On the continent of Azeroth, Aldric had completed countless escort quests. Most were mundane affairs—babysitting foolish NPCs with terrible pathfinding while swatting away blind monsters, collecting the gold, and moving on.
Only one quest remained a thorn in his heart: In Dreams, from the Western Plaguelands.
In that quest line, Aldric had met the exiled Paladin, Lord Tirion Fordring. Moved by the old man's tragic sacrifice, Aldric resolved to reunite Tirion with his estranged son, Taelan.
Carrying a toy warhammer crafted by the father's own hands, Aldric infiltrated the Scarlet Crusade's stronghold. He confronted Taelan, revealing the Crusade's corruption. Upon seeing the beloved toy of his childhood, Taelan awakened from his zealotry. He resolved to return to his father.
Aldric escorted him out of the valley. Together they carved a bloody path through wave after wave of fanatical pursuers. But just as they reached the border, Grand Inquisitor Isillien materialized from thin air and delivered a scripted, unavoidable death blow to the young Fordring.
The quest was marked "Complete." Aldric got his reward. But the image of Tirion Fordring arriving moments too late, kneeling helplessly before his son's corpse, remained burned into Aldric's memory.
So what if I killed the Inquisitor afterward? Aldric thought bitterly. So what if I went to Northrend and burned the Crusade to ash? The dead were gone.
Determined not to repeat such a tragedy in Westeros, Aldric volunteered to take point the moment the Redstone caravan departed. Fully armored, he rode at the vanguard, scrutinizing every bridge, every thicket, and every shadowed ridge with paranoid intensity.
Clegg Cobb, the caravan master, initially welcomed this. Every boss loved a diligent sellsword.
But as the days wore on, Clegg began to worry. Being high-strung was fine for a skirmish, but for a month-long journey? The man was going to snap. The entire caravan was counting on Aldric's strength as their safety net; they couldn't afford for him to burn out.
Crucially, the route from Redstone to White Harbor was a path Clegg had walked a thousand times. He knew every loose stone on the road. Aldric's tension was simply unnecessary.
He decided to have a chat with the giant.
On the fifth day after leaving Redstone, the caravan reached its first scheduled stop, a small farming village under House Hornwood's protection.
Clegg led his clerks into the village to trade, while Kevin accompanied the guards to purchase fresh vegetables and meat.
By nightfall, the work was done. The group gathered outside the village, circling the five heavy wagons into a makeshift camp.
As the aroma of bacon and mushroom soup wafted from the iron pot, Clegg sat down beside Aldric, offering him a heavy leather wineskin. "Here. A drink?"
Aldric looked surprised. "Can I? I thought drinking on the job was forbidden."
"Hah! Not like this." Clegg laughed, his belly shaking. "Forbidden while marching, yes—men get sloppy on a horse. But we're camped at a friendly village. If rough men like us go three moons without a drop, we'd die of suffocation."
"Ah. I see."
If the boss said it was okay, Aldric wasn't going to argue. He took the skin and swallowed a mouthful of sharp, burning rye ale.
They passed the skin back and forth, washing down their stew. As the fire warmed the chill night air, Clegg spoke up.
"Aldric, you've never guarded a caravan before, have you?"
Aldric paused, wiping his mouth. "No. This is my first time."
"Haha, I knew it." Clegg fished a chunk of fat from his bowl. "When I was young, I fought in the skirmishes too. Didn't win much glory, but I saw plenty. Watching you these past few days—scouting ahead, covering the rear, sleeping with one eye open—you act like a veteran."
"But look at your horse." Clegg pointed to Old Bones, who was grazing heavily nearby, his head drooping. "That old beast is exhausted. And so are you. You're treating this milk run like a forced march through enemy territory."
Aldric smiled sheepishly. "Old habits."
Clegg took a sip of ale. "Our line of work is different from the army, Ser."
From Redstone, the southern route passed straight through the heart of Hornwood lands, eventually merging with the Kingsroad toward White Harbor. Along the way, local lords would send men to join the caravan or entrust goods to Clegg to sell in the city.
"Look at the lead wagon," Clegg said, pointing into the dark. "See the flags?"
"I see them."
"That dark brown moose banner means we are under the protection of Lord Hornwood. The blue maple leaf represents my House, Cobb. And the swordfish signifies Master Rodney as the principal."
Clegg leaned back. "With those three flags flying, no minor lord along the way will dare charge us tolls. Most will even send men to escort us through dangerous passes. We are moving their goods, after all."
Aldric frowned. "Then why did Rodney hire seven guards? Why hire me?"
"Heh. If we brought zero guards, do you believe the noble lords who call us 'brother' today wouldn't turn into bandits tonight? They'd loot the cargo, blame it on outlaws, and keep the profits. But with heavily armed guards? They know they can't kill us all quickly. If one or two escape and report back to Rodney, there would be blood. Our primary function isn't fighting; it's deterrence."
Aldric nodded slowly. Mutually assured destruction via snitches.
"But if we meet real bandits?" Aldric asked. "Rootless men who rob and run? They won't fear Hornwood's revenge."
