armed mob.
But as Aldric watched, he noticed the underlying structure. The core was solid: Rodney's mounted guards, a dozen men in rusted chainmail with shields, twenty spearmen, and a handful of archers. The remaining hundred were "levies"—farmers carrying pitchforks, wood-axes, and sharpened scythes. The veterans barked orders, keeping the frightened farmers tightly clustered around the disciplined core.
We are the only infantry walking in actual plate, Aldric realized. I should buy horses with the first bounty.
As they marched past the village palisade, Kevin gasped, tugging on Aldric's armored sleeve.
"Master. Look."
Kevin pointed to a massive oak tree by the road. Hanging from a thick branch was a blackened, mutilated corpse.
Aldric looked up. The face was bloated and unrecognizable, but the blood-stained tunic and the short, greasy hair belonged to the Skagosi bandit Aldric had spared for interrogation.
His hands and feet had been hacked off.
"It seems his information didn't buy him mercy," Aldric noted coolly. "Do you pity him?"
"No," Kevin said, his voice hard. "He earned it. But... I think he would have preferred your blade."
"Likely," Aldric agreed. He was a warrior, not a torturer. He knew Eonet and the villagers would extract their own brutal justice.
"Hey! Are you the one who caught him?"
A young boy, perhaps sixteen, trotted up beside them. His clothes were ragged, little more than patches held together by string. He looked at Aldric with wide, foolish eyes.
"How did you know?" Aldric asked.
"Alvin told me," the boy grinned, revealing missing teeth. "Said a giant killed six pirates and dragged one back by the neck. I'm Ivan. From Riverfork."
An older man carrying a rusted rake fell in step beside them, scowling at the boy. "Ivan the Fool. What are you doing here? Did Jon let you leave the village?"
Ivan looked nervously toward the front of the column. "I followed in the dark. Hid in the bushes last night."
Ivan turned back to Aldric, practically vibrating with excitement. "Are the pirates tough? The veterans say Lord Rodney will throw a massive feast if we win! Meat and ale for everyone! I haven't tasted cured meat since Big Mag's wedding two years ago..." Ivan's voice trailed off, his eyes going distant at the memory of pork.
The old man with the rake sighed. He tapped his temple and looked at Aldric. "The boy's parents died of the winter fever. He's been living on scraps. He's not all there."
He smacked Ivan lightly on the shoulder. "Listen to me, Ivan the Fool. When the fighting starts, you hide in the back. Don't lose your life over a piece of bacon."
"Lose what?" Ivan blinked. "Who's lost?"
The old man groaned and walked away.
Kevin snickered, but Aldric didn't laugh. He had been eating cured meat and fresh fish every day. Back in his old life, he had dieted just to look good. This boy was marching into a slaughter just to taste meat.
Aldric felt a pang of profound pity. He put a massive, gauntleted hand on Ivan's frail shoulder.
"Stick close to me, kid," Aldric said gently. "If we survive this, I'll buy you a whole shank of cured meat myself."
"Really?!" Ivan beamed. "I want the fatty part!"
For the next few hours, Kevin and Ivan chatted amiably, trading stories of village life. Aldric stayed silent, conserving his energy, watching the treeline.
Rodney had outriders moving ahead of the column. Every hour or so, a scout on a swift garron would break from the woods, whisper to Rodney, and ride off again. The reports were getting more frequent. They were closing in.
Suddenly, Rodney stood in his stirrups, drawing his sword.
"Double time!" the Master roared. "Target: Lone Bridge Village!"
The veterans pushed the levies forward, shouting at the stragglers. The column broke into a heavy, clattering jog.
They covered the final three leagues in just over an hour.
Lone Bridge Village sat on the banks of a rushing, deep-water river. True to its name, it relied on a single, wide bridge made of lashed logs to connect the farmlands to the main road.
When Rodney's host burst from the treeline, the river was roaring.
And the bridge was gone. The logs had been hacked apart and set adrift.
Across the impassable, churning water, Lone Bridge Village was burning. Even from a hundred yards away, the screams of men and the high-pitched shrieks of women echoed over the roar of the river.
The militiamen cursed, raising their weapons helplessly. They were heavily armored and weighed down with supplies; the current would drown them in seconds.
"Upstream!" Rodney commanded, his face purple with rage. "Find the shallows!"
They force-marched a mile up the riverbank until they found a rocky ford. But by the time the hundred and fifty men scrambled across the slick stones and rushed back down to Lone Bridge Village, a full hour had passed.
The Skagosi were gone. The village was reduced to smoldering ash, and the streets belonged only to the dead and the dying.