While others scurried about the battlefield, Aldric sat motionless on the grass, a blade of straw dangling from his lips.
From the moment he stepped into Lone Bridge Village and witnessed the corpses strewn across the mud, a fire had ignited in his chest. It had smoldered through the pursuit, only extinguished now by the spilling of pirate blood. A rare, tranquil silence settled over his mind.
Clip-clop, clip-clop.
The soothing rhythm of hooves approached from behind. Aldric turned to see Rodney trotting leisurely toward him.
"Ser Aldric," the lord began, reining in his mount. "Your valor today exceeded my boldest expectations. I shudder to imagine what would have befallen me and my lands had you not lent your sword to our cause."
"Likely a catastrophe," Aldric replied with a faint smile. "But since it didn't happen, there is no need to dwell on ghosts."
Rodney threw his head back and laughed. "Hah! You speak the truth. Victory is ours; why trouble ourselves with 'what ifs'?"
The laughter seemed to dislodge the heavy stone pressing on Rodney's heart. He leaned forward in his saddle. "Ser Aldric, where does your road lead next?"
Aldric shook his head. "I haven't decided. This land... it is strange to me."
Rodney looked out toward the horizon, where the setting sun painted the vast forest and meadows in hues of amber and blood. His voice dropped to a solemn rumble. "The North is harsh. But the people of this land still know how to offer bread and salt to friends. Once Harry returns, I would be honored if you would rest at my manor for a few days. I hope that is not an imposition?"
"Not at all. I would be delighted to visit."
Aldric had no reason to refuse the local lord's goodwill. Besides, he was curious. In this world that mirrored Earth's medieval Europe, what kind of life did a minor lord actually lead?
To reciprocate the kindness, Aldric asked, "Is Harry chasing down the stragglers? Do you need my aid?"
"No need. I sent him to hunt for their camp. If we don't burn their longships, a few might escape, and in a fortnight, they'd return with a swarm. These savages are like flies on rotting meat—you can never kill them all. Besides," Rodney's eyes narrowed, "those bastards raided my smallfolk and stole a good deal of property while I was blind to them. I intend to take it all back."
"And then?" Aldric asked curiously. "Return it to the victims?"
Rodney looked at him as if he had spoken in a foreign tongue. "Return it? These are spoils of war. Why would I return them?"
Aldric nodded slowly, shifting his gaze to the distance. He said nothing more.
The skirmish itself, involving barely two hundred men, had lasted less than thirty minutes from contact to rout. The cleanup, however, took three times as long.
The battlefield lay too close to Lone Bridge Village. Leaving dozens of corpses to rot in the wild would only invite wolves and plague. Enemy bodies had to be buried in deep pits; fallen comrades had to be cremated for transport home. And the heads Kevin had harvested—those needed to be presented to Lord Rodney for tallying.
By the time the grisly work was done, the night sky was thick with stars.
The battle had been brutal. With so many wounded, a long march was impossible. Rodney ordered the company to billet in Lone Bridge Village.
By now, the fires set by the pirates had been doused, leaving the air heavy with the acrid stench of wet ash and smoke. Bodies were cleared from the streets, awaiting burial. The surviving villagers greeted the returning soldiers with tearful cheers—they were alive, and they were avenged. What else mattered?
Rodney's men were regulars in the area, familiar faces to the locals. They were quickly welcomed into homes. Aldric and Kevin, too, found lodging at the invitation of a grateful village warrior.
The pirate main force had been shattered. A few stragglers might have vanished into the woods, but they were no longer a threat. Once Harry torched their ships, those isolated fugitives would either starve or fill the bellies of shadowcats. Whether they drifted to other territories to cause trouble was no longer Rodney's concern.
After arranging the village's defenses and dispensing the customary post-war pensions, Rodney gave the order to disband.
The severely wounded were left in Lone Bridge to recover. The rest of the militia, carrying the ashes or bodies of their village kin, dispersed homeward.
On the third day after the battle, Aldric followed Rodney and his personal guard to his seat of power—Redstone Village.
Named for a massive boulder with an exposed crimson cross-section at the village entrance, Redstone had once been an unremarkable settlement under House Hornwood. Since Rodney brought his family here, however, a decade of painstaking management had transformed it. It was now the jewel of his holdings, bustling enough to rival a small town.
As they rode slowly through the streets, villagers paused their work to bow.
Rodney returned their greetings with nods, his riding crop gesturing vaguely at the tidy roads and sturdy houses. He turned to Aldric, practically glowing with pride. "This is my manor. Not bad, is it?"
"Indeed. Impressive," Aldric admitted honestly.
On the road here, other villages had been wretched places—muddy tracks, low, damp hovels, and peasants with dull eyes and sallow skin. Redstone, by contrast, had gravel-paved streets and residents who looked fed and healthy.
Rodney might be a mediocre tactician, but he was clearly a capable administrator.
Legally, the entire village was Rodney's "manor," but his actual residence occupied a modest compound in the northeast corner. It was a three-story wooden holdfast surrounded by a stone wall twice the height of a man. Two archer towers flanked the thick log gates, where a sentry kept watch.
Spotting Rodney's banner, servants threw open the gates and trotted out to take their master's reins.
It was just past noon. Rodney had servants guide his guests to wash and rest, sending fresh, appropriate clothing to their rooms. Aldric and his apprentice scrubbed away the grime of the road and collapsed into bed.
Near dusk, a knock echoed from the hallway.