"True," Clegg agreed. "That's when blades have to come out. But under Stark rule, the North has been mostly peaceful. The Skagosi raid was an anomaly. You need to relax, Aldric. Pace yourself."
Do I really not need to worry? Aldric wasn't sure. But Clegg was the boss, and Aldric was a mercenary. Being reprimanded for working too hard was a first.
"Alright," Aldric sighed. "I understand. I'll rest tomorrow."
Satisfied, Clegg patted his armored shoulder, left him the half-full wineskin, and walked away laughing.
From the next day on, Aldric stopped riding point. He tied Old Bones to the back of the wagon Harry had gifted him and sat on the wooden bench.
He discovered that "lying flat" brought a certain peace. And finally, he had time for what he wanted to do: Archery.
Every morning and evening, whenever they weren't marching, Aldric took out the longbow he had purchased in Redstone.
The bow was nearly five feet long when strung, carved from a single, unbroken piece of pale weirwood. The grip was polished smooth by the hands of its previous owner—an old veteran whose grandsons had no use for it.
Aldric wasn't an expert fletcher; his professions were Mining and Blacksmithing, not Engineering. But he knew enough history to recognize that a "self bow" (made of a single piece of wood) was inferior to a composite horn-and-sinew bow.
Still, finding a weirwood bow in a backwater village was incredibly lucky. It was strong, flexible, and possessed a strange, almost supernatural snap.
It'll do for now, Aldric thought, loosing shaft after shaft into tree trunks. I can upgrade in White Harbor.
As his practice accumulated, Aldric felt his muscle memory adapting. He could almost see the floating "+1 Skill" prompts above his head. His accuracy improved steadily.
Meanwhile, in the deep forests north of the Hornwood lands.
A fleshy, thick-lipped boy with pale eyes and dark, curly hair raised a heavy crossbow. He aimed it at a young peasant girl who was running through the brush, weeping hysterically.
"Heh heh! Run!" the boy shouted excitedly. "Run sideways! Faster!"
The girl, terrified by his voice, glanced back over her shoulder.
Thwack!
A heavy iron bolt hissed past her ear, missing by a fraction of an inch, and buried itself deep into the dirt.
The boy spat on the ground in disgust. "Who told you to look back?! Ah?! Damn it, I didn't say look, I said run! Get up! Run!"
The frail girl had no strength left. She collapsed into the mud, staring at the boy with hollow, broken eyes. "My Lord, please... spare me... please..."
The fleshy boy sighed heavily. He handed the crossbow to a guard standing behind him. He looked at his hunched, unwashed servant with utter boredom.
"Reek. She's yours. Don't damage the skin on her back. I like the texture there."
The man called Reek tilted his head, his hair matted with filth. "Ramsay... you not coming to play?"
"Boring," Ramsay Snow sneered. He didn't like skinny women; they reminded him of his mother.
A guard brought him a folding camp stool. Ramsay sat down, drinking from a silver flask, watching with dead eyes as Reek descended upon the screaming girl.
"Boring. Boring. Boring," Ramsay muttered to himself. "We need to hunt something bigger. This lacks flavor."
He turned to the guard commander beside him. "You say... how about we play Robin Hood? Let's rob a merchant caravan."
The guard swallowed nervously. "Master Ramsay... the Lord Roose might not wish to see caravans looted so close to his domain. It draws the Warden's eye."
"My father, of course, wouldn't wish it," Ramsay mocked, his pale eyes glinting. "As the lawful ruler of the Dreadfort, he takes his duties very seriously."
Ramsay leaned forward, a sadistic grin spreading across his thick face. "But what if we were just hunting? The forest is so big, so dark. What if we accidentally got lost and wandered into Lord Hornwood's territory? What if we brought back some fine, shiny gifts from the south? I think Earl Bolton, that old bastard, that cold lecher... he would be happy, yes? After all, as his trueborn son, I always have his best interests at heart. What more could he ask?"
The guard commander nodded quickly, eager to please. "Of course. Anyone would be happy to have such a thoughtful son."
Ramsay looked up, his expression going utterly flat. "Did you hear what I said just now?"
"You? You said rob a caravan..."
"And?" Ramsay pressed, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"And..." The guard stammered. "Right, you said bring gifts for the Earl..."
Ramsay nodded slowly. He stood up. He walked past the guard, making a brief, casual throat-slitting gesture to the man standing behind the commander.
A blade flashed. The wet, gurgling hiss of a slit throat filled the air.
Ramsay didn't even turn around to watch the commander fall. He walked over to Reek, who was pounding away at the dying girl.
"Reek," Ramsay said. "Want to go rob a caravan?"
Reek thrust his hips hard a few more times, grunted, and pulled up his breeches. "Where?"
"South. Toward the moose."
Reek picked up a piece of flayed skin from the ground and stuffed it into his tunic. "Let's go."
Ramsay walked to his horse, vaulting into the saddle with surprising grace for his bulk.
"Alright, lads!" Ramsay shouted to his men. "Follow me! We're going to hunt something that bites back!"
Moments later, hoofbeats thundered away. Ramsay Snow and his Bastard's Boys vanished into the trees.
In the silent forest, only two corpses—one male, one female—lay in pools of blood, left to the crows.