"Noble Ser, the Master invites you both to dine."
"Understood," Aldric called back.
He and Kevin dressed and followed the steward to the dining hall. A long rectangular table was already laden with a rich spread. Rodney sat at the head; the opposite seat was reserved for Aldric.
On one side sat a slightly plump middle-aged woman and two girls. On the other sat Harry, who had returned from his mission.
Kevin was ushered to a seat beside Harry.
"Ser Aldric," Rodney said, nodding as the Paladin took his seat. "Allow me to introduce my wife, Lady Darya of House Hornwood. And these are my daughters, Cissy and Jenny."
He turned to the younger girl, who looked no older than six or seven. "Jenny, this is the great hero I told you about. The one who helped us crush the pirate chief. Ser Aldric the Knight, and his brave squire, Kevin the Headsman. Let us welcome them."
The little girl, framed by a mane of curly brown hair, blinked large, curious eyes at Kevin. "Papa, why is he called the Headsman?"
"Because on the battlefield, he cut off sixteen pirate heads and traded them to me for a whole Gold Dragon!"
"Wow! Amazing!" she gasped softly.
Rodney smiled dotingly at her, then raised his goblet. "To the noble knight and the mighty warrior! To Ser Aldric!"
"Welcome, my Lord!"
"Welcome to Redstone!"
Amidst the warm chorus, Aldric drained the red wine from his silver goblet.
The atmosphere was jovial. Rodney possessed a high emotional intelligence, steering the conversation to topics that pleased everyone. Lady Darya asked a few probing personal questions—family size, acres of land, heads of cattle—but Aldric deflected them with a mix of vague truths and polite fiction, keeping within the bounds of etiquette.
The meal ended with host and guests in high spirits.
After dinner, Rodney invited Aldric to his study. Servants brought fresh wine as Rodney gestured to a crude hand-drawn map on the wall.
"Between the North and the Free Cities lies the Narrow Sea," he explained, tracing a line. "If you wish to continue east, your best route is southwest."
He drew a finger from the black dot of Redstone down to a bay in the south. "Go to White Harbor. Find a ship there to cross the sea."
Aldric studied the map, burning the geography into his mind. "And if I wished to travel within Westeros with my squire?"
"If you intend to tour the continent, my advice remains the same: White Harbor. It is the largest trade port in the North. If the North is a wolf, White Harbor is its mouth. It devours goods from all over the world and funnels them up the White Knife River into the heartland. A man of adventurous spirit can easily find fortune there."
"And other than White Harbor?"
"From there, you could take a merchant cog south to King's Landing. The capital of the Seven Kingdoms, the most prosperous city on the continent. It has everything you can imagine—beauties, gold, titles—provided you can pay the price. King Robert Baratheon loves tourneys. A warrior of your caliber would make a name for himself in a heartbeat."
My identity might not hold up to that kind of scrutiny, Aldric thought. He nodded. "Sounds enticing. Are there other options?"
"Winterfell," Rodney said with reverence. " The seat of House Stark. The capital of the North. You could sail up the White Knife and land near the castle. It has stood for eight thousand years."
"Eight thousand?" Aldric blurted out.
"Aye. History says Brandon the Builder raised it with the help of giants eight millennia ago. Of course, as the Stark seat, commoners aren't allowed inside. You'd likely only see the outer walls. Even I have only ever been permitted in the training yard and the Great Hall."
Aldric wasn't worried about access. Coming from 21st-century Earth, he had seen architectural wonders that dwarfed castles.
He was reeling from the number. Eight thousand years? Westeros had a history spanning eight millennia, yet their production levels were still stuck in the medieval era? Where did all that time go? Was there some force keeping their civilization in stasis?
Rodney continued, oblivious to Aldric's existential crisis. "Winterfell is the political and military heart of the North. Security problems that local lords cannot solve eventually find their way to the taverns there. It is a friendly environment for a hedge knight living by the sword."
"You must understand, not every lord can afford a standing army. Many with weak forces encounter troubles they cannot handle. Too proud to beg help from liege lords or neighbors, they go to the Winter Town markets to hire freelance knights. It's a simple transaction of coin for blood, without the political debt."
"With your skill, you would rise to fame quickly."
True enough, Aldric thought. Sunwalker. Highlord. This is my expertise.
Moreover, the strange game text the angel had shown him before his transmigration still gnawed at him: "While the southern kingdoms descend into the chaos of war... a threat from the northern wastes..."
He didn't know the nature of the northern threat or why the south would burn, but in a chaotic world, personal strength was a drop in the ocean. Only by gathering like-minded allies could he hope to survive, save this continent, and perhaps find a way home.
His mind made up, Aldric turned to his host. "That settles it. I won't impose any longer. Thank you for your hospitality. My disciple and I will depart for White Harbor tomorrow."
Rodney blinked, surprised by the sudden decision. "What? No, no need to rush! You don't even know the way. Rest a few days."
He leaned forward, offering a proposal. "Listen, every three months I organize a trade caravan between here and White Harbor. The next one leaves soon. Travel with them. It saves you the trouble of asking for directions, and frankly... I would like to hire you to escort them."
"You know the cost of the pirate battle. I lost good men, including several caravan guards. I can't replace them overnight. If you are willing to lend a hand on the journey to White Harbor, it would be a profitable arrangement for us both."
Aldric considered it. "That makes sense. When does the caravan leave?"
"Soon," Rodney smiled. "Just a few days."